"Pete!" exclaimed the horseman in a sort of
choking whisper.
The gun sagged in Peters hand. "Andy! For God's sake!--I come clost
to killin' you!" And he leaped and caught Andy White's hand, shook it,
flung his arm about his shoulders, stepped back and struck him
playfully on the chest, grabbed him and shook him--and then suddenly he
turned and walked back to the fire and sat down, blinking into the
flames, and trying to swallow nothing, harder than he had ever tried to
swallow anything in his life.
He heard Andy's step behind him, and heard his own name spoken again.
"It was my fault, Pete. I ought to 'a' hollered. I saw your fire and
rode over--" Andy's hand was on Pete's shoulder, and that shoulder was
shaking queerly. Andy drew back. "There goes that dam' cayuse," cried
Andy. "I'll go catch him up, and let him drag a rope."
When Andy returned from putting an unnecessary rope on a decidedly
tired horse that was quite willing to stand right where he was, Pete
had pulled himself together and was rolling a cigarette.
"Well, you ole sun-of-a-gun!" said Pete; "want to swap hats? Say,
how'll you swap?"
Andy grinned, but his grin faded to a boyish seriousness as he took off
his own Stetson and handed it to Pete, who turned it round and
tentatively poked his fingers through the two holes in the crown.
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