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Montoya frequently unloaded his own gun and making sure that Pete had done likewise, the old herder would stand opposite him and count "Una, duo, tres," and the twain would "go for their guns" to see who would get in the first theoretical shot. At first Pete was slow. His gun was too heavy for him and his wrist was not quick.
Pete was deeply impressed by his reception. He felt that he had made a hit with Montoya and that the other had taken him seriously. Most men did not, despite the fact that he was accredited with having slain two T-Bar-T cowboys. A strange sympathy grew between this old Mexican and the lean, bright-eyed young boy. Perhaps Pete's swarthy coloring and black eyes had something to do with it.
I come in here yesterday and offered you a job and you promised you'd git to work right away. You " "It was to-day you speak of Montoya," corrected the Mexican. "You're dreamin'," reiterated Pete. "It was yesterday you said you would go mañana. Well, it's to-morrow, ain't it? You been asleep an' don't know it." An expression of childish wonder crossed the Mexican youth's stolid face.
Montoya taught him to throw a shot over his shoulder, to "roll" his gun, to pretend to surrender it, and, handing it out butt first, flip it over and shoot the theoretical enemy.
It would appear that much of Montoya's second-hand information came from another Augustinian, Francisco de Arboleda, who had once been a student of Luis de Leon's, and had been entrusted by the prisoner with the delicate mission of collecting from certain theologians in Seville opinions favourable to Luis de Leon's views upon the Vulgate. This very sensible precaution scandalized Montoya.
Let them once become frightened and if not immediately headed off by the dogs, they would stampede over the brink of an arroyo and trample each other to death. This all but happened once when Montoya was buying provisions in town and Pete was in charge of the band. The camp was below the rim of a cañon. The sheep were scattered over a mile or so of mesa, grazing contentedly.
Montoya, ordinarily genial, was a hard master to please. Finally, when Pete was allowed to use ammunition in his practice, and insisted on sighting at an object, Montoya reproved him sharply for wasting time. "It is like this," he would say; illustrating on the instant he would throw a shot into the chance target without apparent aim.
All sorts of stories were afloat, stories which Montoya discounted liberally, because he knew Pete. The owner of the dog claimed damages. Montoya, smiling inwardly, referred that gentleman to Pete, who stood close to his employer, hoping that he would start a real row, but pretty certain that he would not. That was Montoya's way.
Another Mexican, a slim youth, bashfully acknowledged Pete's presence and called in the dogs. Pete, who had known many outland camp-fires, made himself at home, sitting cross-legged and affecting a mature indifference. The old Mexican smoked and studied the youngster, amused by his evident attempt to appear grown-up and disinterested. "That gun, he poke you in the rib, hey?" and Montoya chuckled.
He would make good. He's been driftin' round the country with old man Montoya for a couple of years. Old man Annersley picked him up down to Concho. The kid was with a horse-trader. He would have been all right with Annersley, but you boys know what happened. This ain't no orphan asylum, but well, anyhow did you size up the rig he's sportin'?" "Some rig." "And he says he went broke to buy her."
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