"You bet," assented Joe, "that my mark, un ventano, un slash, un anzuelo!"
"A window, a slash, and an underbit, hey—you don't figure on anybody stealin' her, unless they cut 'er ears off, do you? How many cows you got?"
"Oh, six—eight," answered José, pride of possession loosening up his tongue, "this good milk cow."
"Milk cow, eh?" repeated Pecos, and then he stopped and pondered a while. Only the day before he had recorded his Monkey-wrench brand at Geronimo, although he did not have an honestly acquired cow in the world—here was a chance to cover his hand. "How much you take for cow, Joe?" he asked. "I like milk, my camp."
"You take calf too?" inquired the Mexican, shrewdly.
"Sure," said Pecos, "give you twenty dollars for the cow and ten for the calf!" He drew a roll of bills from his pocket and began to peel them off temptingly.
"You geev twenty-five for cow," suggested Joe, his slow wits beginning to move at the sight of real money.
"All right," said Pecos, briskly, "I'll give you twenty-five for the cow and five for the calf—but you have to give me bill of sale."
"Stawano," assented the Mexican, "and I vent her when we geet to camp, too. Dam' Ol' Crit," he observed, as he pocketed the money, "I work for heem long time—he make me take trade een store—all time in debt!"
He threw the spotted cow and calf in with the pack animals and when they had arrived at Carrizo Springs he roped her and, true to his promise, ran his Indian arrow brand on her shoulder, thus making her a living document and memorandum of sale. In the cow country that "vent" on the shoulder is the only bill of sale required, but Pecos drew up a formal paper giving the ear-marks and brand, and after Joe had signed it and gone he roped Old Funny-face again and ran a Monkey-wrench on her ribs beneath the original mark, all of which is strictly according to law. After that he herded her close, letting the little Monkey-wrench calf have all the milk, while he waited expectantly for Old Crit to drop in.