"You come and cook?" queried Montoya, coming straight to the point.
"I dunno, amigo. I'll think about it."
"Bueno. It is dark, I will walk with you to Concho."
"You think I'm a kid?" flared Pete. "If was dark when I come over here and it ain't any darker now. I ain't no doggone cow-puncher what's got to git on a hoss afore he dast go anywhere."
Montoya laughed. "You come to-morrow night, eh?"
"Reckon I will."
"Then the camp will be over there—in the cañon. You will see the fire."
"I'll come over and have a talk anyway," said Pete, still unwilling to let Montoya think him anxious. "Buenos noches!"
Montoya nodded. "He will come," he said to his nephew. "Then it is that you may go to the home. He is small—but of the very great courage."
The following evening Pete appeared at the herder's camp. The dogs ran out, sniffed at him, and returned to the fire. Montoya made a place for him on the thick sheepskins and asked him if he had eaten. Yes, he had had supper, but he had no blankets. Could Montoya let him have a blanket until he had earned enough money to buy one?