"I'm comin' back," Pete added, a bit embarrassed.
"Bueno. I shall be here."
Pete, a bit flustered, did not quite catch the mild sarcasm, but he breathed more freely when they were out of sight of camp. "He's sure a white Mexican," he told Andy. "I kind o' hate to leave him, at that."
"You ain't left him yet," suggested Andy with the blunt candor of youth.
Pete pondered. Tucked under his arm were the two bobcat skins and the coyote-hide. He would try to sell them to the storekeeper, Roth. All told, he would then have about twenty dollars. That was quite a lot of money—in Concho.
Roth was closing shop when they entered town. He greeted Pete heartily, remarked at his growth and invited him in. Pete introduced Andy, quite unnecessarily, for Andy knew the storekeeper. Pete gazed at the familiar shelves, boxes and barrels, the new saddles and rigs, and in fact at everything in the store save the showcase which contained the cheap watches, trinkets, and six-shooters.
"I got a couple o' skins here," he said presently. "Mebby you could buy 'em."
"Let's see 'em, Pete."
Pete unfolded the stiff skins on the counter.
"Why, I'll give you two dollars for the lot. The cat-skins are all right. The coyote ain't worth much."