"Where do you live?" queried Pete, quickly drying his eyes.
"Why, up in those hills, which don't no way smell of liquor and are tellin' the truth from sunup to sunup. Like to come along and give me a hand with my stock?"
"You bet I would!"
"Here's your money," said Annersley, and he gave the trader forty dollars. "Git right in that buckboard, son."
"Hold on!" exclaimed the trader. "The kid stays here. I said fifty for the outfit."
"I'm goin'," asserted Young Pete. "I'm sick o' gettin' kicked and cussed every time I come near him. He licked me with a rawhide last week."
"He did, eh? For why?"
"'Cause he was drunk—that's why!"
"Then I reckon you come with me. Such as him ain't fit to raise young 'uns."
Young Pete was enjoying himself. This was indeed revenge—to hear some one tell the trader what he was, and without the fear of a beating. "I'll go with you," said Pete. "Wait till I git my blanket."