"Don't you touch nothin' in that wagon!" stormed the trader.
"Git your blanket, son," said Annersley.
The horse-trader was deceived by Annersley's mild manner. As Young Pete started toward the wagon, the trader jumped and grabbed him. The boy flung up his arms to protect his face. Old man Annersley said nothing, but with ponderous ease he strode forward, seized the trader from behind, and shook that loose-mouthed individual till his teeth rattled and the horizon line grew dim.
"Git your blanket, son," said Annersley, as he swung the trader round, deposited him face down in the sand, and sat on him. "I'm waitin'."
"Goin' to kill him?" queried Young Pete, his black eyes snapping.
"Shucks, no!"
"Kin I kick him—jest onct, while you hold him down?"
"Nope, son. That's too much like his way. You run along and git your blanket if you're goin' with me."
Young Pete scrambled to the wagon and returned with a tattered blanket, his sole possession, and his because he had stolen it from a Mexican camp near Enright. He scurried to the buckboard and hopped in.
Annersley rose and brought the trader up with him as though the latter were a bit of limp tie-rope.