Pete could see the flames licking up the stable. Presently a long
tongue of yellow shot up the haystack. "The doggone snakes done fired
our hay!" he cried, and his voice caught in a sob. This was too much.
Hay was a precious commodity in the high country. Pete yanked out his
carbine, loosed a shot at nothing in particular, and rode for the cabin
on the run. "We're coming pop," he yelled, followed by his shrill
"Yip! Yip! We're all here!"

Several of the outlying cow-punchers saw the big bay rear and stop at
the cabin as Young Pete flung out of the saddle and pounded on the
door. "It's me, pop! It's Pete! Lemme in!"

Annersley's heart sank. Why had the boy come? How did he know? How
had he managed to get away?

He flung open the door and dragged Pete in.

"What you doin' here?" he challenged.

"I done lost my hat," gasped Pete. "I--I was lookin' for it."

"Your hat? You gone loco? Git in there and lay down!" And though it
was dark in the cabin Young Pete knew that his pop had gestured toward
the bed. Annersley had never spoken in that tone before, and Young
Pete resented it.

Pete was easily led, but mighty hard to drive.

"Nothin' doin'!" said Pete. "You can't boss me 'round like that! You
said we was pardners, and that we was both boss. I knowed they was