YOUNG PETE

With the inevitable pinto or calico horse in his string the
horse-trader drifted toward the distant town of Concho, accompanied by
a lazy cloud of dust, a slat-ribbed dog, and a knock-kneed foal that
insisted on getting in the way of the wagon team. Strung out behind
this indolently moving aggregation of desert adventurers plodded an
indifferent lot of cayuses, their heads lowered and their eyes filled
with dust.

Young Pete, perched on a saddle much too large for him, hazed the tired
horses with a professional "Hi! Yah! Git in there, you doggone,
onnery, three-legged pole-cat you!" A gratuitous command, for the
three-legged pole-cat referred to had no other ambition than to shuffle
wearily along behind the wagon in the hope that somewhere ahead was
good grazing, water, and chance shade.

The trader was lean, rat-eyed, and of a vicious temper. Comparatively,
the worst horse in his string was a gentleman. Horse-trading and
whiskey go arm-in-arm, accompanied by their copartners, profanity and
tobacco-chewing. In the right hand of the horse-trader is guile and in
his left hand is trickery. And this squalid, slovenly-booted, and
sombrero'd gentleman of the outlands lived down to and even beneath all
the vicarious traditions of his kind, a pariah of the waste places,
tolerated in the environs of this or that desert town chiefly because
of Young Pete, who was popular, despite the fact that he bartered
profanely for chuck at the stores, picketed the horses in pasturage
already preempted by the natives, watered the horses where water was
scarce and for local consumption only, and lied eloquently as to the
qualities of his master's caviayard when a trade was in progress. For