"Guess not. He's lighting up. Must be a special going to stop."

"He's sure set the red. Say, I'm goin' over to see. Wait a minute."

Shoop followed the agent into the station. Presently the foreman reappeared and beckoned to Corliss. "Listen, Jack! Reddy says he's got some runnin' orders for the Flyer and she's got to stop to get 'em. That means we can eat breakfast in Usher, 'stead of here. No tellin' who'll be on the six-forty headed for the same place, tomorrow mornin'."

Corliss pondered. His plan of homesteading the water-hole ranch had been upset by the arrest of Sundown. Still, that was no reason for giving up the plan. From Shoop's talk with Kennedy, the lawyer, it was evident that Loring had his eye on the deserted ranch.

Far down the track he saw a glimmering dot of fire and heard the faint muffled whistle of the Flyer. "All right, Bud. I'll get the tickets. Get our coats. We can just make it."

When they stepped from the Flyer at Usher, the faint light of dawn was edging the eastern hills. A baggage-truck rumbled past and they heard some one shout, "Get out o' that!" In the dim light they saw a figure crawl from beneath the baggage-car and dash across the station platform to be swallowed up in the shadowy gloom of a side street.

"I only had seven drinks," said Shoop, gazing after the disappearing figure. "But if Sundown ain't a pair of twins, that was him."

"Hold on, Bud!" And Corliss laid his hand on Shoop's arm. "Don't take after him. That's the way to stampede him. We go easy till it's light. He'll see us."

They sauntered up the street and stopped opposite an "all-night" eating-house.

"We won't advertise the Concho, this trip," said Corliss, as they entered.

Shoop, with his legs curled around the counter stool, sipped his coffee and soliloquized. "Wise old head! Never was a hotel built that was too good for Jack when he's travelin'. And he don't do his thinkin' with his feet, either."

The waiter, who had retired to the semi-seclusion of the kitchen, dozed in a chair tilted back against the wall. He was awakened by a voice at the rear door. Shoop straightened up and grinned at Corliss. The waiter vocalized his attitude with the brief assertion that there was "nothin' doin'."

"It's him!" said Shoop.

"I got the price," came from the unseen.

"Then you beat it around to the front," suggested the waiter.

Shoop called for another cup of coffee. As the waiter brought it, Sundown, hatless, begrimed, and showing the effects of an unupholstered journey, appeared in the doorway. Shoop turned and stood up.

"Well, if it ain't me old pal Buddy!" exclaimed Sundown. "What you doin' in this here burg?"

"Why, hello, Hawkins! Where'd you fall from? How's things over to Homer?"

Sundown took the hint and fabricated a heart-rending tale of an all-night ride on "a cayuse that had been tryin' to get rid of him ever since he started and had finally piled him as the Flyer tooted for Usher."

"You do look kind o' shook-up. Better eat."

"I sure got room," said Sundown. "Fetch me a basket of doughnuts and a pail of coffee. That there Fly—cayuse sure left me, but he didn't take me appetite."

After the third cup of coffee and the seventh doughnut, Sundown asserted that he felt better. They sauntered out to the street.

"How in blazes did you get loose?" queried Shoop, surveying the unkempt adventurer with frank amazement.

"Blazes is correct. I clumb out of the window."

"Set her on fire?"

"Not with mellishus extent, as the judge says. Mebby it was a cigarette. I dunno. First thing I know I was dreamin' I smelt smoke and the dream sure come true. If them bars had been a leetle closter together, I reckon I would be tunin' a harp, right now."

"How did you happen to jump our train—and get off here?" asked Corliss.

"It was sure lucky," said Sundown, grinning. "I run 'round back of the station and snook up and crawled under the platform in front. I could see everybody hoppin' 'round and I figured I was safer on the job, expectin' they'd be lookin' for me to beat it out of town. Then you fellas come up and stood talkin' right over me head. Bud he says somethin' about eatin' breakfast in Usher, and bein' hungry and likin' good comp'ny, I waits till the train pulls up and crawls under the baggage. And here I be."

"We'll have to get you a hat and a coat. We'll stop at the next barber-shop. You wash up and get shaved. We'll wait. Then we'll head for the court-house."

"Me ranch?" And Sundown beamed through his grime. "Makes me feel like writin' a pome! Now, mebby—"

"Haven't time, now. Got to scare up two more witnesses to go on your paper. There's a place, just opening up."

They crossed the street. Next to the barbershop was a saloon.

Sundown eyed the sign pensively. "I ain't a drinkin' man—regular," he said, "but there are times . . ."

"There are times," echoed Corliss, and the three filed between the swing-doors and disappeared.

An hour later three men, evidently cow-men from their gait and bearing, passed along the main street of Usher and entered the court-house, where they were met by two citizens. The five men were admitted to the inner sanctum of the hall of justice, from which they presently emerged, laughing and joking. The tallest of them seemed to be receiving the humorous congratulations of his companions. He shook hands all around and remarked half-apologetically: "I ain't a drinkin' man, reg'lar . . . but there are times . . ."

The five men drifted easily toward the swing-doors. Presently they emerged. Shoop nudged his employer. David Loring and his daughter had just crossed the street. The old sheep-man glanced at the group in front of the saloon and blinked hard. Of the West, he read at a glance the situation. Sundown, Corliss, and Shoop raised their hats as Eleanor Loring bowed.

"Beat him by a neck!" said Shoop. "Guess we better fan it, eh, Jack?"

"There's no hurry," said Corliss easily. Nevertheless, he realized that Sundown's presence in Usher was quite apt to be followed by a wire from the sheriff of Antelope which would complicate matters, to say the least. He shook hands with the two townsmen and assured them that the hospitality of the Concho was theirs when they chose to honor it. Then he turned to Bud Shoop. "Get the fastest saddle-horse in town and ride out to the South road and wait for us. I'm going to send Sundown over to Murphy's. Pat knows me pretty well. From there he can take the Apache road to the Concho. We can outfit him and get him settled at the water-hole ranch before any one finds out where he is."

"But Jim'll get him again," said Shoop.

"I expect him to. That'll be all right."

"Well, you got me. Thought I knowed somethin' about your style, but I don't even know your name."

"Let's move on. You go ahead and get the cayuse. I want to talk to Sundown."

Then Corliss explained his plan. He told Sundown to keep the water-hole fenced and so keep the sheep-men from using it. This would virtually control several thousand acres of range around the water-hole ranch. He told Sundown that he expected him to homestead the ranch for himself—do the necessary work to secure a title, and then at his option either continue as a rancher or sell the holding to the Concho. "I'll start you with some stock—a few head, and a horse or two. All you have to do is to 'tend to business and forget that I have ever spoken to you about homesteading the place. You'll have to play it alone after you get started."

"Suits me, boss. I ain't what you'd call a farmer, but me and Chance can scratch around and act like we was. But the smooth gent as pinched me—ain't he goin' to come again?"

"Sure as you're wearing spurs! But you just take it easy and you'll come out all right. Loring put Jim Banks after you. Jim is all right and he's business. Loring wants the water-hole ranch. So do I. Now, if Loring tells the sheriff he saw you in Usher, and later at the water-hole, Jim will begin to think that Loring is keeping pretty close trail on you. When Jim finds out you've filed on the water-hole,—and he already knows that Loring wants it,—he'll begin to figure that Loring had you jailed to keep you out of his way. And you can take it from me, Jim Banks is the squarest man in Apache County. He'll give you a chance to make good. If we can keep you out of sight till he hears from over the line, I think you'll be safe after that. If we can't, why, you still have your title to the water-hole ranch and that holds it against trespassers."

"Well, you're sure some shark on the long think! Say, I been scared stiff so long I'm just commencin' to feel me legs again. The sun is shinin' and the birds are sawin' wood. I get you, boss! The old guy that owns the wool had me pinched. Well, I ain't got nothin' ag'in' him, but that don't say I ain't workin' for you. Say, if he comes botherin' around me farm, do I shoot?"

"No. You just keep right on. Pay no attention to him."

"Just sick Chance on him, eh?"

"He'd get Chance. I'm going to run some cattle over that way soon. Then you'll have company. You needn't be scared."

"Cattle is some comp'ny at that. Say, have I got to ride that there bronc Bud jest went down the street on?"

"As soon as we get out of town."

"Which wouldn't be long if we had hosses like him, eh?"

"I'll give you a note to Murphy. He'll send your horse back to Usher and let you take a fresh horse when you start for the Concho. Take it easy, and don't talk."

"All right, boss. But I was thinkin'—"

"What?"

"Well, it's men like me and you that puts things through. It takes a man with sand to go around this country gettin' pinched and thrun and burnt up and bein' arrested every time he goes to spit. Folks'll be sayin' that there Sundown gent is a brave man—me! Never shot nobody and dependin' on his nerve, every time. They's nothin' like havin' a bad repetation."

"Nothing like it," assented Corliss, smiling. "Well, here's your road. Keep straight on till you cross the river. Then take the right fork and stick to it, and you'll ride right into Murphy's. He'll fix you up, all right."

"Did you think in this note to tell him to give me a hoss that only travels one way to onct?" queried Sundown.

Corliss laughed. "Yes, I told him. Don't forget you're a citizen and a homesteader. We're depending on you."

"You bet! And I'll be there with the bells!"

Shoop and Corliss watched Sundown top a distant rise and disappear in a cloud of dust. Then they walked back to the station. As they waited for the local, Shoop rolled a cigarette. "Jest statin' it mild and gentle," he said, yawning, "the last couple of weeks has been kind of a busy day. Guess the fun's all over. Sundown's got a flyin' start; Loring's played his ace and lost, and you and me is plumb sober. If I'd knowed it was goin' to be as quiet as this, I'd 'a' brought my knittin' along."

"There are times . . ." said Corliss.

"And we got just five minutes," said Shoop. "Come on."



CHAPTER XX

THE WALKING MAN

Sundown's sense of the dramatic, his love for posing, with his linguistic ability to adopt the vernacular of the moment so impressed the temperamental Murphy that he disregarded a portion of his friend Corliss's note, and the morning following his lean guest's arrival at the ranch the jovial Irishman himself saddled and bridled the swiftest and most vicious horse in the corral; a glass-eyed pinto, bronc from the end of his switching tail to his pink-mottled muzzle. He was a horse with a record which he did not allow to become obsolete, although he had plenty of competition to contend with in the string of broncs that Murphy's riders variously bestrode. Moreover, the pinto, like dynamite, "went off" at the most unexpected intervals, as did many of his riders. Sundown, bidding farewell to his host, mounted and swung out of the yard at a lope. The pinto had ideas of his own. Should he buck in the yard, he would immediately be roped and turned into the corral again. Out on the mesas it would be different—and it was.

He paid no attention to a tumble-weed gyrating across the Apache road. Neither did he seem disturbed when a rattler burred in the bunch-grass. Even the startled leap of a rabbit that shot athwart his immediate course was greeted with nothing more than a snort and a toss of his swinging head. Such things were excuses for bad behavior, but he was of that type which furnishes its own excuse. He would lull his rider to a false security, and then . . .

The pinto loped over level and rise tirelessly. Sundown stood in his stirrups and gazed ahead. The wide mesas glowing in the sun, the sense of illimitable freedom, the keen, odorless air wrought him to a pitch of inspiration. He would, just over the next rise, draw rein and woo his muse. But the next rise and the next swept beneath the pinto's rhythmic hoofs. The poetry of motion swayed his soul. He was enjoying himself. At last, he reflected, he had mastered the art of sitting a horse. He had already mastered the art of mounting and of descending under various conditions and at seemingly impossible angles. As Hi Wingle had once remarked—Sundown was the most durable rider on the range. His length of limb had no apparent relation to his shortcomings as a vaquero.

Curiosity, as well as pride, may precede a fall. Sundown eventually reined up and breathed the pinto, which paced with lowered head as though dejected and altogether weary—which was merely a pose, if an object in motion can be said to pose. His rider, relaxing, slouched in the saddle and dreamed of a peaceful and domestic future as owner of a small herd of cattle, a few fenced acres of alfalfa and vegetables, a saddle-horse something like the pinto which he bestrode, with Chance as companion and audience—and perhaps a low-voiced senora to welcome him at night when he rode in with spur-chains jingling and the silver conchas on his chaps gleaming like stars in the setting sun. "But me chaps did their last gleam in that there fire," he reflected sadly. "But I got me big spurs yet." Which after-thought served in a measure to mitigate his melancholy. Like a true knight, he had slept spurred and belted for the chance encounter while held in durance vile at Antelope. "But me ranch!" he exclaimed. "Me! And mebby a tame cow and chickens and things,—eh, Chance!" But Chance, he immediately realized, was not with him. He would have a windmill and shade-trees and a border of roses along the roadway to the house—like the Loring rancho. But the senorita to be wooed and won—that was a different matter. "'T ain't no woman's country nohow—this here Arizona. She's fine! But she's a man's country every time! Only sech as me and Jack Corliss and Bud and them kind is fit to take the risks of makin' good in this here State. But we're makin' good, you calico-hoss! Listen:—

"Oh, there's sunshine on the Concho where the little owls are cryin', And red across the 'dobe strings of chiles are a-dryin'; And if Arizona's heaven, tell me what's the use of dyin'? Yes, it's good enough down here, just breathin' air;

"For the posies are a-bloomin' and the mockin'-birds are matin', And somewhere in Arizona there's a Chola girl a-waitin' For to cook them enchiladas while I do the irrigatin' On me little desert homestead over there.

"While I'm ridin' slow and easy . . ."

"Whoa! Wonder what that is? Never seen one of them things before. 'T ain't a lizard, but he looks like his pa was a lizard. Mebby his ma was a toad. Kind of a Mormon, I guess."

He leaned forward and gravely inspected the horned toad that blinked at him from the edge of the grass. The pinto realized that his rider's attention was otherwise and thoroughly occupied. With that unforgettable drop of head and arch of spine the horse bucked. Sundown did an unpremeditated evolution that would have won him much applause and gold had he been connected with a circus. He landed in a clump of brush and watched his hat sail gently down. The pinto whirled and took the homeward road, snorting and bounding from side to side as the dust swirled behind him. Sundown scratched his head. "Lemme see. 'We was ridin', slow and easy . . .' Huh! Well, I ain't cussin' because I don' know how. Lemme see . . . I was facin' east when I started. Now I'm lit, and I'm facin' south. Me hat's there, and that there toad-lizard oughter be over there, if he ain't scared to death. Reckon I'll quit writin' po'try jest at present and finish gettin' acquainted with that there toad-lizard. Wonder how far I got to walk? Anyhow, I was gettin' tired of ridin'. By gum! me eats is tied to the saddle! It's mighty queer how a fella gets set back to beginnin' all over ag'in every onct in a while. Now, this mornin' I was settin' up ridin' a good hoss and thinkin' poetical. Now I'm settin' down restin'. The sun is shinin' yet, and them jiggers in the brush is chirpin' and the air is fine, but I ain't thinkin' poetical. I'd sure hate to have a real lady read what I'm thinkin', if it was in a book. 'Them that sets on the eggs of untruth,' as the parson says, 'sure hatches lies.' Jest yesterday I was tellin' in Usher how me bronc piled me when I'd been ridin' the baggage, which was kind of a hoss-lie. I must 'a' had it comin'."

He rose and stalked to the roadway. The horned toad, undisturbed, squatted in the grass and eyed him with bright, expressionless eyes.

"If I was like some," said Sundown, addressing the toad, "I'd pull me six-shooter, only I ain't got it now, and bling you to nothin'. Accordin' to law you're the injudicious cause preceding the act, which makes you guilty accordin' to the statues of this here commonwealth, and I seen lots of 'em on the same street, in Boston, scarin' hosses to death and makin' kids and nuss-girls cry. But I ain't goin' to shoot you. If I was to have the sayin' of it, I'd kind o' like to shoot that hoss, though. He broke as fine a pome in the middle as I ever writ, to say nothin' of hurtin' me personal feelin's. Well, so-long, leetle toad-lizard. Just tell them that you saw me—and they will know the rest—if anybody was to ask you, a empty saddle and a man a-foot in the desert is sure circumvential evidence ag'in the hoss. Wonder how far it is to the Concho?"

With many a backward glance, inspired by fond imaginings that the pinto might have stopped to graze, Sundown stalked down the road. Waif of chance and devotee of the goddess "Maybeso," he rose sublimely superior to the predicament in which he found himself. "The only reason I'm goin' east is because I ain't goin' west," he told himself, ignoring, with warm adherence to the glowing courses of the sun the frigid possibilities of the poles. Warmed by the exercise of plodding across the mesa trail in high-heeled boots, he swung out of his coat and slung it across his shoulder. Dust gathered in the wrinkles of his boots, and more than once he stopped to mop his sweating face with his bandanna. Rise after rise swept gently before him and within the hour he saw the misty outline of the blue hills to the south. Slowly his moving shadow shifted, bobbing in front of him as the sun slipped toward the western horizon. A little breeze sighed along the road and whirls of sand spun in tiny cones around the roots of the chaparral. He reached in his pocket, drew forth a silver dollar, and examined it. "Now if they weren't any folks on this here earth, I reckon silver and gold and precious jools wouldn't be worth any more than rocks and mud and gravel, eh? Why, even if they weren't no folks, water would be worth more to this here world than gold. Water makes things grow and—and keeps a fella from gettin' thirsty. And mud makes things grow, too, but I dunno what rocks are for. Just to sit on when you're tired, I reckon." The sibilant burring of a rattler in the brush set his neck and back tingling. "And what snakes was made for, gets me! They ain't good to eat, nohow. And they ain't friendly like some of the bugs and things. I'm thinkin' that that there snake what clumb the tree and got Mrs. Eve interested in the apple business would 'a' been a whole lot better for folks, if he'd 'a' stayed up that tree and died, instead o' runnin' around and raisin' young ones. Accordin' to my way of thinkin' a garden ain't a garden with a snake in it, nohow. Now, Mrs. Eve—if she'd had to take a hammer and nails and make a ladder to get to them apples, by the time she got the ladder done I reckon them apples wouldn't 'a' looked so good to her. That's what comes of havin' a snake handy. 'Course, bein' a woman, she jest nacherally couldn't wait for 'em to get ripe and fall off the tree. That would 'a' been too easy. It sure is funny how folks goes to all kinds o' trouble to get into it. Mebby she did get kind o' tired eatin' the same breakfast-food every mornin'. Lots o' folks do, and hankers to try a new one. But I never got tired of drinkin' water yet. Wisht I had a barrel with ice in it. Gee Gosh! Ice! Mebby a cup of water would be enough for a fella, but when he's dry he sure likes to see lots ahead even if he can't drink it all. Mebby it's jest knowin' it's there that kind o' eases up a fella's thirst. I dunno."

Romance, as romance was wont to do at intervals, lay in wait for the weary Sundown. Hunger and thirst and a burning sun may not be immediately conducive to poetry or romantic imaginings. But the 'dobe in the distance shaded by a clump of trees, the gleam of the drying chiles, the glow of flowers, offered an acceptable antithesis to the barren roadway and the empty mesas. Sundown quickened his pace. Eden, though circumscribed by a barb-wire fence enclosing scant territory, invited him to rest and refresh himself. And all unexpected the immemorial Eve stood in the doorway of the 'dobe, gazing down the road and doubtless wondering why this itinerant Adam, booted and spurred, chose to walk the dusty highway.

At the gate of the homestead Sundown paused and raised his broad sombrero. Anita, dusky and buxom daughter of Chico Miguel, "the little hombre with the little herd," as the cattle-men described him, nodded a bashful acknowledgment of the salute, and spoke sharply to the dog which had risen and was bristling toward the Strange wayfarer.

"Agua," said Sundown, opening the gate, "Mucha agua, Senorita," adding, with a humorous gesture of drinking, "I'm dry clean to me boots."

The Mexican girl, slow-eyed and smiling, gazed at this most wonderful man, of such upstanding height that his hat brushed the limbs of the shade-trees at the gateway. Anita was plump and not tall. As Sundown stalked up the path assuming an air of gallantry that was not wasted on the desert air, the girl stepped to the olla hanging in the shade and offered him the gourd. Sundown drank long and deep. Anita watched him with wondering eyes. Such a man she had never seen. Vaqueros? Ah, yes! many of them, but never such a man as this. This one smiled, yet his face had much of the sadness in it. He had perhaps walked many weary miles in the heat. Would he—with a gesture interpreting her speech—be pleased to rest awhile? Without hesitation, he would. As he sat on the doorstep gazing contentedly at the flowers bordering the path, Anita's mother appeared from some mysterious recess of the 'dobe and questioned Anita with quick low utterance. The girl's answer, interpretable to Sundown only by its intonation, was music to him. The Mexican woman, more than buxom, large-eyed and placid, turned to Sundown, who rose and again doffed his sombrero.

"I lost me horse—back there. I'm headed for the Concho—ma'am. Concho," he reiterated in a louder tone. "Sabe?"

The mother of Anita nodded. "You sick?" she asked.

"What? Me? Not on your life, lady! I'm the healthiest Ho—puncher in this here State. You sabe Concho?"

"Si! Zhack Corlees—'Juan,' we say. Si! You of him?"

"Yes, lady. I'm workin' for him. Lost me hoss."

Anita and her mother exchanged glances. Sundown felt that his status as a vaquero was in question. Would he let the beautiful Anita know that he had been ignominiously "piled" by that pinto horse? Not he. "Circumventions alters cases," he soliloquized, not altogether untruthfully. Then aloud, "Me hoss put his foot in a gopher-hole. Bruk his leg, and I had to shoot him, lady. Hated to part with him." And the inventive Sundown illustrated with telling gesture the imaginary accident.

Sympathy flowed freely from the gentle-hearted Senora and her daughter. "Si!" It was not of unusual happening that horses met with such accidents. It was getting late in the afternoon. Would the unfortunate caballero accept of their hospitality in the way of frijoles and some of the good coffee, perhaps? Sundown would, without question. He pressed a dollar into the palm of the reluctant Senora. He was not a tramp. Of that she might be assured. He had met with misfortune, that was all. And would the patron return soon? The patron would return with the setting of the sun. Meanwhile the vaquero of the Concho was to rest and perhaps enjoy his cigarette? And the "vaquero" loafed and smoked many cigarettes while the glowing eyes of Anita shone upon him with large sympathy. As yet Sundown had not especially noticed her, but returning from his third visit to the cooling olla, he caught her glance and read, or imagined he read, deep admiration, lacking words to utter. From that moment he became a changed man. He shed his weariness as a tattered garment is thrown aside. He straightened his shoulders and held his head high. At last a woman had looked at him and had not smiled at his ungainly stature. Nay! But rather seemed impressed, awe-stricken, amazed. And his heart quickened to faster rhythm, driving the blood riotously through his imaginative mind. He grew eloquent, in gesture, if not in speech. He told of his wanderings, his arrival at the Concho, of Chance his great wolf-dog, his horse "Pill," and his good friends Bud Snoop and Hi Wangle. Sundown could have easily given Othello himself "cards and spades" in this chance game of hearts and won—moving metaphor!—in a canter. That the little Senorita with the large eyes did not understand more than a third of that which she heard made no difference to her. His ambiguity of utterance, backed by assurance and illumined by the divine fire of inspiration, awakened curiosity in the placid breast of this Desdemona of the mesas. It required no sophistication on her part to realize that this caballero was not as the vaqueros she had heretofore known. He made no boorish jests; his eyes were not as the eyes of many that had gazed at her in a way that had tinged her dusky cheeks with warm resentment. She felt that he was endeavoring to interest her, to please her rather than to woo. And more than that—he seemed intensely interested in his own brave eloquence. A child could have told that Sundown was single-hearted. And with the instinct of a child—albeit eighteen, and quite a woman in her way—Anita approved of this adventurer as she had never approved of men, or man, before. His great height, his long, sweeping arms, moving expansively as he illustrated this or that incident, his silver spurs, his loose-jointed "tout ensemble," so to speak, combined with an eloquent though puzzling manner of speech, fascinated her. Warmed to his work, and forgetful of his employer's caution in regard to certain plans having to do with the water-hole ranch, Sundown elaborated, drawing heavily on future possibilities, among which he towered in imagination monarch of rich mellow acres and placid herds. He intimated delicately that a rancher's life was lonely at best, and enriched the tender intimation with the assurance that he was more than fond of enchiladas, frijoles, carne-con-chile, tamales, adding as an afterthought that he was somewhat of an expert himself in "wrastlin' out" pies and doughnuts and various other gastronomical delicacies.

A delicate frown touched the gentle Anita's smooth forehead when her mother interrupted Sundown with a steaming cup of coffee and a plate of frijoles, yet Anita realized, as she saw his ardent expression when the aroma of the coffee reached him, that this was a most sensible and fitting climax to his glowing discourse. Her frown vanished together with the coffee and beans.

Fortified by the strong black coffee and the nourishing frijoles, Sundown rose from his seat on the doorstep and betook himself to the back of the house where he labored with an axe until he had accumulated quite a pile of firewood. Then he rolled up his sleeves, washed his hands, and asked permission to prepare the evening meal. Although a little astonished, the Senora consented, and watched Sundown, at first with a smile of indulgence, then with awakening curiosity, and finally with frank and complimentary amazement as he deftly kneaded and rolled pie-crust and manufactured a pie that eventually had, for those immediately concerned, historical significance.

The "little hombre," Chico Miguel, returning to his 'dobe that evening, was greeted with a tide of explanatory utterances that swept him off his feet. He was introduced to Sundown, apprised of the strange guest's manifold accomplishments, and partook of the substantial evidence of his skill until of the erstwhile generous pie there was nothing left save tender reminiscence and replete satisfaction.

Later in the evening, when the Arizona stars glowed and shimmered on the shadowy adobe, when the wide mesas grew mysteriously beautiful in the soft radiance of the slow moon, Chico Miguel brought his guitar from the bedroom, tuned it, and struck a swaying cadence from its strings. Then Anita's voice, blending with the rhythm, made melody, and Sundown sat entranced. Mood, environment, temperament, lent romance to the simple song. Every singing string on the old guitar was silver—the singer's girlish voice a sunlit wave of gold.

The bleak and almost barren lives of these isolated folk became illumined with a reminiscent glow as the tinkling notes of the guitar hushed to faint echoes of fairy bells hung on the silver boughs of starlit trees. "Adios, linda Rosa," ran the song. Then silence, the summer night, the myriad stars.

Sundown, turning his head, gazed spellbound at the dark-eyed singing girl. In the dim light of the lamp she saw that his lean cheeks were wet with tears.



CHAPTER XXI

ON THE MESA

With the morning sun came a brave, cloudless day and a more jovial mood to Sundown as he explained the necessity for haste to the Concho. Chico Miguel would gladly furnish horse and saddle. Juan Corlees was of men the finest! Once upon a time, in fact, Chico Miguel had ridden range for the father of Senor Corlees, but that was in years long past, Ah, yes! Then there were no sheep in the country—nothing but cattle and vaqueros. Would the caballero accept the loan of horse and saddle? The horse could be returned at his convenience. And possibly—and here Chico Miguel paused to roll a cigarette, light it, and smoke awhile reflectively—and possibly the caballero would again make their humble home beautiful with his presence. Such pie as the Senor made was a not unworthy meal for the saints. Indeed, Chico Miguel himself had had many pleasant dreams following their feast of the evening before. Would Sundown condescend to grace their home with his presence again and soon? Sundown would, be Gosh! He sure did like music, especially them Spanish songs what made a fella kind of shivery and sad-like from his boots up. And that part of the country looked good to him. In fact he was willing to be thrun from—er—have his hoss step in a gopher-hole any day if the accident might terminate as pleasantly as had his late misfortune. He aspired to become a master of the art of cooking Mexican dishes. 'Course at reg'lar plain-cookin' and deserts he wasn't such a slouch, but when it come to spreadin' the chile, he wasn't, as yet, an expert.

Meanwhile he clung tenaciously to the few Spanish words he knew, added to which was "Linda Rosa"—"pretty rose,"—which he intended to use with telling effect when he made his adieux. After breakfast he rose and disappeared. When he again entered the house the keen Senora noticed that his shirt front swelled expansively just above his heart. She wondered if the tall one had helped himself to a few of her beloved chiles.

Presently Chico Miguel appeared with the pony. Sundown mounted, hesitated, and then nodded farewell to the Senora and the almost tearful Anita who stood in the doorway. Things were not as Sundown would have had them. He was long of arm and vigorous, but to cast a bouquet of hastily gathered and tied flowers from the gateway to the hand of the Senorita would require a longer arm and a surer aim than his. "Gee Gosh!" he exclaimed, dismounting hurriedly. "What's that on his hind foot?"

He referred to the horse. Chico Miguel, at the gate, hastened to examine the pony, but Sundown, realizing that the Senorita still stood beside her mother, must needs create further delay. He stepped to the pony and, assuming an air of experience, reached to take up the horse's foot and examine it. The horse, possibly realizing that its foot was sound, resented Sundown's solicitude. The upshot—used advisedly—of it was that Sundown found himself sitting in the road and Chico Miguel struggling with the pony.

With a scream Anita rushed to the gateway, wringing her hands as Sundown rose stiffly and felt of his shirt front. The flowers that he had picked for his adored, were now literally pressed to his bosom. He wondered if they "were mushed up much?" Yet he was not unhappy. His grand climax was at hand. Again he mounted the pony, turned to the Senorita, and, drawing the more or less mangled blossoms from his shirt, presented them to her with sweeping gallantry. Anita blushed and smiled. Sundown raised his hat. "Adios! Adios! Mucha adios! Senorita! For you sure are the lindaest little linda rosa of the whole bunch!" he said.

And with Anita standing in rapt admiration, Chico Miguel wondering if the kick of the horse had not unsettled the strange caballero's reason, and the Senora blandly aware that her daughter and the tall one had become adepts in interpreting the language of the eyes, Sundown rode away in a cloud of dust, triumphantly joyous, yet with a peculiar sensation in the region of his heart, where the horse had kicked him. When he realized that admiring eyes could not follow him forever, he checked the horse and rubbed his chest.

"It hurts, all right! but hoss-shoes is a sign of luck—and posies is a sign of love—and them two signs sure come together this mornin'. 'Oh, down in Arizona there's a—' No, I reckon I won't be temptin' Providence ag'in. This hoss might have some kind of a dislikin' for toad-lizards and po'try mixed, same as the other one. I can jest kind o' work the rest of that poem up inside and keep her on the ice till—er—till she's the right flavor. Wonder how they're makin' it at the Concho? Guess I'll stir along. Mebby they're waitin' for me to show up so's they can get busy. I dunno. It sure is wonderful what a lot is dependin' on me these here days. I'm gettin' to be kind of a center figure in this here country. Lemme see. Now I bruk jail—hopped the Limited, took out me homesteader papers, got thrun off a hoss, slumped right into love with that sure-enough Linda Rosa, and got kicked by another hoss. And they say I ain't a enterprisin' guy! Gee Gosh!"

Never so much at home as when alone, the mellifluous Sundown's imagination expanded, till it embraced the farthest outpost of his theme. He became the towering center of things terrestrial. The world revolved around but one individual that glorious morning, and he generously decided to let it revolve. He felt—being, for the first time in his weird career, very much in love—that Dame Fortune, so long indifferent to his modest aspirations, had at last recognized in him a true adventurer worthy of her grace. He was a remarkable man, physically. He considered himself a remarkable man mentally, and he was, in Arizona. "Why," he announced to his horse, "they's folks as says they ain't no romantics left in this here world! Huh! Some of them writin' folks oughter jest trail my smoke for a week, instead o' settin' in clubs and drinkin' high-balls and expectin' them high-balls to put 'em wise to real life! Huh! A fella's got to sweat it out himself. The kind of romantics that comes in a bottle ain't the real thing. Pickles is all right, but they ain't cucumbers, nohow. Wisht I had one—and some salt. The stories them guys write is like pickles, jest two kinds of flavor, sweet and sour. Now, when I write me life's history she'll be a cucumber sliced thin with a few of them little red chiles to kind o' give the right kick, and mebby a leetle onion representin' me sentiment, and salt to draw out the proper taste, and 'bout three drops o' vinegar standin' for hard luck, and the hull thing fixed tasty-like on a lettuce leaf, the crinkles representin' the mountings and valleys of this here world, and me name on the cover in red with gold edges. Gee Gosh!"

The creak of the saddle, the tinkle of his spurs, the springy stride of the horse furnished a truly pastoral accompaniment to Sundown's "romantics."

As he rode down a draw, he came suddenly upon two coyotes playing like puppies in the sun. He reined up and watched them, and his heart warmed to their antics. "Now, 'most any fella ridin' range would nacherally pull his gun and bling at 'em. What for? Search me! They ain't botherin' nobody. Jest playin'. Guess 'most any animals like to play if they wasn't scared o' gettin' shot all the time. Funny how some folks got to kill everything they see runnin' wild. What's the use? Now, mebby them coyotes is a pa and ma thinkin' o' settin' up ranchin' and raisin' alfalfa and young ones. Or mebby he's just a-courtin' her and showin' how he can run and jump better than any other coyote she ever seen. I dunno. There they go. Guess they seen me. Say! but they are jest floatin' across the mesa—they ain't runnin'. Goin' easy, like their legs belonged to somebody else and they was jest keepin' up with 'em. So-long, folks! Here's hopin' you get settled on that coyote-ranch all right!"

Thus far on his journey Sundown had enjoyed the pleasing local flavor of the morning and his imaginings. The vinegar, which was to represent "hard luck," had not as yet been added to the salad.

As he ascended the gentle slope of the draw he heard a quick, blunt sound, as though some one had struck a drum and immediately muffled the reverberations with the hand. He was too deeply immersed in himself to pay much attention to this. Topping the rise, the fresh vista of rolling mesa, the far blue hills, and a white dot—the distant Concho—awakened him to a realization of his whereabouts. Again he heard that peculiar, dull sound. He lifted his horse to a lope and swept along, the dancing shadow at his side shortening as noon overtook him. He was about to dismount and partake of the luncheon the kindly Senora had prepared for him, when he changed his mind. "Lunch and hunch makes a rhyme," he announced. "And I got 'em both. Guess I'll jog along and eat at the Concho. Mebby I'll get there in two, three hours."

As the white dot took on a familiar outline and the eastern wall of the canon of the Concho showed sharply against the sky, he saw a horseman, strangely doubled up in the saddle, riding across the mesa toward the ranch-house. Evidently he also was going to the Concho. Possibly it was Bud, or Hi Wingle, or Lone Johnny. Following an interval of attending strictly to the trail he raised his eyes. He pulled his horse up and sat blinking. Where there had been a horse and rider there was but the horse, standing with lowered head. He shaded his eyes with his palm and gazed again. There stood the horse. The man had disappeared. "Fell into one of them Injun graves," remarked Sundown. "Guess I'll go see."

It took much longer than he had anticipated to come up with the riderless horse. He recognized it as one of the Concho ponies. Almost beneath the animal lay a huddled something. Sundown's scalp tingled. Slowly he got from his horse and stalked across the intervening space. He led the pony from the tumbled shape on the ground. Then he knelt and raised the man's shoulders. Sinker, one of the Concho riders, groaned and tore at the shirt over his stomach. Then Sundown knew. He eased the cowboy back and called his name. Slowly the gray lids opened. "It's me, Sundown! Who done it?"

The cowboy tried to rise on his elbow. Sundown supported his head, questioning him, for he knew that Sinker had but little time left to speak. The wounded man writhed impotently, then quieted.

"God, Sun!" he moaned, "they got me. Tell Jack—Mexican—Loring—sheep at—waterhole. Tried to bluff—'em off—orders not to shoot. They got orders to shoot—all right. Tell Jack—Guess I'm bleedin' inside—So-long—pardner."

The dying man writhed from Sundown's arms and rolled to his face, cursing and clutching at the grass in agony. Sundown stood over him, his hat off, his gaze lifted toward the cloudless sky, his face white with a new and strange emotion. He raised his long arms and clenched his hands. "God A'mighty," he whispered, rocking back and forth, "I got to tell You that sech things is wrong. And from what I seen sence I come to this country, You don't care. But some of us does care . . . and I reckon we got to do somethin' if You don't."



The cowboy raised himself on rigid arms, he lifted his head, and his eyes, filmed with the chill of death, grew clear for an instant. "'Sandro—the herder—got me," he gasped. His lips writhed back from his clenched teeth. A rush of blood choked him. He sank to the ground, quivered, and was still.

"'Sandro . . . the herder" . . . whispered Sundown. "Sinker was me friend. I reckon God's got to leave the finish of this to me."



CHAPTER XXII

WAIT!

To see a man's life go out and to stand by unable to help, unable to offer comfort or ease mortal agony, is a bitter experience. It brings the beholder close to the abyss of eternity, wherein the world shrinks to a speck of whirling dust and the sun is but a needle-point of light. Then it is that the fleshless face of the unconquerable One leans close and whispers, not to the insensate clay that mocks the living, but to the impotent soul that mourns the dead.

That Sundown should consider himself morally bound to become one of those who he knew would avenge the killing of the cowboy, and without recourse to law, was not altogether strange. The iron had entered his soul. Heretofore at loose ends with the world, the finding of Sinker, dying on the mesas, kindled within him righteous wrath against the circumstance rather than the individual slayer. His meandering thoughts and emotions became crystallized. His energies hardened to a set purpose. He was obsessed with a fanaticism akin to that of those who had burned witches and thanked their Maker for the opportunity.

In his simple way he wondered why he had not wept. He rode slowly to the Concho. Chance leaped circling about his horse. He greeted the dog with a word. When he dismounted, Chance cringed and crept to him. Without question this was his master, and yet there was something in Sundown's attitude that silenced the dog's joyous welcoming. Chance sat on his haunches, whined, and did his best by his own attitude to show that he was in sympathy with his master's strange mood.

John Corliss saw instantly that there was something wrong, and his hearty greeting lapsed into terse questioning. Sundown pointed toward the northern mesas.

"What's up?" he queried.

"Sinker—he's dead—over there."

"Sinker?" Corliss ran to the corral, calling to Wingle, who came from the bunk-house. The cook whisked off his apron, grabbed his hat, and followed Corliss. "Sinker's done for!" said Corliss. "Saddle up, Hi. Sun found him out there. Must have had trouble at the water-hole. I should have sent another man with him."

Wingle, with the taciturnity of the plainsman, jerked the cinchas tight and swung to the saddle. Sinker's death had come like a white-hot flash of lightning from the bulked clouds that had shadowed disaster impending—and in that shadow the three men rode silently toward the north. Again Corliss questioned Sundown. Tense with the stress of an emotion that all but sealed his lips, Sundown turned his white face to Corliss and whispered, "Wait!" The rancher felt that that one terse, whispered word implied more than he cared to imagine. There was something uncanny about the man. If the killing of Sinker could so change the timorous, kindly Sundown to this grim, unbending epitome of lean death and vengeance, what could he himself do to check the wild fury of his riders when they heard of their companion's passing from the sun?

Sinker's horse, grazing, lifted its head and nickered as they rode up. They dismounted and turned the body over. Wingle, kneeling, examined the cowboy's six-gun.

Corliss, in a burst of wrath, turned on Sundown. "Damn you, open your mouth. What do you know about this?"

Sundown bit his nails and glowered at Corliss. "God A'mighty sent me—" he began.

With a swift gesture Corliss interrupted. "You're working for the Concho. Was he dead when you found him?"

Sundown slowly raised his arm and pointed across the mesa.

Corliss fingered his belt and bit his lip impatiently.

"A herder—over there to my ranch—done it. Sinker told me—'fore he crossed over. Said it was 'Sandro. Said he had orders not to shoot. He tried to bluff 'em off, for they was bringin' sheep to the water-hole. He said to tell you."

Corliss and Wingle turned from looking at Sundown and gazed at each other. "If that's right—" And the rancher hesitated.

"I reckon it's right," said Wingle. And he stooped and together they lifted the body and laid it across the cowboy's horse.

Sundown watched them with burning eyes. "We'll ride back home," said Corliss, motioning to him.

"Home? Ain't you goin' to do nothin'?"

Corliss shook his head. Sundown slowly mounted and followed them to the Concho. He watched them as they carried Sinker to the bunkhouse.

When Corliss reappeared, Sundown strode up to him. "This here hoss belongs to that leetle Mexican on the Apache road, Chico Miguel—said you knowed him. I was goin' to take him back with my hoss. Now I reckon I can't. I kind o' liked it over there to his place. I guess I want my own hoss, Pill."

"I guess you better get something to eat and rest up. You're in bad shape, Sun."

Sundown shook his head. "I got somethin' to do—after that mebby I can rest up. Can I have me hoss?"

"Yes, if it'll do you any good. What are you going to do?"

"I got me homesteader papers. I'm goin' to me ranch."

"But you're not outfitted. There's no grub there. You better take it easy. You'll feel better to-morrow."

"I don't need no outfit. I reckon I'll saddle Pill."

Sundown turned the Mexican's pony into the corral and saddled his own horse which he led to the bunk-house. "I ain't got no gun," he said. "The sheriff gent's got mine. Mebby you'd be lendin' me one?"

Wingle stepped to the doorway and stood beside Corliss. "What does he want, Jack?"

"He's loco. Wants to borrow a gun." The rancher turned to Sundown. "See here, Sun, there's no use thinking you've got to take a hand in this. Some of the boys'll get the Mexican sure! I can't stop them, but I don't want you to get in trouble."

"No. You come on in and eat," said Wingle. "You got a touch of sun, I guess."

Sundown mounted. "Ain't you goin' to do nothin'?" he asked again.

Corliss and Wingle glanced at each other. "No, not now."

"Then me and Chance is," said Sundown. "Come on, Chance."

Corliss and the cook watched the tall figure as it passed through the gateway and out to the mesa. "I'll go head him off, if you say the word, Jack."

Corliss made a negative gesture. "He'll come back when he gets hungry. It's a long ride to the water-hole. Sinker had sand to get as near home as he did. It's going to be straight hell from now on, Hi."

Wingle nodded. Through force of habit he reached for his apron to wipe his hand—his invariable preliminary before he shook hands with any one. His apron being off, he hesitated, then stepped to his employer. "It sure is," he said, "and I'm ridin' with you."

They shook hands. Moved by a mutual impulse they glanced at the long, rigid shape covered with a blanket. "When the boys come—" began Wingle.

"It will be out of our hands," concluded Corliss.

"If Sun—"

"I ought to ride out after him," said Corliss, nodding. "But I can't leave. And you can't."

Wingle stepped to the doorway and shaded his eyes. Far out on the mesa the diminishing figure of a horseman showed black against the glare of the sun. Wingle turned and, with a glance at the shrouded figure on the bunk-house floor, donned his apron and shuffled to the kitchen. Corliss tied his horse and strode to the office.

Hi Wingle puttered about the kitchen. There would be supper to get for fifteen hungry—No! fourteen, to-night. He paused, set down the pan that he held and opened the door of the chuck-room. With finger marking the count he totaled the number of chairs at the table. Fifteen. Then he stepped softly to the bunk-room, took Sinker's hat and stepped back to the table. He placed the hat on the dead cowboy's chair. Then he closed the door and turned to the preparation of the evening meal. "Jack'll report to Antelope and try and keep the boys quiet. I'm sure with Jack—only I was a puncher first afore I took to cookin'. And I'm a puncher yet—inside." Which was his singular and only spoken tribute to the memory of Sinker. He had reasoned that it was only right and fitting that the slayer of a cowman should be slain by a cowman—a code that held good in his time and would hold good now—especially when the boys saw the battered Stetson, every line of which was mutely eloquent of its owner's individuality.

Sundown drifted through the afternoon solitudes, his mind dulled by the monotony of the theme which obsessed him. It was evening when he reached the water-hole. Around the enclosure straggled a few stray sheep. He cautioned Chance against molesting them. Ordinarily he would have approached the ranch-house timidly, but he was beyond fear. He rode to the gate, tied his horse, and stepped to the doorway. The door was open. He entered and struck a match. In the dusk he saw that the room was empty save for a tarpaulin and a pair of rawhide kyacks such as the herders use. Examining the kyacks he found that they contained flour, beans, salt, sugar, and coffee. Evidently the herders had intended making the deserted ranch-house their headquarters. He wondered vaguely where the Mexicans were. The thought that they might return did not worry him. He knew what he would do in that instance. He would find out which one was 'Sandro . . . and then . . .

The bleating of the stray sheep annoyed him. He told Chance to stay in the room. Then he stalked out and opened the gate. "Mebby they want water. I dunno. Them's Loring's sheep, all right, but they ain't to blame for—for Sinker." With the idea came a more reasonable mood. The sheep were not to blame for the killing of Sinker. The sheep belonged to Loring. The herders, also, practically belonged to Loring. They were only following his bidding when they protected the sheep. With such reasoning he finally concluded that Loring, not his herder, was responsible for the cowboy's death. He returned to the house, built a fire, and cooked an indifferent meal.

Sundown sat up suddenly. In the dim light of the moon flickering through the dusty panes he saw Chance standing close to the door with neck bristling and head lowered. Throwing back his blanket he rose and whispered to the dog. Chance came to him obediently. Sundown saw that the dog was trembling. He motioned him back and stepped to the door. His slumbers had served to restore him to himself in a measure. His old timidity became manifest as he hesitated, listening. In the absolute silence of the night he thought he heard a shuffling as of something being dragged across the enclosure. Tense with anticipating he knew not what, he listened. Again he heard that peculiar slithering sound. He opened the door an inch and peered out. In the pallid glow of the moon he beheld a shapeless object that seemed to be crawling toward him. Something in the helpless attitude of the object suggested Sinker as he had risen on his arm, endeavoring to tell of the disaster which had overtaken him. With a gesture of scorn at his own fear he swung open the door. Chance crept at his heels, whining. Then Sundown stepped out and stood gazing at the strange figure on the ground. Not until a groan of agony broke the utter silence did he realize that the night had brought to him a man, wounded and suffering terribly. "Who are you?" he questioned, stooping above the man. The other dragged himself to Sundown's feet and clawed at his knees. "'Sandro . . . It is—that I—die. You don' keel . . . You don' . . ."

Sundown dragged the herder to the house and into the bedroom. He got water, for which the herder called piteously. With his own blanket he made him as comfortable as he could. Then he built a fire that he might have light. The herder was shot through the thigh, and had all but bled to death dragging himself across the mesa from where he had fallen from his horse. Sundown tried to stop the bleeding with strips torn from his bandanna. Meanwhile the wounded man was imploring him not to kill him.

"I'm doin' me best to fix you up, Dago," said Sundown. "But you better go ahead and say them prayers—and you might put in a couple for Sinker what you shot. I reckon his slug cut the big vein and you got to go. Wisht I could do somethin' . . . to help . . . you stay . . . but mebby it's better that you cross over easy. Then the boys don't get you."

The Mexican seemed to understand. He nodded as he lay gazing at the lean figure illumined by the dancing light of the open stove. "Si. You good hombre, si," he gasped.

Sundown frowned. "Now, don't you take any idea like that along to glory with you. Sinker—what you shot—was me friend. I ought to kill you like a snake. But God A'mighty took the job off me hands. I reckon that makes me square with—with Sinker—and Him."

Again Sundown brought water to the herder. Gently he raised his head and held the cup to his lips. Chance stood in the middle of the room strangely subdued, yet he watched each movement of his master with alert eyes. The moonlight faded from the window and the fire died down. The air became chill as the faint light of dawn crept in to emphasize the ghastly picture—the barren, rough-boarded room, the rusted stove, the towering figure of Sundown, impassively waiting; and the shattered, shrunken figure of the Mexican, hopeless and helpless, as the morning mesas welcomed the golden glow of dawn and a new day.

The herder, despite his apparent torpor, was the first to hear the faint thud of hoofs in the loose sand of the roadway. He grew instantly alert, raising himself on his elbow and gazing with fear-wide eyes toward the south.

Sundown nodded. "It's the boys," he said, as though speaking to himself. "I was hopin' he could die easy. I dunno."

'Sandro raised his hands and implored Sundown to save him from the riders. Sundown stepped to the window. He saw the flash of spurs and bits as a group of the Concho boys swept down the road. One of them was leading a riderless horse. In a flash he realized that they had found the herder's horse and had tracked 'Sandro to the water-hole. He backed away from the window and reaching down took the Mexican's gun from its holster. "'T ain't what I figured on," he muttered. "They's me friends, but this is me ranch."

With a rush and a slither of hoofs in the loose sand the Concho riders, headed by Shoop, swung up to the gate and dismounted. Sundown stepped to the doorway, Chance beside him.

Shoop glanced quickly at the silent figure. Then his gaze drifted to the ground.

"'Mornin', Sun! Seen anybody 'round here this mornin'?"

"Mornin', fellas. Nope. Just me and Chance."

The men hesitated, eyeing Sundown suspiciously.

Corliss stepped toward the ranch-house.

"Guess we'll look in," he said, and stepped past Shoop.

Sundown had closed the door of the bedroom. He was at a loss to prevent the men entering the house, but once within the house he determined that they should not enter the bedroom.

He backed toward it and stood with one shoulder against the lintel. "Come right in. I ain't got to housekeepin' yet, but . . ."

He ceased speaking as he saw Corliss's gaze fixed on the kyacks. "Where did you get 'em?" queried the rancher.

The men crowded in and gazed curiously at the kyacks—then at Sundown.

Shoop strode forward. "The game's up, Sun. We want the Mexican."

"This is me ranch," said Sundown. "I got the papers—here. You fellas is sure welcome—only they ain't goin' to be no shootin' or such-like. I ain't joshin' this time."

A voice broke the succeeding silence. "If the Mexican is in there, we want him—that's all."

Sundown's eyes became bright with a peculiar expression. Slowly—yet before any one could realize his intent—he reached down and drew the Mexican's gun. "You're me friends," he said quietly. "He's in there—dyin'. I reckon Sinker got him. He drug himself here last night and I took him in. This is me home—and if you fellas is men, you'll let him die easy and quiet."

"I'm from Missouri," said Shoop, with a hard laugh. "You got to show me that he's—like you say, or—"

Sundown leveled his gun at Shoop. "I ain't lyin' to you, Bud. Sinker was me friend. And I ain't lyin' when I says that the fust fella that tries to tech him crosses over afore he does."

Some one laughed. Corliss touched Shoop's arm and whispered to him. With a curse the foreman turned and the men clumped out to the yard.

"He's right," said Corliss. "We'll wait."

They stood around talking and commenting upon Sundown's defense of the Mexican.

"'Course we could 'a' got him," said Shoop, "but it don't set right with me to be stood up by a tenderfoot. Sundown's sure loco."

"I don't know, Bud. He's queer, all right, but this is his ranch. He's got a right to order us out."

Shoop was about to retort when Sundown came to the doorway. "I guess you can come in now," he said. "And you won't need no gun." The men shuffled awkwardly, and finally led by Corliss they filed into the room and one by one they stepped to the open door of the bedroom and gazed within. Then they filed out silently.

"I'll send over some grub," said Corliss as they mounted. Sundown nodded.

The band of riders moved slowly back toward the Concho. About halfway on their homeward journey they met Loring in a buckboard. The old sheep-man drove up and would have passed them without speaking had not Corliss reined across the road and halted him.

"One of your herders—'Sandro—is over at the water-hole," said Corliss. "If you're headed for Antelope, you might stop by and take him along."

Loring glared at the Concho riders, seemed about to speak, but instead clucked to his team. The riders reined out of his way and he swept past, gazing straight ahead, grim, silent, and utterly without fear. He understood the rancher's brief statement, and he already knew of the killing of Sinker. 'Sandro's assistant, becoming frightened, had left his wounded companion on the mesas, and had ridden to the Loring rancho with the story of the fight and its ending.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE PEACEMAKER

"But I ain't no dove—more like a stork, I guess," reflected Sundown as he stood in the doorway of his house. "And storks brings responsibilities in baskets, instead of olive branches. No wonder ole man Noah fired the dove right out ag'in—bringin' him olives what wa'n't pickled, instead of a bunch of grapes or somethin' you can eat! And that there dove never come back. I reckon he figured if he did, ole man Noah'd shoot him. Anyhow, if I ain't no dove of peace, I'm goin' to do the best I can. Everybody 'round here seems like they was tryin' to ride right into trouble wishful, 'stead of reinin' to one side an' givin' trouble a chance to get past. Gee Gosh! If I'd 'a' knowed what I know now—afore I hit this country—but I'm here. Anyhow, they's nothin' wrong with the country. It's the folks, like it 'most always is. Reckon I ought to keep on buildin' fence this mornin', but that there peace idea 's got to singin' in me head. I'll jest saddle up Pill and ride over and tell ole man Loring that I'm takin' care of his sheep charitable what's been hangin' around here since 'Sandro passed over. Mebby that'll kind o' start the talk. Then I can slip him a couple of ideas 'bout how neighbors ought to act. Huh! Me nussin' them sheep for two weeks and more, an' me just dyin' for a leetle taste o' mutton. Mebby his herders was scared to come for 'em, I dunno."

Sundown was established at the water-hole. Corliss had sent a team to Antelope for provisions, implements, and fencing. Meanwhile, Sundown had been industrious, not alone because he felt the necessity for something to occupy his time, but that he wanted to forget the tragedy he had so recently witnessed. And he had dreams of a more companionable future which included Mexican dishes served hot, evenings of blissful indolence accompanied by melody, and a Senora who would sing "Linda Rosa, Adios!" which would be the "piece de resistance" of his pastoral menu.

The "tame cow," which he had so ardently longed for, now grazed soulfully in a temporary enclosure out on the mesa. Two young and sprightly black pigs prospected the confines of their littered hermitage. Four gaunt hens and a more or less dilapidated rooster stalked about the yard, no longer afraid of the watchful Chance, who had previously introduced himself to the rooster without the formality of Sundown's presence as mediator. Sundown was proud of his chickens. The cow, however, had been, at first, rather a disappointment to him. Milk had not heretofore been a conspicuous portion of Sundown's diet, nor was he versed in the art of obtaining it except over the counter in tins. With due formality and some trepidation he had placed a pail beneath "Gentle Annie" as he called her, and had waited patiently. So had Gentle Annie, munching a reflective cud, and Sundown, in a metaphorical sense, doing likewise. He had walked around the cow inspecting her with an anxious and critical eye. She seemed healthful and voluptuously contented. Yet no milk came. Bud Shoop, having at that moment arrived with the team, sized up the situation. When he had recovered enough poise to stand without assistance and had wiped the wild tears from his eyes, he instructed the amazed Sundown as to certain manipulations necessary to produce the desired result. "Huh! Folks says cows give milk. But I reckon that ain't right," Sundown had asserted. "You got to take it away from 'em." So he had taken what he could, which was not, at first, a great deal.

This momentous morning he had decided that his unsolicited mission was to induce or persuade Loring to arbitrate the question of grazing-rights. It was a strange idea, although not incompatible with Sundown's peculiar temperament. He felt justified in taking the initiative; especially in view of the fact that Loring's sheep had been trespassing on his property.

He saddled "Pill," and called to Chance. "See here, Chance, you and me's pals. No, you ain't comin' this trip. You stick around and keep your eye on me stock. What's mine is yourn exceptin' the rooster. Speakin' poetical, he belongs to them hens. If he ain't here when I get back, I can pretty nigh tell by the leavin's where he is. When I git back I look to find you hungry, sabe? And not sneakin' around lookin' at me edgeways with leetle feathers stickin' to your nose. I reckon you understand."

Chance followed his master to the road, and there the dog sat gazing at the bobbing figure of Sundown until it was but a speck in the morning sunshine. Then Chance fell to scratching his ear with his hind foot, rose and shook himself, and stalked indolently to the yard where he lay with his nose along his outstretched fore legs, watching the proscribed rooster with an eloquence of expression that illustrated the proverbial power of mind over matter.

Sundown kept Pill loping steadily. It was a long ride, but Sundown's mind was so preoccupied with the preparing of his proposed appeal to the sheep-man that the morning hours and the sunlit miles swept past unnoticed. The dark green of the acacias bordering the hacienda, the twinkling white of the speeding windmill, and the dull brown of the adobes became distinct and separate colors against the far edge of the eastern sky. He reined his pony to a walk. "When you're in a hurry to do somethin'," he informed his horse, "it ain't always good politics to let folks know it. So we'll ride up easy, like we had money to spend, and was jest lookin' over the show-case." And Pill was not averse to the suggestion.

Sundown dismounted, opened the gate, and swinging to the saddle, rode up to the ranch-house. Had he known that Anita, the daughter of Chico Miguel, was at that moment talking with the wife of one of Loring's herders; that she was describing him in glowing terms to her friend, and moreover, as he passed up the driveway, that Anita had turned swiftly, dropping the pitcher of milk which she had just brought from the cooling-room as she saw him, he might well have been excused from promulgating his mission of peace with any degree of coherence. Sublimely ignorant of her presence,—spiritualists and sentimentalists to the contrary in like instances,—he rode directly to the hacienda, asked for the patron, and was shown to the cool interior of the house by the mildly astonished Senora. Senor Loring would return presently. Would the gentleman refresh himself by resting until the Senor returned? Possibly she herself could receive the message—or the Senorita, who was in the garden?

"Thanks, lady. I reckon Pill is dry—wants a drink—agua—got a thirst. No, ma'am. I can wait. I mean me horse."

"Oh! Si! But Juan would attend to the horse and at once."

"Thanks, lady. And if Miss Loring ain't too busy, I reckon I'd like to see her a minute."

The Senora disappeared. Sundown could hear her call for Juan. Presently Nell Loring came to the room, checked an exclamation of surprise as she recognized him, and stepping forward, offered her hand. "You're from Mr. Corliss. I remember. . . . Is Chance all right now?"

"Yes, ma'am. He is enjoyin' fust-rate health. He eats reg'lar—and rabbits in between. But I ain't from the Concho, lady. I'm from me own ranch, down there at the water-hole. Me boss ain't got nothin' to do with me bein' here. It's me own idea. I come friendly and wishful to make a little talk to your pa."

Wondering what could have induced Sundown to call at her home, especially under the existing circumstances, Nell Loring made him welcome. After he had washed and strolled over to the stables to see to his horse. Sundown, returning, declined an invitation to come in, and sat on the veranda, smoking cigarettes and making mental note of the exterior details of the hacienda: its garden, shade-trees, corrals, and windmill. Should prosperity smile upon him, he would have a windmill, be Gosh! Not a white one—though white wasn't so bad—but something tasty; red, white and blue, mebby—a real American windmill, and in the front of the house a flagpole with the American flag. And he would keep the sign "American Hotel" above the gate. There was nothin' like bein' paterotic. Mexican ranches—some of 'em—was purty enough in a lazy kind of style, but he was goin' to let folks know that a white man was runnin' the water-hole ranch!

And all unknown to him, Anita stood in the doorway of one of the herder's 'dobes, more than ever impressed by the evident importance of her beau-ideal of chivalry, who took the kick of horses as a matter of course, and rose smilingly from such indignities to present flowers to her with eyes which spake of love and lips that expressed, as best they could, admiration. Anita was a bit disappointed and perhaps a bit pleased that he had not as yet seen her. As it was she could worship from a distance that lent security to her tender embarrassment. The tall one must, indeed, be a great caballero to be made welcome at the patron's home. Assuredly he was not as the other vaqueros who visited the patron. He sat upon the veranda and smoked in a lordly way, while they inevitably held forth in the less conspicuous latitude of the bunk-house and its environs. Anita was happy.

Sundown, elated by the righteousness of his mission as harbinger of peace, met Loring returning from one of the camps with gracious indifference to the other's gruff welcome.

They sat at the table and ate in silence for a while. With the refreshing coffee Sundown's embarrassment melted. His weird command of language, enhanced by the opportunity for exercise in a good cause, astonished and eventually interested his hearers. He did not approach his subject directly, but mounted the metaphorical steps of his rostrum leisurely. He discoursed on the opportunities afforded by the almost limitless free range. He hinted at the possibility of internecine strife eventually awakening the cupidity of "land-sharks" all over the country. If there was land worth killing folks for, there was land worth stealing. If the Concho Valley was once thrown open to homesteaders, then farewell free range and fat cattle and sheep. And the mention of sheep led him to remark that there was a small band at the water-hole, uncared-for save by himself. "And he was no sheep-man, but he sure hated to see any critters sufferin' for water, so he had allowed the sheep to drink at the water-hole." Then he paused, anticipating the obvious question to which he made answer: "Yes. The water-hole ranch is me ranch. I filed on her the same day that you and Miss Loring come to Usher. Incondescent to that I was in the calaboose at Antelope. Somebody tole the sheriff that I was a suspicious character. Mebby I am, judgin' from the outside, but inside I ain't. You can't always tell what the works is like by the case, I ain't got no hard feelin's for nobody, and I'm wishful that folks don't have no hard feelin's ag'in' me or anybody else."

Loring listened in silence. Finally he spoke. "I'll take care of my sheep. I'll send for 'em to-day. Looks like you're tryin' to play square, but you don't figure in this deal. Jack Corliss is at the bottom of it and he's using you. And he'll use you hard. What you goin' to do with the overflow from the water-hole?"

"I'm goin' to irrigate me ranch," said Sundown.

Loring nodded. "And cut off the water from everybody?"

"Not from me friends."

"Which means the Concho."

"Sure! Jack Corliss is me friend. But that ain't all. If you want to be me friend, I ain't kickin' even if you did tell the sheriff he ought to git acquainted with me closer. I'm goin' to speak right out. I reckon it's the best way. I got a proposition. If you'll quit sickin' them herders onto cowboys and if Jack'll quit settin' the punchers at your herders, I'll open up me spring and run her down to where they's water for everybody. If cows comes, they drink. If sheep comes, they drink. If folks comes, they drink, likewise. But no fightin'."

Sundown as arbiter of peace felt that he had, in truth, "spoken right out." He was not a little surprised at himself and a bit fearful. Yet he felt justified in his suggestion. Theoretically he had made a fair offer. Practically his offer was of no value. Sheep and cattle could not occupy the same range. Loring grumbled something and shoved back his chair. They rose and stepped to the veranda.

"If you can get Corliss to agree to what you say—and quit runnin' cattle on the water-hole side—I'll quit runnin' sheep there." And Loring waved his hand toward the north.

"But the Concho is on the west side—" began Sundown.

"And cattle are grazin' on the east side," said Loring.

Sundown scratched his head. "I reckon I got to see Jack," he said.

"And you'll waste time, at that," said Loring. "Look here! Are you ranchin' to hold down the water-hole for Corliss or to make a livin'?"

Sundown hesitated. He gazed across the yard to the distant mesa. Suddenly a figure crossed the pathway to the gate. He jerked up his head and stood with mouth open. It couldn't be—but, yes, it was Anita—Linda Rosa! Gee Gosh! He turned to Loring. "I been tellin' you the truth," he said simply. "'Course I got to see me boss, now. But it makes no difference what he says, after this. I'm ranchin' for meself, because I'm—er—thinkin' of gettin' married."

Without further explanation, Sundown stalked to the stable and got his horse. He came to the hacienda and made his adieux. Then he mounted and rode slowly down the roadway toward the gate.

Anita's curiosity had overcome her timidity. Quite accidentally she stood toying with a bud that she had picked from the flower-bordered roadway. She turned as Sundown jingled up and met him with a murmur of surprise and pleasure. He swung from his horse hat in hand and advanced, bowing. Anita flushed and gazed at the ground.

"'Mornin', Senorita! I sure am jest hoppin' glad to see you ag'in. If I'd 'a' knowed you was here . . . But I come on business—important. Reckon you're visitin' friends, eh?"

"Si, Senor!"

"Do you come here reg'lar?"

"Only to see the good aunt sometimes."

"Uhuh. I kind of wish your aunt was hangin' out at the Concho, though. This here ain't a reg'lar stoppin'-place for me."

"You go away?" queried Anita.

"I reckon I got to after what I said up there to the house. Yes, I'm goin' back to feed me pigs and Chance and the hens. I set up housekeepin' since I seen you. Got a ranch of me own—that I was tellin' you about. You ought to see it! Some class! But it's mighty lonely, evenin's."

Anita sighed and glanced at Sundown. Then her gaze dwelt on the bud she held. "Si, Senor—it is lonely in the evenings," she said, and although she spoke in Spanish, Sundown did not misunderstand.

He grinned hugely. "You sure don't need to talk American to tell it," he said as one who had just made a portentous discovery. "It was worryin' me how we was goin' to get along—me short on the Spanish and you short on my talk. But I reckon we'll get along fine. Your pa in good health, and your ma?"

Anita nodded shyly.

Sundown was at a loss to continue this pleasant conversation. He brightened, however, as a thought inspired him. "And the leetle hoss, is he doin' well?"

"That Sarko I do not like that he should keeck you!" flamed Anita, and Sundown's cup of happiness was full to overflowing.

Quite unconsciously he was leading his horse toward the gate and quite unconsciously Anita was walking beside him. Forgotten was the Loring ranch, the Concho, his own homestead. He was with his inamorata, the "Linda Rosa" of his dreams.

At the gateway he turned to her. "I'm comin' over to see your folks soon as I git things to runnin' on me ranch. Keeps a fella busy, but I'm sure comin'. I ain't got posies to growin' yet, but I'm goin' to have some—like them," and he indicated the bud which she held.

"You like it?" she queried. And with bashful gesture she gave him the rose, smiling as he immediately stuck it in the band of his sombrero.

Then he held out his hand. "Linda Rosa," he said gently, "I can't make the big talk in the Spanish lingo or I'd say how I was lovin' you and thinkin' of you reg'lar and deep. 'Course I got to put your pa and ma wise first. But some day I'm comin'—me and Chance—and tell you that I'm ready—that me ranch is doin' fine, and that I sure want you to come over and boss the outfit. I used to reckon that I didn't want no woman around bossin' things, but I changed me mind. Adios! Senorita!—for I sure got to feed them hens."

Sundown extended his hand. Anita laid her own plump brown hand in Sundown's hairy paw. For an instant he hesitated, moved by a most natural impulse to kiss her. Her girlish face, innocently sweet and trusting, her big brown eyes glowing with admiration and wonder, as she gazed up at him, offered temptation and excuse enough. It was not timidity nor lack of opportunity that caused Sundown to hesitate, but rather that innate respect for women which distinguishes the gentle man from the slovenly generalization "gentleman." "Adios! Linda Rosa!" he murmured, and stooping, kissed her brown fingers. Then he gestured with magnificence toward the flowers bordering the roadway. "And you sure are the lindaest little Linda Rosa of the bunch!"

And Anita's heart was filled with happiness as she watched her brave caballero ride away, so tall, so straight, and of such the gentle manner and the royal air!

It was inevitable that he should turn and wave to her, but it was not inevitable that she should have thrown him a pretty kiss with the grace of her pent-up emotion—but she did.



CHAPTER XXIV

AN UNEXPECTED VISIT

It was late in the evening when Sundown returned to his ranch. Chance welcomed him with vocal and gymnastic abandon. Sundown hastened to his "tame cow" and milked her while the four hens peeped and clucked from their roost, evidently disturbed by the light of the lantern. Meanwhile Chance lay gravely watching his master until Gentle Annie had been relieved of the full and creamy quota of her donation to the maintenance of the household. Then the wolf-dog followed his master to the kitchen where they enjoyed, in separate dishes, Gentle Annie's warm contribution, together with broken bread and "a leetle salt to bring out the gamey flavor."

Solicitous of the welfare of his stock, as he termed them, he betook himself to the hen-house to feed the chickens. "Huh!" he exclaimed, raising the lantern and peering round, "there's one rooster missin'!" The rooster had in truth disappeared. He put down the lantern and turned to Chance. "Lemme look at your mouth. No, they ain't no signs on you. Hold on! Be Gosh, if they ain't some leetle red hairs stickin' to your chops. What's the answer?"

Chance whined and wagged his tail. "You don't look like you was guilty. And that there rooster wasn't sportin' red hair the last time I seen him. Did you eat him fust and then swaller a rabbit to cover his tracks? I reckon not. You're some dog—but you ain't got boiler-room for a full-size Rhode Island Red and a rabbit and two quarts of bread-and-milk. It ain't reas'nable. I got to investigate."

The dog seemed to understand. He leaped up and trotted to the yard, turning his head and silently coaxing his master to follow him. Sundown, with a childish and most natural faith in Chance's intelligence, followed him to the fence, scrambled through and trailed him out on the mesa. In a little hollow Chance stopped and stood with crooked fore leg. Sundown stalked up. At his feet fluttered his red rooster and not far from it lay the body of a full-grown coyote. Chance ran to the coyote and diving in shook the inanimate shape and growled. "Huh! Showin' me what you done to him for stealin' our rooster, eh? Well, you sure are goin' to get suthin' extra for this! You caught him with the goods—looks like. And look here!"—and Sundown deposited the lantern on a knoll and sat down facing the dog. "What I'm goin' to give you that extra for ain't for killin' the coyote. That is your business when I ain't to home. You could 'a' finished off Jimmy"—and he gestured toward the rooster—"and the evidence would 'a' been in your favor, seein' as you was wise to show me the coyote. I got some candy put by for—for later, if she likes it, but we're goin' to bust open that box of candy and celebrate. Got to see if I can repair Jimmy fust, though, or else use the axe. I dunno."

Jimmy was a sad spectacle. His tail-feathers were about gone and one leg was maimed, yet he still showed the fighting spirit of his New England sires, for, as Sundown essayed to pick him up, he pecked and squawked energetically.

They returned to the house, where Sundown examined the bedraggled bird critically. "I ain't no doc, but I have been practiced on some meself. Looks like his left kicker was bruk. Guess it's the splints for him and nussin' by hand. Here, you! Let go that button! That ain't a bug! There! 'T ain't what you'd call a perfessional job, but if you jest quit runnin' around nights and take care of your health, mebby you'll come through. Don' know what them hens'll think, though. You sure ain't no Anner Dominus no more. If you was a lady hen, you could pertend you was wearin' evenin' dress like—low-neck and suspenders. But bein' a he, 't ain't the style. Wonder if you got your crow left? You ain't got a whole lot more to tell you from jest a hen."

With Jimmy installed in a box of straw in the kitchen, the pigs fed, and Gentle Annie grazing contentedly, Sundown felt able to relax. It had been a strenuous day for him. He drew a chair to the stove, and before he sat down he brought forth from beneath the bed a highly colored cardboard box on which was embossed a ribbon of blue sealed with a gold paster-seal. Chance watched him gravely. It was a ceremony. Sundown opened the box and picking out a chocolate held it up that Chance might realize fully that it was a ceremony. The dog's nose twitched and he licked his chops. "Tastes good a'ready, eh? Well, it's yourn." And he solemnly gave Chance the chocolate. "Gee Gosh! What'd you do with it? That ain't no way to eat candy! You want to chew her slow and kind o' hang on till she ain't there. Then you get your money's worth. Want another?"

Later Sundown essayed to smoke, but found the flavor of chocolate incompatible with the enjoyment of tobacco. Chance dozed by the fire, and Jimmy, with neck stretched above the edge of the box, watched Sundown with beady, blinking eyes.

Sundown slept late next morning. The lowing of Gentle Annie as she mildly endeavored to make it known that milking-time was past, the muffled grunting of the two pigs as they rooted in the mud or poked flat flexible noses through the bars, the restless padding of Chance to and from the bedroom, merely harmonized in chorus with audible slumbers until one of the hens cackled. Then Jimmy, from his box near the stove, lifted his clarion shrill in reply to the hen. Sundown sat up, scratched his ear, and arose.

He was returning from a practice of five-finger exercise on Gentle Annie, busy with his thoughts and the balance of the pail, when a shout brought his gaze to the road. John Corliss and Bud Shoop waved him greeting, and dismounting led their horses to the yard.

"Saves me a ride," muttered Sundown. Then, "How, folks! Come right in!"

He noticed that the ponies seemed tired—that the cinchas were mud-spattered and that the riders seemed weary. He invited his guests to breakfast. After the meal the three foregathered outside the house.

"That was right good beef you fed us," remarked Shoop, slightly raising one eyebrow as Corliss glanced at him.

"The best in the country," cheerfully assented Sundown.

"How you making it, Sun?"

"Me? Oh, I'm wigglin' along. Come home last night and found Jimmy with his leg bruk. Everything else was all right."

"Jimmy?"

"Uhuh. Me rooster."

"Coyote grab him?"

"Uhuh. And Chance fixed Mr. Coyote. I was to Loring's yesterday on business."

Shoop glanced at Corliss who had thus far remained silent.

"We had a little business to talk over," said the rancher. "You're located now. I'm going to run some cattle down this way next week. Some of mine and some of the Two-Bar-O." Corliss, who had been standing, stepped to the doorway and sat down. Shoop and Sundown followed him and lay outstretched on the warm earth. "Funny thing, Bud, about that Two-Bar-O steer we found cut up."

"Sure was," said Shoop.

"Did he get in a fence?" queried Sundown.

"No. He was killed for beef. We ran across him yesterday and did some looking around last night. Trailed over this way to have a talk."

"I'm right glad to see you. I wanted to speak a little piece meself after you get through."

"All right. Here's the story." And Corliss gazed across the mesa for a moment. "The South Spring's gone dry. The fork is so low that only a dozen head can drink at once. It's been a mighty dry year, and the river is about played out except in the canon, and the stock can't get to the water there. This is about the only natural supply outside the ranch. I want to put a couple of men in here and ditch to that hollow over there. It'll take about all your water, but we got to have it. I want you to put in a gas-engine and pump for us. Maybe we'll have to pipe to tanks before we get through. I'll give you fifty a month to run the engine."

"I'll sure keep that leetle ole gas-engine coughin' regular," said Sundown. "I was thinkin' of somethin' like that meself. You see I seen Loring yesterday. I told him that anybody that was wishful could water stock here so long as she held out—except there was to be no shootin' and killin', and the like. Ole man Loring says to tell you what I told him and see what you said. I reckon he'll take his sheep out of here if you folks'll take your cattle off the east side. I ain't playin' no favorites. You been my friend—you and Bud. You come and make me a proposition to pump water for you—and the fifty a month is for the water. That's business. Loring ain't said nothin' about buyin' water from me, so you get it. You see I was kind of figurin' somethin' like this when I first come to this here place—'way back when I met you that evenin'. Says I to meself, 'a fella couldn't even raise robins on this here farm, but from the looks of that water-hole he could raise water, and folks sure got to have water in this country.' I was thinkin' of irrigatin' and raisin' alfalfa and veg'tables, but fifty a month sounds good to me. Bein' a puncher meself, I ain't got no use for sheep, but I was willin' to give ole man Loring a chance. If the mesas is goin' dry on the east side, what's he goin' to do?"