"I don't know, Sun. He's got a card up his sleeve, and you want to stay right on the job. Bud here got a tip in Antelope that a bunch of Mexicans came in last week from Loring's old ranch in New Mexico. Some of 'em are herders and some of 'em are worse. I reckon he'll try to push his sheep across and take up around here. He'll try it at night. If he does and you get on to it before we do, just saddle Pill and fan it for the Concho."

"Gee Gosh! But that means more fightin'!"

Shoop and Corliss said nothing. Sundown gazed at them questioningly.

Presently Corliss gestured toward the south. "They'll make it interesting for you. Loring's an old-timer and he won't quit. This thing won't be settled until something happens—and I reckon it's going to happen soon."

"Well, I'm sure sittin' on the dynamite," said Sundown lugubriously. "I reckoned to settle down and git m—me farm to goin' and keep out of trouble. Now it looks like I was the cat what fell out of a tree into a dog-fight by mistake. They was nothin' left of that cat."

Shoop laughed. "We'll see that you come out all right."

Sundown accepted this meager consolation with a grimace. Then his face beamed. "Say! What's the matter of me tellin' the sheriff that there's like to be doin's—and mebby he could come over and kind of scare 'em off."

"The idea is all right, Sun. But Jim is a married man. Most of his deputies are married. If it comes to a mix some of 'em 'd get it sure. Now there isn't a married man on the Concho—which makes a lot of difference. Sabe?"

"I reckon that's right," admitted Sundown, "Killin' a married man is like killin' the whole fambly."

"And you're a single man—so you're all right," said Shoop.

"Gee Gosh! Mebby that ought to make me feel good, but it don't. Supposin' a fella was goin' to get married?"

"Then—he'd—better wait," said Corliss, smiling at his foreman.

Corliss stood up and yawned. "Oh, say, Sun, where'd you get that beef?" he asked casually.

"The beef? Why, a Chola come along here day afore yesterday and say if I wanted some meat. I says yes. Then he rides off and purty soon he comes back with a hind-quarter on his saddle. I give him two dollars for it. It looked kind of funny, but I thought he was mebby campin' out there somewhere and peddlin' meat."

Shoop and Corliss glanced at each other. "They don't peddle meat that way in this country, Sun. What did the Mexican look like?"

"Kind of fat and greasy-like, and he was as cross-eyed as a rabbit watchin' two dogs to onct."

"That so? Let's have a look at that hind-quarter."

"Sure! Over there in the well-shed."

When Corliss returned, he nodded to Shoop. Then he turned to Sundown. "We found a Two-Bar-O steer killed right close to here yesterday. Looks queer. Well, we'll be fanning it. I'll send to Antelope and have them order the pump and some pipe. Got plenty of grub?"

"Plenty 'nough for a couple of weeks."

"All right. So-long. Keep your eye on things."



CHAPTER XXV

VAMOSE, EH?

The intermittent popping of the gasoline engine, as it forced water to the big, unpainted tank near the water-hole, became at first monotonous and finally irritating. Sundown, clad in oil-spotted overalls that did not by many inches conceal his riding-boots and his Spanish spurs, puttered about the engine until he happened to glance at the distant tank. A silvery rill of water was pouring from the top of the tank. He shut off the engine, wiped his hands, and strode to the house.

He was gone a long time, so long in fact that Chance decided to investigate. The dog got up, stretched lazily, and padded to the doorway. He could hear Sundown muttering and shuffling about in the bedroom. Chance stalked in quietly and stood gazing at his master. Sundown had evidently been taking a bath,—not in the pail of water that stood near him, but obviously round and about it. At the moment he was engaged in tying a knot in the silk bandanna about his neck. Chance became animated. His master was going somewhere! Sundown turned his head, glancing at the dog with a preoccupied eye. The knot adjusted to his satisfaction, he knelt and drew a large box from beneath the bed. From the box he took an immaculate and exceedingly wide-brimmed Stetson with an exceedingly high crown. He dented the crown until the hat had that rakish appearance dear to the heart of the cowboy. Then he took the foot-square looking-glass from the wall and studied the effect at various and more or less unsatisfactory angles. Again he knelt—after depositing the hat on the bed—and emerged with a pair of gorgeous leather chaps that glittered with the polished silver of conchas from waist-band to heel. Next he drew on a pair of elaborate gauntlets embellished with hand-worked silk roses of crimson. Then he glanced at his boots. They were undoubtedly serviceable, but more or less muddy and stained. That wouldn't do at all! Striding to the kitchen he poked about and finally unearthed a box of stove-polish that he had purchased and laid away for future use against that happy time when stove-polish would be doubly appreciated. The metallic luster of his boots was not altogether satisfactory, but it would do. "This here bein' chief engineer of a popcorn machine ain't what it's said to be in the perspectus. Gets a fella lookin' greasy and feelin' greasy, but the pay kind of makes up for it. Me first month's wages blowed in for outside decoratin'—but I reckon the grub'll hold out for a spell."

Then he strode from the house and made his rounds, inspecting the pigs, shooing the chickens to their coop, and finally making a short pilgrimage to where Gentle Annie was grazing. After he had saddled "Pill," he returned to the house and reappeared with a piece of wrapping-paper on which he had printed:—

Help yourself to grub—but no fighting on thees premisus.

SUNDOWN, Propriter.

"It's all right trustin' folks," he remarked as he gazed proudly at the sign and still more proudly at the signature. "And I sure hate to put up anything that looks kind of religious, but these days I don't trust nobody but meself, and I sure have a hard time doin' that, knowin' how crooked I could be if I tried."

He gathered up the reins and mounted Pill. "Come on, Chance!" he called. "We don't need any rooster-police to-day. Jimmy's in there talkin' to his hens, and like as not cussin' because I shet him up. And he sure ought to be glad he ain't goin' on crutches."

He rode out to the mesa and, turning from the trail, took as direct a course as he could approximate for the home of Chico Miguel, and incidentally Anita. His mission would have been obvious to an utter stranger. He shone and glistened from head to heel—his face with the inner light of anticipation and his boots with the effulgence of hastily applied stove-polish.

He rode slowly, for he wished to collect himself, that his errand might have all the grace of a chance visit and yet not lack the most essential significance. He did not stop to reason that Anita's father and mother were anything but blind.

The day was exceptionally hot. The sun burned steadily on the ripening bunch-grass. His pony's feet swept aside bright flowers that tilted their faces eagerly like the faces of questioning children. He glanced at his watch. "Got to move along, Pill. Reckon we'll risk havin' somethin' to say when we get there—and not cook her up goin' along. It sure is hot. Huh! That there butte over there looks jest like a city athletic club with muscles all on its front of fellas wrastlin' and throwin' things at themselves. Wisht I had a big lookin'-glass so I could see meself comin'. Gee Gosh, but she's hot!"

He put the horse to a lope, and with the subdued rhythm of the pony's feet came Euterpe with a song. Recitation of verse at a lope is apt to be punctuated according to the physical contour of the ground:—

"In the Pull—man car with turnin' fans, The desert looks like a lovely p—lace. But crossin' alone on the burnin' sands, She's hell, with a grin on her face."

"Got to slow up to get that right," he said, "or jest stop an' git off. But we ain't got time. 'Oh, down in Arizona there's a . . .' No. I reckon I won't. I want to sing, but I can't take no risks."

That "the Colonel's lady and Julie O'Grady are sisters under their skins," is not to be doubted. That Romeo and Sundown are brothers, with the odds slightly in favor of Sundown, is apparent to those who have been, are, or are willing to be, in love. "Will this plume, these trunks and hose, this bonnet please my fair Juliet?" sighs Romeo to his mirror. And "Will these here chaps and me bandanna and me new Stetson make a hit with me leetle Anita?" asks Sundown of the mesas.

That the little Anita was pleased, nay, overwhelmed by the arrival of her gorgeous caballero was more than apparent to the anxious Sundown. She came running to the gate and stood with clasped hands while he bowed for the seventh time and slowly dismounted, giving his leg an unnecessary shake that the full effect of spur and concha might not be lost. He felt the high importance of his visit, and Anita also surmised that something unusual was about to happen. He strode magnificently to the house and again doffed his Stetson to the astonished and smiling Senora. Evidently the strange vaquero had met with fortune. With experienced eye the mother of Anita swiftly estimated the monetary outlay necessary to possess such an equipment. It was well to be courted, of that she was reminiscently certain. Yet it was also well to be courted by one who bore the earmarks—so to speak—of prosperity. Sundown was made heartily welcome. After they had had dinner,—Chico Miguel would return at night as usual,—Sundown mentally besought his stars to aid him, lend him eloquence and the Senora understanding, and found excuse to follow the Senora to the kitchen where he offered to wipe the dishes. This she would not hear of, but being wise in her generation she dismissed Anita on a trivial errand and motioned her guest to a seat. What was said is a matter of interest only to those immediately concerned. Love is his own interpreter and labors willingly, yet in this instance his limitations must be excused by the result. The Senora and Sundown came to a perfect understanding. The cabellero was welcome to make the state of his heart known to Anita. As for her father, she—the Senora—would attend to him. And was Sundown fond of the tortillas? He was, be Gosh! It was well. They would have tortillas that evening. Chico Miguel was especially fond of the tortillas. They made him of the pleasant disposition and induced him to tune the big guitar.

The Senora would take her siesta. Possibly her guest would smoke and entertain Anita with news from the Concho and of the Patron Loring and of his own rancho. Anita was not of what you say the kind to do the much talking, but she had a heart. Of that the Senora had reason to be assured. Had not Anita gone, each day, to the gate and stood gazing down the road? Surely there was nothing to see save the mesas. Had she not begged to be allowed to visit the Loring hacienda not of so very long time past? And Anita had not been to the Loring hacienda for a year or more. Such things were significant. And the Senora gestured toward her own bosom, implying that she of a surety knew from which quarter the south wind blew.

All of which delighted the already joyous Sundown. He saw before him a flower-bordered pathway to his happiness, and incidentally, as he gazed down the pathway toward the gate of Chico Miguel's homestead, he saw Anita standing pensively beneath the shade of an acacia, pulling a flower to pieces and casting quick glances at the house. "Good-night, Senora,—I mean—er—here's hopin' you have a good sleep. It sure is refreshin' this hot weather." The Senora nodded and disappeared in the bedroom. Sundown strode jingling down the pathway, a brave figure in his glittering chaps and tinkling spurs. Anita's eyes were hidden beneath her long black lashes. Perhaps she had anticipated something of that which followed—perhaps she anticipated even more. In any event, Sundown was not a disappointment. He asked her to sit beside him beneath the acacia. Then he took her hand and squeezed it. "Let's jest sit here and look out at them there mesas dancin' in the sun; and say, 'Nita, let's jest say nothin' for a spell. I'm so right down happy that suthin' hurts me throat."

When Chico Miguel returned in the dusk of evening, humming a song of the herd, he was not a little surprised to find that Anita was absent. He questioned the Senora, who smiled as she bustled about the table. "Tortillas," she said, and was gratified at the change in Chico Miguel's expression. Then she explained the presence of the broad new Stetson that lay on a chair, adding a gesture toward the gateway. "It is the tall one and our daughter—he of the grand manner and the sad countenance. It is possible that a new home will be thought of for Anita." There had been conversations that afternoon with the tall caballero and understandings. Chico Miguel was to wash himself and put on his black suit. It was an event—and there were tortillas.

Chico Miguel wondered why the hour of eating had been so long past. To which the Senora replied that he had just arrived, and, moreover, that she had already called to Anita this the third time, yet had had no response. Chico Miguel moved toward the doorway, but his wife laid her hand on his arm. "It is that you take the big guitar and play the 'Linda Rosa, Adios.' Then, to be sure, they will hear and the supper will not grow cold."

Grumblingly Chico Miguel took his guitar and struck the opening chords of the song. Presently up the pathway came two shadowy figures, close together and seemingly in no haste. As they entered the house, Sundown apologized for having delayed supper, stating that he had been so interested in discussing with Anita the "best breed of chickens to raise for eggs," that other things had for the nonce not occupied his attention. "And we're sure walkin' on music," he added. "Jest steppin' along on the notes of that there song. I reckon I got to get one of them leetle potato-bug mandolins and learn to tickle its neck. There's nothin' like music—exceptin'"—and he glanced at the blushing Anita—"exceptin' ranchin'."

It was late when Sundown finally departed, He grew anxious as he rode across the mesas, wondering if he had not taken advantage, as it were, of Gentle Annie's good nature, and whether or not the chickens were very hungry. Chance plodded beside him, a vague shadow in the starlight. The going was more or less rough and Pill dodged many gopher-holes, to the peril of his rider's equilibrium. Yet Sundown was glad that it was night. There was nothing to divert him from the golden dreams of the future. He felt that success, as he put it, "was hangin' around the door whinin' to be let in." He formulated a creed for himself and told the stars. "I believe in meself—you bet." Yet he was honest with his soul. "I know more about everything and less about anything than anybody—exceptin' po'try and cookin'. But gettin' along ain't jest what you know. It's more like what you do. They's fellas knows more than I could learn in four thousand eight hundred and seventy-six years, but that don't help 'em get along none. It's what you know inside what counts."

He lapsed into silence and slouched in the saddle. Presently he nodded, recovered, and nodded again. He would not wittingly have gone to sleep in the saddle, being as yet too unaccustomed to riding to relax to that extent. But sleep had something to say anent the matter. He dozed, clasping the saddle-horn instinctively. Pill plodded along patiently. The east grew gray, then rose-pink, then golden. The horse lifted its head and quickened pace. Sundown swayed and nodded.

His uneasy slumber was broken by an explosive bark from Chance. Sundown straightened and rubbed his eyes. Before him lay the ranch-house, glittering in the sun. Out on the mesa grazed a herd of sheep and past them another and another. Again he rubbed his eyes.

Then he distinguished several saddle-horses tied to the fence surrounding the water-hole and there were figures of men walking to and from his house, many of them. He set spur to Pill and loped up to the fence. A Mexican with a hard, lined face stepped up to him. "You vamose!" he said, pointing down the road.

Sundown stared at the men about the yard. Among them he recognized several of Loring's herders, armed and evidently equipped with horses, for they were booted and spurred. He pushed back his hat. "Vamose, eh? I'll be damned if I do."



CHAPTER XXVI

THE INVADERS

The Mexican whipped his gun out and covered Sundown, who wisely put up his hands. Two of the men crawled through the fence, secured Sundown's horse, and ordered him to dismount. Before both feet had touched the ground one of the Mexicans had snatched Sundown's gun from its holster. Chance leaped at the Mexican, but Sundown's "Here, Chance!" brought the dog growling to his master.

At that moment Loring stepped from the house, and shouldering aside the men strode up to Sundown. The sheep-man was about to speak when the tall one raised his arm and shook his fist in Loring's face.

"Fer two pins I'd jump you and stomp the gizzard out of you, you low-down, dried-up, whisker-faced, mutton-eatin' butcher, you! I goes to you and makes you a square offer and you come pussy-footin' in and steals me ranch when I ain't there! If Jack Corliss don't run you plumb off the edge afore to-morrow night, I'll sure see if there's any law—" and Sundown paused for lack of breath.

"Law? Mebby you think you got somethin' to say about this here water-hole, and mebby not," said Loring. "Don't get het up. I come to this country before you knew it was here. And for law—I reckon seein' you're wanted by the law that them papers of yourn is good for startin' a fire—and nothin' more. The law says that no man wanted by the law kin homestead. The water-hole is open to the fust man that wants it and I'm the fust. Now mebby you can think that over and cool off."

Sundown was taken aback. Though unversed in the intricacies of the law, he was sensible enough to realize that Loring was right. Yet he held tenaciously to his attitude of proprietor of the water-hole. It was his home—the only home that he had known in his variegated career. The fact that he was not guilty buoyed him up, however. He decided that discretion had its uses. As his first anger evaporated, he cast about for a plan whereby to notify Corliss of the invasion of the water-hole ranch. His glance wandered to Chance.

Then he raised his eyes. "Well, now the fireworks is burned down, what you goin' to do?"

Loring gestured toward the house. "That's my business. But you can turn in and cook grub for the men. That'll keep you from thinkin' too hard, and we're like to be busy."

"Then you're takin' me prisoner?" queried Sundown.

"That's correc'."

"How about the law of that?"

"This outfit's makin' its own laws these days," said Loring.

And so far as Loring was concerned that ended the argument. Not so, however, with Sundown. He said nothing. Had Loring known him better, that fact would have caused him to suspect his prisoner. With evident meekness the tall one entered the house and gazed with disconsolate eyes at the piled kyacks of provisions, the tarpaulins and sheepskins. His citadel of dreams had been rudely invaded, in truth. He was not so much angered by the possible effects of the invasion as by the fact. Gentle Annie was lowing plaintively. The chickens were scurrying about the yard, cackling hysterically as they dodged this and that herder. The two pigs, Sundown reflected consolingly, seemed happy enough. Loring, standing in the doorway, pointed to the stove. "Get busy," he said tersely. That was the last straw. Silently Sundown stalked to the stove, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work. If there were not a score of mighty sick herders that night, it would not be his fault. He had determined on a bloodless but effective victory, wherein soda and cream-of-tartar should be the victors.

Soda and cream-of-tartar in proper proportions is harmless. But double the proportion of cream-of-tartar and the result is internal riot. "And a leetle spice to kill the bitter of the taste ought to work all right," he soliloquized. Then he remembered Chance. Loring had left to oversee the establishment of an outlying camp. The Mexican who assisted Sundown seemed stupid and sullen. Sundown found excuse to enter his bedroom, where he hastily scrawled a note to Corliss. Later he tied the note to the inside of the dog's collar. The next thing was to get Chance started on the road to the Concho. He rolled down his sleeves and strolled to the doorway. A Mexican sat smoking and watching the road. Sundown stepped past him and began to tinker with the gas-engine. Chance stood watching him. Presently the gas-engine started with a cough and splutter. Sundown walked to the door and seemed about to enter when the Mexican called to him and pointed toward the distant tank. Water was pouring over its rim. "Gee Gosh!" exclaimed Sundown. "I got to shut her off." He ran to the engine and its sound ceased. Yet the water still poured from the rim of the tank. "Got to fix that!" he asserted, and started toward the tank. The Mexican followed him to the fence.

"You come back?" he queried significantly.

"Sure thing! I ain't got a hoss, have I?"

The Mexican nodded. Sundown crawled through the fence and strode slowly to the tank. He pretended to examine it first in view of the house and finally on the opposite side. As Chance sniffed along the bottom of the tank, Sundown spoke to him. The dog's ears pricked forward. Sundown's tone suggested action. "Here, Chance,—you fan it for the Concho—Jack—the boss. Beat it for all you're worth. The Concho! Sabe?" And he patted the dog's head and pointed toward the south.

Chance hesitated, leaping up and whining.

"That's all right, pardner. They ain't nothin' goin' to happen to me. You go!"

Chance trotted off a few yards and then turned his head inquiringly.

"That's right. Keep a-goin'. It's your stunt this time." And Sundown waved his arm.

The return of Sundown without the dog occasioned no suspicion on the Mexican's part. He most naturally thought, if he considered the fact at all, that the dog was hunting the mesas. Then Sundown entered the house and experimented with soda and cream-of-tartar as though he were concocting a high explosive with proportions of the ingredients calculated to produce the most satisfactory results. His plan, however, was nipped in the bud. That night the herders refused to eat the biscuits after tasting them.

Hi Wingle, coming from the bunk-house, wiped his hands on his apron, rolled a cigarette, and squatted in the shade. From within came the clatter of knives and forks and the rattle of dishes. The riders of the Concho were about through dinner. Wingle, gazing down the road, suddenly cast his cigarette away and rose. The road seemed empty save for a lean brown shape that raced toward the Concho with sweeping stride. "It's the dog. Wonder what's up now?"

Chance, his muzzle specked with froth and his tongue lolling, swung into the yard and trotted to Wingle. "Boss git piled ag'in?" queried the cook, patting Chance's head. "What you scratchin' about?"

The dog lay panting and occasionally pawing at his collar.

"What's the matter? Cockle-burr?" And Wingle ran his fingers under the collar. "So? Playin' mail-man, eh?"

He spread out the note and read it. Slowly he straightened up and slowly he walked to the bunk-house. "No. Guess I'll tell Jack first."

He strode to the office and laid the note on Corliss's desk. The rancher, busy running up totals on the pay-roll, glanced at the sweat-stained piece of paper. He read it and pushed it from him. "All right, Hi."

Wingle hesitated, then stepped out and over to the bunk-house. "Takes it mighty cool! Wonder what he's got up his sleeve. Somethin'—sure!"

Corliss studied the note. Then he reached for paper and envelopes and wrote busily. One of the letters was to the sheriff in Antelope. It was brief.

I'm going to push a bunch of stock over to the water-hole range. My boys have instructions not to shoot. That's the best I can do for them and the other side. JOHN CORLISS.

The other letter was to Nell Loring. Then he rose and buckled on his gun. At the bunk-house he gave the letters to Lone Johnny, who saddled and departed immediately.

Without making the contents of the note known, he told the men that they would join Bud Shoop and his outfit at the Knoll and push the herd north. Later he took Wingle aside and told him that he could stay and look after the rancho.

The indignant Hi rolled down his sleeves, spat, and glared at Corliss. "I quit," he snapped. "You can hire a new cook."

Despite his preoccupation Corliss smiled. "All right, Hi. Now that you're out of a job, you might saddle up and ride with us. We'll need some one to keep us good-natured, I reckon."

"Now you're whistlin'!" said Wingle. "Got a gun I can use? I give mine to Sundown."

"There's one over in the office on the desk. But we're going to push the herd over to the water-hole. We're not going there to fight."

"Huh! Goin' to be quiet, eh? Mebby I better take my knittin' along to pass the time."

And Wingle departed toward the office. Rejoining Corliss they rode with the men to the Knoll. Bud Shoop nodded gravely as his employer told him of Loring's occupation of the west bank of the river. Then the genial Bud rode over to the herd that was bunched in anticipation of just such a contingency as had developed. "It's a case of push 'em along easy—and all night," he told his men. "And if any of you boys is out of cartridges there's plenty in the wagon."

John Corliss rode with his men. He told them to cut out any stray Two-Bar-O stock they saw and turn them back. Toward evening they had the cattle in motion, drifting slowly toward the north. The sixteen riders, including Corliss and Wingle, spread out and pushed the herd across the afternoon mesas. The day was hot and there was no water between the Knoll and Sundown's ranch. Corliss intended to hold the cattle when within a mile of the water-hole by milling them until daylight. When they got the smell of water, he knew that he would not be able to hold them longer, nor did he wish to. He regretted the fact that Chance was running with him, for he knew that Loring's men, under the circumstances, would shoot the dog if they had opportunity.

Toward evening the outfit drew up in a draw and partook of a hearty supper. The cattle began to lag as they were urged forward, and Chance was called into requisition to keep after the stragglers. As the herd was not large,—in fact, numbered but five hundred,—it was possible to keep it moving steadily and well bunched, throughout the night.

Within a short mile of the water-hole the riders began to mill the herd.

Bud Shoop, riding up to Corliss, pointed toward the east. "Reckon we can't hold 'em much longer, Jack. They're crazy dry—and they smell water."

"All right, Bud. Hold 'em for fifteen minutes more. Then take four of the boys with you and fan it for the road. You can cache in that draw just north of the water-hole. About sunup the herd'll break for water. Loring's outfit will be plenty busy on this side, about then. If he's got any gunmen handy, they'll be camped at the ranch. Chances are that when the cattle stampede a band or two of sheep, he'll turn his men on us. That's your time to ride down and take possession of the ranch. Most likely you won't have to draw a gun."

Shoop reined close to Corliss and held out his hand. "Mebby not, Jack. But if we do—so-long."

Then the genial Bud loped to the outriders, picking them up one by one. The cattle, freed from the vigilance of the circling horsemen, sniffed the dawn, crowded to a wedge, and began to trot, then to run. Shoop and his four companions spurred ahead, swung to the road, and thundered past the ranch-house as a faint edge of light shot over the eastern horizon. They entered the mouth of the draw, swung around, and reined up.

"We're goin' to chip in when Jack opens the pot," said Shoop. "Just how strong we'll come in depends on how strong Jack opens her." Then with seeming irrelevance he remarked casually: "Sinker wasn't such a bad ole scout."

"Which Loring's goin' to find out right soon," said "Mebby-So," a lean Texan.

"Sinker's sure goin' to have company, I take it," remarked "Bull" Cassidy.

"Boss's orders is to take her without makin' any noise," said Shoop.

"Huh! I'm plumb disappointed," asserted Mebby-So. "I was figurin' on singin' hymns and accompanyin' meself on me—me cayuse. Listen! Somethin' 's broke loose!"

Thundering like an avalanche the herd swept down on the water-hole, ploughing through a band of sheep that were bedded down between them and the ranch. The herder's tent was torn to ribbons. Wingle, trailing behind the herd, dismounted, and, stooping, disarmed the bruised and battered Mexican who had struggled to his feet as he rode up.

From the water-hole came shouts, and Corliss saw several men come running from the house to seize their horses and ride out toward the cattle. The band of riders opened up and the distant popping of Winchesters told him that the herders were endeavoring to check the rush of the thirst-maddened steers. The carcasses of sheep, trampled to pulp, lay scattered over the mesa.

"It sure is hell!" remarked Wingle, riding up to Corliss.

"Hell is correct," said Corliss, spurring forward. "Now I reckon we'll ride over to the rancho and see if Loring wants any more of it."

Silently the rancher and his men rode toward the water-hole. As they drew near the line fence, the Mexican riders, swinging in a wide circle, spurred to head them off.

"Hold on!" shouted Corliss. "We'll pull up and wait for 'em."

"Suits me," said Wingle, loosening his gun from the holster.

The Mexicans, led by Loring, loped up and reined with a slither of hoofs and the snorting of excited ponies. Corliss held up his hand. Loring spurred forward and Corliss rode to meet him.

"Want any more of it?" queried Corliss.

"I'll take all you got," snarled Loring.

"All right. Just listen a minute." And Corliss reached in his saddle-pocket. "Here's a lease from the Government covering the ten sections adjoining the water-hole ranch, on the south and west. And here's a contract with the owner of the water-hole, signed and witnessed, for the use of the water for my stock. You're playing an old-fashioned game, Loring, that's out of date. Want to look over these papers?"

"To hell with your papers. I'm here and I'm goin' to stay."

"Well, we'll visit you regular," shouted a puncher.

"Better come over to the house and talk things over," said Corliss. "I don't want trouble with you—but my boys do."

Loring hesitated. One of his men, spurring up, whispered to him.

Wingle, keenly alert, restrained a cowboy who was edging forward. "Don't start nothin'," he said. "If she's goin' to start, she'll start herself."

Loring turned to Corliss. "I'd like to look at them papers," he said slowly.

"All right. We'll ride over to the house."

The two bands of riders swung toward the north, passed the tank, and trotted up to the ranch-gate. They dismounted and were met by Shoop and his companions. Loring blinked and muttered. He had been outgeneraled. One of the Concho riders laughed. Loring's hand slipped to his belt. "Don't," said Corliss easily. The tension relaxed, and the men began joking and laughing.

"Where's Sundown?" queried Corliss.

Loring gestured toward the house.

"I'll go," said Wingle. And he shouldered through the group of scowling herders and entered the house.

Sundown, with hands tied, was sitting on the edge of his bed. "They roped me," he said lugubriously, "in me own house. Bud he was goin' to untie me, but I says for the love of Mike leave me tied or I'll take a chair and brain that Chola what kicked Gentle Annie in the stummick this mornin'. He was goin' to milk her and I reckon she didn't like his looks. Anyhow, she laid him out with a kind of hind-leg upper-cut. When he come to, he set in to kickin' her. I got his picture and if I get me hands on him . . ."

Wingle cut the rope and Sundown stood up. "They swiped me gun," he asserted.

"Here's one I took off a herder," said Wingle. "if things get to boilin' over—why, jest nacherally wilt the legs from under anything that looks like a Chola. Jack's got the cards, all right—but I don't jest like the look of things. Loring's in the corner and he's got his back up."

As they came from the house, Loring was reading the papers that Corliss had handed to him. The old sheep-man glanced at the signatures on the documents and then slowly folded them, hesitated, and with a quick turn of his wrist tore them and flung the pieces in Corliss's face. "That for your law! We stay!"

Corliss bit his lip, and the dull red of restrained anger burned in his face. He had gone too far to retreat or retract. He knew that his men would lose all respect for him if he backed down now. Yet he was unable to frame a plan whereby he might avoid the arbitration of the six-gun. His men eyed him curiously. Was Jack going to show a yellow streak? They thought that he would not—and yet . . .

Sundown raised his long arm and pointed. "There's the gent what kicked me cow," he said, his face white and his eyes burning.

The punchers of the Concho laughed. "Jump him!" shouted "Bull" Cassidy. "We'll stand by and see that there's no monkeyin'."

Corliss held up his hand. The Mexicans drew together and the age-old hatred for the Gringo burned in their beady eyes.

Sundown's thin lips drew tight. "I've a good mind to—" he began. The Mexican who had maltreated the cow mistook Sundown's gesture for intent to kill. The herder's gun whipped up. Sundown grabbed a chair that stood tilted against the house and swung it. The Mexican went down. With the accidental explosion of the gun, Mebby-So grunted, put his hand to his side, and toppled from the saddle. Corliss wheeled his horse.

"Don't shoot, boys!" he shouted.

His answer was a roar of six-guns. He felt Chinook shiver. He jumped clear as the horse rolled to its side. Sundown, retreating to the house, flung open the bedroom window and kneeling, laid the barrel of his gun on the sill. Deliberately he sighted, hesitated, and flung the gun from him. "God Almighty—I ought to—but I can't!" He had seen Corliss fall and thought that he had been killed. He saw a Mexican raise his gun to fire; saw him suddenly straighten in the saddle. Then the gun dropped from his hand, and he bent forward upon his horse, recovered, swayed a moment, and fell limply.

Bud Shoop, on foot, ran around to the rear of the house. His horse lay kicking, shot through the stomach. The foreman drew himself up under cover of the hen-house and fired into the huddle of Mexicans that swept around the yard as the riders of the Concho drove them back. He saw "Bull" Cassidy in the thick of it, swinging his guns and swearing heartily. Finally a Mexican pony, wounded and wild with fright, tore through the barb-wire fence. Behind him spurred the herders. Out on the mesa they turned and threw lead at the Concho riders, who retreated to the cover of the house. Corliss caught up a herder's horse and rode around to them. Shorty, one of his men, grinned, fell to coughing, and sank forward on his horse.

"Loring's down," said Wingle, solemnly reloading his gun. "Think they got enough, Jack?"

"Loring, eh? Well, I know who got him. Yes, they got enough."

Shorty, vomiting blood, wiped his lips on his sleeve. "Well, I ain't—not yet," he gasped. "I'm goin' to finish in a blaze of glory. Come on, boys!" And he whirled his horse. Swaying drunkenly he spurred around the corner of the house and through the gateway.

Corliss glanced at Wingle. "We can't let him ride into 'em by his lonesome," said Wingle. "Eh, boys?"

"Not on your fat life!" said Bull Cassidy. "I got one wing that's workin' and I'm goin' to fly her till she gits busted."

"Let's clean 'em up! Might's well do a good job now we're at it. Where's Bud?"

"He's layin' over there back of the chicken-roost. Reckon he's thinkin' things over. He ain't sayin' much."

"Bud down, too? Then I guess we ride!" And they swept out after Shorty. They saw the diminutive cowboy tear through the band of herders, his gun going; saw his horse stumble and fall and a figure pitch from the saddle and roll to one side. "And if I'm goin'—I want to go out that way," shouted Bull Cassidy. "Shorty was some sport!"

But the Mexicans had had enough of it. They wheeled and spurred toward the south. The Concho horses, worn out by the night-journey, were soon distanced.

Corliss pulled up. "Catch up a fresh horse, Hi. And let Banks know how things stand. If Loring isn't all in, you might fetch the doctor back with you. We'll need him, anyway."

"Sure! Wonder who that is fannin' it this way? Don't look like a puncher."

Corliss turned and gazed down the road. From the south came little puffs of dust as a black-and-white pinto running at top speed swept toward them. He paled as he recognized the horse.

"It's Loring's girl," said Wingle, glancing at Corliss.

Nell Loring reined up as she came opposite the Concho riders and turned from the road. The men glanced at each other. Then ensued an awkward silence. The girl's face was white and her dark eyes burned with reproach as she saw the trampled sheep and here and there the figure of a man prone on the mesa. Corliss raised his hat as she rode up. She sat her horse gazing at the men. Without a word she turned and rode toward the ranch-house. The Concho riders jingled along, in no hurry to face the scene which they knew awaited them at the water-hole.

She was on her knees supporting her father's head when they dismounted and shuffled into the yard. The old sheep-man blinked and tried to raise himself. One of the Concho boys stepped forward and helped her get the wounded man to the house.

Corliss strode to the bedroom and spoke to Sundown who turned and sat up. "Get hit, Sun?"

"No. But I'm feelin' kind of sick. Is the ole man dead?"

"He's hurt, but not bad. We want the bed."

Sundown got to his feet and sidled past the girl as she helped her father to the bed.

"I sent for the doctor," said Corliss.

The girl whirled and faced him. "You!" she exclaimed—"You!"

The rancher's shoulders straightened. "Yes—and it was my gun got him. You might as well know all there is to it." Then he turned and, followed by Sundown, stepped to the yard. "We'll keep busy while we're waiting. Any of you boys that feel like riding can round up the herd. Hi and I will look after—the rest of it."

"And Bud," suggested a rider.

They found Shoop on the ground, the flesh of his shoulder torn away by a .45 and a welt of red above his ear where a Mexican's bullet had creased him. They carried him to the house. "Sun, you might stir around and rustle some grub. The boys will want to eat directly." And Corliss stepped to the water-trough, washed his hands, and then rolled a cigarette. Hi Wingle sat beside him as they waited for dinner. Suddenly Corliss turned to his cook. "I guess we've won out, Hi," he said.

"Generally speakin'—we sure have," said Wingle. "But I reckon you lost."

Corliss nodded.



CHAPTER XXVII

"JUST ME AND HER"

Sheriff Banks tossed Corliss's note on his desk, reached in his pocket and drew forth a jack-knife with which he began to trim his finger-nails. He paid no apparent attention to the arrival of one of his deputies, but proceeded with his manipulation of the knife. The deputy sidled to a chair and sat watching the sheriff.

Presently Banks closed his knife, slid it into his pocket, and leaned back in his chair. "Lone Johnny gone back?" he queried.

The deputy nodded.

Banks proffered his companion a cigar and lit one himself. For a while he smoked and gazed at the ceiling. "I got two cards to play," he said, straightening up and brushing cigar-ash from his vest. "Last election was pretty close. By rights I ought to be at the county-seat. Got any idea why they side-tracked me here in Antelope?"

The deputy grinned. "It's right handy to the line. And I guess they saw what was comin' and figured to put you up against it. They couldn't beat you at the polls, so they tried to put you where you wouldn't come back."

"Correct. And there's no use running against the rope. Now I want you to call on every citizen in Antelope and tell every dog-goned one of 'em what Lone Johnny kind of hinted at regarding the Concho and Loring. And show 'em this note from Jack. Tell 'em I'm going to swear in each of 'em as a special. I want to go on record as having done what I could."

The deputy rose. "All right, Jim. Kind of late to make that move, ain't it?"

"I got another card," said the sheriff. "Tell 'em we'll be ready to start about twelve. It's ten, now."

With the departure of the deputy the sheriff reached in his desk and brought forth a book. It was thumbed and soiled. He turned the pages slowly, pausing to read a line here and there. Finally he settled back and became immersed in the perennial delight of "Huckleberry Finn." He read uninterruptedly for an hour, drifting on the broad current of the Mississippi to eventually disembark in Antelope as the deputy shadowed the doorway. The sheriff closed the book and glanced up. He read his answer in the deputy's eyes.

"'T ain't that they don't like you," said the deputy. "But they ain't one of 'em that'll do anything for Loring or do anything against Jack Corliss."

The sheriff smiled. "Public opinion is setting on the fence and hanging on with both hands. All right, Joe. I'll play her alone. I got a wire from Hank that he's got the herder, Fernando. Due here on the two-thirty. You hang around and tell Hank to keep on—take the Mexican along up to Usher."

"Goin' to go after the Concho boys and Loring's herders?"

"Sure thing. And I'm going alone. Then they won't make a fuss. They'll come back with me all right."

"But you couldn't get a jury to send one of 'em over—not in this county."

"Correct, Joe. But the county's paying me to go through the motions—don't matter what I think personally. If they've pulled off a shooting-match at the water-hole, the thing's settled by this time. It had to come and if it's over, I'm dam' glad. It'll clear the air for quite a spell to come."

"The papers'll sure make a holler—" began the deputy.

"Not so much as you think. They got one good reason to keep still and that's because the free range is like to be opened up to homesteaders any day. Too much noise about cattle-and-sheep war would scare good money from coming to the State. I heard the other day that that Sundown Jack picked up is settled at the water-hole. I took him for a tenderfoot once. I reckon he ain't. It's hard to figure on those queer kind. Well, you meet the two-thirty. I guess I'll ride over to the Concho and see the boys."

The Loring-Corliss case is now a matter of record in the dusty files of the "Usher Sentinel" and its decidedly disesteemed contemporary, the "Mesa News." The case was dismissed for lack of anything like definite evidence, though Loring and Corliss were bound over to keep the peace. Incidentally one tall and angular witness refused to testify, and was sentenced to pay a not insignificant fine for contempt of court. That his fine was promptly paid by Corliss furnished a more or less gratuitous excuse for a wordy vilification of the rancher and his "hireling assassin," "menace to public welfare," and the like. Sundown, however, stuck to his guns, even to the extent of searching out the editor of the "Mesa News" and offering graciously to engage in hand-to-hand combat, provided the editor, or what was left of him after the battle, would insert an apology in the next issue of the paper—the apology to be dictated by Sundown.

The editor temporized by asking the indignant Sundown to frame the apology, which he did. Then the wily autocrat of the "Mesa News," after reading the apology, agreed to an armistice and mentioned the fact that it was a hot day. Sundown intimated that he knew one or two places in Usher which he was not averse to visiting under the circumstances. And so the treaty was ratified.

Perhaps among Sundown's possessions there is none so cherished, speaking broadly, as a certain clipping from an Arizona newspaper in which the editor prints a strangely worded and colorful apology, above his personal signature, for having been misled temporarily in his estimation of a "certain person of warlike proclivities who visited our sanctum bent upon eradicating us in a physical sense." The apology follows. In a separate paragraph, however, is this information:

"We find it imperative, however, to state that the above apology is a personal matter and in no wise affects our permanent attitude toward the lawlessness manifest so recently in our midst. Moreover, we were forced at the muzzle of a six-shooter, in the hands of the above-mentioned Sundown, to insert that illiterate and blood-thirsty gentleman's screed in the MESA NEWS, as he, together with the gang of cutthroats with whom he seems in league, stood over us with drawn weapons until the entire issue had been run off. Such is the condition of affairs under the present corrupt administration of our suffering State."

Such advertising, Sundown reflected, breathing of battle and carnage, would obviate the necessity for future upholding of his reputation in a physical sense. Great is the power of the press! It became whispered about that he was a two-gun man of dexterous attainments in dispensing lead and that his mild and even apologetic manner was but a cloak. Accident and the tongues of men earned for Sundown that peace which he so thoroughly loved. He became immune to strife. When he felt his outward attitude sagging a little, he re-read the clipping and braced up.

Sundown rode to the Concho gate, dismounted and opened it. Chance ran ahead, leaping up as Corliss came from the ranch-house.

"Got them holes plugged in the tank," said Sundown. "Got the engine runnin' ag'in and things is fine. You goin' to put them cattle back on the water-hole range?"

"Yes, as soon as Bud can get around again. He's up, but he can't ride yet."

"How's Bull?"

"Oh, he's all right. Mebby-So's laid up yet. He got it pretty bad."

"Well, I reckon they ain't goin' to be no more fightin' 'bout cattle and sheep. I stopped by to the Loring ranch. Ole man Loring was sure ugly, so I reckon he's feelin' nacheral ag'in. He was like to get mad at me for stopping but his gal, Nell, she smoothed down his wool and asked me to stay and eat. I wasn't feelin' extra hungry, so I come along up here."

"I have some good news," said Corliss. "Got a letter from Billy last week. Didn't have time to tell you. He's working for a broker in 'Frisco. I shouldn't wonder if he should turn up one of these days. How would you like to drive over to Antelope and meet him when he comes?"

"I'd sure be glad. Always did like Billy. 'Course you don't know when he's comin'—and I got to do some drivin' meself right soon."

"So?"

"Yep. 'Course I got the wagon, but they ain't no style to that. I was wantin' a rig with style to it—like the buckboard." Sundown fidgeted nervously with the buttons of his shirt. He coughed, took off his hat, and mopped his face with a red bandanna. Despite his efforts he grew warmer and warmer. He was about to approach a delicate subject. Finally he seized the bull by the horns, so to speak, and his tanned face grew red. "I was wantin' to borrow that buckboard, mebby, Saturday."

"Sure! Going to Antelope?"

"Nope—not first. I got business over to Chico Miguel's place. I'm goin' to call on a lady."

"Oh, I see! Anita?"

"Well, I sure ain't goin' to call on her ma—she's married a'ready."

Despite himself, Corliss smiled. "So that's what you wanted that new bed and table and the chairs for. Did they get marked up much coming in?"

"The legs some. I rubbed 'em with that hoss-liniment you give me. You can hardly tell. It kind of smelled like turpentine, and I didn't have nothin' else."

"Well, anything you want—"

"I know, boss. But this is goin' to be a quiet weddin'. No brass-bands or ice-cream or pop-corn or style. Just me and her and—and I reckon a priest, seein' she was brung up that way. I ain't asked her yet."

"What? About getting married, or the priest?"

"Nothin'. We got kind of a eye-understandin' and her ma and me is good friends. It's like this. Bein' no hand to do love-makin' stylish, I just passes her a couple of bouquets onct or twict and said a few words. Now, you see, if I get that buckboard and a couple of hosses—I sure would like the white ones—and drive over lookin' like business and slip the ole man a box of cigars I bought, and Mrs. Miguel that there red-and-yella serape I paid ten dollars for in Antelope, and show Anita me new contract with the Concho for pumpin' water for seventy-five bones a month, I reckon the rest of it'll come easy. I'm figurin' strong on them white hosses, likewise. Bein' white'll kind of look like gettin' married, without me sayin' it. You see, boss, I'm short on the Spanish talk and so I have to do some figurin'."

"Well, Sun, you have come along a lot since you first hit the Concho! Go ahead, and good luck to you! If you need any money—"

"I was comin' to that. Seein' as you kind of know me—and seein' I'm goin' to git hitched—I was thinkin' you might lend me mebby a hundred on the contrac'."

"I guess I can. Will that be enough?"

"Plenty. You see I was figurin' on buyin' a few head of stock to run with yourn on the water-hole range."

"Why, I can let you have the stock. You can pay me when you get ready."

"That's just it. You'd kind of give 'em to me and I ain't askin' favors, except the buckboard and the white hosses."

"But what do you want to monkey with cattle for? You're doing pretty well with the water."

"That's just it. You see, Anita thinks I'm a rarin', high-ridin', cussin', tearin', bronco-bustin' cow-puncher from over the hill. I reckon you know I ain't, but I got to live up to it and kind of let her down easy-like. I can put on me spurs and chaps onct or twict a week and go flyin' out and whoopin' around me stock, and scarin' 'em to death, pertendin' I'm mighty interested in ridin' range. If you got a lady's goat, you want to keep it. 'Course, later on, I can kind o' slack up. Then I'm goin' to learn her to read American, and she can read that piece in the paper about me. I reckon that'll kind of cinch up the idea that her husband sure is the real thing. But I got to have them cows till she can learn to read."

"We've got to brand a few yearlings that got by last round-up. Bud said there was about fifteen of them. You can ride over after you get settled and help cut 'em out. What iron do you want to put on them?"

"Well, seein' it's me own brand, I reckon it will be like this: A kind of half-circle for the sun, and a lot of little lines runnin' out to show that it's shinin', and underneath a straight line meanin' the earth, which is 'Sundown'—me own brand. Could Johnny make one like that?"

"I don't know. That's a pretty big order. You go over and tell Johnny what you want. And I'll send the buckboard over Saturday."



CHAPTER XXVIII

IMPROVEMENTS

Out in a field bordered by the roadway a man toiled behind a disk-plough. He trudged with seven-league strides along the furrows, disdaining to ride on the seat of the plough. To effect a comfortable following of his operations he had lengthened the reins with clothes-line. He drove a team of old and gentle white horses as wheelers. His lead animals were mules, neither old nor gentle. It is possible that this fact accounted for his being afoot. He was arrayed in cowboy boots and chaps, a faded flannel shirt, and a Stetson. Despite the fact that a year had passed since he had practically "Lochinvared" the most willing Anita,—though with the full and joyous consent of her parents,—he still clung to the habiliments of the cowboy, feeling that they offset the more or less menial requirements of tilling the soil. Behind him trailed a lean, shaggy wolf-dog who nosed the furrows occasionally and dug for prairie-dogs with intermittent zest.

The toiler, too preoccupied with his ploughing to see more than his horses' heads and the immediate unbroken territory before them, did not realize that a team had stopped out on the road and that a man had leaped from the buckboard and was standing at the fence. Chance, however, saw the man, and, running to Sundown, whined. Sundown pulled up his team and wiped his brow. "Hurt your foot ag'in?" he queried. "Nope? Then what's wrong?"

The man in the road called.

Sundown wheeled and stood with mouth open. "It's—Gee Gosh! It's Billy!"

He observed that a young and fashionably attired woman sat in the buckboard holding the team. He fumbled at his shirt and buttoned it at the neck. Then he swung his team around and started toward the fence.

Will Corliss, attired in a quiet-hued business suit, his cheeks healthfully pink and his eye clear, smiled as the lean one tied the team and stalked toward him.

Corliss held out his hand. Sundown shook his head. "Excuse me, Billy, but I ain't shakin' hands with you across no fence."

And Sundown wormed his length between the wires and straightened up, extending a tanned and hairy paw. "Shake, pardner! Say, you're lookin' gorjus!"

"My wife," said Corliss.

Sundown doffed his sombrero sweepingly. "Welcome to Arizona, ma'am."

"This is my friend, Washington Hicks, Margery."

"Yes, ma'am," said Sundown. "It ain't my fault, neither. I had nothin' to say about it when they hitched that name onto me. I reckon I hollered, but it didn't do no good. Me pals"—and Sundown shrugged his shoulder—"mostly gents travelin' for their health—got to callin' me Sundown, which is more poetical. 'Course, when I got married—"

"Married!" exclaimed Corliss, grinning.

"You needn't to grin, Billy. Gettin' married's mighty responsible-like."

Corliss made a gesture of apology. "So you're homesteading the water-hole? Jack wrote to me about it. He didn't say anything about your getting married."

"Kind of like his not sayin' anything about your gettin' hitched up, eh? He said he was hearin' from you, but nothin' about Misses Corliss. Please to expect my congratulations, ma'am—and you, too, Billy."

"Thank you!" said Mrs. Corliss, smiling. "Will has told me a great deal about you."

"He has, eh? Well, I'm right glad to be acquainted by heresy. It kind of puts you on to what to expect. But say, it's hot here. If you'll drive back to me house, I'd sure like to show you the improvements."

"All right, Sun! We'll drive right in and wait for you."

They did not have to wait, however. Sundown, leaving his team at the fence, took a short cut to the house. He entered the back door and called to Anita.

"Neeter," he said, as she hastened to answer him, "they's some friends of mine just drivin' up. If you could kind of make a quick change and put on that white dress with the leetle roses sprinkled on it—quick; and is—is he sleepin'?"

"Si! He is having the good sleep."

"Fine! I'll hold 'em off till you get fixed up. It's me ole pal, Billy Corliss,—and he's brung along a wife. We got to make a good front, seein' it's kind of unexpected. Wrastle into that purty dress and don't wake him up."

"Si! I go queek."

"Why, this is fine!" said Corliss, entering, hat in hand, and gazing about the room. "It's as snug and picturesque as a lodge."

"Beautiful!" exclaimed the enthusiastic Margery, gazing at the Navajo rugs, the clean, white-washed walls against which the red ollas, filled with wild flowers, made a pretty picture, and the great grizzly-bear rug thrown across a home-made couch. "It's actually romantic!"

"Me long suit, lady. We ain't got much, but what we got goes with this kind of country."

Margery smiled. "Oh, Will, I'd like a home like this. Just simple and clean—and comfortable. It's a real home."

"Me wife's comin' in a minute. While she's—er—combin' her hair, mebby you'd like to see some of the improvements." And Sundown marched proudly to the new dining-room—an extension that he had built himself—and waved an invitation for his guests to behold and marvel.

The dining-room was, in its way, also picturesque. The exceedingly plain table was covered with a clean white cloth. The furniture, owing to some fortunate accident of choice, was not ornate but of plain straight lines, redeemed by painted ollas filled with flowers. The white walls were decorated with two pictures, a lithograph of the Madonna,—which seemed entirely in keeping with the general tone of the room, but which would have looked glaringly out of place anywhere else,—and an enlarged full-length photograph, framed, of an exceedingly tall and gorgeous cowboy, hat in hand, quirt on wrist, and looking extremely impressive. Beside the cowboy stood a great, shaggy dog—Chance. And, by chance, the picture was a success.

"Why, it's you, Sun!" exclaimed Corliss, striding to the picture. "And it's a dandy! I'd hang it in the front room."'

"That's what Neeter was sayin'. But I kind of like it in here. You see, Neeter sets there and I set here where I can see me picture while I'm eatin'. It kind of gives me a good appetite. 'Course, lookin' out the window is fine. See them there mesas dancin' in the sun, and the grass wavin' and me cows grazing and 'way off like in a dream them blue hills! It's sure a millionaire picture! And it don't cost nothin'."

"That's the best of it!" said Corliss heartily. "We're going to build—over on the mesa near the fork. You remember?"

Sundown's flush was inexplicable to Margery, but Corliss understood. He had ridden the trail toward the fork one night. . . . But that was past, atoned for. . . . He would live that down.

"It's a purty view, over there," said Sundown gently.

And the two men felt that that which was not forgotten was at least forgiven—would never again be mentioned.

"And me kitchen," said Sundown, leading the way, "is Neeter's. She runs it. There's more good eats comes out of it than they is fancy crockery in it, which just suits me. And out here"—and the party progressed to the back yard—"is me new corral and stable and chicken-coop. I made all them improvements meself, durin' the winter. Reckon you saw the gasoline-engine what does the pumpin' for the tanks. I wanted to have a windmill, but the engine works faster. It's kind of hot, ma'am, and if you'll come in and set down I reckon me wife's got her hair—"

"Wah! Wah! Wah!" came in a crescendo from the bedroom.

Sundown straightened his shoulders. "Gee Gosh, he's gone and give it away, already!"

Corliss and his wife glanced at their host inquisitively.

"Me latest improvement," said Sundown, bowing, as Anita, a plump brown baby on her arm, opened the bedroom door and stood bashfully looking at the strangers.

"And me wife," he added.

Corliss bowed, but Margery rushed to Anita and held out her arms. "Oh, let me take him!" she cried. "What big brown eyes! Let me hold him! I'll be awfully careful! Isn't he sweet!"

They moved to the living-room where Anita and Margery sat side by side on the couch with the baby absorbing all their attention.

Sundown stalked about the room, his hands in his pockets, vainly endeavoring to appear very mannish and unconcerned, but his eye roved unceasingly to the baby. He was the longest and most upstanding six-feet-four of proud father that Margery or her husband had ever had the pleasure of meeting.

"He's got Neeter's eyes—and—and her—complexion, but he's sure got me style. He measures up two-feet-six by the yardstick what we got with buyin' a case of bakin'-soda, and he ain't a yearlin' yet. I don't just recollec' the day but I reckon Neeter knows."

"He's great!" exclaimed Corliss. "Isn't he, Margery?"

"He's just the cutest little brown baby!" said Margery, hugging the plump little body.

"He—he ain't so turruble brown," asserted Sundown. "'Course, he's tanned up some, seein' we keep him outside lots. I'm kind o' tanned up meself, and I reckon he takes after me."

"He has a head shaped just like yours," said Margery, anxious to please the proud father.

"Then," said Sundown solemnly, "he's goin' to be a pole."

Anita, proud of her offspring, her husband, her neat and clean home, laughed softly, and held out her arms for the baby. With a kick and a struggle the young Sundown wriggled to her arms and snuggled against her, gravely inspecting the pink roses on his mother's white dress. They were new to him. He was more used to blue gingham. The roses were interesting.

"Yes, Billy's me latest improvement," said Sundown, anxious to assert himself in view of the presence of so much femininity and a correspondingly seeming lack of vital interest in anything save the baby.

"Billy!" said Corliss, turning from where he had stood gazing out of the window.

"Uhuh! We named him Billy after you."

Corliss turned again to the window.

Sundown stepped to him, misinterpreting his silence. He put his hand on Corliss's shoulder. "You ain't mad 'cause we called him that, be you?"

"Mad! Say, Sun,"—and Corliss laughed, choked, and brushed his eyes. "Sun, I don't deserve it."

"Well, seein' what I been through since I was his size, I reckon I don't either. But he's here, and you're here and your wife—and things is fine! The sun is shinin' and the jiggers out on the mesa is chirkin' and to-morrow's goin' to be a fine day. There's nothin' like bankin' on to-morrow, 'specially if you are doin' the best you kin today." And with this bit of philosophy, Sundown, motioning to Corliss, excused himself and his companion as they strode to the doorway and out to the open. There they talked about many things having to do with themselves and others until Margery, hailing them from the door, told them that dinner was waiting.

After dinner the men foregathered in the shade of an acacia and smoked, saying little, but each thinking of the future. Sundown in his peculiarly optimistic and half-melancholy way, and Corliss with mingled feelings of hope and regret. He had endeavored to live down his past away from home. He had succeeded in a measure: had sought and found work, had become acquainted with his employer's daughter, told her frankly of his previous manner of life, and found, not a little to his astonishment, that she had faith in him. Then he wrote to his brother, asking to come back. John Corliss was more than glad to realize that Will had straightened up. If the younger man was willing to reclaim himself among folk who knew him at his worst, there must be something to him. So Corliss had asked his brother to give him his employer's address; had written to the employer, explaining certain facts regarding Will's share in the Concho, and also asking that he urge Will to come home. Just here Miss Margery had something to say, the ultimate result of which was a more definite understanding all around. If Will was going back to Arizona, Margery was also going. And as Margery was a young woman quietly determined to have her way when she knew that it was right to do so, they were married the day before Will Corliss was to leave for Arizona. This was to be their honeymoon.

All of which was in Will Corliss's mind as he lay smoking and gazing at the cloudless sky. It may be added to his credit that he had not returned because of the money that was his when he chose to claim it. Rather, he had realized—and Margery had a great deal to do with his newer outlook—that so long as he stayed away from home he was confessing to cowardice. Incidentally Margery, being utterly feminine, wanted to see Arizona and the free life of the range, of which Corliss had told her. As for Nell Loring . . . Corliss sighed.

"It sure is hot," muttered Sundown. "'Course, you'll stay over and light out in the mornin' cool. You and me can sleep in the front room. 'T ain't the fust time we rustled for a roost. And the wimmen-folks can bunk in the bedroom. Billy he's right comf'table in his big clothes-basket. He's a sure good sleeper, if I do say it."

"We could have gone on through," said Corliss, smiling. "Of course we'd have been late, but Margery likes driving."

"Well, if you had 'a' gone through—and I'd 'a' ketched you at it—I—I—I'd 'a' changed Billy's name to—to somethin' else." And Sundown frowned ferociously.

Corliss laughed. "But we didn't. We're here—and it's mighty good to breathe Arizona air again. You never really begin to love Arizona till you've been somewhere else for a while."

"And bein' married helps some, too," suggested Sundown.

"Yes, a whole lot. Margery's enthusiasm makes me see beautiful things that I'd passed a hundred times before I knew her."

"That's correc'," concurred Sundown. "Now, take Gentle Annie, for instance—"

"You mean Mrs.—er—Sundown?"

"Nope! Me tame cow. 'Annie' is American for 'Anita,' so I called her that. Now, that there Gentle Annie's just a regular cow. She ain't purty—but she sure gives plenty milk. Neeter got me to seein' that Gentle Annie's eyes was purty and mournful-like and that she was a right handsome cow. If your wife's pettin' and feedin' somethin', and callin' it them there smooth Spanish names, a fella's wise to do the same. It helps things along."

"Little Billy, for instance," suggested Corliss.

"Leetle Billy is right! But he couldn't help bein' good-lookin', I guess. He's different. Fust thing your wife said wuz he took after his pa."

"You haven't changed much," said Corliss, smiling.

"Me? Mebby not—outside; but say, inside things is different. I got feelin's now what I never knowed I had before. Why, sometimes, when Neeter is rockin' leetle Bill, and singing and me settin' in the door, towards evenin', and everything fed up and happy, why, do you know, I feel jest like cryin'. Plumb foolish, ain't it?"

"I don't know about that, Sun."

"Well, you will some day," asserted Sundown, taking him literally. "'T ain't gettin' married what makes a man, but it's a dum' poor one what don't make the best of things if he is hitched up to a good girl. Only one thing—it sure don't give a fella time to write much po'try."

Corliss did not smile. "You're living the poetry," he said with simple sincerity.

"Which is correc', Billy. And speakin' of po'try, I reckon I got to go feed them pigs. They's gruntin' somethin' scand'lous for havin' comp'ny to our house—and anyhow, they's like to wake up leetle Bill."

And Sundown departed to feed his pigs.



CHAPTER XXIX

A MAN'S COUNTRY

"As for that," said John Corliss, gazing out across the mesa, "Loring and I shook hands—over the line fence. That's settled."

Sundown had just dismounted. He stood holding the reins of his old saddle-horse "Pill." He had ridden to the Concho to get his monthly pay. "And pore leetle ole Fernando—he's gone," said Sundown. "That's jest the difference between one fella doin' what he thinks is right and a bunch of fellas shootin' up themselves. The one fella gets it every time. The bunch, bein' so many of 'em, gets off. Mebby that's law, but it ain't fair."

"There's a difference, Sun. A fight in the open and downing a man from ambush—two mighty different things."

"Well, mebby. But I'm feelin' sad for that leetle Fernando jest the same.—That Billy's new house?"

"Yes. They expect to get settled this month."

"Gee Gosh! I been so busy I missed a bunch of days. Reckon I got to rustle up somethin' for a weddin' present. I know, be Gosh! I'll send 'em me picture. Billy was kind of stuck on it."

"Good idea, Sun. But I guess you'll miss it yourself."

"I dunno. Neeter ain't lookin' at it as much as she used to. She's busy lookin' after leetle Bill—and me. 'Course I can get another one took most any time."

"Make it two and give me one," said Corliss.

"You ain't joshin'?"

"No. I'll hang it in the office."

"Then she gets took—immediate."

Chance, who stood watching the two men, rose and wagged his tail.

Chance never failed to recognize that note in his master's voice. It meant that his master was pleased, enthusiastic, happy, and Chance, loyal companion, found his happiness in that of his friends.

"Well," said Sundown, "I reckon I got to be joggin'. Thanks for the check."

Corliss waved his hand. "I'll step over to the gate with you. Thought perhaps you'd stay and see Billy."

"Nope. I ain't feelin' like meetin' folks today. Don' know why. Sky's clear and fine, but inside I feel like it was goin' to rain. When you comin' down to see leetle Bill and Neeter?"

"Pretty soon. Is Billy well?"

"Well! Gee Gosh! If you could hear the langwidge he uses when Neeter puts him to bed and he don't want to go! Why, yesterday he was on the floor playin' with Chance and Chance got tired of it and lays down to snooze. Billy hitches along up to Chance, and Bim! he punches Chance on the nose. Made him sneeze, too! Why, that kid ain't afraid of nothin'—jest like his pa. I reckon Billy told you that his wife said that leetle Billy took after me, eh? Leave it to a woman to see them things!"

"Well, I'm mighty glad you're settled, and making a go of it, Sun."

"So be I. I was recollectin' when I fust come into this country and landed at that water-hole. It was kind of a joke then, but it ain't no joke now. Funny thing—that bunch of punchers what started me lookin' for that there hotel that time—they come jinglin' up last week. Didn't know I was the boss till one of 'em grins after sizin' me up and says—er—well, two three words what kids hadn't ought to hear, and then, 'It's him, boys!' Then I steps out and says, 'It is, gents. Come right in and have dinner and it won't cost you fellas a cent. I told you I'd feed you up good when I got me hotel to runnin'.' And sure enough, in they come and we fed 'em. They was goin' to the Blue. They bunked in me hay that night. Next mornin' they acted kind of queer, sayin' nothin' except, 'So-long,' when they lit out. And what do you think! They went and left four dollars and twenty-eight cents in the sugar-bowl—and a piece of paper with it sayin', 'For the kid.' We never found it out till I was drinkin' me coffee that night and liked to choked to death on a nickel. Guess them punchers ain't so bad."

"No. They stopped here next day. Said they'd never had a finer feed than you gave 'em."

"Neeter is sure some cook. Pretty nigh's good as me. Well, so-long, Jack. I—I—kind of wish you was buildin' a new house yourself."

Corliss, standing with his hand on the neck of Sundown's horse, smiled. "Arizona's a man's country, Sun."

"She sure is!" said Sundown, throwing out his chest. "And lemme tell you, Jack, it's a man's business to get married and settle down—and—raise more of 'em. 'Specially like me and you and Bud and Hi—only Hi's gettin' kind of old. She's a fine country, but she needs improvin'. Sometimes them improvements keeps you awake nights, but they're worth it!"

"Yes, I believe they're worth it," said Corliss, "So-long, Sun."

"So-long, Jack. I got to get back and milk Gentle Annie. We're switchin' Billy onto the bottle, and he don't like to be kep' waitin'."

Chance, following Sundown, trotted behind the horse a few steps, then turned and ran back to Corliss. He nuzzled the rancher's hand, whined, and leapt away to follow his master.



THE END