CHAPTER XVII
THE STRANGER
Sundown, maintaining a mysterious and unusual silence, prepared tocarry out his employer's plans. His preparations were not extensive.First, he polished his silver spurs. Then he borrowed a coat from oneof the boys, brushed his Stetson, and with the business instinct of aHebrew offered Hi Wingle nine dollars for a pair of Texas wing chaps.The cook, whose active riding-days were over, had no use for the chapsand would have gladly given them to Sundown. The latter's offer ofnine dollars, however, interested Wingle. He decided to have a bit offun with the tall one. He cared nothing for the money, but wonderedwhy Sundown had offered nine dollars instead of ten.
"What you been eatin'?" he queried as Sundown made his bid. "Goin'courtin'?"
"Nope," replied the lean one. "Goin' east."
"Huh! Expect to ride all the way in them chaps?"
"Nope! But I need 'em. Heard you tell Bud you paid ten dollars for'em 'way back fifteen years. Guess they's a dollar's worth worn off of'em by now."
"Well, you sure do some close figurin'. I sure paid ten for 'em. Got'em from a Chola puncher what was hard up. Mebby you ain't figurin'that they's about twenty bucks' worth of hand-worked silver conchas on'em which ain't wore off any."
Sundown took this as Wingle's final word. The amused Hi noted theother's disappointment and determined to enhance the value of the chapsby making them difficult to obtain, then give them to his assistant.Wingle liked Sundown in a rough-shod way, though Sundown was a bit tooserious-minded to appreciate the fact.
The cook assumed the air of one gravely concerned about his friend'smental balance. "Somethin' sure crawled into your roost, Sun, but ifyou're goin' crazy I suppose a pair of chaps won't make no differenceeither way. Anyhow, you ain't crazy in your legs--just your head."
"Thanks, Hi. It's accommodatin' of you to put me wise to myself. Iknow I ain't so durned smart as some."
"Say, you old fool, can't you take a fall to it that I'm joshin'? Yousure are the melancholiest stretch of bones and hide I ever seen.Somehow you always make a fella come down to cases every time, withthat sad-lookin' mug of yourn. You sure would 'a' made a goodundertaker. I'll get them chaps."
And Wingle, fat, bald, and deliberate, chuckled as he dug among hisbelongings and brought forth the coveted riding apparel. "Them chapshas set on some good hosses, if I do say it," he remarked. "Take 'emand keep your nine bucks for life insurance. You'll need it."
Sundown grinned like a boy. "Nope. A bargain's a bargain. Here's themoney. Mebby you could buy a fust-class cook-book with it and learnsomethin'."
"Learn somethin'! Why, you long-geared, double-jointed, glass-eyed,hay-topped, star-smellin' st-st-steeple, you! Get out o' this afore Ibreak my neck tryin' to see your face! Set down so I can look you inthe eye!" And Wingle waved his stout arms and glowered in mock anger.
Sundown laid the money on the table. "Keep the change," he said mildlywith a twinkle in his eye.
He picked up the chaps and stalked from the bunk-house. Chance, whohad been an interested spectator of this lively exchange of complimentand merchandise, followed his master to the stable where Sundown atonce put on the chaps and strutted for the dog's benefit, and his own.By degrees he was assuming the characteristics of a genuinecow-puncher. He would show the folks in Antelope what a rider for theConcho looked like.
The following morning, much earlier than necessary, he mounted and rodeto the bunk-house, where Corliss gave him the letter and told him toleave the horse at the stables in Antelope until he returned from Usher.
Sundown, stiffened by the importance of his mission, rode straight up,looking neither to the right nor to the left until the Concho was farbehind him. Then he slouched in the saddle, gazing with a pleasedexpression first at one leather-clad leg and then the other. For atime the wide, free glory of the Arizona morning mesas was forgotten.The shadow of his pony walked beside him as the low eastern sun burnedacross the golden levels. Long silhouettes of fantastic buttes spreadacross the plain. The sky was cloudless and the crisp thin airforetold a hot noon. The gaunt rider's face beamed with an innerlight--the light of romance. What more could a man ask than a goodhorse, a faithful and intelligent dog, a mission of trust, and sixtyundisturbed miles of wondrous upland o'er which to journey, fancy-freeand clad in cowboy garb? Nothing more--except--and Sundown realizedwith a slight sensation of emptiness that he had forgotten to eatbreakfast. He had plenty to eat in his saddle-bags, but he put thetemptation to refresh himself aside as unworthy, for the nonce, of hishigher self. Naturally the pent-up flood of verse that had beenoppressing him of late surged up and filled his mind with vague andpoignant fancies. His love for animals, despite his headlongexperiences on the Concho, was unimpaired, so to speak. He patted theneck of the rangy roan which he bestrode, and settled himself to theserious task of expressing his inner-most being in verse. He dippeddeep into the Pierian springs, and poesy broke forth. But not,however, until he had "cinched up," as he mentally termed it, thesaddle of his Pegasus of the mesas.
Sundown paused and called the attention of his horse to the last line.
He hesitated, harking back for his climax. "Jing!" he exclaimed, "it'sthe durndest thing to put a finish on a piece of po'try! You get togoin' and she goes fine. Then you commence to feel that you're comin'to the end and nacherally you asks yourself what's the end goin' to belike. Fust thing you're stompin' around in your head upsettin' allthat you writ tryin' to rope somethin' to put on the tail-end of theparade that'll show up strong. Kind o' like ropin' a steer. Notellin' where that pome is goin' to land you."
Sundown was more than pleased with himself. He again recited the verseas he plodded along, fixing it in his memory for the future edificationof his compatriots of the Concho.
"The best thing I ever writ!" he assured himself. "Fust thing I knowthey'll be puttin' me in one of them doxologies for keeps. 'SundownSlim, The Poet of the Mesas!' Sounds good to me. Reckon that's why Inever seen a woman that I wanted to get married to. Writin' po'trykind of detracted me mind from love. Guess I could love a woman if shewouldn't laugh at me for bein' so dog-goned lengthy. She would have tobe a small one, though, so as she'd be kind o' scared o' me bein' sobig. Then mebby we could get along pretty good. 'Course, I wouldn'tlike her to be scared all the time, but jest kind o' respectable-liketo me. Them's the best kind. Mebby I'll ketch one some day. Nowthere goes that Chance after a rabbit ag'in. He's a long pieceoff--jest can hardly see him except somethin' movin'. Well, if hecomes back as quick as he went, he'll be here soon." And Sundownjogged along, spur-chains jingling a fairy tune to his oral soliloquies.
Aside from forgetting to have breakfast that morning, he had made apretty fair beginning. He was well on his way, had composed aroan-colored lyric of the ranges, discoursed on the subject of love,and had set his spirit free to meander in the realms of imagination.Yet his spirit swept back to him with a rush of wings and a question.Why not get married? And "Gee! Gosh!" he ejaculated, startled by theabruptness of the thought. "Now I like hosses and dogs and folks, butlivin' with hosses and dogs ain't like livin' with folks. If hossesand dogs take to you, they think you're the whole thing. But wimmen isdifferent. If they take to you--why, they think they're the wholething jest because they landed you. I dunno! Jest bein' good to folksain't everything, either. But bein' good to hosses and dogs is.Funny. I dunno, though. You either got to understand 'em and be roughto 'em, or be good to 'em and then they understand you. Guess theyain't no regular guide-book on how to git along with wimmen. Well, Inever come West for me health. I brung it with me, but I ain't goin'to take chances by fallin' in love. Writin' po'try is wearin' enough."
For a while he rode silently, enjoying his utter freedom. Butfollowers of Romance must ever be minute-men, armed and equipped toanswer her call with instant readiness and grace. Lacking, perhaps,the grace, nevertheless Sundown was loyal to his sovereign mistress, inproof of which he again sat straigh
t in the saddle, stirred to speechby hidden voices. "Now, take it like I was wearin' a hard-boiled hatand a collar and buttin shoes, like the rest of them sports. Why, thatwouldn't ketch the eye of some likely-lookin' lady wantin' to getmarried. Nix! When I hit town it's me for the big smoke and mepicture on the front page, standin' with me faithful dog and a lot ofthem fat little babies without any clothes on, but wings, flyin' aroundthe edge of me picture and down by me boots and up around me hat--andin big letters she'll say: 'Romance of A Cowboy. Western Cattle Kingin Search for his Long-lost Sweetheart. Sundown, once one of ourLeading Hoboes, now a Wealthy Rancher, visits the Metrokolis onMysterious Errand.' Huh! I guess mebby that wouldn't ketch a goodone, mebby with money."
But the proverbial fly must appear in the equally proverbial amber."'Bout as clost as them papers ever come to it," he soliloquized."Anyhow, if she was the wrong one, and not me long-lost affiniky, andwas to get stuck on me shape and these here chaps and spurs, reckon Icould tell her that the papers made the big mistake, and that meMexican wife does the cookin' with a bread-knife in her boot-leg, andthat I never had no Mormon ideas, nohow. That ought to sound kind o'home-like, and let her down easy and gentle. I sure don't want to getsent down for breakin' the wimmen's hearts, so I got to be durnedcareful."
So immersed was he in his imaginings that he did not at once realizethat his horse had stopped and was leisurely grazing at the edge of thetrail. Chance, who had been running ahead, swung back in a wide circleand barked impatiently. Sundown awakened to himself. "Here, you redhoss, this ain't no pie-contest. We got to hit the water-hole aforedark." Once more in motion, he reverted to his old theme, but withfinality in his tone. "I guess mebby I can't tell them reporterssomethin' about me hotel out here on the desert! 'The only prevailableroad-house between Antelope and the Concho, run by the retiredcattle-king, Sundown Slim.' Sounds good to me. Mebby I could work upa trade by advertisin' to some of them Eastern folks that eats nothin'tougher for breakfast than them quakin'-oats and buns and coffee. Getalong, you red hoss."
About six o'clock that evening Sundown arrived at the deserted ranch.He unsaddled and led the horse to water. Then he picketed him for thenight. Returning, he prepared a meal and ate heartily. Just as thelight faded from the dusty windows, Chance, who was curled in a corner,rose and growled. Sundown strode to the door. The dog followed,sniffing along the crack. Presently Sundown heard the shuffling treadof a horse plodding through the sand. He swung open the door and stoodpeering into the dusk. He saw a horseman dismount and enter thegateway. Chance again bristled and growled. Sundown restrained him.
"Hello, there! That you, Jack?"
"Nope. It's me--Sundown from the Concho."
"Concho, eh? Was headed that way myself. Saw the dog. Thought mebbyit was Jack's dog."
"Goin' to stop?" queried Sundown as the other advanced, leading hishorse.
"Guess I'll have to. Don't fancy riding at night. Getting too old."And the short, genial-faced stranger laughed heartily.
"Well, they's plenty room. Had your supper?"
"No, but I got some chuck along with me. Got a match?"
Sundown produced matches. The other rolled a cigarette and studiedSundown's face covertly in the glow of the match. In the flare Sundownbeheld a thick-set, rather short-necked man, smooth-shaven, and of aruddy countenance. He also noticed that the stranger wore a coat, andat once surmised that he was neither cowboy nor herder.
"Guess I'll stake out the hoss," said the man. "See you later."
Chance, who had stood with head lowered and neck outstretched, whinedand leaped up at Sundown, standing with paws on his master's chest andvainly endeavoring to tell him something. The dog's eyes were eloquentand intense.
Sundown patted him. "It's all right, Chance. That guy's all right.Guess I know a good face when I see one. What's the matter, anyway?"
Chance dropped to his feet and stalked to his corner. He settledhimself with a lugubrious sigh, as though unwillingly relinquishing hisresponsibilities in the matter.
When the stranger returned, Sundown had a fire going. "Feels good,"commented the man, rubbing his hands and surveying the room in the glowthat flared up as he lifted the stove-lid. "On your way in?"
"Me? Nope. I'm goin' to Antelope."
"So? Is Jack Corliss hurt bad?"
"He was kind o' shook up for a couple of days. Guess he's gettin'along all right now. Reckon you heard what somebody done to Fadeaway."
The stranger nodded. "They got him, all right. Knew Fade pretty wellmyself. Guess I'll eat.--That coffee of yours was good, all right," hesaid as he finished eating. He reached for the coffee-pot and tippedit. "She's plumb empty."
"I'll fill her," volunteered Sundown, obligingly.
As he disappeared in the darkness, the stranger stepped to the reardoor of the room and opened it. Then he closed the door and stoopinglaid his saddle and blankets against it. "He can't make a break thatway," he said to himself. As Sundown came in, the man noticed that thefront door creaked shrilly when opened or closed and seemed pleasedwith the fact. "Too bad about Fadeaway," he said, helping himself tomore coffee. "Wonder who got him?"
"I dunno. I found me boss with his head busted the same day they gotFade."
"Been riding for the Concho long?"
"That ain't no joke, if you're meanin' feet and inches."
The other laughed. His eyes twinkled in the ruddy glow of the stove.Suddenly he straightened his shoulders and appeared to be listening."It's the hosses," he said finally. "Some coyote's fussin' aroundbothering 'em. It's a long way from home as the song goes. Lend meyour gun and I'll go see if I can plug one of 'em and stop theiryipping."
Sundown presented his gun to the stranger, who slid it between trousersand shirt at the waist-band. "Don't hear 'em now," he announcedfinally. "Well, guess I'll roll in."
Strangely enough, he had apparently forgotten to return the gun.Sundown, undecided whether to ask for it or not, finally spread hisblankets and called Chance to him. The dog curled at his master'sfeet. Save for the diminishing crackle of dry brush in the stove, theroom was still. Evidently the ruddy-faced individual was asleep.Vaguely troubled by the stranger's failure to return his gun, Sundowndrifted to sleep, not for an instant suspecting that he was virtuallythe prisoner of the sheriff of Apache County, who had at Loring'sinstigation determined to arrest the erstwhile tramp for the murder ofFadeaway. The sheriff had his own theory as to the killing and histheory did not for a moment include Sundown as a possible suspect, buthe had a good, though unadvertised, reason for holding him. Accustomedto dealing with frontier folk, he argued that Sundown's imprisonmentwould eventually bring to light evidence leading to the identity of themurderer. It was a game of bluff, and at such a game he played amaster hand.
The stranger seemed unusually affable in the morning. He made thefire, and, before Sundown had finished eating, had the two poniessaddled and ready for the road. Sundown thought him a little tooagreeable. He was even more perplexed when the man said that he hadchanged his mind and would ride to Antelope with him. "Thought yousaid you was goin' to the Concho?"
"Well, seeing you say Jack can't ride yet, guess I'll wait."
"He can talk, all right," asserted Sundown.
The other paid no apparent attention to this remark but rode alongpointing out landmarks and discoursing largely upon the weather, thefeed, and price of hay and grain and a hundred topics associated withranch-life. Sundown, forgetful of his pose as a vaquero of longstanding (unintentional), assumed rather the attitude of one absorbinginformation on such topics than disseminating it. Nor did heunderstand the stranger's genial invitation to have supper with him atAntelope that night, as they rode into the town. He knew, however,that he was creating a sensation, which he attributed to his Mexicanspurs and chaps. People stared at him as he stalked down the streetand turned to stare again. His companion seemed very well known inAntelope. Nearly every one spoke to him or waved a g
reeting. Yetthere was something peculiar in their attitudes. There was analoofness about them that was puzzling.
"He sure looks like the bad man from Coyote Gulch," remarked one whostood in front of "The Last Chance" saloon.
"He ain't heeled," asserted the speaker's companion.
"Heeled! Do you reckon Jim's plumb loco? Jim took care of that."
All of which was music to Sundown. He was making an impression, yet hewas not altogether happy. He did not object to being classed as a badman so long as he knew at heart that he was anything but that. Still,he was rather proud of his instant notoriety.
They stopped in front of a square, one-story building. Sundown'scompanion unlocked the door. "Come on in," he said. "We'll have asmoke and talk things over."
"But I was to see Mr. Kennedy the lawyer," asserted Sundown.
"So? Well, it ain't quite time to see him yet."
Sundown's back became cold and he stared at the stranger with eyes thatbegan to see the drift of things. "You ain't a cop, be you?" he askedtimorously.
"They call it 'sheriff' here."
"Well, I call it kind o' warm and I'm goin' outside."
"I wouldn't. One of my deputies is sitting just across the street.He's a mighty good shot. Can beat me hands down. Suppose you dropback in your chair and tell me what you know about the shooting ofFadeaway."
"Me? You ain't joshin', be you?"
"Never more serious in my life! I'm interested in this case."
"Well, I ain't!" was Sundown's prompt remark. "And I got to go. I'mgoin' on privut business for me boss and confidenshell. Me and Chance."
"That's all right, my friend. But I have some private and confidentialbusiness that can't wait."
"But I ain't done nothin'," whined Sundown, lapsing into his oldattitude toward the law.
"Maybe not. Mr. Loring telephoned me that Fadeaway had been shot andthat a man answering your description--a tramp, he said--seemed to knowsomething about it. You never was a puncher. You don't get on or offa cayuse like one. From what I learn you were a Hobo when Jack Corlissgave you a job. That's none of my business. I arrest you as asuspicious character, and I guess I'll have to keep you here till Ifind out more about Fadeaway's case. Have a cigar?"
"Huh! Say, don't you ever get mad?" queried Sundown, impressed by theother's most genial attitude.
The sheriff laughed. "Doesn't pay in my business. Now, you just easeup and tell me what you know. It will save time. Did you ever havetrouble with Fadeaway?"
"Not on your life! I give him all the room he wanted."
"Did you know Fernando---one of Loring's herders?"
"I seen him onct. He saved me life from bein' killed by a steer. Didhe say I done it?" parried Sundown.
The sheriff's opinion of Sundown's acumen was disturbed. Evidentlythis queer individual posing as a cowboy was not such a fool, after all.
"No. Have you seen him lately?"
"Nope. Chance and me was over to his camp, but he was gone. We kindo' tracked back there from the place where we found Fadeaway."
"That so?"
"Uhuh. It was like this." And Sundown gave a detailed account of hisexplorations.
When he had finished, the sheriff made a note on the edge of anewspaper. Then he turned to Sundown. "You're either the deepest handI've tackled yet, or you're just a plain fool. You don't act like akiller."
"Killer! Say, mister, I wouldn't kill a bug that was bitin' me 'less'nhe wouldn't let go. Why, ask Chance there!"
"I wish that dog could talk," said the sheriff, smiling. "Did you knowthat old Fernando had left the country--crossed the line into NewMexico?"
"What? Him?"
"Yes. I know about where he is."
"Guess his boss fired him for lettin' all the sheep get killed. Guesshe had to go somewhere."
The sheriff nodded. "So you were going to take a little trip yourself,were you?"
"For me boss. You ask him. He can tell you."
"I reckon when he finds out where you are he'll come in."
"And you're goin' to pinch me?"
"You're pinched."
"Well, I'm dum clost to gettin' mad. You look here! Do you think I'dbe ridin' to Antelope if I done anything like shoot a man? Do youthink I'd hand you me gun without sayin' a word? And if you think Ididn't shoot Fadeaway, what in hell you pinchin' me for? Ain't a guygot a right to live?"
"Yes. Fadeaway had a right to live."
"Well, I sure never wanted to see him cross over. That's the way withyou cops. If a fella is a Bo, he gets pinched, anyhow. If he quitsbein' a Bo and goes to workin' at somethin', then he gets pinched forhavin' been a Bo onct. I been livin' honest and peaceful-like andstraight--and I get pinched. Do you wonder a Bo gets tired of tryin'to brace up?"
"Can't say that I do. Got to leave you now. I'll fix you upcomfortable in here." And the sheriff unlocked the door leading to theone-room jail. "I'll talk it over with you in the morning. The wifeand kid will sure be surprised to see me back, so I'll mosey down homebefore somebody scares her to death telling her I'm back in town.So-long."
Sundown sat on the narrow bed and gazed at the four walls of the room."Wife and kid!" he muttered. "Well, I reckon he's got a right to have'em. Gee Gosh! Wonder if he'll feed Chance!"