"We sure put up the great sc.r.a.p, didn't we, pal? We licked him! But if he'd 'a' licked you . . ." And Sundown gazed at the still form of the wolf and shuddered, not knowing that the wolf would have fled at sight of him had he been able to get away from Chance.

Two hours later, Eleanor Loring, riding along the canon stream, met a lean giant, one sleeve of his shirt gone, his hat missing, and his hands splotched with blood. His eyes were wild, his face white and set. He carried a great, s.h.a.ggy dog in his arms.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, swinging from her pony and coming to him.

"Me? No, lady. But me pal here is hurt bad. Jest breathin'. Killed a wolf back there. Mebby I can save him."

"Why, it's Chance--of the Concho!"

"Yes, lady. What is left of him."

"Do you work for the Concho? Won't you take my horse?"

"I'm a.s.sistant cook at the camp. No, thanks, lady. Ridin' might joggle him and start him to bleedin'. I can carry him so he'll be easier-like."

"But how did it happen?"

"I dunno. Chance chased the wolf and they went to it where I was explorin' one of them caves. I guess I better be goin'."

The girl reined her horse around and rode down the valley trail, pausing occasionally to watch the tall figure climbing the canon with that shapeless burden in his arms. "I wonder if any other man on the Concho would have done that?" she asked herself. And Sundown, despite his more or less terrifying appearance, won her estimation for kindness at once.

Slowly he climbed the canon trail, resting at each level. The dog hung a limp, dead weight in his arms. Midway up the trail Sundown rested again, and gazed down into the valley. He imagined he could discern the place of the fight. "That there wolf," he soliloquized, "he was some fighter, too. Mebby he didn't like to get licked any more than Chance, here. Wonder what they was fightin' about? I dunno. But, Gee Gosh, she was one dandy sc.r.a.p!"

At the top of the canon wall he again rested. He expected to be discharged for being late, but solaced himself with the thought that if he could save Chance, it was worth the risk.

The riders had returned to the chuck-wagon when Sundown arrived lugging the inert body of the wolf-dog. They gathered around and asked brief questions. Sundown, busy washing the dog's wounds, answered as well as he could. His account of the fight did not suffer for lack of embellishment, and while he did not absolutely state that he had taken a hand in the fight, his story implied it.

"Don't see nothin' on you to show you been in a sc.r.a.p," remarked a young puncher.

"That's because you can't see in deep enough," retorted Sundown. "If I wasn't in every jump of that fight, me heart was."

"Better shoot him and put him out of his sufferin'," suggested the puncher.

Sundown rose from beside the dog. Shoot Chance? Not so long as he could keep between the dog and the cowboy's gun. The puncher, half in jest, reached for his holster. Sundown's overwrought nerves gave way.

He dropped to his knees and lifted his long arms imploringly. "Don't!

Don't!" he wailed. "He ain't dead! Don't shoot my pal!"

Bud Shoop, who had kept silent, shouldered the puncher aside. "Cut it out, Sinker," he growled. "Can't you sabe that Sundown means it?"

Later in the evening, and fortified with a hearty meal. Sundown gave a revised version of the fight, wherein his partic.i.p.ation was modified, though the story lost nothing in re-telling. And, indeed, his own achievement, of lugging Chance up the canon trail, awakened a kind of respect among the easy-going cowboys. To carry an eighty-pound dog up that trail took sand! Again Sundown had unconsciously won their respect. Nothing was said about his late return. And his horse had found its way back to the camp.

Sometime in the night, Bud Shoop was awakened by the man next him.

"What's goin' on?" queried Shoop, rising on his elbow.

"Ask me again," said the puncher. "Listen!"

From the vicinity of the wagon came the gurgle of water and then a distinctly canine sneeze.

"Dinged if he ain't fussin' with that dog again!" grumbled Shoop. "The dam' fool!" Which, as it is the spirit which giveth life to the letter, was not altogether uncomplimentary.

CHAPTER XII

A GIFT

Warned by John Corliss of Loring's evident intent to graze his sheep on the west side of the Concho River, the cattle-men held a quiet meeting at the ranch of the Concho and voted unanimously to round up a month earlier than usual. The market was at a fair level. Beef was in demand. Moreover, the round-up would, by the mere physical presence of the riders and the cattle, check for the time being any such move as Loring contemplated, as the camps would be at the ford. Meanwhile the cattle-men again pet.i.tioned the Ranger at Antelope to stir up the service at Washington in regard to grazing allotments.

The round-up began. The Concho outfit moved camp to the ford and Sundown had his first introduction to real work. From morning till night and far into the night the fires were going. Groups of belated riders swung in and made for the chuck-wagons. Sundown, following a strenuous eighteen hours of uninterrupted toil, solemnly borrowed a piece of "tarp" from his outfit on which he lettered the legend:--

"CAFE DE CONCHO--MEELS AT ALL HOURS--PRIVIT TABELS FOR LADYS"

He hung the tarp in a conspicuous place and retired to rest. The following morning his efforts were applauded with much picturesque expletive, and even criticism was evoked by a lean puncher who insisted "that the tall guy might be a good cook all right, but he sure didn't know how to spell 'calf.'" Naturally the puncher's erudition leaned toward cattle and the range.

At all times conspicuous, for he topped by a head and shoulders the tallest rider on the range. Sundown became doubly conspicuous as the story of his experience with the hold-ups and his rescue of Chance became known. If he strutted, it was pardonable, for he strutted among men difficult to wrest approval from, and he had won their approval.

At Hi Wingle's suggestion, he "packed a gun"--a formidable .45 lent him by that gracious individual, for it grieved the solid Wingle's soul to see so notable a character go unarmed. Sundown, like many a wiser man, was not indifferent to the effect of clothing and equipment. Obliged frequently to relate his midnight adventure with the robbers, he became a past-master in the art of dramatic expression. "If I'd 'a' had me gun with me," he was wont to say, slapping the holster significantly, "the deal might 'a' turned out different. I reckon it's luck I didn't." Which may have been true enough, for Sundown would undoubtedly have been afraid to use the weapon and Fadeaway might have misunderstood his bungling.

In his spare time he built a lean-to of odds and ends, and beneath it Chance drowsed away the long, sunny hours while Sundown was rustling firewood or holding hot argument with an obstreperous dutch-oven. And Chance became the pet and the pride of the outfit. Riders from distant ranches would stray over to the lean-to and look at him, commenting on his size and elaborating on the fact that it usually took two of the best dogs ever whelped to pull down a timber-wolf.

Even Fadeaway, now riding for the Blue, became enthusiastic and boasted of his former friendship with Chance. When he essayed the intimacy of patting the dog's head, some of the onlookers doubted him, for Chance received these overtures with a deep-throated growl.

"He won't let n.o.body touch him but that Sundown gent," cautioned a bystander.

"Guess he's loco since he got chewed up," said Fadeaway, retreating.

Chance licked his wounds and recovered slowly. He would lie in the sun, watching with unwinking gaze the camp and the cl.u.s.ter of men about it until the form of Sundown loomed through the ma.s.s. Then he would beat the ground with his tail and whine expectantly. As he became stronger, he ventured to stretch his wound-stiffened muscles in short pilgrimages to the camp, where the men welcomed him with hearty and profane zest. Was he not the slayer of their enemy's sheep and the killer of the timber-wolf? Eventually he was presented with a broad collar studded with bra.s.s spikes, and engraved upon it was the sanguinary and somewhat ambiguous legend: "Chance--The Killer of the Concho."

John Corliss, visiting the round-up, rode over to Sundown's tepee, as it was called. The a.s.sistant cook was greasing Chance's wounds.

"How is he getting along?" asked Corliss.

"Fine, boss, fine! This here is some little ole red-cross ward, believe me! He's gettin' over bein' lame and he eats regular."

"Here, Chance!" called Corliss.

The dog rose stiffly and stalked to his master, smelt of him and wagged his tail, then stood with lowered head as though pondering some serious dog-logic.

"He's kind of queer," explained Sundown, "but he's a whole pile better than he was a spell ago. Had to bring him water and feed him like a baby cuttin' teeth--though I never seen one doin' that. He wouldn't let n.o.body touch him 'ceptin' me."

"Is he able to travel?"

"Oh, some."