"And you gave me the rest. You sure are loco."

"Mebby I be. Anyhow, I'm used to bein' hungry. They ain't so much of me to keep as you--crossways, I mean. Of course, up and down--"

"Well, I'm right sorry," said Corliss. "You're the queerest Hobo I ever saw."

"That's what they all say," said Sundown, grinning. "I ain't no common hand-out grabber, not me! I learnt things from Bill. He had cla.s.s!"

"You sure Will never said anything about the Concho, or his brother, or Chance?"

"Chance? Who's he?"

"Wolf-dog that belonged to Will."

"Gee Gosh! Big, and long legs, and kind of long, rough hair, and deep in the chest and--"

"That's Chance; but how did you know?"

"Why, Billy writ a pome 'bout him onct. Sold it and we lived high--for a week. Sure as you live! It was called 'Chance of the Concher.' Gee Gosh! I thought it was jest one of them poetical dogs, like."

Corliss, who was not given to sentiment, smoked and pondered the possibility of his brother's whereabouts. He had written to all the large cities asking for information from the police as to the probability of their being able to locate his brother. The answers had not been encouraging. At the end of three years he practically gave up making inquiry and turned his whole attention to the management of the Concho. There had been trouble between the cattle and sheep interests and time had pa.s.sed more swiftly than he had realized. His meeting with Sundown had awakened the old regret for his brother's uncalled-for disappearance. Had he been positive that his brother had been killed in the wreck he would have felt a kind of relief. As it was, the uncertainty as to his whereabouts, his welfare, worried and perplexed him, especially in view of the fact that he was on his way to Antelope to present to the Forest Service a pet.i.tion from the cattle-men of the valley for grazing allotments. The sheep had been destroying the grazing on the west side of the river. There had been bickerings and finally an open declaration of war against David Loring, the old sheep-man of the valley. Corliss wished to avoid friction with David Loring. Their ranches were opposite each other. And as Corliss was known as level-headed and shrewd, it devolved upon him to present in person the complaint and pet.i.tion of his brother cattle-men. Argument with David Loring, as he had pa.s.sed the latter's homestead that morning, had delayed him on his journey to Antelope. Presently he got up and entered the ranch-house. Sundown followed and poked about in the corners of the room. He found a bundle of gunny-sacks and spreading them on the floor, laid his blankets on them.

Corliss stepped out and led Chinook to the distant mesa and picketed him for the night. As he returned, he considered the advisability of hiring the tramp to cook until his own cook returned from Phoenix. He entered the house, kicked off his leather chaps, tossed his spurs into a corner, and made a bed of his saddle-blankets and saddle. "I'll be starting early," he said as he drew off his boots. "What are you intending to do next?"

"Me? Well, I ain't got no plans. Beat it back to Antelope, I guess.

Say, mister, do you think my pal was your brother?"

"I don't know. From your description I should say so. See here. I don't know you, but I need a cook. The Concho is thirty miles in. I'm headed the other way, but if you are game to walk it, I'll see if I can use you."

"Me! You ain't givin' me another josh, be you?"

"Never a josh. You won't think so when you get to punchin' dough for fifteen hungry cowboys. Want to try it?"

"Say, mister, I'm just comin' to. A guy told me in Antelope that they was a John Corliss--only he said Jack--what was needin' a cook. Just thunk of it, seein' as I was thinkin' of Billy most ever since I met you. Are you the one?"

"Guess I am," said Corliss, smiling. "It's up to you."

"Say, mister, that listens like home more'n anything I heard since I was a kid. I can sure cook, but I ain't no rider."

"How long would it take you to foot it to the Concho?"

"Oh, travelin' easy, say 'bout eight hours."

"Don't see that you need a horse, then, even if there was one handy."

"Nope. I don't need no horse. All I need is a job."

"All right. You'd have to travel thirty miles either way--to get out of here. I won't be there, but you can tell my foreman, Bud Shoop, that I sent you in."

"And I'll jest be tellin' him that 'bout twelve, to-morrow. I sure wisht Billy was here. He'd sure be glad to know his ole pal was cookin' for his brother. Me for the shavin's. And say, thanks, pardner. Reckon they ain't all jokers in Arizona."

"No. There are a few that can't make or take one," said Corliss.

"Hope you'll make the ranch all right."

"I'm there! Next to cookin' and writin' po'try, walkin' is me long suit."

CHAPTER IV

PIE; AND SEPTEMBER MORN

When a Westerner, a native-born son of the outlands, likes a man, he likes him. That is all there is to it. His horses, blankets, money, provender, and even his saddle are at his friend's disposal. If the friend prove worthy,--and your Westerner is shrewd,--a lifelong friendship is the result. If the friend prove unworthy, it is well for him to seek other lat.i.tudes, for the average man of the outlands has a peculiar and deep-seated pride which is apt to manifest itself in prompt and vigorous action when touched by ridicule or ingrat.i.tude.

There are many Davids and Jonathans in the sagebrush country. David may have flocks and herds, and Jonathan may have naught but the care of them. David may possess lands and water-rights, and Jonathan nothing more than a pick, a shovel, a pan, and an incurable itch for placering.

A Westerner likes a man for what he is and not because of his vocation.

He usually proceeds cautiously in the matter of friendship, but sudden and instinctive friendships are not infrequent. It so happened that John Corliss had taken a liking to the Hobo, Sundown Slim. Knowing a great deal more about cattle than about psychology, the rancher wasted no time in trying to a.n.a.lyze his feelings. If the tramp had courage enough to walk another thirty miles across the mesas to get a job cooking, there must be something to him besides legs. Possibly the cattle-man felt that he was paying a tribute to the memory of his brother. In any event, he greeted Sundown next morning as the latter came to the water-hole to drink. "You can't lose your way," he said, pointing across the mesa. "Just keep to the road. The first ranch on the right is the Concho. Good luck!" And he led Chinook through the gateway. In an hour he had topped the hill. He reined Chinook round.

He saw a tiny figure far to the south. Half in joke he waved his sombrero. Sundown, who had glanced back from time to time, saw the salute and answered it with a sweeping gesture of his lean arm. "And now," he said, "I got the whole works to meself. That Concho guy is a mighty fine-lookin' young fella, but he don't look like Billy. Rides that hoss easy-like jest as if he was settin' in a rockin'-chair knittin' socks. But I reckon he could flash up if you stepped on his tail. I sure ain't goin' to."

It was mid-afternoon, when Sundown, gaunt and weary, arrived at the Concho. He was faint for lack of food and water. The Mexican cook, or rather the cook's a.s.sistant, was the only one present when Sundown drifted in, for the Concho was, in the parlance of the riders, "A man's ranch from chuck to sunup, and never a skirt on the clothes-line."

Not until evening was Sundown able to make his errand known, and appreciated. A group of riders swung in in a swirl of dust, dismounted, and, as if by magic, the yard was empty of horses.

The riders disappeared in the bunk-house to wash and make ready for supper. One of the men, who had spoken to him in pa.s.sing, reappeared.

"Lookin' for the boss?" he asked.

"Nope. I seen him. I'm lookin' for Mr. Shoop."

"All right, pardner. Saw off the mister and size me up. I'm him."

"The boss said I was to be cook," said Sundown, rather awed by the personality of the bluff foreman.

"Meet him at Antelope?"

"No. It was the American Hotel. He said for me to tell you if I walked in I could get a job cookin'."

"All right. What he says goes. Had anything to eat recent?"

"I et a half a rabbit yesterday mornin'."

"Well, sufferin' shucks! You fan it right in here!"

Later that evening, Sundown straggled out to the corral and stood watching the saddle-stock of the Concho pull hay from the long feed-rack and munch lazily. Suddenly he jerked up his hand and jumped round. The men, loafing in front of the bunk-house, laughed. Chance, the great wolf-dog, was critically inspecting the tramp's legs.

Sundown was a self-confessed coward, physically. Above all things he feared dogs. His reception by the men, aside from Bud Shoop's greeting, had been cool. Even the friendship of a dog seemed acceptable at that moment. Plodding along the weary miles between the water-hole and the ranch, he had, in his way, decided to turn over a new leaf: to ignore the insistent call of the road and settle down to something worth while. Childishly egotistical, he felt in a vague way that his virtuous intent was not appreciated, not reasoning that the men knew nothing of his wanderings, nor cared to know anything other than as to his ability to cook. So he timidly stroked the long muzzle of the wolf-dog, and was agreeably surprised to find that Chance seemed to like it. In fact, Chance, having an instinct superior to that of his men companions of the Concho, recognized in the gaunt and lonely figure a kindred spirit; a being that had the wander-fever in its veins; that was forever searching for the undiscoverable, the something just beyond the visible boundaries of day. The dog, part Russian wolf-hound and part Great Dane, deep-chested, swift and powerful, shook his s.h.a.ggy coat and sneezed. Sundown jumped. Again the men laughed.

"You and me's built about alike--for speed," he said, endeavoring to convey his friendly intent through compliment. "Did you ever ketch a rabbit?"