CHANCE--CONQUEROR
Sundown's return to the camp occasioned some indirect questioning and
not a little comment. He told the story of his adventure at the Concho
in detail up to the point of his conversation with Will Corliss. Then
he lapsed into generalities, exhibiting with some little pride the
wound on his head as evidence of his attempt to prevent the robbery and
incidentally as a reason for being unable to discourse further upon the
subject. His oft-repeated recital invariably concluded with, "I steps
in and tries to stop the first guy when _Wham!_ round goes the room and
I takes a sleep."
The men seemed satisfied with Sundown's graphic account in the main.
Hi Wingle, the cook, asked no questions, but did a great deal of
thinking. He was aware that Will Corliss had returned to the Concho,
and also, through rumor, that Corliss and Fadeaway had been together in
Antelope. The fact that the robbers failed to get the money--so it was
given out--left the drama unfinished, and as such it lacked sustained
interest. There would be no bandits to capture; no further excitement;
so the talk eventually drifted to other subjects.
The assistant cook's evident melancholy finally gave place to a happier
mood as he realized that he had gained a modicum of respect in a camp
where hitherto he had been more or less of a joke. While he grieved
over the events which led up to his newly attained prestige as a man of
nerve, he was not a little proud of the prestige itself, and
principally because he lacked the very quality of courage that he was
now accredited with. Perhaps the fact that he had "played square," as
he saw it, was the true foundation of his attitude.
He discharged his duties as assistant cook with a new and professional
flourish that amused the riders. When they rolled from their blankets
in the crisp air of the morning, they were never kept waiting for their
coffee, hot bread, and frijoles. Moreover, he always had a small fire
going, around which he arranged the tin plates, cups, knives and forks.
This additional fire was acceptable, as the cooking was done on a large
sheet-iron camp-stove, the immediate territory of which was sacred to
Hi Wingle. Wingle, who had been an old-timer when most of the Concho
hands were learning the rudiments of the game, took himself and his
present occupation seriously. His stove was his altar, though burnt
offerings were infrequent. He guarded his culinary precincts with a
watchful eye. His attitude was somewhat akin to that of Cardinal
Richelieu in the handkerchief scene, "Take but one step within these
sacred bounds and on our head I'll lunch the cuss of Rum," or something
to that effect. He was short, ruddy, and bald, and his antithesis,
Sundown, was a source of constant amazement to him. Wingle had seen
many tall men, but never such an elongated individual as his assistant.
It became the habit of one or another of the boys to ask the cook the
way to the distant Concho, usually after the evening meal, when they
were loafing by the camp-fire. Wingle would thereupon scratch his head
and assume an air of intense concentration. "Well," he would
invariably remark, "you take the trail along Sundown's shadder there,
and keep a-fannin' it smart for about three hours. When you come to
the end of the shadder, take the right fork of the river, and in
another hour you'll strike the Concho. That's the quickest way." And
this bit of attenuated humor never failed to produce an effect.
One morning, about a week after Sundown's return to his duties as
assistant, while Wingle was drying his hands, preparatory to reading a
few pages of his favorite novel, Sundown ambled into camp with an
armful of greasewood, dumped it near the wagon, and, straightening up,
rolled a cigarette.
Wingle, immersed in the novel, read for a while and then glanced up
questioningly.
Sundown shook his head.
"Now this here story," said Wingle; "I read her forty-three times come
next round-up, and blamed if I sabe her yet. Now, take it where the
perfesser--a slim gent with large round eye-glasses behind which
twinkled a couple of deep-set studyus eyes--so the book says; now, take
it where he talks about them Hopi graves over there in the valley--"
"This here valley?" queried Sundown, immediately interested.
"Sure! Well, I can sabe all that. I seen 'em."
"Seen 'em?"
"Sure! Why Arizona's got more leavin's of history and dead Injuns and
such, right on top of the ground, than any other State in the Union.
Why, right over there in the cañon of the Concho there's a hull ruined
Injun village--stones piled up in little circles, and what was huts and
caves and the leavin's of a old irrigatin' ditch and busted ollas, and
bones and arrow-heads and picture-writin' on the rocks--bears and
eagles and mounting-lions and hosses--scratched right on the rocks.
Them cliffs there is covered with it."
"Them?" queried Sundown, pointing toward the cañon, "Do they charge
anything to see it?"
"Well, seein' they been dead about a thousand years, I reckon not."
"A thousand years! Huh! I ain't scared of no Injuns a thousand years
old. How far is it to them picture-things?"
"'Bout three mile. You can take a hoss and mosey over if you like.
Figure on gettin' back 'round noon."
"Any snakes over there?"
"Comf'table thick. You might get a pretty good mess of 'em, if you was
to take your time. I never bother to look for 'em."
Sundown gazed at his length of nether limb and sighed.
"Snakes won't bother you none," said Wingle, reassuringly. "They get
tired, same as anybody, and they'd have to climb too fur to see if you
was to home."
Sundown rose and saddled a horse. He mounted and rode slowly toward
the rim of the distant cañon. At the cañon's brink, he dismounted and
led his horse down the trail, stopping frequently to gaze in wonderment
at the painted cliffs and masses of red rock strewn along the slopes.
High up on the perpendicular face of the cañon walls he saw many caves
and wondered how they came to be there. "Makes a fella feel like
sayin' his prayers," he muttered. "Wisht I knowed one."
He drifted on down the trail, which wound around huge fragments of rock
riven from the cliffs in prehistoric days. He was awed by the
immensity of the chasm and talked continuously to his horse which
shuffled along behind paying careful attention to the footing. Arrived
at the stream the horse drank. Sundown mounted and rode along the
narrow level paralleling the river course. The cañon widened, and
before he realized it he was in a narrow valley carpeted with
bunch-grass and dotted with solitary cypress and infrequent clumps of
pine. He paused to inspect a small mound of rock which was partially
surrounded by a wall of neatly laid stone. Within the semicircular
wall was a hole in the ground--the entrance to a cave. Farther along
he came upon the ruins of a walled square, unmistakably of human
construction. He became interested, and, tying his horse to a
scrub-cedar, began to dig among the loose stones covering the interior
of the square. He discovered a fragment of painted pottery--the
segment of an olla, smooth, dark red, and decorated with a design in
black. He rubbed the earth from the fragment and polished it on his
overalls. He unearthed a larger fragment and found that it matched the
other piece. He was happy. He forgot his surroundings, and scratched
and dug in the ruin until he accumulated quite a little pile of shards,
oddly marked and colored. Eventually he gathered up his spoils and
tied them in his handkerchief.
Leaving his horse, he meandered down the valley until he came to
another and larger cave. "Wonder what's down there?" he soliloquized.
"Mebby one of them Injuns. Been there a thousand years waitin' for
somethin' to turn up. 'Nough to make a fella tired, waitin' that
long." He wanted to explore the cave, but he was afraid. Moreover,
the interior was dark. He pondered. Finally his natural fondness for
mild adventure overcame his fear. "Got some matches!" he exclaimed,
joyfully. "Wonder if it's deep? Guess I could put me legs in first,
and if nothin' bites me legs, why, I could follow 'em down to bottom."
He put his head in the hole. "Hey!" he hallooed, "are you in there?"
He rose to his feet. "Nothin' doin'. Well, here goes. I sure want to
see what's down there."
In his excitement he overlooked the possibility of disturbing a torpid
rattler. He slid feet first into the cave, found that he could all but
stand upright, and struck a match.
The ancient Hopis buried their dead in a sitting posture on a woven
grass mat, with an olla, and frequently a bone dagger, beside them. In
the clean, dry air of the uplands of Arizona the process of decay is
slow. Sundown, unaware of this, hardly anticipated that which
confronted him as the match flamed blue and flared up, lighting the
interior of the cave with instant brilliance. About six feet from
where he crouched was the dried and shriveled figure of a Hopi chief,
propped against the wall of the cave. Beside the figure stood the
painted olla untarnished by age. The dead Indian's head was bowed upon
his breast, and his skeleton arms, parchment-skinned and rigid, were
crossed upon his knees.
Sundown scrambled for the circle of daylight above him. "Gee Gosh!" he
panted, as he got to his feet outside the cave. "It was him!" He
clambered over the circle of stones and backed away, eyeing the
entrance as though he expected to see the Hopi emerge at any moment.
He crouched behind a boulder, his pulses racing. He was keyed to a
high tension of expectancy. In fact, he was in a decidedly receptive
mood for that which immediately happened. He noticed that his horse, a
hundred yards or so up the valley, was circling the cedar and pulling
back on the reins. He wondered what was the matter with him. The
horse was usually a well-behaved animal. The explanation came rapidly.
Sundown saw the horse back and tear loose from the cedar; saw him whirl
and charge down the valley snorting. "Guess he seen one, too!" said
Sundown making no effort to check the frightened animal. Almost
immediately came the long-drawn bell of a dog following a hot scent.
Sundown turned from watching his vanishing steed and saw a huge
timber-wolf leap from a thicket. Behind the wolf came Chance, neck
outstretched, and flanks working at top speed. The wolf dodged a
boulder, flashing around it with no apparent loss of ground. Chance
rose over the boulder as though borne on the wind. The wolf turned and
snapped at him. Sundown decided instantly that the sepulcher of the
dead Hopi was preferable to the proximity of the live wolf, and he made
for the cave.
The wolf circled the wall of stones and also made for the cave.
Sundown had arrived a little ahead of him. The top of Sundown's head
appeared for an instant; then vanished. The wolf backed snarling
against the wall as Chance leaped in. When Sundown's head again
appeared, the whirling mass of writhing fur and kicking legs had taken
more definite shape. Chance had fastened on the wolf's shoulder. The
wolf was slashing effectively at the dog's side. Presently they lay
down facing each other. Chance licked a long gash in his foreleg. The
wolf snapped as he lay and a red slaver dripped from his fangs. Not
twelve feet away, Sundown gazed upon the scene with fear-wide eyes.
"Go to it, Chance!" he quavered, and his encouragement was all but the
dog's undoing, for he lost the wolf's gaze for an instant, barely
turning in time to meet the vicious charge. Sundown groaned as the
wolf, with a slashing stroke, ripped the dog's neck from ear to
shoulder. The stones in the enclosure were spattered with red as they
whirled, each trying to reach the throat of the other. Suddenly Chance
leaped up and over the wolf, lunging for his neck as he descended. The
wolf rolled from under and backed toward the cave. "Hey!" yelled
Sundown. "You can't come in here!"
Chance, weakened from loss of blood, lay watching the wolf as it
crouched tensely. Again the great gray shadow lunged and a bright
streak sprung up on the dog's side. "Gee Gosh!" whined Sundown; "he
can't stand much more of that!" Undoubtedly Chance knew it, for he
straight-way gathered himself and leaped in, diving low for the wolf's
fore leg. As the wolf turned his shoulder, Chance again sprang over
him and, descending, caught him just behind the ear, and held. The
wolf writhed and snarled. Chance gripped in and in, with each savage
shake of his head biting deeper. In a mighty effort to free himself
the wolf surged backward, dragging Chance around the enclosure.
Sundown, rising from the cave's mouth, crouched before it. "You got
him! You got him!" he cried. "Once more, now!"
The body of the wolf quivered and sagged, then stiffened as if for a
last effort. Chance held. They were both lying on the stones now.
Chance with fore feet braced against the wolf's chest. Presently the
dog gave a final shake, drew back, and lay panting. From head to
flanks he was soaked with blood. The wolf was dead.
Sundown stood up. "Good boy, Chance!" he said. The great, gaunt body
of the dog raised itself on trembling legs, the pride of the conqueror
lighting for a moment his dimming eyes. "It's me, Chance!" said
Sundown, stroking the dog's head. Chance wagged his tail and reaching
up his torn and bleeding muzzle licked Sundown's hand. Then slowly he
sank to the ground, breathed heavily, and rolled to his side. Sundown
knelt over him and unaccustomed tears ran down his lean cheeks and
dripped on the clotted fur. "You was some fighter, Chance, ole pal!
Gee Gosh! He's nothin' except cuts and slashes all over. Gee Gosh!"
He drew the dog's head to his lap and sat crooning weird, broken words
and stroking the torn ears. Suddenly he stopped and put his hand over
the dog's heart. Then he leaped to his feet and, dumping the fragments
of pottery from his bandanna, tore it in strips and began bandaging the
wounds. The gash on Chance's neck still bled. Sundown drew his knife
and cut the sleeve from his shirt. He ripped it open and bound the
dog's neck. Realizing that Chance was not dead, he became valiant.
"We sure put up the great scrap, 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 cañon 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, shaggy 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 assistant 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 cañon 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 cañon 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 scrap!"
At the top of the cañon 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 scrap," 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 participation was modified,
though the story lost nothing in re-telling. And, indeed, his own
achievement, of lugging Chance up the cañon 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.