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 petitioned 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 nobody 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 cluster of men about
it until the form of Sundown loomed through the mass. 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 brass 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 assistant 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 nobody touch him 'ceptin' me."
"Is he able to travel?"
"Oh, some."
"Think he could make it to the Concho?"
Sundown hesitated. "Mebby. Yes, I reckon he could. He can run all
right, only I guess he kind of likes hangin' around me." And Sundown
glanced sideways at Corliss.
"He seems all right. I guess I'll take him back with me. I don't like
the idea of his running loose here."
"He ain't bitin' nobody," assured Sundown.
Corliss glanced shrewdly at the other's lean, questioning face. "Guess
you won't miss him much. How are you making it?"
"Me? Fine! Reckon I'll take out me papers for a full-chested range
cook afore long. You see the L.D. outfit says that I could have a job
with them after the round-up. It kind of leaked out about them pies.
'Course they was joshin', mebby. I dunno."
"The L.D. boys are all right," said Corliss. "If you want to make a
change--"
"See here, boss! I done some ramblin' in my time. Guess because I was
lookin' for somethin' new and excitin'. Well, I reckon they's plenty
new and excitin' right to home on the Concho. Any time I get tired of
fallin' off hosses, and gettin' beat up, and mixin' up in dog and wolf
fights, why, I can go to bustin' broncos to keep me from goin' to
sleep. Then Chance there, he needs lookin' after."
Corliss seemingly ignored the gentle hint. He mounted and called to
the dog. Chance made no movement to follow him. Corliss frowned.
"Here, Chance!" he commanded, slapping his thigh with his gauntleted
hand. The dog followed at the horse's heels as Corliss rode across the
hard-packed circle around the camp. Sundown's throat tightened. His
pal was gone.
He puttered about, straightening the blankets. "Gee Gosh! but this
here shack looks empty! Never knowed sick folks could be so much
comp'ny. And Chance is folks, all right. Talk about blue blood! Huh!
I reckon a thoroughbred dog is prouder than common folks, like me.
Some king, he was! Layin' there lookin' out at them punchers and his
eyes sad-like and proud, and turnin' his head slow, watchin' 'em like
they was workin' for him. They's somethin' about class that gets a
fella, even in a dog. And most folks knows it, but won't let on."
He took Chance's drinking-basin--a bread-pan appropriated from the
outfit--and the frayed saddle-blanket that had been the dog's bed, and
carried them to the cottonwoods edging the river. There he hid the
things. He returned to the lean-to and threw himself on his blankets.
He felt as though he had just buried a friend. A cowboy strolled up
and squatted in front of the lean-to. He gazed at the interior, nodded
to Sundown, and rolled a cigarette. He smoked for a while, glanced up
at the sky, peered round the camp, and shrugged his shoulders.
Sundown nodded. "You said it all, Joe. He's gone."
The cowboy blew rings of smoke, watching them spread and dissolve in
the evening air. "Had a hoss onct," he began slowly,--"ornery,
glass-eyed, she-colt that got mixed up in a bob-wire fence. Seein' as
she was like to make the buzzards happy 'most any day, I took to
nussin' her. Me, Joe Scott, eh? And a laugh comin'. Well, the boys
joshed--mebby you hearn some of 'em call me Doc. That's why. The boys
joshed and went around like they was in a horsepital, quiet and
steppin' catty. I could write a book out of them joshin's and sell
her, if I could write her with a brandin'-iron or a rope. Anyhow, the
colt she gets well and I turns her out on the range, which ought to be
the end of the story, but it ain't. She come nickerin' after me like I
was her man, hangin' around when I showed up at the ranch jest like I
was a millionaire and she wantin' to get married. Couldn't get shet of
her. So one day I ropes her and says to myself I'll make a trick hoss
of her and sell her. The fust trick she done wasn't the one I reckoned
to learn her. She lifted me one in the jeans and I like to lost all
the teeth in my head. 'You're welcome, lady,' says I, 'for this here
'fectionate token of thanks for my nussin' and gettin' joshed to
fare-ye-well. Bein' set on learnin' her, I shortened the rope and let
her kick a few holes in the climate. When she got tired of that, I
begins workin' on her head, easy-like and talkin' kind. Fust thing I
knowed she takes a san'wich out of my shirt, the meat part bein' a
piece of my hide. Then I got riled. I lit into her with the boots,
and we had it. When I got tired of exercisin' my feet, she comes to me
rubbin' her nose ag'in' me and kind of nickerin' and lovin' up
tremendous, bein' a she-hoss. 'Now,' says I, 'I'm goin' to do the
courtin', sister.' And I sot out to learn her to shake hands. She got
most as good as a state senator at it: purfessional-like, but not real
glad to see you. Jest put on. Then I learns her to nod yes. That was
hard. Then I gets her so she would lay down and stay till I told her
to get up. 'Course it takes time and I didn't have the time reg'lar.
I feeds her every time, though. Then she took to sleepin' ag'in' the
bunk-house every night, seein' as she run loose jest like a dog. When
somebody'd get up in the mornin', there she would be with her eyes
lookin' in the winder, shinin', and her ears lookin' in, too. You see
she was waitin' for her beau to come out, which was me. She took to
followin' me on the range when I rid out, and she got fat and sizable.
The boys give up joshin' and got kind of interested. But that ain't
what I'm gettin' at. Come one day, about two year after I'd been
monkeyin' with learnin' her her lessons, when I thinks to break her to
ride. I got shet of the idea of sellin' her and was goin' to keep her
myself. The boys was lookin' for to see me get piled, always figurin'
a pet hoss was worse to break than a bronc. She did some fussin', but
she never bucked--never pitched a move. Thinks I, I sure got a winner.
Next day she was gone. Never seen her after that. Trailed all over
the range, but she sure vamoosed. And nobody never seen her after
that. She sure made a dent in my feelin's."
Sundown sat up blinking. "I reckon that's the difference between a
hoss and a dog," he said, slowly. "Now, a hoss and me ain't what you'd
call a nacheral combination. And a hoss gets away and don't come back.
But a dog comes back every time, if he can. 'Most any hoss will stay
where the feedin' is good, but a dog won't. He wants to be where his
boss is."
"And that there Chance is with the boss," said the cowboy, gesturing
toward the north. "Seen him foller him down the trail."
Sundown nodded. The cowboy departed, swaggering away in the dusk.
Just before Sundown was called to take his turn with the night-shift, a
lean, brown shape tore through the camp, upsetting a pot of frijoles
and otherwise disturbing the peace and order of the culinary department.
"Coyote!" shouted Wingle, vainly reaching for the gun that he had given
to Sundown.
"Coyote nothin'!" said a puncher, laughing. "It's the Killer come back
hot-foot to find his pardner."
Chance bounded into the lean-to: it was empty. He sniffed at the place
where his bed had once been, found Sundown's tracks and followed them
toward the river. Sundown was on his knees pawing over something that
looked very much like a torn and frayed saddle-blanket. Chance
volleyed into him, biting playfully at his sleeve, and whining.
Sundown jumped to his feet. He stood speechless. Then a slow grin
crept to his face. "Gee Gosh!" he said, softly. "Gee Gosh! It's you!"
Chance lay down panting. He had come far and fast. Sundown gathered
up the blanket and pan, rose and marched to the shack. "I was airin'
'em out against your comin' back," he explained, untruthfully. The
fact was that he could not bear to see the empty bed in the lean-to and
had hidden it in the bushes.
The dog watched him spread the blanket, but would not lie down.
Instead he followed Sundown to the camp and found a place under the
chuck-wagon, where he watched his lean companion work over the fires
until midnight. If Sundown disappeared for a minute in search of
something. Chance was up and at his heels. Hi Wingle expressed
himself profanely in regard to the return of the dog, adding with
unction, "There's a pair of 'em; a pair of 'em." Which ambiguity
seemed to satisfy him immensely.
When Sundown finally returned to the lean-to, he was too happy to
sleep. He built a small fire, rolled a cigarette and sat gazing into
the flames. Chance sat beside him, proud, dignified, contented.
Sundown became drowsy and slept, his head fallen forward and his lean
arms crossed upon his knees. Chance waited patiently for him to waken.
Finally the dog nuzzled Sundown's arm with little jerks of impatience.
"What's bitin' you now?" mumbled Sundown. "We're here, ain't we?"
Nevertheless he slipped his arm around the dog's muscular shoulders and
talked to him. "How'd you get away? The boss'll raise peelin's over
this, Chance. It ain't like to set good with him." He noticed that
Chance frequently scratched at his collar as though it irritated him.
Finally he slipped his fingers under the collar. "Suthin' got ketched
in here," he said, unbuckling the strap. Tied inside the collar was a
folded piece of paper. Sundown was about to throw it away when he
reconsidered and unfolded it. In the flickering light of the fire he
spread the paper and read laboriously:--
"Chance followed me to the Concho because I made him come. He showed
that he didn't want to stay. I let him go. If he gets back to you,
keep him. He is yours.
"JOHN CORLISS."
Sundown folded the note and carefully tucked it in his pocket. He rose
and slapped his chest grandiloquently. "Chance, ole pal," he said with
a brave gesture, "you're mine! Got the dockyments to show. What do
you think?"
Chance, with mouth open and lolling tongue, seemed to be laughing.
Sundown reached out his long arm as one who greets a friend.
The dog extended his muscular fore leg and solemnly placed his paw in
Sundown's hand. No document was required to substantiate his
allegiance to his new master, nor his new master's title to ownership.
Despite genealogy, each was in his way a thoroughbred.