THE STRANGER
Sundown, maintaining a mysterious and unusual silence, prepared to
carry out his employer's plans. His preparations were not extensive.
First, he polished his silver spurs. Then he borrowed a coat from one
of the boys, brushed his Stetson, and with the business instinct of a
Hebrew 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 chaps
and would have gladly given them to Sundown. The latter's offer of
nine dollars, however, interested Wingle. He decided to have a bit of
fun with the tall one. He cared nothing for the money, but wondered
why 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 the
other's disappointment and determined to enhance the value of the chaps
by making them difficult to obtain, then give them to his assistant.
Wingle liked Sundown in a rough-shod way, though Sundown was a bit too
serious-minded to appreciate the fact.
The cook assumed the air of one gravely concerned about his friend's
mental balance. "Somethin' sure crawled into your roost, Sun, but if
you're goin' crazy I suppose a pair of chaps won't make no difference
either 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. I
know I ain't so durned smart as some."
"Say, you old fool, can't you take a fall to it that I'm joshin'? You
sure are the melancholiest stretch of bones and hide I ever seen.
Somehow you always make a fella come down to cases every time, with
that sad-lookin' mug of yourn. You sure would 'a' made a good
undertaker. I'll get them chaps."
And Wingle, fat, bald, and deliberate, chuckled as he dug among his
belongings and brought forth the coveted riding apparel. "Them chaps
has set on some good hosses, if I do say it," he remarked. "Take 'em
and keep your nine bucks for life insurance. You'll need it."
Sundown grinned like a boy. "Nope. A bargain's a bargain. Here's the
money. Mebby you could buy a fust-class cook-book with it and learn
somethin'."
"Learn somethin'! Why, you long-geared, double-jointed, glass-eyed,
hay-topped, star-smellin' st-st-steeple, you! Get out o' this afore I
break my neck tryin' to see your face! Set down so I can look you in
the eye!" And Wingle waved his stout arms and glowered in mock anger.
Sundown laid the money on the table. "Keep the change," he said mildly
with a twinkle in his eye.
He picked up the chaps and stalked from the bunk-house. Chance, who
had been an interested spectator of this lively exchange of compliment
and merchandise, followed his master to the stable where Sundown at
once put on the chaps and strutted for the dog's benefit, and his own.
By degrees he was assuming the characteristics of a genuine
cow-puncher. He would show the folks in Antelope what a rider for the
Concho looked like.
The following morning, much earlier than necessary, he mounted and rode
to the bunk-house, where Corliss gave him the letter and told him to
leave 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 far
behind him. Then he slouched in the saddle, gazing with a pleased
expression first at one leather-clad leg and then the other. For a
time the wide, free glory of the Arizona morning mesas was forgotten.
The shadow of his pony walked beside him as the low eastern sun burned
across the golden levels. Long silhouettes of fantastic buttes spread
across the plain. The sky was cloudless and the crisp thin air
foretold a hot noon. The gaunt rider's face beamed with an inner
light--the light of romance. What more could a man ask than a good
horse, a faithful and intelligent dog, a mission of trust, and sixty
undisturbed miles of wondrous upland o'er which to journey, fancy-free
and clad in cowboy garb? Nothing more--except--and Sundown realized
with a slight sensation of emptiness that he had forgotten to eat
breakfast. He had plenty to eat in his saddle-bags, but he put the
temptation to refresh himself aside as unworthy, for the nonce, of his
higher self. Naturally the pent-up flood of verse that had been
oppressing him of late surged up and filled his mind with vague and
poignant fancies. His love for animals, despite his headlong
experiences on the Concho, was unimpaired, so to speak. He patted the
neck of the rangy roan which he bestrode, and settled himself to the
serious task of expressing his inner-most being in verse. He dipped
deep into the Pierian springs, and poesy broke forth. But not,
however, until he had "cinched up," as he mentally termed it, the
saddle 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's
the durndest thing to put a finish on a piece of po'try! You get to
goin' 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 be
like. Fust thing you're stompin' around in your head upsettin' all
that you writ tryin' to rope somethin' to put on the tail-end of the
parade that'll show up strong. Kind o' like ropin' a steer. No
tellin' where that pome is goin' to land you."
Sundown was more than pleased with himself. He again recited the verse
as he plodded along, fixing it in his memory for the future edification
of his compatriots of the Concho.
"The best thing I ever writ!" he assured himself. "Fust thing I know
they'll be puttin' me in one of them doxologies for keeps. 'Sundown
Slim, The Poet of the Mesas!' Sounds good to me. Reckon that's why I
never seen a woman that I wanted to get married to. Writin' po'try
kind of detracted me mind from love. Guess I could love a woman if she
wouldn't laugh at me for bein' so dog-goned lengthy. She would have to
be a small one, though, so as she'd be kind o' scared o' me bein' so
big. Then mebby we could get along pretty good. 'Course, I wouldn't
like her to be scared all the time, but jest kind o' respectable-like
to me. Them's the best kind. Mebby I'll ketch one some day. Now
there goes that Chance after a rabbit ag'in. He's a long piece
off--jest can hardly see him except somethin' movin'. Well, if he
comes back as quick as he went, he'll be here soon." And Sundown
jogged along, spur-chains jingling a fairy tune to his oral soliloquies.
Aside from forgetting to have breakfast that morning, he had made a
pretty fair beginning. He was well on his way, had composed a
roan-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 the
abruptness of the thought. "Now I like hosses and dogs and folks, but
livin' with hosses and dogs ain't like livin' with folks. If hosses
and dogs take to you, they think you're the whole thing. But wimmen is
different. If they take to you--why, they think they're the whole
thing jest because they landed you. I dunno! Jest bein' good to folks
ain't everything, either. But bein' good to hosses and dogs is.
Funny. I dunno, though. You either got to understand 'em and be rough
to 'em, or be good to 'em and then they understand you. Guess they
ain't no regular guide-book on how to git along with wimmen. Well, I
never 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. But
followers of Romance must ever be minute-men, armed and equipped to
answer her call with instant readiness and grace. Lacking, perhaps,
the grace, nevertheless Sundown was loyal to his sovereign mistress, in
proof of which he again sat straight in the saddle, stirred to speech
by hidden voices. "Now, take it like I was wearin' a hard-boiled hat
and a collar and buttin shoes, like the rest of them sports. Why, that
wouldn't ketch the eye of some likely-lookin' lady wantin' to get
married. Nix! When I hit town it's me for the big smoke and me
picture on the front page, standin' with me faithful dog and a lot of
them fat little babies without any clothes on, but wings, flyin' around
the edge of me picture and down by me boots and up around me hat--and
in big letters she'll say: 'Romance of A Cowboy. Western Cattle King
in Search for his Long-lost Sweetheart. Sundown, once one of our
Leading Hoboes, now a Wealthy Rancher, visits the Metrokolis on
Mysterious Errand.' Huh! I guess mebby that wouldn't ketch a good
one, 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, and
was to get stuck on me shape and these here chaps and spurs, reckon I
could tell her that the papers made the big mistake, and that me
Mexican wife does the cookin' with a bread-knife in her boot-leg, and
that 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 get
sent down for breakin' the wimmen's hearts, so I got to be durned
careful."
So immersed was he in his imaginings that he did not at once realize
that his horse had stopped and was leisurely grazing at the edge of the
trail. Chance, who had been running ahead, swung back in a wide circle
and barked impatiently. Sundown awakened to himself. "Here, you red
hoss, this ain't no pie-contest. We got to hit the water-hole afore
dark." Once more in motion, he reverted to his old theme, but with
finality in his tone. "I guess mebby I can't tell them reporters
somethin' about me hotel out here on the desert! 'The only prevailable
road-house between Antelope and the Concho, run by the retired
cattle-king, Sundown Slim.' Sounds good to me. Mebby I could work up
a trade by advertisin' to some of them Eastern folks that eats nothin'
tougher for breakfast than them quakin'-oats and buns and coffee. Get
along, 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 the
night. Returning, he prepared a meal and ate heartily. Just as the
light 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 tread
of a horse plodding through the sand. He swung open the door and stood
peering into the dusk. He saw a horseman dismount and enter the
gateway. 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 mebby
it was Jack's dog."
"Goin' to stop?" queried Sundown as the other advanced, leading his
horse.
"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 studied
Sundown's face covertly in the glow of the match. In the flare Sundown
beheld a thick-set, rather short-necked man, smooth-shaven, and of a
ruddy countenance. He also noticed that the stranger wore a coat, and
at 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, whined
and leaped up at Sundown, standing with paws on his master's chest and
vainly endeavoring to tell him something. The dog's eyes were eloquent
and 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 settled
himself with a lugubrious sigh, as though unwillingly relinquishing his
responsibilities 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 glow
that 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 well
myself. Guess I'll eat.--That coffee of yours was good, all right," he
said as he finished eating. He reached for the coffee-pot and tipped
it. "She's plumb empty."
"I'll fill her," volunteered Sundown, obligingly.
As he disappeared in the darkness, the stranger stepped to the rear
door of the room and opened it. Then he closed the door and stooping
laid his saddle and blankets against it. "He can't make a break that
way," he said to himself. As Sundown came in, the man noticed that the
front door creaked shrilly when opened or closed and seemed pleased
with the fact. "Too bad about Fadeaway," he said, helping himself to
more coffee. "Wonder who got him?"
"I dunno. I found me boss with his head busted the same day they got
Fade."
"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' around
bothering 'em. It's a long way from home as the song goes. Lend me
your gun and I'll go see if I can plug one of 'em and stop their
yipping."
Sundown presented his gun to the stranger, who slid it between trousers
and shirt at the waist-band. "Don't hear 'em now," he announced
finally. "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 his
blankets and called Chance to him. The dog curled at his master's
feet. Save for the diminishing crackle of dry brush in the stove, the
room was still. Evidently the ruddy-faced individual was asleep.
Vaguely troubled by the stranger's failure to return his gun, Sundown
drifted to sleep, not for an instant suspecting that he was virtually
the prisoner of the sheriff of Apache County, who had at Loring's
instigation determined to arrest the erstwhile tramp for the murder of
Fadeaway. The sheriff had his own theory as to the killing and his
theory did not for a moment include Sundown as a possible suspect, but
he had a good, though unadvertised, reason for holding him. Accustomed
to dealing with frontier folk, he argued that Sundown's imprisonment
would eventually bring to light evidence leading to the identity of the
murderer. It was a game of bluff, and at such a game he played a
master hand.
The stranger seemed unusually affable in the morning. He made the
fire, and, before Sundown had finished eating, had the two ponies
saddled and ready for the road. Sundown thought him a little too
agreeable. He was even more perplexed when the man said that he had
changed his mind and would ride to Antelope with him. "Thought you
said 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 along
pointing out landmarks and discoursing largely upon the weather, the
feed, and price of hay and grain and a hundred topics associated with
ranch-life. Sundown, forgetful of his pose as a vaquero of long
standing (unintentional), assumed rather the attitude of one absorbing
information on such topics than disseminating it. Nor did he
understand the stranger's genial invitation to have supper with him at
Antelope that night, as they rode into the town. He knew, however,
that he was creating a sensation, which he attributed to his Mexican
spurs and chaps. People stared at him as he stalked down the street
and turned to stare again. His companion seemed very well known in
Antelope. Nearly every one spoke to him or waved a greeting. Yet
there was something peculiar in their attitudes. There was an
aloofness about them that was puzzling.
"He sure looks like the bad man from Coyote Gulch," remarked one who
stood 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 he
was not altogether happy. He did not object to being classed as a bad
man 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's
companion unlocked the door. "Come on in," he said. "We'll have a
smoke 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 that
began to see the drift of things. "You ain't a cop, be you?" he asked
timorously.
"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 drop
back in your chair and tell me what you know about the shooting of
Fadeaway."
"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'm
goin' on privut business for me boss and confidenshell. Me and Chance."
"That's all right, my friend. But I have some private and confidential
business that can't wait."
"But I ain't done nothin'," whined Sundown, lapsing into his old
attitude toward the law.
"Maybe not. Mr. Loring telephoned me that Fadeaway had been shot and
that a man answering your description--a tramp, he said--seemed to know
something about it. You never was a puncher. You don't get on or off
a cayuse like one. From what I learn you were a Hobo when Jack Corliss
gave you a job. That's none of my business. I arrest you as a
suspicious character, and I guess I'll have to keep you here till I
find out more about Fadeaway's case. Have a cigar?"
"Huh! Say, don't you ever get mad?" queried Sundown, impressed by the
other's most genial attitude.
The sheriff laughed. "Doesn't pay in my business. Now, you just ease
up and tell me what you know. It will save time. Did you ever have
trouble 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. Did
he say I done it?" parried Sundown.
The sheriff's opinion of Sundown's acumen was disturbed. Evidently
this 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 kind
o' tracked back there from the place where we found Fadeaway."
"That so?"
"Uhuh. It was like this." And Sundown gave a detailed account of his
explorations.
When he had finished, the sheriff made a note on the edge of a
newspaper. Then he turned to Sundown. "You're either the deepest hand
I've tackled yet, or you're just a plain fool. You don't act like a
killer."
"Killer! Say, mister, I wouldn't kill a bug that was bitin' me 'less'n
he wouldn't let go. Why, ask Chance there!"
"I wish that dog could talk," said the sheriff, smiling. "Did you know
that old Fernando had left the country--crossed the line into New
Mexico?"
"What? Him?"
"Yes. I know about where he is."
"Guess his boss fired him for lettin' all the sheep get killed. Guess
he 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'd
be ridin' to Antelope if I done anything like shoot a man? Do you
think I'd hand you me gun without sayin' a word? And if you think I
didn't shoot Fadeaway, what in hell you pinchin' me for? Ain't a guy
got 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 with
you cops. If a fella is a Bo, he gets pinched, anyhow. If he quits
bein' a Bo and goes to workin' at somethin', then he gets pinched for
havin' been a Bo onct. I been livin' honest and peaceful-like and
straight--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 up
comfortable in here." And the sheriff unlocked the door leading to the
one-room jail. "I'll talk it over with you in the morning. The wife
and kid will sure be surprised to see me back, so I'll mosey down home
before 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!"