WAIT!
To see a man's life go out and to stand by unable to help, unable to
offer comfort or ease mortal agony, is a bitter experience. It brings
the beholder close to the abyss of eternity, wherein the world shrinks
to a speck of whirling dust and the sun is but a needle-point of light.
Then it is that the fleshless face of the unconquerable One leans close
and whispers, not to the insensate clay that mocks the living, but to
the impotent soul that mourns the dead.
That Sundown should consider himself morally bound to become one of
those who he knew would avenge the killing of the cowboy, and without
recourse to law, was not altogether strange. The iron had entered his
soul. Heretofore at loose ends with the world, the finding of Sinker,
dying on the mesas, kindled within him righteous wrath against the
circumstance rather than the individual slayer. His meandering
thoughts and emotions became crystallized. His energies hardened to a
set purpose. He was obsessed with a fanaticism akin to that of those
who had burned witches and thanked their Maker for the opportunity.
In his simple way he wondered why he had not wept. He rode slowly to
the Concho. Chance leaped circling about his horse. He greeted the
dog with a word. When he dismounted, Chance cringed and crept to him.
Without question this was his master, and yet there was something in
Sundown's attitude that silenced the dog's joyous welcoming. Chance
sat on his haunches, whined, and did his best by his own attitude to
show that he was in sympathy with his master's strange mood.
John Corliss saw instantly that there was something wrong, and his
hearty greeting lapsed into terse questioning. Sundown pointed toward
the northern mesas.
"What's up?" he queried.
"Sinker--he's dead--over there."
"Sinker?" Corliss ran to the corral, calling to Wingle, who came from
the bunk-house. The cook whisked off his apron, grabbed his hat, and
followed Corliss. "Sinker's done for!" said Corliss. "Saddle up, Hi.
Sun found him out there. Must have had trouble at the water-hole. I
should have sent another man with him."
Wingle, with the taciturnity of the plainsman, jerked the cinchas tight
and swung to the saddle. Sinker's death had come like a white-hot
flash of lightning from the bulked clouds that had shadowed disaster
impending--and in that shadow the three men rode silently toward the
north. Again Corliss questioned Sundown. Tense with the stress of an
emotion that all but sealed his lips, Sundown turned his white face to
Corliss and whispered, "Wait!" The rancher felt that that one terse,
whispered word implied more than he cared to imagine. There was
something uncanny about the man. If the killing of Sinker could so
change the timorous, kindly Sundown to this grim, unbending epitome of
lean death and vengeance, what could he himself do to check the wild
fury of his riders when they heard of their companion's passing from
the sun?
Sinker's horse, grazing, lifted its head and nickered as they rode up.
They dismounted and turned the body over. Wingle, kneeling, examined
the cowboy's six-gun.
Corliss, in a burst of wrath, turned on Sundown. "Damn you, open your
mouth. What do you know about this?"
Sundown bit his nails and glowered at Corliss. "God A'mighty sent
me--" he began.
With a swift gesture Corliss interrupted. "You're working for the
Concho. Was he dead when you found him?"
Sundown slowly raised his arm and pointed across the mesa.
Corliss fingered his belt and bit his lip impatiently.
"A herder--over there to my ranch--done it. Sinker told me--'fore he
crossed over. Said it was 'Sandro. Said he had orders not to shoot.
He tried to bluff 'em off, for they was bringin' sheep to the
water-hole. He said to tell you."
Corliss and Wingle turned from looking at Sundown and gazed at each
other. "If that's right--" And the rancher hesitated.
"I reckon it's right," said Wingle. And he stooped and together they
lifted the body and laid it across the cowboy's horse.
Sundown watched them with burning eyes. "We'll ride back home," said
Corliss, motioning to him.
"Home? Ain't you goin' to do nothin'?"
Corliss shook his head. Sundown slowly mounted and followed them to
the Concho. He watched them as they carried Sinker to the bunkhouse.
When Corliss reappeared, Sundown strode up to him. "This here hoss
belongs to that leetle Mexican on the Apache road, Chico Miguel--said
you knowed him. I was goin' to take him back with my hoss. Now I
reckon I can't. I kind o' liked it over there to his place. I guess I
want my own hoss, Pill."
"I guess you better get something to eat and rest up. You're in bad
shape, Sun."
Sundown shook his head. "I got somethin' to do--after that mebby I can
rest up. Can I have me hoss?"
"Yes, if it'll do you any good. What are you going to do?"
"I got me homesteader papers. I'm goin' to me ranch."
"But you're not outfitted. There's no grub there. You better take it
easy. You'll feel better to-morrow."
"I don't need no outfit. I reckon I'll saddle Pill."
Sundown turned the Mexican's pony into the corral and saddled his own
horse which he led to the bunk-house. "I ain't got no gun," he said.
"The sheriff gent's got mine. Mebby you'd be lendin' me one?"
Wingle stepped to the doorway and stood beside Corliss. "What does he
want, Jack?"
"He's loco. Wants to borrow a gun." The rancher turned to Sundown.
"See here, Sun, there's no use thinking you've got to take a hand in
this. Some of the boys'll get the Mexican sure! I can't stop them,
but I don't want you to get in trouble."
"No. You come on in and eat," said Wingle. "You got a touch of sun, I
guess."
Sundown mounted. "Ain't you goin' to do nothin'?" he asked again.
Corliss and Wingle glanced at each other. "No, not now."
"Then me and Chance is," said Sundown. "Come on, Chance."
Corliss and the cook watched the tall figure as it passed through the
gateway and out to the mesa. "I'll go head him off, if you say the
word, Jack."
Corliss made a negative gesture. "He'll come back when he gets hungry.
It's a long ride to the water-hole. Sinker had sand to get as near
home as he did. It's going to be straight hell from now on, Hi."
Wingle nodded. Through force of habit he reached for his apron to wipe
his hand--his invariable preliminary before he shook hands with any
one. His apron being off, he hesitated, then stepped to his employer.
"It sure is," he said, "and I'm ridin' with you."
They shook hands. Moved by a mutual impulse they glanced at the long,
rigid shape covered with a blanket. "When the boys come--" began
Wingle.
"It will be out of our hands," concluded Corliss.
"If Sun--"
"I ought to ride out after him," said Corliss, nodding. "But I can't
leave. And you can't."
Wingle stepped to the doorway and shaded his eyes. Far out on the mesa
the diminishing figure of a horseman showed black against the glare of
the sun. Wingle turned and, with a glance at the shrouded figure on
the bunk-house floor, donned his apron and shuffled to the kitchen.
Corliss tied his horse and strode to the office.
Hi Wingle puttered about the kitchen. There would be supper to get for
fifteen hungry--No! fourteen, to-night. He paused, set down the pan
that he held and opened the door of the chuck-room. With finger
marking the count he totaled the number of chairs at the table.
Fifteen. Then he stepped softly to the bunk-room, took Sinker's hat
and stepped back to the table. He placed the hat on the dead cowboy's
chair. Then he closed the door and turned to the preparation of the
evening meal. "Jack'll report to Antelope and try and keep the boys
quiet. I'm sure with Jack--only I was a puncher first afore I took to
cookin'. And I'm a puncher yet--inside." Which was his singular and
only spoken tribute to the memory of Sinker. He had reasoned that it
was only right and fitting that the slayer of a cowman should be slain
by a cowman--a code that held good in his time and would hold good
now--especially when the boys saw the battered Stetson, every line of
which was mutely eloquent of its owner's individuality.
Sundown drifted through the afternoon solitudes, his mind dulled by the
monotony of the theme which obsessed him. It was evening when he
reached the water-hole. Around the enclosure straggled a few stray
sheep. He cautioned Chance against molesting them. Ordinarily he
would have approached the ranch-house timidly, but he was beyond fear.
He rode to the gate, tied his horse, and stepped to the doorway. The
door was open. He entered and struck a match. In the dusk he saw that
the room was empty save for a tarpaulin and a pair of rawhide kyacks
such as the herders use. Examining the kyacks he found that they
contained flour, beans, salt, sugar, and coffee. Evidently the herders
had intended making the deserted ranch-house their headquarters. He
wondered vaguely where the Mexicans were. The thought that they might
return did not worry him. He knew what he would do in that instance.
He would find out which one was 'Sandro . . . and then . . .
The bleating of the stray sheep annoyed him. He told Chance to stay in
the room. Then he stalked out and opened the gate. "Mebby they want
water. I dunno. Them's Loring's sheep, all right, but they ain't to
blame for--for Sinker." With the idea came a more reasonable mood.
The sheep were not to blame for the killing of Sinker. The sheep
belonged to Loring. The herders, also, practically belonged to Loring.
They were only following his bidding when they protected the sheep.
With such reasoning he finally concluded that Loring, not his herder,
was responsible for the cowboy's death. He returned to the house,
built a fire, and cooked an indifferent meal.
Sundown sat up suddenly. In the dim light of the moon flickering
through the dusty panes he saw Chance standing close to the door with
neck bristling and head lowered. Throwing back his blanket he rose and
whispered to the dog. Chance came to him obediently. Sundown saw that
the dog was trembling. He motioned him back and stepped to the door.
His slumbers had served to restore him to himself in a measure. His
old timidity became manifest as he hesitated, listening. In the
absolute silence of the night he thought he heard a shuffling as of
something being dragged across the enclosure. Tense with anticipating
he knew not what, he listened. Again he heard that peculiar slithering
sound. He opened the door an inch and peered out. In the pallid glow
of the moon he beheld a shapeless object that seemed to be crawling
toward him. Something in the helpless attitude of the object suggested
Sinker as he had risen on his arm, endeavoring to tell of the disaster
which had overtaken him. With a gesture of scorn at his own fear he
swung open the door. Chance crept at his heels, whining. Then Sundown
stepped out and stood gazing at the strange figure on the ground. Not
until a groan of agony broke the utter silence did he realize that the
night had brought to him a man, wounded and suffering terribly. "Who
are you?" he questioned, stooping above the man. The other dragged
himself to Sundown's feet and clawed at his knees. "'Sandro . . . It
is--that I--die. You don' keel . . . You don' . . ."
Sundown dragged the herder to the house and into the bedroom. He got
water, for which the herder called piteously. With his own blanket he
made him as comfortable as he could. Then he built a fire that he
might have light. The herder was shot through the thigh, and had all
but bled to death dragging himself across the mesa from where he had
fallen from his horse. Sundown tried to stop the bleeding with strips
torn from his bandanna. Meanwhile the wounded man was imploring him
not to kill him.
"I'm doin' me best to fix you up, Dago," said Sundown. "But you better
go ahead and say them prayers--and you might put in a couple for Sinker
what you shot. I reckon his slug cut the big vein and you got to go.
Wisht I could do somethin' . . . to help . . . you stay . . . but mebby
it's better that you cross over easy. Then the boys don't get you."
The Mexican seemed to understand. He nodded as he lay gazing at the
lean figure illumined by the dancing light of the open stove. "Si.
You good hombre, si," he gasped.
Sundown frowned. "Now, don't you take any idea like that along to
glory with you. Sinker--what you shot--was me friend. I ought to kill
you like a snake. But God A'mighty took the job off me hands. I
reckon that makes me square with--with Sinker--and Him."
Again Sundown brought water to the herder. Gently he raised his head
and held the cup to his lips. Chance stood in the middle of the room
strangely subdued, yet he watched each movement of his master with
alert eyes. The moonlight faded from the window and the fire died
down. The air became chill as the faint light of dawn crept in to
emphasize the ghastly picture--the barren, rough-boarded room, the
rusted stove, the towering figure of Sundown, impassively waiting; and
the shattered, shrunken figure of the Mexican, hopeless and helpless,
as the morning mesas welcomed the golden glow of dawn and a new day.
The herder, despite his apparent torpor, was the first to hear the
faint thud of hoofs in the loose sand of the roadway. He grew
instantly alert, raising himself on his elbow and gazing with fear-wide
eyes toward the south.
Sundown nodded. "It's the boys," he said, as though speaking to
himself. "I was hopin' he could die easy. I dunno."
'Sandro raised his hands and implored Sundown to save him from the
riders. Sundown stepped to the window. He saw the flash of spurs and
bits as a group of the Concho boys swept down the road. One of them
was leading a riderless horse. In a flash he realized that they had
found the herder's horse and had tracked 'Sandro to the water-hole. He
backed away from the window and reaching down took the Mexican's gun
from its holster. "'T ain't what I figured on," he muttered. "They's
me friends, but this is me ranch."
With a rush and a slither of hoofs in the loose sand the Concho riders,
headed by Shoop, swung up to the gate and dismounted. Sundown stepped
to the doorway, Chance beside him.
Shoop glanced quickly at the silent figure. Then his gaze drifted to
the ground.
"'Mornin', Sun! Seen anybody 'round here this mornin'?"
"Mornin', fellas. Nope. Just me and Chance."
The men hesitated, eyeing Sundown suspiciously.
Corliss stepped toward the ranch-house.
"Guess we'll look in," he said, and stepped past Shoop.
Sundown had closed the door of the bedroom. He was at a loss to
prevent the men entering the house, but once within the house he
determined that they should not enter the bedroom.
He backed toward it and stood with one shoulder against the lintel.
"Come right in. I ain't got to housekeepin' yet, but . . ."
He ceased speaking as he saw Corliss's gaze fixed on the kyacks.
"Where did you get 'em?" queried the rancher.
The men crowded in and gazed curiously at the kyacks--then at Sundown.
Shoop strode forward. "The game's up, Sun. We want the Mexican."
"This is me ranch," said Sundown. "I got the papers--here. You fellas
is sure welcome--only they ain't goin' to be no shootin' or such-like.
I ain't joshin' this time."
A voice broke the succeeding silence. "If the Mexican is in there, we
want him--that's all."
Sundown's eyes became bright with a peculiar expression. Slowly--yet
before any one could realize his intent--he reached down and drew the
Mexican's gun. "You're me friends," he said quietly. "He's in
there--dyin'. I reckon Sinker got him. He drug himself here last
night and I took him in. This is me home--and if you fellas is _men_,
you'll let him die easy and quiet."
"I'm from Missouri," said Shoop, with a hard laugh. "You got to show
me that he's--like you say, or--"
Sundown leveled his gun at Shoop. "I ain't lyin' to you, Bud. Sinker
was me friend. And I ain't lyin' when I says that the fust fella that
tries to tech him crosses over afore he does."
Some one laughed. Corliss touched Shoop's arm and whispered to him.
With a curse the foreman turned and the men clumped out to the yard.
"He's right," said Corliss. "We'll wait."
They stood around talking and commenting upon Sundown's defense of the
Mexican.
"'Course we could 'a' got him," said Shoop, "but it don't set right
with me to be stood up by a tenderfoot. Sundown's sure loco."
"I don't know, Bud. He's queer, all right, but this is his ranch.
He's got a right to order us out."
Shoop was about to retort when Sundown came to the doorway. "I guess
you can come in now," he said. "And you won't need no gun." The men
shuffled awkwardly, and finally led by Corliss they filed into the room
and one by one they stepped to the open door of the bedroom and gazed
within. Then they filed out silently.
"I'll send over some grub," said Corliss as they mounted. Sundown
nodded.
The band of riders moved slowly back toward the Concho. About halfway
on their homeward journey they met Loring in a buckboard. The old
sheep-man drove up and would have passed them without speaking had not
Corliss reined across the road and halted him.
"One of your herders--'Sandro--is over at the water-hole," said
Corliss. "If you're headed for Antelope, you might stop by and take
him along."
Loring glared at the Concho riders, seemed about to speak, but instead
clucked to his team. The riders reined out of his way and he swept
past, gazing straight ahead, grim, silent, and utterly without fear.
He understood the rancher's brief statement, and he already knew of the
killing of Sinker. 'Sandro's assistant, becoming frightened, had left
his wounded companion on the mesas, and had ridden to the Loring rancho
with the story of the fight and its ending.