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"If you're tryin' to hang this onto any of my herders, you're ridin' on the wrong side of the river. I reckon you won't have to look far for the gun that got him." And Loring gestured toward the body. Hi Wingle stooped and pulled Fadeaway's gun from its holster. He spun the cylinder, swung it out, and invited general inspection. "Fade never had a chance," he said, lowering the gun.
You're tryin' to hang this onto me or mine. You're wrong. You're forgettin' they's five hundred of my sheep at the bottom of the Concho Cañon, I guess. They didn't get there by themselves. Fadeaway's got his, which was comin' to him this long time. That's nothin' to me. What I want to see is Jack Corliss's gun." Bud Shoop stepped into the ranch-house and presently returned with the Coitus.
The cowboy turned and saw a herder running toward him. He reined around and sat waiting grimly. When the herder was within speaking distance. Fadeaway's hand dropped to his hip and the herder stopped. He gesticulated and spoke rapidly in Spanish. Fadeaway answered, but in a kind of Spanish not taught in schools or heard in indoor conversation. The herder pressed forward. "Why, how! Fernando.
Now what's bitin' you?" "The sheep! He kill the lamb!" cried the herder. Fadeaway laughed. "Did, eh? Well, I tried to call him off. Reckon you heard me whistle him, didn't you?" The cowboy's assertion was so palpably an insult that old Fernando's anger overcame his caution. He stepped forward threateningly. Fadeaway's gun was out and a splash of dust leaped up at Fernando's feet.
"Well, he's your dog. Go ahead if you like. Mebby Chance struck a scent." "Coyote or lion," said Wingle. "They ain't no trail down them rocks." Sundown, following Chance, disappeared in the cañon. The men covered Fadeaway's body with a slicker and weighted it with stones. Then they sent a puncher to Antelope to notify the sheriff.
Corliss was about to retort to the other's apparently good-natured interference with his right to free speech, when he caught Fadeaway's glance. "Well?" he exclaimed. The cowboy evidently had something to say in confidence. Corliss followed him to one of the tables. "It's this way," began the cowboy. "You're sore at Jack.
He let his quirt slip butt-first through his hand and grasped the lash. Fadeaway's hand slipped to his holster. Before he could pull his gun, Corliss swung the quirt. The blow caught Fadeaway just below the brim of his hat. He wavered and grabbed at the saddle-horn. As Corliss again swung his quirt, the cowboy jerked out his gun and brought it down on the rancher's head.
Bud Shoop had served him well and faithfully, tiding over many a threatened quarrel among the men by a humorous suggestion or a seemingly impersonal anecdote anent disputes in general. So Corliss waited, meanwhile inspecting the ponies in the corral. He noticed a pinto with a saddle-gall and told Shoop to turn the horse out on the range. "It's one of Fadeaway's string," said Shoop. "I know it.
Then I got to fan it." "Where are you going?" "Me? Over to the Blue. Got a job waitin' for me." Corliss's fingers worked nervously. "When did you say the Concho paid off?" he queried, avoiding the other's eye. Fadeaway's face expressed surprise. "The Concho? Why, next Monday. Why?" "Oh nothing. I was just wondering . . ." "Want to send any word to Jack?" asked the cowboy. "No, I don't.
He was keyed to the strenuous task by that spurious by-product of anticipation frequently termed a "hunch." When the dog at last reached the edge of the timber and dashed into Fernando's deserted camp, Sundown was puzzled until he happened to recall the incidents leading to Fadeaway's discharge from the Concho. He reclined beneath a tree familiar to him as a former basis for recuperation.
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