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Updated: April 30, 2025
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?
He told me that he used to have a pal named Will Corliss " "And Sundown's at the Concho! I never told him where I lived." "He came into Antelope on a freight. Got side-tracked and had to stay. He didn't know this used to be your country till I told him." "Well, that beats me, Jack! Say, Sun was just an uncle to me when we were on the road.
"Bud told me about yesterday," he began, anticipating Sundown's leisurely and erratic recital. "I understand you found me on the trail and went for help." "Yes. I thought you was needin' some about then." "How did you come to find me?" "Got lost. Hoss he took me there." "Did you see any one on the trail?" "Nope." "Hear any shooting?" "Nope. But I seen some turkeys."
Two young and sprightly black pigs prospected the confines of their littered hermitage. Four gaunt hens and a more or less dilapidated rooster stalked about the yard, no longer afraid of the watchful Chance, who had previously introduced himself to the rooster without the formality of Sundown's presence as mediator. Sundown was proud of his chickens.
Gee Gosh!" The creak of the saddle, the tinkle of his spurs, the springy stride of the horse furnished a truly pastoral accompaniment to Sundown's "romantics." As he rode down a draw, he came suddenly upon two coyotes playing like puppies in the sun. He reined up and watched them, and his heart warmed to their antics.
In any event, he leaped playfully against Sundown's chest and stood with his paws on the tramp's shoulders. Sundown shrunk back against the corral bars. "Go to it," he said, trying to cover his fear with a jest, "if you like bones." From behind him came a rush of feet. "Great Scott!" exclaimed Shoop. "Come 'ere, Chance. I sure didn't know he was loose."
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.
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.
Fernando and his assistant were herding the sheep closer, and despite their activity were really getting the frightened animals bunched well. When she turned again Sundown had disappeared. Sundown's arrival in camp, on foot, was not altogether unexpected. One of the men had seen a riderless horse grazing on the mesa, and had ridden out and caught it.
Slim-like, with blue eyes and kind o' bright, wavy-like hair. He never said nothin' about his folks. He was a awful quiet kid." John Corliss studied Sundown's face. "You say he was killed in a wreck?" "I ain't sure. But I reckon he was. It was a bad one. He was ridin' a empty, just ahead of me. Then the whole train buckled up and somethin' hit me on the lid. That's all I remember, till after."
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