Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: April 30, 2025
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."
Sundown's tone suggested action. "Here, Chance, you fan it for the Concho Jack the boss. Beat it for all you're worth. The Concho! Sabe?" And he patted the dog's head and pointed toward the south. Chance hesitated, leaping up and whining. "That's all right, pardner. They ain't nothin' goin' to happen to me. You go!" Chance trotted off a few yards and then turned his head inquiringly.
The great, gaunt body of the dog raised itself on trembling legs, the pride of the conqueror lighting for a moment his dimming eyes. "It's me, Chance!" said Sundown, stroking the dog's head. Chance wagged his tail and reaching up his torn and bleeding muzzle licked Sundown's hand. Then slowly he sank to the ground, breathed heavily, and rolled to his side.
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.
One morning, about a week after Sundown's return to his duties as assistant, while Wingle was drying his hands, preparatory to reading a few pages of his favorite novel, Sundown ambled into camp with an armful of greasewood, dumped it near the wagon, and, straightening up, rolled a cigarette. Wingle, immersed in the novel, read for a while and then glanced up questioningly.
Sundown's flush was inexplicable to Margery, but Corliss understood. He had ridden the trail toward the fork one night. . . . But that was past, atoned for. . . . He would live that down. "It's a purty view, over there," said Sundown gently. And the two men felt that that which was not forgotten was at least forgiven would never again be mentioned.
"I don't know," he said, as if in answer to a silent questioning. Then he told Shoop to look for tracks. "The rain's fixed the tracks," said Shoop, turning in the doorway. "But it ain't drowned out my guess on this proposition." "Well, keep guessing, Bud, till I talk to Sundown." And Corliss walked slowly to the bunkhouse. He sat on the edge of the bunk and laid his hand on Sundown's sleeve.
The Mexican who had maltreated the cow mistook Sundown's gesture for intent to kill. The herder's gun whipped up. Sundown grabbed a chair that stood tilted against the house and swung it. The Mexican went down. With the accidental explosion of the gun, Mebby-So grunted, put his hand to his side, and toppled from the saddle. Corliss wheeled his horse. "Don't shoot, boys!" he shouted.
Corliss and Shoop stamped in, breathing hard. "What's up?" questioned Corliss. "They they got the money," muttered Sundown, pointing toward the office. "Who? See what's up, Bud." Shoop swung out and across the enclosure. Corliss stooped over Sundown. "What's wrong, Sun? Why, Great God, you're hurt!" The rancher brought water and bathed Sundown's head. "Who did it?" he questioned. "I dunno, boss.
"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.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking