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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!
You might get a pretty good mess of 'em, if you was to take your time. I never bother to look for 'em." Sundown gazed at his length of nether limb and sighed. "Snakes won't bother you none," said Wingle, reassuringly. "They get tired, same as anybody, and they'd have to climb too fur to see if you was to home." Sundown rose and saddled a horse.
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.
"Don't," said Corliss easily. The tension relaxed, and the men began joking and laughing. "Where's Sundown?" queried Corliss. Loring gestured toward the house. "I'll go," said Wingle. And he shouldered through the group of scowling herders and entered the house. Sundown, with hands tied, was sitting on the edge of his bed. "They roped me," he said lugubriously, "in me own house.
"Well, 'anyhow' is correc'. And, say, you want to see him first and tell him it's you. Your hoss is tied over there. Sinker fetched him in." "Hoss? Oh, yes, hoss! My hoss! Uhuh!" With this somewhat ambiguous string of ejaculations Sundown limped toward the pony. He turned when halfway there and called to Wingle.
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.
"And Jack ain't the worst . . ." Wingle spat and chewed ruminatively. "No, he ain't the worst," he asserted again. "I dunno what that's got to do with gettin' drug sixteen mile," said Sundown. "But, anyhow, you're right."
She had been his foster-mother in those years that he and his brother had known no other fostering hand than that of old Hi Wingle, the cook, whose efforts to "raise" the Corliss boys were more largely faithful than discriminating. Señora Loring knew at a glance that he was in trouble of some kind. She asked no questions, but held out her hands.
Hi Wingle, coming from the bunk-house, wiped his hands on his apron, rolled a cigarette, and squatted in the shade. From within came the clatter of knives and forks and the rattle of dishes. The riders of the Concho were about through dinner. Wingle, gazing down the road, suddenly cast his cigarette away and rose.
The road seemed empty save for a lean brown shape that raced toward the Concho with sweeping stride. "It's the dog. Wonder what's up now?" Chance, his muzzle specked with froth and his tongue lolling, swung into the yard and trotted to Wingle. "Boss git piled ag'in?" queried the cook, patting Chance's head. "What you scratchin' about?" The dog lay panting and occasionally pawing at his collar.
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