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Updated: May 19, 2025
Wingle, Bud Shoop, and several of the men were holding a heated conference with old man Loring when Sundown dashed into the Concho. Trembling with rage and fear he leaped from his horse. "They killed the boss!" he cried hoarsely. "Up there in the woods." "Killed who? Where? Slow down and talk easy! Who's killed?" volleyed the group. "Me boss! Up there on the trail with his head bashed in!
They carried him to the house. "Sun, you might stir around and rustle some grub. The boys will want to eat directly." And Corliss stepped to the water-trough, washed his hands, and then rolled a cigarette. Hi Wingle sat beside him as they waited for dinner. Suddenly Corliss turned to his cook. "I guess we've won out, Hi," he said. "Generally speakin' we sure have," said Wingle.
At last, he reflected, he had mastered the art of sitting a horse. He had already mastered the art of mounting and of descending under various conditions and at seemingly impossible angles. As Hi Wingle had once remarked Sundown was the most durable rider on the range. His length of limb had no apparent relation to his shortcomings as a vaquero. Curiosity, as well as pride, may precede a fall.
The band of riders opened up and the distant popping of Winchesters told him that the herders were endeavoring to check the rush of the thirst-maddened steers. The carcasses of sheep, trampled to pulp, lay scattered over the mesa. "It sure is hell!" remarked Wingle, riding up to Corliss. "Hell is correct," said Corliss, spurring forward.
Wingle smiled. "Pants? Think this here's a Jew clothin'-store?" "Nope. But if she was a horsepital now " "Been visitin'?" "Uhuh. I jest run over to see some friends of mine in a sheep-camp." "Did, eh? And mebby you can tell me what you run over?" "'Most everything out there," said Sundown, pointing to the mesa.
Circumstantial evidence rider and rope missing confirmed Hi Wingle's remark that "that there walkin' clothes-pin has probably roped somethin' at last." And the "walking clothes-pin's" condition when he appeared seemed to substantiate the cook's theory. "Lose your rope?" queried Wingle as Sundown limped up. "Uhuh. And that ain't all. You ain't got a pair of pants that ain't working have you?"
"Well, Fade's played his stack, and lost. Jack was sure in the game, but how far I dunno. Reckon that's got anything to do with stampedin' your sheep?" asked Wingle, turning to Loring. Loring's deep-set eyes flashed. "Fernando reported that a Concho rider done the job. He didn't say who done it." "Didn't, eh? And did Fernando say anything about doin' a job himself?" asked Shoop.
"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.
As the white dot took on a familiar outline and the eastern wall of the cañon of the Concho showed sharply against the sky, he saw a horseman, strangely doubled up in the saddle, riding across the mesa toward the ranch-house. Evidently he also was going to the Concho. Possibly it was Bud, or Hi Wingle, or Lone Johnny. Following an interval of attending strictly to the trail he raised his eyes.
The sixteen riders, including Corliss and Wingle, spread out and pushed the herd across the afternoon mesas. The day was hot and there was no water between the Knoll and Sundown's ranch. Corliss intended to hold the cattle when within a mile of the water-hole by milling them until daylight. When they got the smell of water, he knew that he would not be able to hold them longer, nor did he wish to.
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