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Updated: May 19, 2025
Shoop's gun jumped from its holster and covered the sheep-man. "If one of your lousy herders done this, he'll graze clost to hell to-night with the rest of your dam' sheep!" he cried. "Easy, Bud!" cautioned Wingle. "The boss ain't passed over yet. Bill, you help Sinker here get the boss back home. The rest of you boys hit the trail for the Blue. Fadeaway is like to be up in that country."
Shoop and Hi Wingle spurred ahead while the others questioned Sundown, following easily. When they arrived at the scene of the fight, Corliss was sitting propped against a tree with Shoop and Wangle on either side of him. Corliss stared stupidly at the men. "Who done it?" asked Wingle. "Fadeaway," murmured the rancher. Loring, in the rear of the group, laughed ironically.
Corliss glanced toward the corral, half expecting to see Sundown's horse. Then he stepped to the men's quarters. He greeted Wingle, asking him if Sundown had returned. "No. Thought he went east." "Chance came back, alone." And Corliss and the cook eyed each other simultaneously and nodded. "Loring," said Wingle. "Guess you're right, Hi."
Wingle, with the taciturnity of the plainsman, jerked the cinchas tight and swung to the saddle. Sinker's death had come like a white-hot flash of lightning from the bulked clouds that had shadowed disaster impending and in that shadow the three men rode silently toward the north. Again Corliss questioned Sundown.
The men gazed at each other, nodded, and the words "Loring" and "sheep," punctuated their mutterings. Shoop and Corliss talked together. Then the foreman called to Hi Wingle, asking him how the "chuck" was holding out. "Runnin' short on flour and beans, Bud. Corliss and his foreman came to the fire. "Boss says we're goin' to bush here the rest of this week," and Corliss nodded.
"He's the most durable rider on the range," remarked Hi Wingle, incident to one of his late assistant's meteoric departures from the saddle. "He wears good." One morning as Sundown was jogging along, engaged chiefly in watching his shadow bob up and down across the wavering bunch-grass, he saw that which appeared to be the back of a cow just over a rise.
Wingle had seen many tall men, but never such an elongated individual as his assistant. It became the habit of one or another of the boys to ask the cook the way to the distant Concho, usually after the evening meal, when they were loafing by the camp-fire. Wingle would thereupon scratch his head and assume an air of intense concentration.
Out on the mesa they turned and threw lead at the Concho riders, who retreated to the cover of the house. Corliss caught up a herder's horse and rode around to them. Shorty, one of his men, grinned, fell to coughing, and sank forward on his horse. "Loring's down," said Wingle, solemnly reloading his gun. "Think they got enough, Jack?" "Loring, eh? Well, I know who got him. Yes, they got enough."
Corliss and Wingle glanced at each other. "No, not now." "Then me and Chance is," said Sundown. "Come on, Chance." Corliss and the cook watched the tall figure as it passed through the gateway and out to the mesa. "I'll go head him off, if you say the word, Jack." Corliss made a negative gesture. "He'll come back when he gets hungry. It's a long ride to the water-hole.
"What's the matter? Cockle-burr?" And Wingle ran his fingers under the collar. "So? Playin' mail-man, eh?" He spread out the note and read it. Slowly he straightened up and slowly he walked to the bunk-house. "No. Guess I'll tell Jack first." He strode to the office and laid the note on Corliss's desk.
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