Sundown Slim

by Henry Herbert Knibbs

  CHAPTER XXII

  WAIT!

  To see a man's life go out and to stand by unable to help, unable tooffer comfort or ease mortal agony, is a bitter experience. It bringsthe beholder close to the abyss of eternity, wherein the world shrinksto a speck of whirling dust and the sun is but a needle-point of light.Then it is that the fleshless face of the unconquerable One leans closeand whispers, not to the insensate clay that mocks the living, but tothe impotent soul that mourns the dead.

  That Sundown should consider himself morally bound to become one ofthose who he knew would avenge the killing of the cowboy, and withoutrecourse to law, was not altogether strange. The iron had entered hissoul. Heretofore at loose ends with the world, the finding of Sinker,dying on the mesas, kindled within him righteous wrath against thecircumstance rather than the individual slayer. His meanderingthoughts and emotions became crystallized. His energies hardened to aset purpose. He was obsessed with a fanaticism akin to that of thosewho had burned witches and thanked their Maker for the opportunity.

  In his simple way he wondered why he had not wept. He rode slowly tothe Concho. Chance leaped circling about his horse. He greeted thedog with a word. When he dismounted, Chance cringed and crept to him.Without question this was his master, and yet there was something inSundown's attitude that silenced the dog's joyous welcoming. Chancesat on his haunches, whined, and did his best by his own attitude toshow that he was in sympathy with his master's strange mood.

  John Corliss saw instantly that there was something wrong, and hishearty greeting lapsed into terse questioning. Sundown pointed towardthe northern mesas.

  "What's up?" he queried.

  "Sinker--he's dead--over there."

  "Sinker?" Corliss ran to the corral, calling to Wingle, who came fromthe bunk-house. The cook whisked off his apron, grabbed his hat, andfollowed Corliss. "Sinker's done for!" said Corliss. "Saddle up, Hi.Sun found him out there. Must have had trouble at the water-hole. Ishould have sent another man with him."

  Wingle, with the taciturnity of the plainsman, jerked the cinchas tightand swung to the saddle. Sinker's death had come like a white-hotflash of lightning from the bulked clouds that had shadowed disasterimpending--and in that shadow the three men rode silently toward thenorth. Again Corliss questioned Sundown. Tense with the stress of anemotion that all but sealed his lips, Sundown turned his white face toCorliss and whispered, "Wait!" The rancher felt that that one terse,whispered word implied more than he cared to imagine. There wassomething uncanny about the man. If the killing of Sinker could sochange the timorous, kindly Sundown to this grim, unbending epitome oflean death and vengeance, what could he himself do to check the wildfury of his riders when they heard of their companion's passing fromthe sun?

  Sinker's horse, grazing, lifted its head and nickered as they rode up.They dismounted and turned the body over. Wingle, kneeling, examinedthe cowboy's six-gun.

  Corliss, in a burst of wrath, turned on Sundown. "Damn you, open yourmouth. What do you know about this?"

  Sundown bit his nails and glowered at Corliss. "God A'mighty sentme--" he began.

  With a swift gesture Corliss interrupted. "You're working for theConcho. Was he dead when you found him?"

  Sundown slowly raised his arm and pointed across the mesa.

  Corliss fingered his belt and bit his lip impatiently.

  "A herder--over there to my ranch--done it. Sinker told me--'fore hecrossed over. Said it was 'Sandro. Said he had orders not to shoot.He tried to bluff 'em off, for they was bringin' sheep to thewater-hole. He said to tell you."

  Corliss and Wingle turned from looking at Sundown and gazed at eachother. "If that's right--" And the rancher hesitated.

  "I reckon it's right," said Wingle. And he stooped and together theylifted the body and laid it across the cowboy's horse.

  Sundown watched them with burning eyes. "We'll ride back home," saidCorliss, motioning to him.

  "Home? Ain't you goin' to do nothin'?"

  Corliss shook his head. Sundown slowly mounted and followed them tothe Concho. He watched them as they carried Sinker to the bunkhouse.

  When Corliss reappeared, Sundown strode up to him. "This here hossbelongs to that leetle Mexican on the Apache road, Chico Miguel--saidyou knowed him. I was goin' to take him back with my hoss. Now Ireckon I can't. I kind o' liked it over there to his place. I guess Iwant my own hoss, Pill."

  "I guess you better get something to eat and rest up. You're in badshape, Sun."

  Sundown shook his head. "I got somethin' to do--after that mebby I canrest up. Can I have me hoss?"

  "Yes, if it'll do you any good. What are you going to do?"

  "I got me homesteader papers. I'm goin' to me ranch."

  "But you're not outfitted. There's no grub there. You better take iteasy. You'll feel better to-morrow."

  "I don't need no outfit. I reckon I'll saddle Pill."

  Sundown turned the Mexican's pony into the corral and saddled his ownhorse which he led to the bunk-house. "I ain't got no gun," he said."The sheriff gent's got mine. Mebby you'd be lendin' me one?"

  Wingle stepped to the doorway and stood beside Corliss. "What does hewant, Jack?"

  "He's loco. Wants to borrow a gun." The rancher turned to Sundown."See here, Sun, there's no use thinking you've got to take a hand inthis. Some of the boys'll get the Mexican sure! I can't stop them,but I don't want you to get in trouble."

  "No. You come on in and eat," said Wingle. "You got a touch of sun, Iguess."

  Sundown mounted. "Ain't you goin' to do nothin'?" he asked again.

  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 thegateway and out to the mesa. "I'll go head him off, if you say theword, Jack."

  Corliss made a negative gesture. "He'll come back when he gets hungry.It's a long ride to the water-hole. Sinker had sand to get as nearhome 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 wipehis hand--his invariable preliminary before he shook hands with anyone. 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. Moved by a mutual impulse they glanced at the long,rigid shape covered with a blanket. "When the boys come--" beganWingle.

  "It will be out of our hands," concluded Corliss.

  "If Sun--"

  "I ought to ride out after him," said Corliss, nodding. "But I can'tleave. And you can't."

  Wingle stepped to the doorway and shaded his eyes. Far out on the mesathe diminishing figure of a horseman showed black against the glare ofthe sun. Wingle turned and, with a glance at the shrouded figure onthe bunk-house floor, donned his apron and shuffled to the kitchen.Corliss tied his horse and strode to the office.

  Hi Wingle puttered about the kitchen. There would be supper to get forfifteen hungry--No! fourteen, to-night. He paused, set down the panthat he held and opened the door of the chuck-room. With fingermarking the count he totaled the number of chairs at the table.Fifteen. Then he stepped softly to the bunk-room, took Sinker's hatand stepped back to the table. He placed the hat on the dead cowboy'schair. Then he closed the door and turned to the preparation of theevening meal. "Jack'll report to Antelope and try and keep the boysquiet. I'm sure with Jack--only I was a puncher first afore I took tocookin'. And I'm a puncher yet--inside." Which was his singular andonly spoken tribute to the memory of Sinker. He had reasoned that itwas only right and fitting that the slayer of a cowman should be slainby a cowman--a code that held good in his time and would hold goodnow--especially when the boys saw the battered Stetson, every line ofwhich was mutely eloquent of its owner's individuality.

  Sundown drifted through the afternoon solitudes, his mind dulled by themonotony of
the theme which obsessed him. It was evening when hereached the water-hole. Around the enclosure straggled a few straysheep. He cautioned Chance against molesting them. Ordinarily hewould have approached the ranch-house timidly, but he was beyond fear.He rode to the gate, tied his horse, and stepped to the doorway. Thedoor was open. He entered and struck a match. In the dusk he saw thatthe room was empty save for a tarpaulin and a pair of rawhide kyackssuch as the herders use. Examining the kyacks he found that theycontained flour, beans, salt, sugar, and coffee. Evidently the herdershad intended making the deserted ranch-house their headquarters. Hewondered vaguely where the Mexicans were. The thought that they mightreturn did not worry him. He knew what he would do in that instance.He would find out which one was 'Sandro . . . and then . . .

  The bleating of the stray sheep annoyed him. He told Chance to stay inthe room. Then he stalked out and opened the gate. "Mebby they wantwater. I dunno. Them's Loring's sheep, all right, but they ain't toblame for--for Sinker." With the idea came a more reasonable mood.The sheep were not to blame for the killing of Sinker. The sheepbelonged to Loring. The herders, also, practically belonged to Loring.They were only following his bidding when they protected the sheep.With such reasoning he finally concluded that Loring, not his herder,was responsible for the cowboy's death. He returned to the house,built a fire, and cooked an indifferent meal.

  Sundown sat up suddenly. In the dim light of the moon flickeringthrough the dusty panes he saw Chance standing close to the door withneck bristling and head lowered. Throwing back his blanket he rose andwhispered to the dog. Chance came to him obediently. Sundown saw thatthe dog was trembling. He motioned him back and stepped to the door.His slumbers had served to restore him to himself in a measure. Hisold timidity became manifest as he hesitated, listening. In theabsolute silence of the night he thought he heard a shuffling as ofsomething being dragged across the enclosure. Tense with anticipatinghe knew not what, he listened. Again he heard that peculiar slitheringsound. He opened the door an inch and peered out. In the pallid glowof the moon he beheld a shapeless object that seemed to be crawlingtoward him. Something in the helpless attitude of the object suggestedSinker as he had risen on his arm, endeavoring to tell of the disasterwhich had overtaken him. With a gesture of scorn at his own fear heswung open the door. Chance crept at his heels, whining. Then Sundownstepped out and stood gazing at the strange figure on the ground. Notuntil a groan of agony broke the utter silence did he realize that thenight had brought to him a man, wounded and suffering terribly. "Whoare you?" he questioned, stooping above the man. The other draggedhimself to Sundown's feet and clawed at his knees. "'Sandro . . . Itis--that I--die. You don' keel . . . You don' . . ."

  Sundown dragged the herder to the house and into the bedroom. He gotwater, for which the herder called piteously. With his own blanket hemade him as comfortable as he could. Then he built a fire that hemight have light. The herder was shot through the thigh, and had allbut bled to death dragging himself across the mesa from where he hadfallen from his horse. Sundown tried to stop the bleeding with stripstorn from his bandanna. Meanwhile the wounded man was imploring himnot to kill him.

  "I'm doin' me best to fix you up, Dago," said Sundown. "But you bettergo ahead and say them prayers--and you might put in a couple for Sinkerwhat you shot. I reckon his slug cut the big vein and you got to go.Wisht I could do somethin' . . . to help . . . you stay . . . but mebbyit's better that you cross over easy. Then the boys don't get you."

  The Mexican seemed to understand. He nodded as he lay gazing at thelean figure illumined by the dancing light of the open stove. "Si.You good hombre, si," he gasped.

  Sundown frowned. "Now, don't you take any idea like that along toglory with you. Sinker--what you shot--was me friend. I ought to killyou like a snake. But God A'mighty took the job off me hands. Ireckon that makes me square with--with Sinker--and Him."

  Again Sundown brought water to the herder. Gently he raised his headand held the cup to his lips. Chance stood in the middle of the roomstrangely subdued, yet he watched each movement of his master withalert eyes. The moonlight faded from the window and the fire dieddown. The air became chill as the faint light of dawn crept in toemphasize the ghastly picture--the barren, rough-boarded room, therusted stove, the towering figure of Sundown, impassively waiting; andthe shattered, shrunken figure of the Mexican, hopeless and helpless,as the morning mesas welcomed the golden glow of dawn and a new day.

  The herder, despite his apparent torpor, was the first to hear thefaint thud of hoofs in the loose sand of the roadway. He grewinstantly alert, raising himself on his elbow and gazing with fear-wideeyes toward the south.

  Sundown nodded. "It's the boys," he said, as though speaking tohimself. "I was hopin' he could die easy. I dunno."

  'Sandro raised his hands and implored Sundown to save him from theriders. Sundown stepped to the window. He saw the flash of spurs andbits as a group of the Concho boys swept down the road. One of themwas leading a riderless horse. In a flash he realized that they hadfound the herder's horse and had tracked 'Sandro to the water-hole. Hebacked away from the window and reaching down took the Mexican's gunfrom its holster. "'T ain't what I figured on," he muttered. "They'sme friends, but this is me ranch."

  With a rush and a slither of hoofs in the loose sand the Concho riders,headed by Shoop, swung up to the gate and dismounted. Sundown steppedto the doorway, Chance beside him.

  Shoop glanced quickly at the silent figure. Then his gaze drifted tothe ground.

  "'Mornin', Sun! Seen anybody 'round here this mornin'?"

  "Mornin', fellas. Nope. Just me and Chance."

  The men hesitated, eyeing Sundown suspiciously.

  Corliss stepped toward the ranch-house.

  "Guess we'll look in," he said, and stepped past Shoop.

  Sundown had closed the door of the bedroom. He was at a loss toprevent the men entering the house, but once within the house hedetermined that they should not enter the bedroom.

  He backed toward it and stood with one shoulder against the lintel."Come right in. I ain't got to housekeepin' yet, but . . ."

  He ceased speaking as he saw Corliss's gaze fixed on the kyacks."Where did you get 'em?" queried the rancher.

  The men crowded in and gazed curiously at the kyacks--then at Sundown.

  Shoop strode forward. "The game's up, Sun. We want the Mexican."

  "This is me ranch," said Sundown. "I got the papers--here. You fellasis sure welcome--only they ain't goin' to be no shootin' or such-like.I ain't joshin' this time."

  A voice broke the succeeding silence. "If the Mexican is in there, wewant him--that's all."

  Sundown's eyes became bright with a peculiar expression. Slowly--yetbefore any one could realize his intent--he reached down and drew theMexican's gun. "You're me friends," he said quietly. "He's inthere--dyin'. I reckon Sinker got him. He drug himself here lastnight and I took him in. This is me home--and if you fellas is _men_,you'll let him die easy and quiet."

  "I'm from Missouri," said Shoop, with a hard laugh. "You got to showme that he's--like you say, or--"

  Sundown leveled his gun at Shoop. "I ain't lyin' to you, Bud. Sinkerwas me friend. And I ain't lyin' when I says that the fust fella thattries to tech him crosses over afore he does."

  Some one laughed. Corliss touched Shoop's arm and whispered to him.With a curse the foreman turned and the men clumped out to the yard.

  "He's right," said Corliss. "We'll wait."

  They stood around talking and commenting upon Sundown's defense of theMexican.

  "'Course we could 'a' got him," said Shoop, "but it don't set rightwith me to be stood up by a tenderfoot. Sundown's sure loco."

  "I don't know, Bud. He's queer, all right, but this is his ranch.He's got a right to order us out."

  Shoop was about to retort when Sundown came to the doorway. "I guessyou can come in now," he said. "And you won't need no gu
n." The menshuffled awkwardly, and finally led by Corliss they filed into the roomand one by one they stepped to the open door of the bedroom and gazedwithin. Then they filed out silently.

  "I'll send over some grub," said Corliss as they mounted. Sundownnodded.

  The band of riders moved slowly back toward the Concho. About halfwayon their homeward journey they met Loring in a buckboard. The oldsheep-man drove up and would have passed them without speaking had notCorliss reined across the road and halted him.

  "One of your herders--'Sandro--is over at the water-hole," saidCorliss. "If you're headed for Antelope, you might stop by and takehim along."

  Loring glared at the Concho riders, seemed about to speak, but insteadclucked to his team. The riders reined out of his way and he sweptpast, gazing straight ahead, grim, silent, and utterly without fear.He understood the rancher's brief statement, and he already knew of thekilling of Sinker. 'Sandro's assistant, becoming frightened, had lefthis wounded companion on the mesas, and had ridden to the Loring ranchowith the story of the fight and its ending.