Sundown Slim

by Knibbs, Henry Herbert

  "Me? Guess I will. I was lookin' for a job cooking but the pay ain't right here. What you lookin' at me that way for?"

  "Sit still. I'm all right. My brother Will left home three years ago. Didn't say a word to any one. He'd been to school East, and he wrote some things for the magazines—poetry. I was wondering—"

  "Say, mister, what's your name?"

  "John Corliss."

  "Gee Gosh! I knowed when I et that rabbit this mornin' that somethin' was goin' to happen. Thought it was po'try, but I was mistook."

  "So you ate your half of the rabbit this morning, eh?"

  "Sure!!—"

  "And you gave me the rest. You sure are loco."

  "Mebby I be. Anyhow, I'm used to bein' hungry. They ain't so much of me to keep as you—crossways, I mean. Of course, up and down—"

  "Well, I'm right sorry," said Corliss. "You're the queerest Hobo I ever saw."

  "That's what they all say," said Sundown, grinning. "I ain't no common hand-out grabber, not me! I learnt things from Bill. He had class!"

  "You sure Will never said anything about the Concho, or his brother, or Chance?"

  "Chance? Who's he?"

  "Wolf-dog that belonged to Will."

  "Gee Gosh! Big, and long legs, and kind of long, rough hair, and deep in the chest and—"

  "That's Chance; but how did you know?"

  "Why, Billy writ a pome 'bout him onct. Sold it and we lived high—for a week. Sure as you live! It was called 'Chance of the Concher.' Gee Gosh! I thought it was jest one of them poetical dogs, like."

  Corliss, who was not given to sentiment, smoked and pondered the possibility of his brother's whereabouts. He had written to all the large cities asking for information from the police as to the probability of their being able to locate his brother. The answers had not been encouraging. At the end of three years he practically gave up making inquiry and turned his whole attention to the management of the Concho. There had been trouble between the cattle and sheep interests and time had passed more swiftly than he had realized. His meeting with Sundown had awakened the old regret for his brother's uncalled-for disappearance. Had he been positive that his brother had been killed in the wreck he would have felt a kind of relief. As it was, the uncertainty as to his whereabouts, his welfare, worried and perplexed him, especially in view of the fact that he was on his way to Antelope to present to the Forest Service a petition from the cattle-men of the valley for grazing allotments. The sheep had been destroying the grazing on the west side of the river. There had been bickerings and finally an open declaration of war against David Loring, the old sheep-man of the valley. Corliss wished to avoid friction with David Loring. Their ranches were opposite each other. And as Corliss was known as level-headed and shrewd, it devolved upon him to present in person the complaint and petition of his brother cattle-men. Argument with David Loring, as he had passed the latter's homestead that morning, had delayed him on his journey to Antelope. Presently he got up and entered the ranch-house. Sundown followed and poked about in the corners of the room. He found a bundle of gunny-sacks and spreading them on the floor, laid his blankets on them.

  Corliss stepped out and led Chinook to the distant mesa and picketed him for the night. As he returned, he considered the advisability of hiring the tramp to cook until his own cook returned from Phoenix. He entered the house, kicked off his leather chaps, tossed his spurs into a corner, and made a bed of his saddle-blankets and saddle. "I'll be starting early," he said as he drew off his boots. "What are you intending to do next?"

  "Me? Well, I ain't got no plans. Beat it back to Antelope, I guess. Say, mister, do you think my pal was your brother?"

  "I don't know. From your description I should say so. See here. I don't know you, but I need a cook. The Concho is thirty miles in. I'm headed the other way, but if you are game to walk it, I'll see if I can use you."

  "Me! You ain't givin' me another josh, be you?"

  "Never a josh. You won't think so when you get to punchin' dough for fifteen hungry cowboys. Want to try it?"

  "Say, mister, I'm just comin' to. A guy told me in Antelope that they was a John Corliss—only he said Jack—what was needin' a cook. Just thunk of it, seein' as I was thinkin' of Billy most ever since I met you. Are you the one?"

  "Guess I am," said Corliss, smiling. "It's up to you."

  "Say, mister, that listens like home more'n anything I heard since I was a kid. I can sure cook, but I ain't no rider."

  "How long would it take you to foot it to the Concho?"

  "Oh, travelin' easy, say 'bout eight hours."

  "Don't see that you need a horse, then, even if there was one handy."

  "Nope. I don't need no horse. All I need is a job."

  "All right. You'd have to travel thirty miles either way—to get out of here. I won't be there, but you can tell my foreman, Bud Shoop, that I sent you in."

  "And I'll jest be tellin' him that 'bout twelve, to-morrow. I sure wisht Billy was here. He'd sure be glad to know his ole pal was cookin' for his brother. Me for the shavin's. And say, thanks, pardner. Reckon they ain't all jokers in Arizona."

  "No. There are a few that can't make or take one," said Corliss. "Hope you'll make the ranch all right."

  "I'm there! Next to cookin' and writin' po'try, walkin' is me long suit."

  CHAPTER IV

  PIE; AND SEPTEMBER MORN

  When a Westerner, a native-born son of the outlands, likes a man, he likes him. That is all there is to it. His horses, blankets, money, provender, and even his saddle are at his friend's disposal. If the friend prove worthy,—and your Westerner is shrewd,—a lifelong friendship is the result. If the friend prove unworthy, it is well for him to seek other latitudes, for the average man of the outlands has a peculiar and deep-seated pride which is apt to manifest itself in prompt and vigorous action when touched by ridicule or ingratitude. There are many Davids and Jonathans in the sagebrush country. David may have flocks and herds, and Jonathan may have naught but the care of them. David may possess lands and water-rights, and Jonathan nothing more than a pick, a shovel, a pan, and an incurable itch for placering. A Westerner likes a man for what he is and not because of his vocation. He usually proceeds cautiously in the matter of friendship, but sudden and instinctive friendships are not infrequent. It so happened that John Corliss had taken a liking to the Hobo, Sundown Slim. Knowing a great deal more about cattle than about psychology, the rancher wasted no time in trying to analyze his feelings. If the tramp had courage enough to walk another thirty miles across the mesas to get a job cooking, there must be something to him besides legs. Possibly the cattle-man felt that he was paying a tribute to the memory of his brother. In any event, he greeted Sundown next morning as the latter came to the water-hole to drink. "You can't lose your way," he said, pointing across the mesa. "Just keep to the road. The first ranch on the right is the Concho. Good luck!" And he led Chinook through the gateway. In an hour he had topped the hill. He reined Chinook round. He saw a tiny figure far to the south. Half in joke he waved his sombrero. Sundown, who had glanced back from time to time, saw the salute and answered it with a sweeping gesture of his lean arm. "And now," he said, "I got the whole works to meself. That Concho guy is a mighty fine-lookin' young fella, but he don't look like Billy. Rides that hoss easy-like jest as if he was settin' in a rockin'-chair knittin' socks. But I reckon he could flash up if you stepped on his tail. I sure ain't goin' to."

  It was mid-afternoon, when Sundown, gaunt and weary, arrived at the Concho. He was faint for lack of food and water. The Mexican cook, or rather the cook's assistant, was the only one present when Sundown drifted in, for the Concho was, in the parlance of the riders, "A man's ranch from chuck to sunup, and never a skirt on the clothes-line."

  Not until evening was Sundown able to make his errand known, and appreciated. A group of riders swung in in a swirl of dust, dismounted, and, as if by magic, the yard was empty of horses.

  The riders disappeared in the bunk-house t
o wash and make ready for supper. One of the men, who had spoken to him in passing, reappeared.

  "Lookin' for the boss?" he asked.

  "Nope. I seen him. I'm lookin' for Mr. Shoop."

  "All right, pardner. Saw off the mister and size me up. I'm him."

  "The boss said I was to be cook," said Sundown, rather awed by the personality of the bluff foreman.

  "Meet him at Antelope?"

  "No. It was the American Hotel. He said for me to tell you if I walked in I could get a job cookin'."

  "All right. What he says goes. Had anything to eat recent?"

  "I et a half a rabbit yesterday mornin'."

  "Well, sufferin' shucks! You fan it right in here!"

  Later that evening, Sundown straggled out to the corral and stood watching the saddle-stock of the Concho pull hay from the long feed-rack and munch lazily. Suddenly he jerked up his hand and jumped round. The men, loafing in front of the bunk-house, laughed. Chance, the great wolf-dog, was critically inspecting the tramp's legs.

  Sundown was a self-confessed coward, physically. Above all things he feared dogs. His reception by the men, aside from Bud Shoop's greeting, had been cool. Even the friendship of a dog seemed acceptable at that moment. Plodding along the weary miles between the water-hole and the ranch, he had, in his way, decided to turn over a new leaf: to ignore the insistent call of the road and settle down to something worth while. Childishly egotistical, he felt in a vague way that his virtuous intent was not appreciated, not reasoning that the men knew nothing of his wanderings, nor cared to know anything other than as to his ability to cook. So he timidly stroked the long muzzle of the wolf-dog, and was agreeably surprised to find that Chance seemed to like it. In fact, Chance, having an instinct superior to that of his men companions of the Concho, recognized in the gaunt and lonely figure a kindred spirit; a being that had the wander-fever in its veins; that was forever searching for the undiscoverable, the something just beyond the visible boundaries of day. The dog, part Russian wolf-hound and part Great Dane, deep-chested, swift and powerful, shook his shaggy coat and sneezed. Sundown jumped. Again the men laughed. "You and me's built about alike—for speed," he said, endeavoring to convey his friendly intent through compliment. "Did you ever ketch a rabbit?"

  Chance whined. Possibly he understood. In any event, he leaped playfully against Sundown's chest and stood with his paws on the tramp's shoulders. Sundown shrunk back against the corral bars. "Go to it," he said, trying to cover his fear with a jest, "if you like bones."

  From behind him came a rush of feet. "Great Scott!" exclaimed Shoop. "Come 'ere, Chance. I sure didn't know he was loose."

  The dog dropped to his feet and wagged his tail inquiringly.

  "Chance—there—he don't cotton to strangers," explained Shoop, slipping his hand in the wolf-dog's collar. "Did he nip you?"

  "Nope. But me and him ain't strangers, mister. You see, I knowed the boss's brother Billy, what passed over in a wreck. He used to own Chance, so the boss says."

  "You knew Billy! But Chance don't know that. I'll chain him up till he gets used to seein' you 'round."

  Shoop led the dog to the stable. Sundown felt relieved. The solicitude of the foreman, impersonal as it was, made him happier.

  Next morning he was installed as cook. He did fairly well, and the men rode away joking about the new "dough-puncher."

  Then it was that Sundown had an inspiration—not to write verse, but to manufacture pies. He knew that the great American appetite is keen for pies. Finding plenty of material,—dried apples, dried prunes, and apricots,—he set to work, having in mind former experiences on the various "east-sides" of various cities. Determined that his reputation should rest not alone upon flavor, he borrowed a huge Mexican spur from his assistant and immersed it in a pan of boiling water. "And speakin' of locality color," he murmured, grinning at the possibilities before him, "how's that, Johnny?" And he rolled out a thin layer of pie-dough and taking the spur for a "pattern-wheel," he indented a free-hand sketch of the Concho brand on the immaculate dough. Next he wheeled out a rather wobbly cayuse, then an equally wobbly and ferocious cow. Each pie came from the oven with some symbol of the range printed upon it, the general effect being enhanced by the upheaval of the piecrust in the process of baking. When the punchers rode in that evening and entered the messroom, they sniffed knowingly. But not until the psychological moment did Sundown parade his pies. Then he stepped to the kitchen and, with the lordly gesture of a Michael Angelo unveiling a statue for the approval of Latin princes, commanded the assistant to "Bring forth them pies." And they were "brung."

  Each astonished puncher was gravely presented with a whole pie—bubbling kine, dimpled cayuses, and sprawling spurs. Silence—as silence is wont to do in dramatic moments—reigned supreme. Then it was that the purveyor of spontaneous Western exclamations missed his opportunity, being elsewhere at the time.

  "Whoop! Let 'er buck!" exclaimed Bud Shoop, swinging an imaginary hat and rocking from side to side.

  "So-o, Boss!" exclaimed a puncher from the Middle West.

  "Hand-made and silver mounted," remarked another. "Hate to eat 'em."

  "Trade you my pinto for a steer," offered still another.

  "Nothin" doin'! That hoss of yours has got colic—bad."

  "Swap this here goat for that rooster of yours," said "Sinker," a youth whose early education in art had been neglected.

  "Goat? You box-head! That's a calf. Kind 'a' mired down, but it's sure a calf. And this ain't no rooster. This here's a eagle settin' on his eggs. You need specs."

  "Noah has sure been herdin' 'em in," said another puncher.

  Meanwhile, "Noah" stood in the messroom doorway, arms folded and face beaming. His attitude invited applause, and won it. Eventually his reputation as a "pie-artist" spread far and wide. When it leaked out that he had wrought his masterpieces with a spur, there was some murmuring. Being assured by the assistant that the spur had been previously boiled, the murmuring changed to approval. "That new cook was sure a original cuss! Stickin' right to the range in his picture-work. Had them there old Hopi picture-writin's on the rocks beat a mile." And the like.

  Inspired by a sense of repletion, conducive to generosity and humor, the boys presented Sundown with a pair of large-rowelled Mexican spurs, silver-mounted and altogether formidable. Like many an historic adventurer, he had won his spurs by a tour-de-force that swept his compatriots off their feet; innuendo if you will—but the average cowboy is capable of assimilating much pie.

  Although Sundown was offered the use of a bunk in the men's quarters, he chose to sleep in a box-stall in the stable, explaining that he was accustomed to sleep in all kinds of places, and that the unused box-stall with fresh clean straw and blankets would make a very comfortable bedroom. His reason for declining a place with the men became apparent about midnight.

  Bud Shoop had, in a bluff, offhand way, given him a flannel shirt, overalls, an old flop-brimmed Stetson, and, much to Sundown's delight, a pair of old riding-boots. Hitherto, Sundown had been too preoccupied with culinary matters to pay much attention to his clothing. Incidentally he was spending not a little time in getting accustomed to his spurs, which he wore upon all occasions, clinking and clanking about the cook-room, a veritable Don Quixote of the (kitchen) range.

  The arrival of Corliss, three days after Sundown's advent, had a stimulating effect on the new cook. He determined to make the best appearance possible.

  The myriad Arizona stars burned with darting radiance, in thin, unwavering shafts of splintered fire. The moon, coldly brilliant, sharp-edged and flat like a disk of silver paper, touched the twinkling aspens with a pallid glow and stamped a distorted silhouette of the low-roofed ranch-buildings on the hard-packed earth. In the corral the shadow of a restless pony drifted back and forth. Chance, chained to a post near the bunk-house, shook himself and sniffed the keen air, for just at that moment the stable door had opened and a ghostly figure appeared; a figure that shivered in the m
oonlight. The dog bristled and whined. "S-s-s-h!" whispered Sundown. "It's me, ain't it?"

  With his bundle of clothes beneath his arm, he picked a hesitating course across the yard and deposited the bundle beside the water-trough. Chance, not altogether satisfied with Sundown's assurance, proclaimed his distrust by a long nerve-reaching howl. Some one in the bunkhouse muttered. Sundown squatted hastily in the shadow of the trough. Bud Shoop rose from his bunk and crept to the door. He saw nothing unusual, and was about to return to his bed when an apparition rose slowly from behind the water-trough. The foreman drew back in the shadow of the doorway and watched.

  Sundown's bath was extensive as to territory but brief as to duration. He dried himself with a gunny-sack and slipped shivering into his new raiment. "That there September Morn ain't got nothin' on me except looks," he spluttered. "And she is welcome to the looks. Shirts and pants for mine!"

  Then he crept back to his blankets and slept the sleep of one who has atoned for his sins of omission and suffered righteously in the ordeal.

  Bud Shoop wanted to laugh, but forgot to do it. Instead he padded back to his bunk and lay awake pondering. "Takin' a bath sure does make a fella feel like the fella he wants to feel like—but in the drinkin'-trough, at night…! I reckon that there Hobo ain't right in his head."

  Sundown dreamed that he was chasing an elusive rabbit over endless wastes of sand and greasewood. With him ran a phantom dog, a lean, shaggy shape that raced tirelessly. When Sundown wanted to give up the dream-hunt and rest, the dog would urge him on with whimperings and short, explosive barks of impatience. Presently the dream-dog ran ahead and disappeared beyond a rise. Sundown sank to the desert and slept. He dreamed within his dream that the dog was curled beside him. He put out his hand and stroked the dog's head. Presently a side of the box-stall took outline. A ray of sunlight filtered in; sunlight flecked with fine golden dust. The straw rustled at his side and he sat up quickly. Chance, stretching himself and yawning, showed his long, white fangs in an elaborated dog-smile. "Gee Gosh!" exclaimed Sundown, eyeing the dog sideways, "so it's you, eh? You wasn't foolin' me, then, when you said we'd be pals?"