Chance settled down in the straw again and sighed contentedly.
From the corral came the sound of horses running. The boys were catching up their ponies for the day's work. Chance pricked his ears. "I guess it's up to me and you to move lively," said Sundown, stretching and groaning. "We're sleepin' late, account of them midnight abolitions."
He rose and limped to the doorway. Chance followed him, evidently quite uninterested in the activities outside. Would this queer, ungainly man-thing saddle a horse and ride with the others, or would he now depart on foot, taking the trail to Antelope? Chance knew quite as well as did the men that something unusual was in the air. Hi Wingle, the cook, had returned unexpectedly that night. Chance had listened gravely while his master had told Bud Shoop that "the outfit" would move over to Bald Knoll in the morning. Then the dog had barked and capered about, anticipating a break in the monotony of ranch-life.
Sundown hurried to the cook-room. Chance at his heels. Hi Wingle was already installed in his old quarters, but he greeted Sundown heartily, and set him to work helping.
After breakfast, Bud Shoop, in heavy wing chaps and trailing his spurs, swaggered up to Sundown. "How you makin' it this mornin'?" he inquired. There was a note of humorous good-fellowship in his voice that did not escape Sundown.
"Doin' fine without crutches," replied Sundown, grinning.
"Well, you go eat now, and I'll catch up a cayuse for you. We're goin' to fan it for Bald Knoll in about ten minutes."
"Do I go, too?"
"Sure! Do you think we don't eat pie only onct a year? You bet you go—helpin' Hi. Boss's orders."
"Thanks—but I ain't no rider."
Shoop glanced questioningly at Sundown's legs. "Mebby not. But if I owned them legs I'd contract to ride white-lightnin' bareback. I'd just curl 'em 'round and grab holt of my feet when they showed up on the other side. Them ain't legs; them's cinchas."
"Mebby they ain't," sighed Sundown. "It's the only pair I got, and I'm kind of used to 'em."
"Did you let Chance loose?" queried the foreman.
"Me? Nix. But he was sleepin' in the stall with me this mornin'."
"Heard him goin' on last night. Thought mebby a coyote or a wolf had strayed in to get a drink."
"Get a drink! Can't they get a drink up in them hills?"
"Sure! But they kind of fancy the flavor of the water-trough. They come in frequent. But you better fan it for chuck. See you later."
Sundown hurried through breakfast. He was anxious to hear more about the habits of coyotes and wolves. When he again came to the corral, many of the riders had departed. Shoop stood waiting for John Corliss.
"You said them wolves and coyotes—" began Sundown.
"Yes, ding 'em!" interrupted Shoop. "Looks like they come down last night. Somethin' 's been monkeyin' with the water."
"Did you ever see one—at night?" queried Sundown, nervously.
"See 'em? Why, I shot droves of 'em right from the bunk-house door. I never miss a chance. Cut loose every time I see one standin' with his front paws on the trough. Get 'em every time."
"Wisht I'd knowed that."
"So?"
"Uhuh. I'd 'a' borrowed a gun off you and set up and watched for 'em myself."
Bud Shoop made a pretense of tightening a cinch on Sundown's pony, that he might "blush unseen," as it were.
Presently Corliss appeared and motioned to Shoop. "How's the new cook doing?" he asked.
"Fine!"
Sundown retired modestly to the off-side of the pony.
"Got a line on him already," said Shoop. "First thing, Chance, here, took to him. Then, next thing, he manufactures a batch of pies that ain't been matched on the Concho since she was a ranch. Then, next thing after that, Chance slips his collar and goes and bushes with the Bo—sleeps with him till this mornin'. And you can rope me for a parson if that walkin' wish-bone didn't get to ramblin' in his sleep last night and come out and take a bath in the drinkin'-trough! He's got on them clothes I give him, this mornin'. Can you copper that?"
"Bad dream, Bud."
"You wait!" said the grinning foreman. "You watch him. Don't pay no 'tention to me."
Corliss smiled. Shoop's many and devious methods of estimating character had their humorous angles. The rancher appreciated a joke quite as much as did any of his employees, but usually as a spectator and not a participant. Bud Shoop had served him well and faithfully, tiding over many a threatened quarrel among the men by a humorous suggestion or a seemingly impersonal anecdote anent disputes in general. So Corliss waited, meanwhile inspecting the ponies in the corral. He noticed a pinto with a saddle-gall and told Shoop to turn the horse out on the range.
"It's one of Fadeaway's string," said Shoop.
"I know it. Catch him up."
Shoop, who felt that his opportunity to confirm his dream-like statement about Sundown's bathing, was slipping away, suddenly evolved a plan. He knew that the horses had all been watered. "Hey!" he called to Sundown, who stood gravely inspecting his own mount. "Come over here and make this cayuse drink. He won't for me."
Shoop roped the horse and handed the rope to Sundown, who marched to the water-trough. The pony sniffed at the water and threw up his head. "I reckoned that was it!" said Shoop.
"What?" queried Corliss, meanwhile watching Sundown's face.
"Oh, some dam' coyote's been paddlin' in that trough again. No wonder the hosses won't drink this mornin'. I don't blame 'em."
Sundown rolled a frightened eye and tried to look at everything but his companions. Corliss and Shoop exploded simultaneously. Slowly the light of understanding dawned, rose, and radiated in the dull red of the new cook's face. He was hurt and a bit angry. The anticipating and performing of his midnight ablutions had cost Slim a mighty struggle, mentally and otherwise.
"If you think it's any early mornin' joke to take a wash-up in that there Chinese coffin—why, try her yourself, about midnight." Then he addressed Shoop singly. "If I was you, and you got kind of absent-minded and done likewise, and I seen you, do you think I'd go snitch to the boss? Nix, for it might set him to worryin'."
Shoop accepted the compliment good-naturedly, for he knew he had earned it. He swaggered up to Sundown and slapped him on the back. "Cheer up, pardner, and listen to the good news. I'm goin' to have that trough made three foot longer so it'll be more comfortable."
"Thanks, but never again at night. Guess if I hadn't been feelin' all-to-Gosh happy at havin' a home and a job, I'd 'a' froze stiff."
CHAPTER V
ON THE CAÑON TRAIL
The Loring homestead, a group of low-roofed adobe buildings blending with the abrupt red background of the hill which sheltered it from the winter winds, was a settlement in itself, providing shelter and comfort for the wives and children of the herders. Each home maintained a small garden of flowers and vegetables. Across the somber brown of the 'dobe walls hung strings of chiles drying in the sun. Gay blossoms, neatly kept garden rows, red ollas hanging in the shade of cypress and acacia, the rose-bordered plaza on which fronted the house of the patron, the gigantic windmill purring lazily and turning now to the right, now to the left, to meet the varying breeze, the entire prospect was in its pastoral quietude a reflection of Señora Loring's sweet and placid nature. Innuendo might include the windmill, and justly so, for the Señora in truth met the varying breeze of circumstance and invariably turned it to good uses, cooling the hot temper of the patron with a flow of soft Spanish utterances, and enriching the simple lives of the little colony with a charity as free and unvarying as the flow of the clear, cool water.
Far to the east, where the mesas sloped gently to the hills, grazed the sheep, some twenty bands of a thousand each, and each band guarded and cared for by a herder and an assistant who cooked and at times journeyed with the lazy burros to and from the hacienda for supplies and provisions.
David Loring, erstwhile plainsman and scout, had drifted in the early days from New Mexico to Arizona with his small band
of sheep, and settled in the valley of the Concho. He had been tolerated by the cattle-men, as his flock was but a speck on the limitless mesas. As his holdings increased, the ranchers awakened to the fact that he had come to stay and that some boundary must be established to protect their grazing. The Concho River was chosen as the dividing line, which would have been well enough had Loring been a party to the agreement. But he declined to recognize any boundary. The cattle-men felt that they had given him fair warning in naming the Concho as the line of demarcation. He, in turn, considered that his right to graze his sheep on any part or all of the free range had not been circumscribed.
His neighbor—if cattle-men and sheep-men may under any circumstances be termed neighbors—was John Corliss. The Corliss rancho was just across the river opposite the Loring homestead. After the death of their parents the Corliss boys, John and his younger brother Will, had been constant visitors at the sheep-man's home, both of them enjoying the vivacious companionship of Eleanor Loring, and each, in his way, in love with the girl. Eventually the younger brother disappeared without any apparent reason. Then it was that John Corliss's visits to the Loring rancho became less frequent and the friendliness which had existed between the rival ranches became a kind of tolerant acquaintanceship, as that of neighbors who have nothing in common save the back fence.
Fernando, the oldest herder in Loring's employ, stood shading his eyes from the glare of noon as he gazed toward the distant rancho. His son was with the flock and the old man had just risen from preparing the noon meal. "The Señorita," he murmured, and his swart features were lighted by a wrinkled smile. He stepped to his tent, whipped a gay bandanna from his blankets and knotted it about his lean throat. Then he took off his hat, gazing at it speculatively. It was beyond reconstruction as to definite shape, so he tossed it to the ground, ran his fingers through his silver-streaked hair, and stepped out to await his Señorita's arrival.
The sunlight flashed on silver spur and bit as the black-and-white pinto "Challenge" swept across the mesa toward the sheep-camp. Into the camp he flung, fretting at the curb and pivoting. His rider, Eleanor Loring, about to dismount, spoke to him sharply. Still he continued to pivot uneasily. "Morning, Fernando! Challenge is fussy this morning. I'll be right back!" And she disciplined Challenge with bit and spur, wheeling him and loping him away from the camp. Down the trail she checked him and brought him around on his hind feet. Back they came, with a rush. Fernando's deep-set eyes glowed with admiration as the girl "set-up" the pinto and swung to the ground with a laugh. "Made him do it all over again, si. He is the big baby, but he pretends he is bronco. Don't you, Challenge?" She dropped the reins and rubbed his nose. The pony laid back his ears in simulated anger and nipped at her sleeve. "Straighten your ears up, pronto!" she commanded, nevertheless laughing. Then a strain of her father's blood was apparent as she seized the reins and stood back from the horse. "Because you're bluffing this morning, I'm going to make you do your latest trick. Down!" she commanded. The pony extended his foreleg and begged to shake hands. "No! Down!" With a grunt the horse dropped to his knees, rolled to his side, but still kept his head raised. "Clear down! Dead, Challenge!" The horse lay with extended neck, but switched his tail significantly. "Don't you dare roll!" she said, as he gave evidence of getting up. Then, at her gesture, he heaved himself to his feet and shook himself till the stirrups clattered. The girl dropped the reins and turned to the old herder. "I taught him that, Fernando. I didn't make him do it just to show off. He understands now, and he'll behave."
Old Fernando grinned. "He always have the good manner, being always with the Señorita," he said bowing.
"Thanks, Fernando. You always say something nice. But I can't let you get ahead of me. What a pretty scarf. It's just right. Do you wear it always, Fernando?"
"It is—I know—what the vaquero of the Concho call the 'josh' that you give me, but I am yet not too old to like it. It is muy pleasure, si! to be noticed when one is old—by the Señorita of especial."
The girl's dark eyes flashed and she laughed happily. "It's lots of fun, isn't it—to 'josh'? But I came to see if you needed anything."
"Nothing while still the Señorita is at thees camp."
"Well, you'd better think up something, for I'm going in a minute. Have to make the rounds. Dad is down with the rheumatism and as cross as a grizzly. I was glad to get away. And then, there's Madre."
Fernando smiled and nodded. He was not unfamiliar with the patron's temper when rheumatism obliged him to be inactive. "He say nothing, the patron—that we cross the sheep to the west of the river, Señorita?"
"No. Not lately. I don't know why he should want to. The feed is good here."
"I have this morning talk with the vaquero Corlees. He tell me that the South Fork is dry up."
"John Corliss is not usually interested in our sheep," said the girl.
"No. Of the sheep he knows nothing." And the old herder smiled. "But many times he look out there," he added, pointing toward the Loring rancho.
"He was afraid father would catch him talking to one of the herders," laughed the girl.
"The vaquero Corlees he afraid of not even the bear, I think, Señorita."
Eleanor Loring laughed. "Don't you let father catch you calling him a bear!" she cautioned, provoking the old herder to immediate apology and a picturesque explanation of the fact that he had referred not to the patron, but the grizzly.
"All right, Fernando. I'll not forget to tell the patron that you called him a bear."
The old herder grinned and waved farewell as she mounted and rode down the trail. Practical in everyday affairs, he untied his bandanna and neatly folded and replaced it among his effects. As he came out of the tent he picked up his hat. He was no longer the cavalier, but a stoop-shouldered, shriveled little Mexican herder. He slouched out toward the flock and called his son to dinner. No, it was not so many years—was not the Señorita but twenty years old?—since he had wooed the Señora Loring, then a slim dark girl of the people, his people, but now the wealthy Señora, wife of his patron. Ah, yes! It was good that she should have the comfortable home and the beautiful daughter. He had nothing but his beloved sheep, but did they not belong to his Señorita?
At the ford the girl took the trail to the uplands, deciding to visit the farthest camp first, and then, if she had time, to call at one or two other camps on her way back to the rancho. As the trail grew steeper, she curbed the impatient Challenge to a steadier pace and rode leisurely to the level of the timber. On the park-like level, clean-swept between the boles of the great pines, she again put Challenge to a lope until she came to the edge on the upper mesa. Then she drew up suddenly and held the horse in.
Far out on the mesa was the figure of a man, on foot. Toward him came a horse without bridle or saddle. She recognized the figure as that of John Corliss, and she wondered why he was on foot and evidently trying to coax a stray horse toward him. Presently she saw Corliss reach out slowly and give the horse something from his hand. Still she was puzzled, and urging Challenge forward, drew nearer. The stray, seeing her horse, pricked up its ears, swung round stiffly, and galloped off. Corliss turned and held up his hand, palm toward her. It was their old greeting; a greeting that they had exchanged as boy and girl long before David Loring had become recognized as a power to be reckoned with in the Concho Valley.
"Peace?" she queried, smiling, as she rode up.
"Why not, Nell?"
"Oh, cattle and sheep, I suppose. There's no other reason, is there?"
Corliss was silent, thinking of his brother Will.
"Unless—Will—" she said, reading his thought.
He shook his head, "That would be no reason for—for our quarreling, would it?"
She laughed. "Why, who has quarreled? I'm sure I haven't."
"But you don't seem the same—since Will left."
"Neither do you, John. You haven't called at the rancho for—well, about a year."
"And then I was told to stay away ev
en longer than that."
"Oh, you mustn't mind Dad. He growls—but he won't bite."
Corliss glanced up at her. His steady gray eyes were smiling, but his lips were grave. "Would it make any difference if I did come?"
The girl's dark face flushed and her eyes sparkled. "Lots! Perhaps you and Dad could agree to stop growling altogether. But we won't talk about it. I'd like to know what you are doing up here afoot?"
"Wouldn't tell you for a dollar," he replied, smiling. "My horse is over there—near the timber. The rest of the band are at the waterhole."
"Oh, but you will tell me!" she said. "And before we get back to the cañon."
"I wasn't headed that way—" he began; but she interrupted quickly.
"Of course. I'm not, either." Then she glanced at him with mischief scintillating in her dark eyes. "Fernando told me you were talking with him this morning. I don't see that it has done you much good."
His perplexity was apparent in his silence.
"Fernando is—is polite," she asserted, wheeling her horse.
Corliss stood gazing at her unsmilingly. "I want to be," he said presently.
"Oh, John! I—you always take things so seriously. I was just 'joshing' you, as Fernando says. Of course you do! Won't you shake hands?"
He strode forward. The girl drew off her gauntlet and extended her hand. "Let's begin over again," she said as he shook hands with her. "We've both been acting."
Before she was aware of his intent, he bowed his head and kissed her fingers. She drew her hand away with a little cry of surprise. She was pleased, yet he mistook her expression.
He flushed and, confused, drew back. "I—I didn't mean it," he said, as though apologizing for his gallantry.
The girl's eyes dilated for an instant. Then she laughed with all the joyous abandon of youth and absolute health. "You get worse and worse," she said, teasingly. "Do go and have another talk with Fernando, John. Then come and tell me all about it."
Sundown Slim Page 4
