"Goin' to go after the Concho boys and Loring's herders?"
"Sure thing. And I'm going alone. Then they won't make a fuss. They'll come back with me all right."
"But you couldn't get a jury to send one of 'em over—not in this county."
"Correct, Joe. But the county's paying me to go through the motions—don't matter what I think personally. If they've pulled off a shooting-match at the water-hole, the thing's settled by this time. It had to come and if it's over, I'm dam' glad. It'll clear the air for quite a spell to come."
"The papers'll sure make a holler—" began the deputy.
"Not so much as you think. They got one good reason to keep still and that's because the free range is like to be opened up to homesteaders any day. Too much noise about cattle-and-sheep war would scare good money from coming to the State. I heard the other day that that Sundown Jack picked up is settled at the water-hole. I took him for a tenderfoot once. I reckon he ain't. It's hard to figure on those queer kind. Well, you meet the two-thirty. I guess I'll ride over to the Concho and see the boys."
The Loring-Corliss case is now a matter of record in the dusty files of the "Usher Sentinel" and its decidedly disesteemed contemporary, the "Mesa News." The case was dismissed for lack of anything like definite evidence, though Loring and Corliss were bound over to keep the peace. Incidentally one tall and angular witness refused to testify, and was sentenced to pay a not insignificant fine for contempt of court. That his fine was promptly paid by Corliss furnished a more or less gratuitous excuse for a wordy vilification of the rancher and his "hireling assassin," "menace to public welfare," and the like. Sundown, however, stuck to his guns, even to the extent of searching out the editor of the "Mesa News" and offering graciously to engage in hand-to-hand combat, provided the editor, or what was left of him after the battle, would insert an apology in the next issue of the paper—the apology to be dictated by Sundown.
The editor temporized by asking the indignant Sundown to frame the apology, which he did. Then the wily autocrat of the "Mesa News," after reading the apology, agreed to an armistice and mentioned the fact that it was a hot day. Sundown intimated that he knew one or two places in Usher which he was not averse to visiting under the circumstances. And so the treaty was ratified.
Perhaps among Sundown's possessions there is none so cherished, speaking broadly, as a certain clipping from an Arizona newspaper in which the editor prints a strangely worded and colorful apology, above his personal signature, for having been misled temporarily in his estimation of a "certain person of warlike proclivities who visited our sanctum bent upon eradicating us in a physical sense." The apology follows. In a separate paragraph, however, is this information:
"We find it imperative, however, to state that the above apology is a personal matter and in no wise affects our permanent attitude toward the lawlessness manifest so recently in our midst. Moreover, we were forced at the muzzle of a six-shooter, in the hands of the above-mentioned Sundown, to insert that illiterate and blood-thirsty gentleman's screed in the MESA NEWS, as he, together with the gang of cutthroats with whom he seems in league, stood over us with drawn weapons until the entire issue had been run off. Such is the condition of affairs under the present corrupt administration of our suffering State."
Such advertising, Sundown reflected, breathing of battle and carnage, would obviate the necessity for future upholding of his reputation in a physical sense. Great is the power of the press! It became whispered about that he was a two-gun man of dexterous attainments in dispensing lead and that his mild and even apologetic manner was but a cloak. Accident and the tongues of men earned for Sundown that peace which he so thoroughly loved. He became immune to strife. When he felt his outward attitude sagging a little, he re-read the clipping and braced up.
Sundown rode to the Concho gate, dismounted and opened it. Chance ran ahead, leaping up as Corliss came from the ranch-house.
"Got them holes plugged in the tank," said Sundown. "Got the engine runnin' ag'in and things is fine. You goin' to put them cattle back on the water-hole range?"
"Yes, as soon as Bud can get around again. He's up, but he can't ride yet."
"How's Bull?"
"Oh, he's all right. Mebby-So's laid up yet. He got it pretty bad."
"Well, I reckon they ain't goin' to be no more fightin' 'bout cattle and sheep. I stopped by to the Loring ranch. Ole man Loring was sure ugly, so I reckon he's feelin' nacheral ag'in. He was like to get mad at me for stopping but his gal, Nell, she smoothed down his wool and asked me to stay and eat. I wasn't feelin' extra hungry, so I come along up here."
"I have some good news," said Corliss. "Got a letter from Billy last week. Didn't have time to tell you. He's working for a broker in 'Frisco. I shouldn't wonder if he should turn up one of these days. How would you like to drive over to Antelope and meet him when he comes?"
"I'd sure be glad. Always did like Billy. 'Course you don't know when he's comin'—and I got to do some drivin' meself right soon."
"So?"
"Yep. 'Course I got the wagon, but they ain't no style to that. I was wantin' a rig with style to it—like the buckboard." Sundown fidgeted nervously with the buttons of his shirt. He coughed, took off his hat, and mopped his face with a red bandanna. Despite his efforts he grew warmer and warmer. He was about to approach a delicate subject. Finally he seized the bull by the horns, so to speak, and his tanned face grew red. "I was wantin' to borrow that buckboard, mebby, Saturday."
"Sure! Going to Antelope?"
"Nope—not first. I got business over to Chico Miguel's place. I'm goin' to call on a lady."
"Oh, I see! Anita?"
"Well, I sure ain't goin' to call on her ma—she's married a'ready."
Despite himself, Corliss smiled. "So that's what you wanted that new bed and table and the chairs for. Did they get marked up much coming in?"
"The legs some. I rubbed 'em with that hoss-liniment you give me. You can hardly tell. It kind of smelled like turpentine, and I didn't have nothin' else."
"Well, anything you want—"
"I know, boss. But this is goin' to be a quiet weddin'. No brass-bands or ice-cream or pop-corn or style. Just me and her and—and I reckon a priest, seein' she was brung up that way. I ain't asked her yet."
"What? About getting married, or the priest?"
"Nothin'. We got kind of a eye-understandin' and her ma and me is good friends. It's like this. Bein' no hand to do love-makin' stylish, I just passes her a couple of bouquets onct or twict and said a few words. Now, you see, if I get that buckboard and a couple of hosses—I sure would like the white ones—and drive over lookin' like business and slip the ole man a box of cigars I bought, and Mrs. Miguel that there red-and-yella serape I paid ten dollars for in Antelope, and show Anita me new contract with the Concho for pumpin' water for seventy-five bones a month, I reckon the rest of it'll come easy. I'm figurin' strong on them white hosses, likewise. Bein' white'll kind of look like gettin' married, without me sayin' it. You see, boss, I'm short on the Spanish talk and so I have to do some figurin'."
"Well, Sun, you have come along a lot since you first hit the Concho! Go ahead, and good luck to you! If you need any money—"
"I was comin' to that. Seein' as you kind of know me—and seein' I'm goin' to git hitched—I was thinkin' you might lend me mebby a hundred on the contrac'."
"I guess I can. Will that be enough?"
"Plenty. You see I was figurin' on buyin' a few head of stock to run with yourn on the water-hole range."
"Why, I can let you have the stock. You can pay me when you get ready."
"That's just it. You'd kind of give 'em to me and I ain't askin' favors, except the buckboard and the white hosses."
"But what do you want to monkey with cattle for? You're doing pretty well with the water."
"That's just it. You see, Anita thinks I'm a rarin', high-ridin', cussin', tearin', bronco-bustin' cow-puncher from over the hill. I reckon you know I ain't, but I
got to live up to it and kind of let her down easy-like. I can put on me spurs and chaps onct or twict a week and go flyin' out and whoopin' around me stock, and scarin' 'em to death, pertendin' I'm mighty interested in ridin' range. If you got a lady's goat, you want to keep it. 'Course, later on, I can kind o' slack up. Then I'm goin' to learn her to read American, and she can read that piece in the paper about me. I reckon that'll kind of cinch up the idea that her husband sure is the real thing. But I got to have them cows till she can learn to read."
"We've got to brand a few yearlings that got by last round-up. Bud said there was about fifteen of them. You can ride over after you get settled and help cut 'em out. What iron do you want to put on them?"
"Well, seein' it's me own brand, I reckon it will be like this: A kind of half-circle for the sun, and a lot of little lines runnin' out to show that it's shinin', and underneath a straight line meanin' the earth, which is 'Sundown'—me own brand. Could Johnny make one like that?"
"I don't know. That's a pretty big order. You go over and tell Johnny what you want. And I'll send the buckboard over Saturday."
CHAPTER XXVIII
IMPROVEMENTS
Out in a field bordered by the roadway a man toiled behind a disk-plough. He trudged with seven-league strides along the furrows, disdaining to ride on the seat of the plough. To effect a comfortable following of his operations he had lengthened the reins with clothes-line. He drove a team of old and gentle white horses as wheelers. His lead animals were mules, neither old nor gentle. It is possible that this fact accounted for his being afoot. He was arrayed in cowboy boots and chaps, a faded flannel shirt, and a Stetson. Despite the fact that a year had passed since he had practically "Lochinvared" the most willing Anita,—though with the full and joyous consent of her parents,—he still clung to the habiliments of the cowboy, feeling that they offset the more or less menial requirements of tilling the soil. Behind him trailed a lean, shaggy wolf-dog who nosed the furrows occasionally and dug for prairie-dogs with intermittent zest.
The toiler, too preoccupied with his ploughing to see more than his horses' heads and the immediate unbroken territory before them, did not realize that a team had stopped out on the road and that a man had leaped from the buckboard and was standing at the fence. Chance, however, saw the man, and, running to Sundown, whined. Sundown pulled up his team and wiped his brow. "Hurt your foot ag'in?" he queried. "Nope? Then what's wrong?"
The man in the road called.
Sundown wheeled and stood with mouth open. "It's—Gee Gosh! It's Billy!"
He observed that a young and fashionably attired woman sat in the buckboard holding the team. He fumbled at his shirt and buttoned it at the neck. Then he swung his team around and started toward the fence.
Will Corliss, attired in a quiet-hued business suit, his cheeks healthfully pink and his eye clear, smiled as the lean one tied the team and stalked toward him.
Corliss held out his hand. Sundown shook his head. "Excuse me, Billy, but I ain't shakin' hands with you across no fence."
And Sundown wormed his length between the wires and straightened up, extending a tanned and hairy paw. "Shake, pardner! Say, you're lookin' gorjus!"
"My wife," said Corliss.
Sundown doffed his sombrero sweepingly. "Welcome to Arizona, ma'am."
"This is my friend, Washington Hicks, Margery."
"Yes, ma'am," said Sundown. "It ain't my fault, neither. I had nothin' to say about it when they hitched that name onto me. I reckon I hollered, but it didn't do no good. Me pals"—and Sundown shrugged his shoulder—"mostly gents travelin' for their health—got to callin' me Sundown, which is more poetical. 'Course, when I got married—"
"Married!" exclaimed Corliss, grinning.
"You needn't to grin, Billy. Gettin' married's mighty responsible-like."
Corliss made a gesture of apology. "So you're homesteading the water-hole? Jack wrote to me about it. He didn't say anything about your getting married."
"Kind of like his not sayin' anything about your gettin' hitched up, eh? He said he was hearin' from you, but nothin' about Misses Corliss. Please to expect my congratulations, ma'am—and you, too, Billy."
"Thank you!" said Mrs. Corliss, smiling. "Will has told me a great deal about you."
"He has, eh? Well, I'm right glad to be acquainted by heresy. It kind of puts you on to what to expect. But say, it's hot here. If you'll drive back to me house, I'd sure like to show you the improvements."
"All right, Sun! We'll drive right in and wait for you."
They did not have to wait, however. Sundown, leaving his team at the fence, took a short cut to the house. He entered the back door and called to Anita.
"Neeter," he said, as she hastened to answer him, "they's some friends of mine just drivin' up. If you could kind of make a quick change and put on that white dress with the leetle roses sprinkled on it—quick; and is—is he sleepin'?"
"Si! He is having the good sleep."
"Fine! I'll hold 'em off till you get fixed up. It's me ole pal, Billy Corliss,—and he's brung along a wife. We got to make a good front, seein' it's kind of unexpected. Wrastle into that purty dress and don't wake him up."
"Si! I go queek."
"Why, this is fine!" said Corliss, entering, hat in hand, and gazing about the room. "It's as snug and picturesque as a lodge."
"Beautiful!" exclaimed the enthusiastic Margery, gazing at the Navajo rugs, the clean, white-washed walls against which the red ollas, filled with wild flowers, made a pretty picture, and the great grizzly-bear rug thrown across a home-made couch. "It's actually romantic!"
"Me long suit, lady. We ain't got much, but what we got goes with this kind of country."
Margery smiled. "Oh, Will, I'd like a home like this. Just simple and clean—and comfortable. It's a real home."
"Me wife's comin' in a minute. While she's—er—combin' her hair, mebby you'd like to see some of the improvements." And Sundown marched proudly to the new dining-room—an extension that he had built himself—and waved an invitation for his guests to behold and marvel.
The dining-room was, in its way, also picturesque. The exceedingly plain table was covered with a clean white cloth. The furniture, owing to some fortunate accident of choice, was not ornate but of plain straight lines, redeemed by painted ollas filled with flowers. The white walls were decorated with two pictures, a lithograph of the Madonna,—which seemed entirely in keeping with the general tone of the room, but which would have looked glaringly out of place anywhere else,—and an enlarged full-length photograph, framed, of an exceedingly tall and gorgeous cowboy, hat in hand, quirt on wrist, and looking extremely impressive. Beside the cowboy stood a great, shaggy dog—Chance. And, by chance, the picture was a success.
"Why, it's you, Sun!" exclaimed Corliss, striding to the picture. "And it's a dandy! I'd hang it in the front room."'
"That's what Neeter was sayin'. But I kind of like it in here. You see, Neeter sets there and I set here where I can see me picture while I'm eatin'. It kind of gives me a good appetite. 'Course, lookin' out the window is fine. See them there mesas dancin' in the sun, and the grass wavin' and me cows grazing and 'way off like in a dream them blue hills! It's sure a millionaire picture! And it don't cost nothin'."
"That's the best of it!" said Corliss heartily. "We're going to build—over on the mesa near the fork. You remember?"
Sundown's flush was inexplicable to Margery, but Corliss understood. He had ridden the trail toward the fork one night.… But that was past, atoned for.… He would live that down.
"It's a purty view, over there," said Sundown gently.
And the two men felt that that which was not forgotten was at least forgiven—would never again be mentioned.
"And me kitchen," said Sundown, leading the way, "is Neeter's. She runs it. There's more good eats comes out of it than they is fancy crockery in it, which just suits me. And out here"—and the party progressed to the back yard—"is me new corral and stable and chicke
n-coop. I made all them improvements meself, durin' the winter. Reckon you saw the gasoline-engine what does the pumpin' for the tanks. I wanted to have a windmill, but the engine works faster. It's kind of hot, ma'am, and if you'll come in and set down I reckon me wife's got her hair—"
"Wah! Wah! Wah!" came in a crescendo from the bedroom.
Sundown straightened his shoulders. "Gee Gosh, he's gone and give it away, already!"
Corliss and his wife glanced at their host inquisitively.
"Me latest improvement," said Sundown, bowing, as Anita, a plump brown baby on her arm, opened the bedroom door and stood bashfully looking at the strangers.
"And me wife," he added.
Corliss bowed, but Margery rushed to Anita and held out her arms. "Oh, let me take him!" she cried. "What big brown eyes! Let me hold him! I'll be awfully careful! Isn't he sweet!"
They moved to the living-room where Anita and Margery sat side by side on the couch with the baby absorbing all their attention.
Sundown stalked about the room, his hands in his pockets, vainly endeavoring to appear very mannish and unconcerned, but his eye roved unceasingly to the baby. He was the longest and most upstanding six-feet-four of proud father that Margery or her husband had ever had the pleasure of meeting.
"He's got Neeter's eyes—and—and her—complexion, but he's sure got me style. He measures up two-feet-six by the yardstick what we got with buyin' a case of bakin'-soda, and he ain't a yearlin' yet. I don't just recollec' the day but I reckon Neeter knows."
"He's great!" exclaimed Corliss. "Isn't he, Margery?"
"He's just the cutest little brown baby!" said Margery, hugging the plump little body.
"He—he ain't so turruble brown," asserted Sundown. "'Course, he's tanned up some, seein' we keep him outside lots. I'm kind o' tanned up meself, and I reckon he takes after me."
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