Part 34 (1/2)

The bleating of the stray sheep annoyed him. He told Chance to stay in the room. Then he stalked out and opened the gate. ”Mebby they want water. I dunno. Them's Loring's sheep, all right, but they ain't to blame for--for Sinker.” With the idea came a more reasonable mood.

The sheep were not to blame for the killing of Sinker. The sheep belonged 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 flickering through the dusty panes he saw Chance standing close to the door with neck bristling and head lowered. Throwing back his blanket he rose and whispered to the dog. Chance came to him obediently. Sundown saw that the dog was trembling. He motioned him back and stepped to the door.

His slumbers had served to restore him to himself in a measure. His old timidity became manifest as he hesitated, listening. In the absolute silence of the night he thought he heard a shuffling as of something being dragged across the enclosure. Tense with antic.i.p.ating he knew not what, he listened. Again he heard that peculiar slithering sound. He opened the door an inch and peered out. In the pallid glow of the moon he beheld a shapeless object that seemed to be crawling toward him. Something in the helpless att.i.tude of the object suggested Sinker as he had risen on his arm, endeavoring to tell of the disaster which had overtaken him. With a gesture of scorn at his own fear he swung open the door. Chance crept at his heels, whining. Then Sundown stepped out and stood gazing at the strange figure on the ground. Not until a groan of agony broke the utter silence did he realize that the night had brought to him a man, wounded and suffering terribly. ”Who are you?” he questioned, stooping above the man. The other dragged himself to Sundown's feet and clawed at his knees. ”'Sandro . . . It is--that I--die. You don' keel . . . You don' . . .”

Sundown dragged the herder to the house and into the bedroom. He got water, for which the herder called piteously. With his own blanket he made him as comfortable as he could. Then he built a fire that he might have light. The herder was shot through the thigh, and had all but bled to death dragging himself across the mesa from where he had fallen from his horse. Sundown tried to stop the bleeding with strips torn from his bandanna. Meanwhile the wounded man was imploring him not to kill him.

”I'm doin' me best to fix you up, Dago,” said Sundown. ”But you better go ahead and say them prayers--and you might put in a couple for Sinker what 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 mebby it'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 the lean 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 to glory with you. Sinker--what you shot--was me friend. I ought to kill you like a snake. But G.o.d A'mighty took the job off me hands. I reckon that makes me square with--with Sinker--and Him.”

Again Sundown brought water to the herder. Gently he raised his head and held the cup to his lips. Chance stood in the middle of the room strangely subdued, yet he watched each movement of his master with alert eyes. The moonlight faded from the window and the fire died down. The air became chill as the faint light of dawn crept in to emphasize the ghastly picture--the barren, rough-boarded room, the rusted stove, the towering figure of Sundown, impa.s.sively waiting; and the 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 the faint thud of hoofs in the loose sand of the roadway. He grew instantly alert, raising himself on his elbow and gazing with fear-wide eyes toward the south.

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

'Sandro raised his hands and implored Sundown to save him from the riders. Sundown stepped to the window. He saw the flash of spurs and bits as a group of the Concho boys swept down the road. One of them was leading a riderless horse. In a flash he realized that they had found the herder's horse and had tracked 'Sandro to the water-hole. He backed away from the window and reaching down took the Mexican's gun from its holster. ”'T ain't what I figured on,” he muttered. ”They's me 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 stepped to the doorway, Chance beside him.

Shoop glanced quickly at the silent figure. Then his gaze drifted to the 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 to prevent the men entering the house, but once within the house he determined 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.