Part 25 (2/2)

Sundown produced matches. The other rolled a cigarette and studied Sundown's face covertly in the glow of the match. In the flare Sundown beheld a thick-set, rather short-necked man, smooth-shaven, and of a ruddy countenance. He also noticed that the stranger wore a coat, and at once surmised that he was neither cowboy nor herder.

”Guess I'll stake out the hoss,” said the man. ”See you later.”

Chance, who had stood with head lowered and neck outstretched, whined and leaped up at Sundown, standing with paws on his master's chest and vainly endeavoring to tell him something. The dog's eyes were eloquent and intense.

Sundown patted him. ”It's all right, Chance. That guy's all right.

Guess I know a good face when I see one. What's the matter, anyway?”

Chance dropped to his feet and stalked to his corner. He settled himself with a lugubrious sigh, as though unwillingly relinquis.h.i.+ng his responsibilities in the matter.

When the stranger returned, Sundown had a fire going. ”Feels good,”

commented the man, rubbing his hands and surveying the room in the glow that flared up as he lifted the stove-lid. ”On your way in?”

”Me? Nope. I'm goin' to Antelope.”

”So? Is Jack Corliss hurt bad?”

”He was kind o' shook up for a couple of days. Guess he's gettin'

along all right now. Reckon you heard what somebody done to Fadeaway.”

The stranger nodded. ”They got him, all right. Knew Fade pretty well myself. Guess I'll eat.--That coffee of yours was good, all right,” he said as he finished eating. He reached for the coffee-pot and tipped it. ”She's plumb empty.”

”I'll fill her,” volunteered Sundown, obligingly.

As he disappeared in the darkness, the stranger stepped to the rear door of the room and opened it. Then he closed the door and stooping laid his saddle and blankets against it. ”He can't make a break that way,” he said to himself. As Sundown came in, the man noticed that the front door creaked shrilly when opened or closed and seemed pleased with the fact. ”Too bad about Fadeaway,” he said, helping himself to more coffee. ”Wonder who got him?”

”I dunno. I found me boss with his head busted the same day they got Fade.”

”Been riding for the Concho long?”

”That ain't no joke, if you're meanin' feet and inches.”

The other laughed. His eyes twinkled in the ruddy glow of the stove.

Suddenly he straightened his shoulders and appeared to be listening.

”It's the hosses,” he said finally. ”Some coyote's fussin' around bothering 'em. It's a long way from home as the song goes. Lend me your gun and I'll go see if I can plug one of 'em and stop their yipping.”

Sundown presented his gun to the stranger, who slid it between trousers and s.h.i.+rt at the waist-band. ”Don't hear 'em now,” he announced finally. ”Well, guess I'll roll in.”

Strangely enough, he had apparently forgotten to return the gun.

Sundown, undecided whether to ask for it or not, finally spread his blankets and called Chance to him. The dog curled at his master's feet. Save for the diminis.h.i.+ng crackle of dry brush in the stove, the room was still. Evidently the ruddy-faced individual was asleep.

Vaguely troubled by the stranger's failure to return his gun, Sundown drifted to sleep, not for an instant suspecting that he was virtually the prisoner of the sheriff of Apache County, who had at Loring's instigation determined to arrest the erstwhile tramp for the murder of Fadeaway. The sheriff had his own theory as to the killing and his theory did not for a moment include Sundown as a possible suspect, but he had a good, though unadvertised, reason for holding him. Accustomed to dealing with frontier folk, he argued that Sundown's imprisonment would eventually bring to light evidence leading to the ident.i.ty of the murderer. It was a game of bluff, and at such a game he played a master hand.

The stranger seemed unusually affable in the morning. He made the fire, and, before Sundown had finished eating, had the two ponies saddled and ready for the road. Sundown thought him a little too agreeable. He was even more perplexed when the man said that he had changed his mind and would ride to Antelope with him. ”Thought you said you was goin' to the Concho?”

”Well, seeing you say Jack can't ride yet, guess I'll wait.”

”He can talk, all right,” a.s.serted Sundown.

The other paid no apparent attention to this remark but rode along pointing out landmarks and discoursing largely upon the weather, the feed, and price of hay and grain and a hundred topics a.s.sociated with ranch-life. Sundown, forgetful of his pose as a vaquero of long standing (unintentional), a.s.sumed rather the att.i.tude of one absorbing information on such topics than disseminating it. Nor did he understand the stranger's genial invitation to have supper with him at Antelope that night, as they rode into the town. He knew, however, that he was creating a sensation, which he attributed to his Mexican spurs and chaps. People stared at him as he stalked down the street and turned to stare again. His companion seemed very well known in Antelope. Nearly every one spoke to him or waved a greeting. Yet there was something peculiar in their att.i.tudes. There was an aloofness about them that was puzzling.

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