joke. Reckon the proprietor must be out huntin' up trade. And accordin' to that he won't be back direct."

He wandered about the place like a stray cat in a strange attic, timorous and curious. Ordinarily he would have considered himself fortunate. The house offered shelter and seclusion. There was clear cold water to drink and a stove on which to cook. As he thought of the stove the latitude and longitude of the "joke" dawned upon him with full significance. He drank at the water-hole and, gathering a few sticks, built a fire. From his blankets he took a tin can, drew a wad of newspaper from it, and made coffee. Then he cast about for something to eat. "Now, if I was a cow—" he began, when he suddenly remembered the rabbit. "Reckon he's got relations hoppin' around in them bushes." He picked up a stick and started for the gate.

Not far from the ranch he saw a rabbit crouched beneath a clump of brush. He flung his stick and missed. The rabbit ran to another bush and stopped. Encouraged by the little animal's nonchalance, he dashed after it with a wild and startling whoop. The rabbit circled the brush and set off at right angles to his pursuer's course. Sundown made the turn, but it was "on one wheel" so to speak. His foot caught in a prairie-dog hole and he dove headlong with an exclamation that sounded as much like "Whump!" as anything else. He uttered another and less forced exclamation when he discovered in the tangle of brush that had broken his fall, another rabbit that had not survived his sudden visitation. He picked up the limp, furry shape. "Asleep at the switch," he said. "He ain't much bigger than a whisper, but he's breakfast."

Rabbit, fried on a stove-lid, makes a pretty satisfying meal when eating ceases to be a pleasure and becomes a necessity. Sundown wisely reserved a portion of his kill for future consumption.

As the morning grew warmer, he fell asleep in the shade of the ranch-house. Late in the afternoon he wakened, went into the house and made coffee. After the coffee he came out, rolled a cigarette, and sat smoking and gazing out across the afternoon mesas. "I feel it comin'," he said to himself. "And it's a good one, so I guess I'll put her in me book."

He rummaged in his blankets and unearthed a grimy, tattered notebook. Lubricating the blunt point of a stubby pencil he set to work. When he had finished, the sun was close to the horizon. He sat back and gazed sideways at his effort. "I'll try her on meself," he said, drawing up his leg and resting the notebook against his lean knee. "Wish I could stand off and listen to meself," he muttered. "Kind o' get the defect better." Then he read laboriously:—

"Bo, it's goin' to be hot all right;
    Sun's a floodin' the eastern range.
Mebby it was kind o' cold last night,
    But there's nothin' like havin' a little change.
Money? No. Only jest room for me;
    Mountings and valleys and plains and such.
Ain't I got eyes that was made to see?
    Ain't I got ears? But they don't hear much:
Only a kind of a inside song,
 Like when the grasshopper quits his sad,
And says: 'Rickety-chick! Why, there is nothin' wrong!'
 And after the coffee, things ain't so bad."

"Huh! Sounds all right for a starter. Ladies and them as came with you, I will now spiel the next section."

"The wind is makin' my bed for me,
 Smoothin' the grass where I'm goin' to flop,
When the quails roost up in the live-oak tree,
 And my legs feel like as they want to stop.
Pal or no pal, it's about the same,
 For nobody knows how you feel inside.
Hittin' the grit is a lonesome game,—
 But quit it? No matter how hard I tried.
But mebby I will when that inside song
 Stops a-buzzin' like bees that's mad,
Grumblin' together: 'There's nothin' wrong!'
 And—after the coffee things ain't so bad."

"Bees ain't so darned happy, either. They're too busy. Guess it's a good thing I went back to me grasshopper in the last verse. And now, ladies and gents, this is posituvely the last appearance of the noted electrocutionist, Sundown Slim; so, listen."

"Ladies, I've beat it from Los to Maine.
 And, gents, not knowin' jest what to do,
I turned and slippered it back again,
 Wantin' to see, jest the same as you.
Ridin' rods and a-dodgin' flies;
 Eatin' at times when me luck was good.
Spielin' the con to the easy guys,
 But never jest makin' it understood,
Even to me, why that inside song
 Kep' a-handin' me out the glad,
Like the grasshopper singin': 'There's nothin' wrong!'
 And—after the coffee things ain't so bad."

Sundown grinned with unalloyed pleasure. His mythical audience seemed to await a few words, so he rose stiffly, and struck an attitude somewhat akin to that of Henry Irving standing beside a milk-can and contemplating the village pump. "It gives me great pleasure to inform you"—he hesitated and cleared his throat—"that them there words of mine was expired by half a rabbit—small—and two cans of coffee. Had I been fed up like youse"—and he bowed grandly—"there's no tellin' what I might 'a' writ. Thankin' you for the box-office receipts, I am yours to demand, Sundown Slim, of Outdoors, Anywhere, till further notice."

Then he marched histrionically to the ranchhouse and made a fire in the rusted stove.

CHAPTER III

THIRTY MILES TO THE CONCHO

John Corliss rode up to the water-hole, dismounted, and pushed through the gate. His horse "Chinook" watched him with gently inquisitive eyes. Chinook was not accustomed to inattention when he was thirsty. He had covered the thirty miles from the Concho Ranch in five long, dry, and dusty hours. He nickered. "In a minute," said Corliss. Then he knocked at the ranch-house door. Riders of the Concho usually strode jingling into the ranch-house without formality. Corliss, however, had been gazing at the lean stovepipe for hours before he finally decided that there was smoke rising from it. He knocked a second time.

"She ain't locked," came in a rusty, smothered voice.

Corliss shoved the door open with his knee. The interior was heavy with smoke. Near the stove knelt Sundown trying to encourage the smoke to more perpendicular behavior. He coughed. "She ain't good in her intentions, this here stove. One time she goes and the next time she stays and takes a smoke. Her innards is out of gear. Whew!"

"The damper has slipped down," said Corliss.

"Her little ole chest-pertector is kind o' worked down toward her stummick. There, now she feels better a'ready."

"Cooking chuck?" queried Corliss, glancing round the bare room.

"Rabbit," replied Sundown. "When I hit this here hotel I was hungry. I seen a rabbit—not this here one, but the other one. This one was settin' in a bunch of-brush on me right-of-way. I was behind and runnin' to make up time. I kind o' seen the leetle prairie-dog give me the red to slow down, but it was too late. Hit his cyclone cellar with me right driver, and got wrecked. This here leetle wad o' cotton was under me steam-chest. No other passengers hurt, except the engineer."

Corliss laughed. "You're a railroad man, I take it. Belong in this country?"

Sundown rose from his knees and backed away from the stove. "Nope. Don't belong anywhere, I guess. My address when I'm to home is Sundown Slim, Outdoors, Anywhere, speakin' general."

"Come in afoot?"

"Uhuh. Kind o' thought I'd get a job. Fellas at Antelope told me they wanted a cook at this hotel. I reckon they do—and some boarders and somethin' to cook."

"That's one of their jokes. Pretty stiff joke, sending you in here afoot."

"Oh, I ain't sore, mister. They stole me nanny, all right, but I feel jest as good