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  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 God 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, impassively 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.

  Shoop strode forward. "The game's up, Sun. We want the Mexican."

  "This is me ranch," said Sundown. "I got the papers—here. You fellas is sure welcome—only they ain't goin' to be no shootin' or such-like. I ain't joshin' this time."

  A voice broke the succeeding silence. "If the Mexican is in there, we want him—that's all."

  Sundown's eyes became bright with a peculiar expression. Slowly—yet before any one could realize his intent—he reached down and drew the Mexican's gun. "You're me friends," he said quietly. "He's in there—dyin'. I reckon Sinker got him. He drug himself here last night and I took him in. This is me home—and if you fellas is men, you'll let him die easy and quiet."

  "I'm from Missouri," said Shoop, with a hard laugh. "You got to show me that he's—like you say, or—"

  Sundown leveled his gun at Shoop. "I ain't lyin' to you, Bud. Sinker was me friend. And I ain't lyin' when I says that the fust fella that tries to tech him crosses over afore he does."

  Some one laughed. Corliss touched Shoop's arm and whispered to him. With a curse the foreman turned and the men clumped out to the yard.

  "He's right," said Corliss. "We'll wait."

  They stood around talking and commenting upon Sundown's defense of the Mexican.

  "'Course we could 'a' got him," said Shoop, "but it don't set right with me to be stood up by a tenderfoot. Sundown's sure loco."

  "I don't know, Bud. He's queer, all right, but this is his ranch. He's got a right to order us out."

  Shoop was about to retort when Sundown came to the doorway. "I guess you can come in now," he said. "And you won't need no gun." The men shuffled awkwardly, and finally led by Corliss they filed into the room and one by one they stepped to the open door of the bedroom and gazed within. Then they filed out silently.

  "I'll send over some grub," said Corliss as they mounted. Sundown nodded.

  The band of riders moved slowly back toward the Concho. About halfway on their homeward journey they met Loring in a buckboard. The old sheep-man drove up and would have passed them without speaking had not Corliss reined across the road and halted him.

  "One of your herders—'Sandro—is over at the water-hole," said Corliss. "If you're headed for Antelope, you might stop by and take him along."

  Loring glared at the Concho riders, seemed about to speak, but instead clucked to his team. The riders reined out of his way and he swept past, gazing straight ahead, grim, silent, and utterly without fear. He understood the rancher's brief statement, and he already knew of the killing of Sinker. 'Sandro's assistant, becoming frightened, had left his wounded companion on the mesas, and had ridden to the Loring rancho with the story of the fight and its ending.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  THE PEACEMAKER

  "But I ain't no dove—more like a stork, I guess," reflected Sundown as he stood in the doorway of his house. "And storks brings responsibilities in baskets, instead of olive branches. No wonder ole man Noah fired the dove right out ag'in—bringin' him olives what wa'n't pickled, instead of a bunch of grapes or somethin' you can eat! And that there dove never come back. I reckon he figured if he did, ole man Noah'd shoot him. Anyhow, if I ain't no dove of peace, I'm goin' to do the best I can. Everybody 'round here seems like they was tryin' to ride right into trouble wishful, 'stead of reinin' to one side an' givin' trouble a chance to get past. Gee Gosh! If I'd 'a' knowed what I know now—afore I hit this country—but I'm here. Anyhow, they's nothin' wrong with the country. It's the folks, like it 'most always is. Reckon I ought to keep on buildin' fence this mornin', but that there peace idea 's got to singin' in me head. I'll jest saddle up Pill and ride over and tell ole man Loring that I'm takin' care of his sheep charitable what's been hangin' around here since 'Sandro passed over. Mebby that'll kind o' start the talk. Then I can slip him a couple of ideas 'bout how neighbors ought to act. Huh! Me nussin' them sheep for two weeks and more, an' me just dyin' for a leetle taste o' mutton. Mebby his herders was scared to come for 'em, I dunno."

  Sundown was established at the water-hole. Corliss had sent a team to Antelope for provisions, implements, and fencing. Meanwhile, Sundown had been industrious, not alone because he felt the necessity for something to occupy his time, but that he wanted to forget the tragedy he had so recently witnessed. And he had dreams of a more companionable future which included Mexican di
shes served hot, evenings of blissful indolence accompanied by melody, and a Señora who would sing "Linda Rosa, Adios!" which would be the "piece de resistance" of his pastoral menu.

  The "tame cow," which he had so ardently longed for, now grazed soulfully in a temporary enclosure out on the mesa. Two young and sprightly black pigs prospected the confines of their littered hermitage. Four gaunt hens and a more or less dilapidated rooster stalked about the yard, no longer afraid of the watchful Chance, who had previously introduced himself to the rooster without the formality of Sundown's presence as mediator. Sundown was proud of his chickens. The cow, however, had been, at first, rather a disappointment to him. Milk had not heretofore been a conspicuous portion of Sundown's diet, nor was he versed in the art of obtaining it except over the counter in tins. With due formality and some trepidation he had placed a pail beneath "Gentle Annie" as he called her, and had waited patiently. So had Gentle Annie, munching a reflective cud, and Sundown, in a metaphorical sense, doing likewise. He had walked around the cow inspecting her with an anxious and critical eye. She seemed healthful and voluptuously contented. Yet no milk came. Bud Shoop, having at that moment arrived with the team, sized up the situation. When he had recovered enough poise to stand without assistance and had wiped the wild tears from his eyes, he instructed the amazed Sundown as to certain manipulations necessary to produce the desired result. "Huh! Folks says cows give milk. But I reckon that ain't right," Sundown had asserted. "You got to take it away from 'em." So he had taken what he could, which was not, at first, a great deal.

  This momentous morning he had decided that his unsolicited mission was to induce or persuade Loring to arbitrate the question of grazing-rights. It was a strange idea, although not incompatible with Sundown's peculiar temperament. He felt justified in taking the initiative; especially in view of the fact that Loring's sheep had been trespassing on his property.

  He saddled "Pill," and called to Chance. "See here, Chance, you and me's pals. No, you ain't comin' this trip. You stick around and keep your eye on me stock. What's mine is yourn exceptin' the rooster. Speakin' poetical, he belongs to them hens. If he ain't here when I get back, I can pretty nigh tell by the leavin's where he is. When I git back I look to find you hungry, sabe? And not sneakin' around lookin' at me edgeways with leetle feathers stickin' to your nose. I reckon you understand."

  Chance followed his master to the road, and there the dog sat gazing at the bobbing figure of Sundown until it was but a speck in the morning sunshine. Then Chance fell to scratching his ear with his hind foot, rose and shook himself, and stalked indolently to the yard where he lay with his nose along his outstretched fore legs, watching the proscribed rooster with an eloquence of expression that illustrated the proverbial power of mind over matter.

  Sundown kept Pill loping steadily. It was a long ride, but Sundown's mind was so preoccupied with the preparing of his proposed appeal to the sheep-man that the morning hours and the sunlit miles swept past unnoticed. The dark green of the acacias bordering the hacienda, the twinkling white of the speeding windmill, and the dull brown of the adobes became distinct and separate colors against the far edge of the eastern sky. He reined his pony to a walk. "When you're in a hurry to do somethin'," he informed his horse, "it ain't always good politics to let folks know it. So we'll ride up easy, like we had money to spend, and was jest lookin' over the show-case." And Pill was not averse to the suggestion.

  Sundown dismounted, opened the gate, and swinging to the saddle, rode up to the ranch-house. Had he known that Anita, the daughter of Chico Miguel, was at that moment talking with the wife of one of Loring's herders; that she was describing him in glowing terms to her friend, and moreover, as he passed up the driveway, that Anita had turned swiftly, dropping the pitcher of milk which she had just brought from the cooling-room as she saw him, he might well have been excused from promulgating his mission of peace with any degree of coherence. Sublimely ignorant of her presence,—spiritualists and sentimentalists to the contrary in like instances,—he rode directly to the hacienda, asked for the patron, and was shown to the cool interior of the house by the mildly astonished Señora. Señor Loring would return presently. Would the gentleman refresh himself by resting until the Señor returned? Possibly she herself could receive the message—or the Señorita, who was in the garden?

  "Thanks, lady. I reckon Pill is dry—wants a drink—agua—got a thirst. No, ma'am. I can wait. I mean me horse."

  "Oh! Si! But Juan would attend to the horse and at once."

  "Thanks, lady. And if Miss Loring ain't too busy, I reckon I'd like to see her a minute."

  The Señora disappeared. Sundown could hear her call for Juan. Presently Nell Loring came to the room, checked an exclamation of surprise as she recognized him, and stepping forward, offered her hand. "You're from Mr. Corliss. I remember.… Is Chance all right now?"

  "Yes, ma'am. He is enjoyin' fust-rate health. He eats reg'lar—and rabbits in between. But I ain't from the Concho, lady. I'm from me own ranch, down there at the water-hole. Me boss ain't got nothin' to do with me bein' here. It's me own idea. I come friendly and wishful to make a little talk to your pa."

  Wondering what could have induced Sundown to call at her home, especially under the existing circumstances, Nell Loring made him welcome. After he had washed and strolled over to the stables to see to his horse. Sundown, returning, declined an invitation to come in, and sat on the veranda, smoking cigarettes and making mental note of the exterior details of the hacienda: its garden, shade-trees, corrals, and windmill. Should prosperity smile upon him, he would have a windmill, be Gosh! Not a white one—though white wasn't so bad—but something tasty; red, white and blue, mebby—a real American windmill, and in the front of the house a flagpole with the American flag. And he would keep the sign "American Hotel" above the gate. There was nothin' like bein' paterotic. Mexican ranches—some of 'em—was purty enough in a lazy kind of style, but he was goin' to let folks know that a white man was runnin' the water-hole ranch!

  And all unknown to him, Anita stood in the doorway of one of the herder's 'dobes, more than ever impressed by the evident importance of her beau-idéal of chivalry, who took the kick of horses as a matter of course, and rose smilingly from such indignities to present flowers to her with eyes which spake of love and lips that expressed, as best they could, admiration. Anita was a bit disappointed and perhaps a bit pleased that he had not as yet seen her. As it was she could worship from a distance that lent security to her tender embarrassment. The tall one must, indeed, be a great caballero to be made welcome at the patron's home. Assuredly he was not as the other vaqueros who visited the patron. He sat upon the veranda and smoked in a lordly way, while they inevitably held forth in the less conspicuous latitude of the bunk-house and its environs. Anita was happy.

  Sundown, elated by the righteousness of his mission as harbinger of peace, met Loring returning from one of the camps with gracious indifference to the other's gruff welcome.

  They sat at the table and ate in silence for a while. With the refreshing coffee Sundown's embarrassment melted. His weird command of language, enhanced by the opportunity for exercise in a good cause, astonished and eventually interested his hearers. He did not approach his subject directly, but mounted the metaphorical steps of his rostrum leisurely. He discoursed on the opportunities afforded by the almost limitless free range. He hinted at the possibility of internecine strife eventually awakening the cupidity of "land-sharks" all over the country. If there was land worth killing folks for, there was land worth stealing. If the Concho Valley was once thrown open to homesteaders, then farewell free range and fat cattle and sheep. And the mention of sheep led him to remark that there was a small band at the water-hole, uncared-for save by himself. "And he was no sheep-man, but he sure hated to see any critters sufferin' for water, so he had allowed the sheep to drink at the water-hole." Then he paused, anticipating the obvious question to which he made answer: "Yes. The water-hole ranch is me ranch. I filed on
her the same day that you and Miss Loring come to Usher. Incondescent to that I was in the calaboose at Antelope. Somebody tole the sheriff that I was a suspicious character. Mebby I am, judgin' from the outside, but inside I ain't. You can't always tell what the works is like by the case, I ain't got no hard feelin's for nobody, and I'm wishful that folks don't have no hard feelin's ag'in' me or anybody else."

  Loring listened in silence. Finally he spoke. "I'll take care of my sheep. I'll send for 'em to-day. Looks like you're tryin' to play square, but you don't figure in this deal. Jack Corliss is at the bottom of it and he's using you. And he'll use you hard. What you goin' to do with the overflow from the water-hole?"

  "I'm goin' to irrigate me ranch," said Sundown.

  Loring nodded. "And cut off the water from everybody?"

  "Not from me friends."

  "Which means the Concho."

  "Sure! Jack Corliss is me friend. But that ain't all. If you want to be me friend, I ain't kickin' even if you did tell the sheriff he ought to git acquainted with me closer. I'm goin' to speak right out. I reckon it's the best way. I got a proposition. If you'll quit sickin' them herders onto cowboys and if Jack'll quit settin' the punchers at your herders, I'll open up me spring and run her down to where they's water for everybody. If cows comes, they drink. If sheep comes, they drink. If folks comes, they drink, likewise. But no fightin'."

  Sundown as arbiter of peace felt that he had, in truth, "spoken right out." He was not a little surprised at himself and a bit fearful. Yet he felt justified in his suggestion. Theoretically he had made a fair offer. Practically his offer was of no value. Sheep and cattle could not occupy the same range. Loring grumbled something and shoved back his chair. They rose and stepped to the veranda.

  "If you can get Corliss to agree to what you say—and quit runnin' cattle on the water-hole side—I'll quit runnin' sheep there." And Loring waved his hand toward the north.