Sundown Slim | Page 3

Henry Herbert Knibbs
gentle?"
"Uhuh. Say, how far is it to the next town?"
"Comin' or goin'?"

"Goin'."
"'Bout seventy-three miles, but there's nothin' doin' there. Worse'n this."
"Looks like me for a job, or the next rattler goin' west. Any chanct for a
cook here?"
"Nope. All Mexican cooks. But say, I reckon you might tie up over to
the Concho. Hearn tell that Jack Corliss wants a cook. Seems his ole
stand-by Hi Wingle's gone to Phoenix on law business. Jack's a good
boss to tie to. Worked for him myself."
"How far to his place?" queried Sundown.
"Sixty miles, straight south."
"Gee Gosh! Looks like the towns was scared of each other in this here
country. Who'd you say raises them frijoles?"
The cowboy laughed and slapped Sundown on the back. "Come on,
Bud! You eat with me this trip."
Western humor, accentuated by alcohol, is apt to broaden rapidly in
proportion to the quantity of liquor consumed. After a given quantity
has been consumed--varying with the individual--Western humor
broadens without regard to proportion of any kind.
The jovial puncher, having enjoyed Sundown's society to the extent of
six-bits' worth of Mexican provender, suggested a return to "The Last
Chance," where the tramp was solemnly introduced to a newly arrived
coterie of thirsty riders of the mesas. Gaunt and exceedingly tall, he
loomed above the heads of the group in the barroom "like a crane in a
frog-waller," as one cowboy put it. "Which ain't insinooatin' that our
hind legs is good to eat, either," remarked another. "He keeps right on
smilin'," asserted the first speaker. "And takin' his smile," said the other.
"Wonder what's his game? He sure is the lonesomest-lookin' cuss this
side of that dead pine on Bald Butte, that I ever seen." But conviviality
was the order of the evening, and the punchers grouped together and

told and listened to jokes, old and new, talked sagebrush politics, and
threw dice for the privilege of paying rather than winning. "Says he's
scoutin' for a job cookin'," remarked a young cowboy to the main group
of riders. "Heard him tell Johnny."
Meanwhile, Sundown, forgetful of everything save the congeniality of
the moment, was recounting, to an amused audience of three, his
experiences as assistant cook in an Eastern hotel. The rest of the happy
and irresponsible punchers gravitated to the far end of the bar and
proposed that they "have a little fun with the tall guy." One of them
drew his gun and stepped quietly behind the tramp. About to fire into
the floor he hesitated, bolstered his gun and tiptoed clumsily back to his
companions. "Got a better scheme," he whispered.
Presently Sundown, in the midst of his recital, was startled by a roar of
laughter. He turned quickly. The laughter ceased. The cowboy who had
released him from the box-car stated that he must be going, and amid
protests and several challenges to have as many "one-mores," swung
out into the night to ride thirty miles to his ranch. Then it was, as has
been said elsewhere and oft, "the plot thickened."
A rider, leaning against the bar and puffing thoughtfully at a cigar of
elephantine proportions, suddenly took his cigar from his lips, held it
poised, examined it with the eye of a connoisseur--of cattle--and
remarked slowly: "Now, why didn't I think of it? Wonder you fellas
didn't think of it. They need a cook bad! Been without a cook for a
year--and everybody fussin' 'round cookin' for himself."
Sundown caught the word "cook" and turned to, face the speaker. "I
was lookin' for a job, meself," he said, apologetically. "Did you know
of one?"
"You was!" exclaimed the cowboy. "Well, now, that's right queer. I
know where a cook is needed bad. But say, can you honest-to-Gosh
_cook_?"
"I cooked in everything from a hotel to a gradin'-camp. All I want is a
chanct."

The cowboy shook his head. "I don' know. It'll take a pretty good man
to hold down this job."
"Where is the job?" queried Sundown.
Several of the men grinned, and Sundown, eager to be friendly, grinned
in return.
"Mebby you could hold it down," continued the cowboy. "But say, do
you eat your own cookin'?"
"Guess you're joshin' me." And the tramp's face expressed
disappointment. "I eat my own cookin' when I can't get any better," he
added, cheerfully.
"Well, it ain't no joke--cookin' for that hotel," stated the puncher,
gazing at the end of his cigar and shaking his head. "Is it, boys?"
"Sure ain't," they chorused.
"A man's got to shoot the good chuck to hold the trade," he continued.
"Hotel?" queried Sundown. "In this here town?"
"Naw!" exclaimed the puncher. "It's one o' them swell joints out in the
desert. Kind o' what folks East calls a waterin'-place.
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