Sundown Slim | Page 4

Eh, boys?"
"That's her!" volleyed the group.
"Kind o' select-like," continued the puncher.
"Sure is!" they chorused.
"Do you know what the job pays?" asked Sundown.
"U-m-m-m, let's see. Don't know as I ever heard. But there'll be no
trouble about the pay. And you'll have things your own way, if you can
deliver the goods."

"That's right!" concurred a listener.
Sundown looked upon work of any kind too seriously to suspect that it
could be a subject for jest. He gazed hopefully at their hard, keen faces.
They all seemed interested, even eager that he should find work. "Well,
if it's a job I can hold down," he said, slowly, "I'll start for her right
now. I ain't afraid to work when I got to."
"That's the talk, pardner! Well, I'll tell you. You take that road at the
end of the station and follow her south right plumb over the hill. Over
the hill you'll see a ranch, 'way on. Keep right on fannin' it and you'll
come to a sign that reads 'American Hotel.' That's her. Good water, fine
scenery, quiet-like, and just the kind of a place them tourists is always
lookin' for. I stopped there many a time. So has the rest of the boys."
"You was tellin' me it was select-like--" ventured Sundown.
The men roared. Even Sundown's informant relaxed and grinned. But
he became grave again, flicked the ashes from his cigar and waved his
hand. "It's this way, pardner. That there hotel is run on the American
style; if you got the price, you can have anything in the house. And
tourists kind o' like to see a bunch of punchers settin' 'round smokin'
and talkin' and tellin' yarns. Why, they was a lady onct--"
"But she went back East," interrupted a listener.
"That's the way with them," said the cowboy. "They're always stickin'
their irons on some other fella's stock. Don't you pay no 'tention to
them."
Sundown shook hands with his informant, crossed to the corner of the
room, and slung his blanket-roll across his back. "Much obliged to you
fellas," he said, his lean, timorous face beaming with gratitude. "It
makes a guy feel happy when a bunch of strangers does him a good
turn. You see I ain't got the chanct to get a job, like you fellas, me bein'
a Bo. I had a pal onct--but He crossed over. He was the only one that
ever done me a good turn without my askin'. He was a college guy. I
wisht he was here so he could say thanks to you fellas classy-like. I'm

feeling them kind of thanks, but I can't say 'em."
The grins faded from some of the faces. "You ain't goin' to fan it
to-night?" asked one.
"Guess I will. You see, I'm broke, now. I'm used to travelin' any old
time, and nights ain't bad--believe me. It's mighty hot daytimes in this
here country. How far did you say?"
"Just over the hill--then a piece down the trail. You can't miss it," said
the cowboy who had spoken first.
"Well, so-long, gents. If I get that job and any of you boys come out to
the hotel, I'll sure feed you good."
An eddy of smoke followed Sundown as he passed through the
doorway. A cowboy snickered. The room became silent.
"Call the poor ramblin' lightnin'-rod back," suggested a kindly puncher.
"He'll come back fast enough," asserted the perpetrator of the "joke."
"It's thirty dry and dusty miles to the water-hole ranch. When he gets a
look at how far it is to-morrow mornin' he'll sure back into the fence
and come flyin' for Antelope with reins draggin'. Set 'em up again,
Joe."
CHAPTER II
THE JOKE
Owing to his unaccustomed potations Sundown was perhaps a trifle
over-zealous in taking the road at night. He began to realize this after
he had journeyed along the dim, starlit trail for an hour or so and found
no break in the level monotony of the mesa. He peered ahead, hoping to
see the blur of a hill against the southern stars. The air was cool and
clear and sweet. He plodded along, happy in the prospect of work.
Although he was a physical coward, darkness and the solitudes held no
enemies for him. He felt that the world belonged to him at night. The

moon was his lantern and the stars were his friends. Circumstance and
environment had wrought for him a coat of cheerful effrontery which
passed for hardihood; a coat patched with slang and gaping with
inconsistencies, which he put on or off at will. Out on the starlit mesas
he had metaphorically shed his coat. He was at home. Here there were
no men to joke about his awkwardness and his ungainly height. A