Sundown Slim | Page 6

And
Sundown yawned and stretched. Down the road sped a brown
exclamation mark with a white dot at its visible end. "Guess he don't
have to travel nights to get 'most anywhere," laughed Sundown. He
kicked back his blankets and rose stiffly. The luxury of his yawn was
stifled as he saw below him the ranchhouse with some strange kind of a
sign above its gate. "If that's the hotel," he said as he corded his
blankets, "she don't look much bigger than me own. But distances is
mighty deceivin' in this here open-face country." For a moment he
stood on the hillside, a gaunt, lonely figure, gazing out across the
limitless mesas. Then he jogged down the grade, whistling.
As he drew near the ranch his whistling ceased and his expression
changed to one of quizzical uncertainty. "That's the sign, all
right,--'American Hotel,'--but the hotel part ain't livin' up to the sign.
But some hotels is like that; mostly front."
He opened the ranch-house gate and strode to the door. He knocked
timidly. Then he dropped his blanket-roll and stepped to a window.
Through the grimy glass he saw an empty, board-walled room, a slant
of sunlight across the floor, and in the sunlight a rusted stove. He
walked back to the gateway and stood gazing at the sign. He peered
round helplessly. Then a slow grin illumined his face. "Why," he
exclaimed, "it's--it's a 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