Sundown Slim | Page 9

it and we lived high--for

a week. Sure as you live! It was called 'Chance of the Concher.' Gee
Gosh! I thought it was jest one of them poetical dogs, like."
Corliss, who was not given to sentiment, smoked and pondered the
possibility of his brother's whereabouts. He had written to all the large
cities asking for information from the police as to the probability of
their being able to locate his brother. The answers had not been
encouraging. At the end of three years he practically gave up making
inquiry and turned his whole attention to the management of the
Concho. There had been trouble between the cattle and sheep interests
and time had passed more swiftly than he had realized. His meeting
with Sundown had awakened the old regret for his brother's
uncalled-for disappearance. Had he been positive that his brother had
been killed in the wreck he would have felt a kind of relief. As it was,
the uncertainty as to his whereabouts, his welfare, worried and
perplexed him, especially in view of the fact that he was on his way to
Antelope to present to the Forest Service a petition from the cattle-men
of the valley for grazing allotments. The sheep had been destroying the
grazing on the west side of the river. There had been bickerings and
finally an open declaration of war against David Loring, the old
sheep-man of the valley. Corliss wished to avoid friction with David
Loring. Their ranches were opposite each other. And as Corliss was
known as level-headed and shrewd, it devolved upon him to present in
person the complaint and petition of his brother cattle-men. Argument
with David Loring, as he had passed the latter's homestead that
morning, had delayed him on his journey to Antelope. Presently he got
up and entered the ranch-house. Sundown followed and poked about in
the corners of the room. He found a bundle of gunny-sacks and
spreading them on the floor, laid his blankets on them.
Corliss stepped out and led Chinook to the distant mesa and picketed
him for the night. As he returned, he considered the advisability of
hiring the tramp to cook until his own cook returned from Phoenix. He
entered the house, kicked off his leather chaps, tossed his spurs into a
corner, and made a bed of his saddle-blankets and saddle. "I'll be
starting early," he said as he drew off his boots. "What are you
intending to do next?"

"Me? Well, I ain't got no plans. Beat it back to Antelope, I guess. Say,
mister, do you think my pal was your brother?"
"I don't know. From your description I should say so. See here. I don't
know you, but I need a cook. The Concho is thirty miles in. I'm headed
the other way, but if you are game to walk it, I'll see if I can use you."
"Me! You ain't givin' me another josh, be you?"
"Never a josh. You won't think so when you get to punchin' dough for
fifteen hungry cowboys. Want to try it?"
"Say, mister, I'm just comin' to. A guy told me in Antelope that they
was a John Corliss--only he said Jack--what was needin' a cook. Just
thunk of it, seein' as I was thinkin' of Billy most ever since I met you.
Are you the one?"
"Guess I am," said Corliss, smiling. "It's up to you."
"Say, mister, that listens like home more'n anything I heard since I was
a kid. I can sure cook, but I ain't no rider."
"How long would it take you to foot it to the Concho?"
"Oh, travelin' easy, say 'bout eight hours."
"Don't see that you need a horse, then, even if there was one handy."
"Nope. I don't need no horse. All I need is a job."
"All right. You'd have to travel thirty miles either way--to get out of
here. I won't be there, but you can tell my foreman, Bud Shoop, that I
sent you in."
"And I'll jest be tellin' him that 'bout twelve, to-morrow. I sure wisht
Billy was here. He'd sure be glad to know his ole pal was cookin' for
his brother. Me for the shavin's. And say, thanks, pardner. Reckon they
ain't all jokers in Arizona."

"No. There are a few that can't make or take one," said Corliss. "Hope
you'll make the ranch all right."
"I'm there! Next to cookin' and writin' po'try, walkin' is me long suit."
CHAPTER IV
PIE; AND SEPTEMBER MORN
When a Westerner, a native-born son of the outlands, likes a man, he
likes him. That is all there is to it. His horses, blankets, money,
provender, and even his saddle are at his friend's disposal. If the friend
prove worthy,--and your Westerner is shrewd,--a lifelong friendship is
the result.