Sundown Slim | Page 6

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 nothin' wrong!' And after the coffee, things ain't so bad."
"Huh! Sounds all right for a starter. Ladies and them as came with you, I will now spiel the next section."
"The wind is makin' my bed for me, Smoothin' the grass where I'm goin' to flop, When the quails roost up in the live-oak tree, And my legs feel like as they want to stop. Pal or no pal, it's about the same, For nobody knows how you feel inside. Hittin' the grit is a lonesome game,-- But quit it? No matter how hard I tried. But mebby I will when that inside song Stops a-buzzin' like bees that's mad, Grumblin' together: 'There's nothin' wrong!' And--after the coffee things ain't so bad."
"Bees ain't so darned happy, either. They're too busy. Guess it's a good thing I