Sundown Slim | Page 9

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. If the friend prove unworthy, it is well for him to seek other latitudes, for the average man of the outlands has a peculiar and deep-seated pride which is apt to manifest itself in prompt and vigorous action when touched by ridicule or ingratitude. There are many Davids and Jonathans in the sagebrush country. David may have flocks and herds, and Jonathan may have naught but the care of them. David may possess lands and water-rights, and Jonathan nothing more than a pick, a shovel, a pan, and an incurable itch for placering. A Westerner likes a man for what he is and not because of his vocation. He usually proceeds cautiously in the matter of friendship, but sudden and instinctive friendships are not infrequent. It so happened that John Corliss had taken a liking to the Hobo, Sundown Slim. Knowing a great deal more about cattle than about psychology, the rancher wasted no time in trying to analyze his feelings. If the tramp had courage enough to walk another thirty miles across the mesas to get a job cooking, there must be something to him besides legs. Possibly the cattle-man felt that he was paying a tribute to the memory of his brother. In any event, he greeted Sundown next morning as the latter came