Sundown Slim. Henry Herbert Knibbs
replied Sundown. "When I hit this here hotel I was hungry. I seen a rabbit—not this here one, but the other one. This one was settin' in a bunch of-brush on me right-of-way. I was behind and runnin' to make up time. I kind o' seen the leetle prairie-dog give me the red to slow down, but it was too late. Hit his cyclone cellar with me right driver, and got wrecked. This here leetle wad o' cotton was under me steam-chest. No other passengers hurt, except the engineer."
Corliss laughed. "You're a railroad man, I take it. Belong in this country?"
Sundown rose from his knees and backed away from the stove. "Nope. Don't belong anywhere, I guess. My address when I'm to home is Sundown Slim, Outdoors, Anywhere, speakin' general."
"Come in afoot?"
"Uhuh. Kind o' thought I'd get a job. Fellas at Antelope told me they wanted a cook at this hotel. I reckon they do—and some boarders and somethin' to cook."
"That's one of their jokes. Pretty stiff joke, sending you in here afoot."
"Oh, I ain't sore, mister. They stole me nanny, all right, but I feel jest as good here as anywhere."
Corliss led Chinook to the water-hole. Sundown followed.
"Ever think how many kinds of water they was?" queried Sundown. "Some is jest water; then they's some got a taste; then some's jest wet, but this here is fine! Felt like jumpin' in and drinkin' from the bottom up when I lit here. Where do you live?"
"On the Concho, thirty miles south."
"Any towns in between?"
Corliss smiled. "No, there isn't a fence or a house from here to the ranch."
"Gee Gosh! Any cows in this country?"
"Yes. The Concho runs ten thousand head on the range."
"Had your supper?"
"No. I was late getting away from the ranch. Expected to make Antelope, but I guess I'll bush here to-night."
"Well, seein' you're the first boarder at me hotel, I'll pass the hash." And Sundown stepped into the house and returned with the half rabbit. "I got some coffee, too. I can cook to beat the band when I got somethin' to cook. Help yourself, pardner. What's mine is anybody's that's hungry. I et the other half."
"Don't mind if I do. Thanks. Say, you can cook?"
"Next to writin' po'try it's me long suit."
"Well, I'm no judge of poetry," said Corliss. "This rabbit tastes pretty good."
"You ain't a cop, be you?" queried Sundown.
"No. Why?"
"Nothin'. I was jest wonderin'."
"You have traveled some, I take it."
"Me? Say! I'm the ramblin' son with the nervous feet. Been round the world and back again on them same feet, and some freights. Had a pal onct. He was a college guy. Run on to him on a cattle-boat. He writ po'try that was the real thing! It's ketchin' and I guess I caught it from him. He was a good little pal."
"What became of him?"
"I dunno, pardner. They was a wreck—but guess I'll get that coffee."
"How did you cross the Beaver Dam?" inquired Corliss as Sundown reappeared with his can of coffee.
"So that's what you call that creek back there? Well, it don't need no Beaver hitched on to it to say what I'd call it. I come through last night, but I'm dry now."
The cattle-man proffered Sundown tobacco and papers. They smoked and gazed at the stars. "Said your friend was a college man. What was his name?" queried Corliss, turning to glance at Sundown.
"Well, his real name was Billy Corliss, but I called him jest Bill."
"Corliss! When did you lose track of him?"
"In that wreck, 'bout a year ago. We was ridin' a fast freight goin' west. He said he was goin' home, but he never said where it was. Hit a open switch—so they said after—and when they pulled the stitches, and took that plaster dingus off me leg, I starts out huntin' for Billy. Nobody knowed anything about him. Wasn't no signs in the wreck—so they said. You see I was in that fadeaway joint six weeks."
"What did he look like?"
"Billy? More like a girl than a man. Slim-like, with blue eyes and kind o' bright, wavy-like hair. He never said nothin' about his folks. He was a awful quiet kid."
John Corliss studied Sundown's face. "You say he was killed in a wreck?"
"I ain't sure. But I reckon he was. It was a bad one. He was ridin' a empty, just ahead of me. Then the whole train buckled up and somethin' hit me on the lid. That's all I remember, till after."
"What are you going to do now? Go back to Antelope?"
"Me? Guess I will. I was lookin' for a job cooking but the pay ain't right here. What you lookin' at me that way for?"
"Sit still. I'm all right. My brother Will left home three years ago. Didn't say a word to any one. He'd been to school East, and he wrote some things for the magazines—poetry. I was wondering—"
"Say, mister, what's your name?"
"John Corliss."
"Gee Gosh! I knowed when I et that rabbit this mornin' that somethin' was goin' to happen. Thought it was po'try, but I was mistook."
"So you ate your half of the rabbit this morning, eh?"
"Sure!!—"
"And you gave me the rest. You sure are loco."
"Mebby I be. Anyhow, I'm used to bein' hungry. They ain't so much of me to keep as you—crossways, I mean. Of course, up and down—"
"Well, I'm right sorry," said Corliss. "You're the queerest Hobo I ever saw."
"That's what they all say," said Sundown, grinning. "I ain't no common hand-out grabber, not me! I learnt things from Bill. He had class!"
"You sure Will never said anything about the Concho, or his brother, or Chance?"
"Chance? Who's he?"
"Wolf-dog that belonged to Will."
"Gee Gosh! Big, and long legs, and kind of long, rough hair, and deep in the chest and—"
"That's Chance; but how did you know?"
"Why, Billy writ a pome 'bout him onct. Sold 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