the riders. When they rolled from their blankets
in the crisp air of the morning, they were never kept waiting for their
coffee, hot bread, and frijoles. Moreover, he always had a small fire
going, around which he arranged the tin plates, cups, knives and forks.
This additional fire was acceptable, as the cooking was done on a large
sheet-iron camp-stove, the immediate territory of which was sacred to
Hi Wingle. Wingle, who had been an old-timer when most of the Concho
hands were learning the rudiments of the game, took himself and his
present occupation seriously. His stove was his altar, though burnt
offerings were infrequent. He guarded his culinary precincts with a
watchful eye. His attitude was somewhat akin to that of Cardinal
Richelieu in the handkerchief scene, "Take but one step within these
sacred bounds and on our head I'll lunch the cuss of Rum," or something
to that effect. He was short, ruddy, and bald, and his antithesis,
Sundown, was a source of constant amazement to him. Wingle had seen
many tall men, but never such an elongated individual as his assistant.
It became the habit of one or another of the boys to ask the cook the
way to the distant Concho, usually after the evening meal, when they
were loafing by the camp-fire. Wingle would thereupon scratch his head
and assume an air of intense concentration. "Well," he would
invariably remark, "you take the trail along Sundown's shadder there,
and keep a-fannin' it smart for about three hours. When you come to
the end of the shadder, take the right fork of the river, and in
another hour you'll strike the Concho. That's the quickest way." And
this bit of attenuated humor never failed to produce an effect.

One morning, about a week after Sundown's return to his duties as
assistant, while Wingle was drying his hands, preparatory to reading a
few pages of his favorite novel, Sundown ambled into camp with an
armful of greasewood, dumped it near the wagon, and, straightening up,
rolled a cigarette.

Wingle, immersed in the novel, read for a while and then glanced up
questioningly.

Sundown shook his head.

"Now this here story," said Wingle; "I read her forty-three times come
next round-up, and blamed if I sabe her yet. Now, take it where the
perfesser--a slim gent with large round eye-glasses behind which
twinkled a couple of deep-set studyus eyes--so the book says; now, take
it where he talks about them Hopi graves over there in the valle