d struck a drum and immediately muffled the
reverberations with the hand. He was too deeply immersed in himself to
pay much attention to this. Topping the rise, the fresh vista of
rolling mesa, the far blue hills, and a white dot--the distant
Concho--awakened him to a realization of his whereabouts. Again he
heard that peculiar, dull sound. He lifted his horse to a lope and
swept along, the dancing shadow at his side shortening as noon overtook
him. He was about to dismount and partake of the luncheon the kindly
Senora had prepared for him, when he changed his mind. "Lunch and
hunch makes a rhyme," he announced. "And I got 'em both. Guess I'll
jog along and eat at the Concho. Mebby I'll get there in two, three
hours."

As the white dot took on a familiar outline and the eastern wall of the
canon of the Concho showed sharply against the sky, he saw a horseman,
strangely doubled up in the saddle, riding across the mesa toward the
ranch-house. Evidently he also was going to the Concho. Possibly it
was Bud, or Hi Wingle, or Lone Johnny. Following an interval of
attending strictly to the trail he raised his eyes. He pulled his
horse up and sat blinking. Where there had been a horse and rider
there was but the horse, standing with lowered head. He shaded his
eyes with his palm and gazed again. There stood the horse. The man
had disappeared. "Fell into one of them Injun graves," remarked
Sundown. "Guess I'll go see."

It took much longer than he had anticipated to come up with the
riderless horse. He recognized it as one of the Concho ponies. Almost
beneath the animal lay a huddled something. Sundown's scalp tingled.
Slowly he got from his horse and stalked across the intervening space.
He led the pony from the tumbled shape on the ground. Then he knelt
and raised the man's shoulders. Sinker, one of the Concho riders,
groaned and tore at the shirt over his stomach. Then Sundown knew. He
eased the cowboy back and called his name. Slowly the gray lids
opened. "It's me, Sundown! Who done it?"

The cowboy tried to rise on his elbow. Sundown supported his head,
questioning him, for he knew that Sinker had but little time left to
speak. The wounded man writhed impotently, then quieted.

"God, Sun!" he moaned, "they got me. Tell Jack--Mexican--Loring--sheep
at--waterhole. Tried to bluff--'em off--orders not to shoot. They got
orders to shoot--all right. Tell Jack--Guess I'm bleedin'
inside--So-