long--pardner."

The dying man writhed from Sundown's arms and rolled to his face,
cursing and clutching at the grass in agony. Sundown stood over him,
his hat off, his gaze lifted toward the cloudless sky, his face white
with a new and strange emotion. He raised his long arms and clenched
his hands. "God A'mighty," he whispered, rocking back and forth, "I
got to tell You that sech things is _wrong_. And from what I seen
sence I come to this country, You don't care. But some of us does
care . . . and I reckon we got to do somethin' if You don't."

[Illustration: "God A'mighty, sech things is wrong."]

The cowboy raised himself on rigid arms, he lifted his head, and his
eyes, filmed with the chill of death, grew clear for an instant.
"'Sandro--the herder--got me," he gasped. His lips writhed back from
his clenched teeth. A rush of blood choked him. He sank to the
ground, quivered, and was still.

"'Sandro . . . the herder" . . . whispered Sundown. "Sinker was me
friend. I reckon God's got to leave the finish of this to me."

CHAPTER XXII

WAIT!

To see a man's life go out and to stand by unable to help, unable to
offer comfort or ease mortal agony, is a bitter experience. It brings
the beholder close to the abyss of eternity, wherein the world shrinks
to a speck of whirling dust and the sun is but a needle-point of light.
Then it is that the fleshless face of the unconquerable One leans close
and whispers, not to the insensate clay that mocks the living, but to
the impotent soul that mourns the dead.

That Sundown should consider himself morally bound to become one of
those who he knew would avenge the killing of the cowboy, and without
recourse to law, was not altogether strange. The iron had entered his
soul. Heretofore at loose ends with the world, the finding of Sinker,
dying on the mesas, kindled within him righteous wrath against the
circumstance rather than the individual slayer. His meandering
thoughts and emotions became crystallized. His energies hardened to a
set purpose. He was obsessed with a fanaticism akin to that of those
who had burned witches and thanked their Maker for the opportunity.

In his simple way he wondered why he had not wept. He rode slowly to
the Concho. Chance leaped circling about his horse. He greeted the
dog with a word. When he dismounted, Chance cringed and crept to him.
Without question this was his master, and yet there was something in
Sundown's