he riders disappeared in the bunk-house to wash and make ready for
supper. One of the men, who had spoken to him in passing, reappeared.

"Lookin' for the boss?" he asked.

"Nope. I seen him. I'm lookin' for Mr. Shoop."

"All right, pardner. Saw off the mister and size me up. I'm him."

"The boss said I was to be cook," said Sundown, rather awed by the
personality of the bluff foreman.

"Meet him at Antelope?"

"No. It was the American Hotel. He said for me to tell you if I
walked in I could get a job cookin'."

"All right. What he says goes. Had anything to eat recent?"

"I et a half a rabbit yesterday mornin'."

"Well, sufferin' shucks! You fan it right in here!"

Later that evening, Sundown straggled out to the corral and stood
watching the saddle-stock of the Concho pull hay from the long
feed-rack and munch lazily. Suddenly he jerked up his hand and jumped
round. The men, loafing in front of the bunk-house, laughed. Chance,
the great wolf-dog, was critically inspecting the tramp's legs.

Sundown was a self-confessed coward, physically. Above all things he
feared dogs. His reception by the men, aside from Bud Shoop's
greeting, had been cool. Even the friendship of a dog seemed
acceptable at that moment. Plodding along the weary miles between the
water-hole and the ranch, he had, in his way, decided to turn over a
new leaf: to ignore the insistent call of the road and settle down to
something worth while. Childishly egotistical, he felt in a vague way
that his virtuous intent was not appreciated, not reasoning that the
men knew nothing of his wanderings, nor cared to know anything other
than as to his ability to cook. So he timidly stroked the long muzzle
of the wolf-dog, and was agreeably surprised to find that Chance seemed
to like it. In fact, Chance, having an instinct superior to that of
his men companions of the Concho, recognized in the gaunt and lonely
figure a kindred spirit; a being that had the wander-fever in its
veins; that was forever searching for the undiscoverable, the something
just beyond the visible boundaries of day. The dog, part Russian
wolf-hound and part Great Dane, deep-chested, swift and powerful, shook
his shaggy coat and sneezed. Sundown jumped. Again the men laughed.
"You and me's built about alike--for speed," he said, endeavoring to
convey his friendly intent through compliment. "Did you ever ketch a
rabbit?"

Chance whined. Possibly he understood