But Bud had profited by the innovation.  An Easterner sojourning with Bud for a season, had taught him to play two tunes—­“Annie Laurie” and “Dixie.”  “Real hand-made music,” Bud was wont to remark.  And with these tunes at his disposal he was more than content.  Many a long evening he sat with his huge bulk swaying in the light of the hanging lamp as he wandered around Maxwelton’s braes in search of the true Annie Laurie; or hopped with heavy sprightliness across the sandy bottoms of Dixie, while Bondsman, the patient Airedale, sat on his haunches and accompanied Bud with dismal energy.

Bud was not a little proud of his accomplishment.  The player was all right, but it lacked the human touch.  Even when an occasional Apache strayed in and borrowed tobacco or hinted at a meal, Bud was not above entertaining the wondering red man with music.  And Bud disliked Apaches.

And during these latter days Bud had had plenty of opportunity to indulge himself in music.  For hours he would sit and gently strike the keys, finding unexpected harmonies that thrilled and puzzled him.  The discords didn’t count.  And Bondsman would hunch up close with watchful eye and one ear cocked, waiting for the familiar strains of “Annie Laurie” or “Dixie.”  He seemed to consider these tunes a sort of accompaniment to his song.  If he dared to howl when Bud was extemporizing, Bud would rebuke him solemnly, explaining that it was not considered polite in the best circles to interrupt a soloist.  And an evening was never complete without “Annie Laurie,” and “Dixie,” with Bondsman’s mournful contralto gaming ascendance as the evening progressed.

“That dog bosses me around somethin’ scandalous,” Bud was wont to remark, as he rose from his labors and prepared for bed.  “There I was huntin’ around for that chord I lit on the other night and almost findin’ it, when he has to howl like a coyote with a sore throat and spile the whole thing.  I ought to learned more tunes.”

* * * * *

It was almost dusk when Lorry topped the trail that led across the Blue Mesa to Bud’s cabin.  Gray Leg pricked his ears, and jogged over the wide level, heading straight for the corral.  The cabin was dark.  Lorry hallooed.  A horse in the corral answered, nickering shrilly.  Lorry found some loose gramma grass in the stable and threw it to the horse.  If this was Shoop’s place, Shoop would not be gone long, or he’d have turned the horse to graze on the open mesa.

Lorry entered and lighted the lamp.  He gazed with astonishment at the piano.  But that could wait.  He was hungry.  In a few minutes he had a fire going, plates laid for two, had made coffee and cut bacon.  He was mixing the dough for hot biscuit when he heard some one ride up.  He stepped to the door.  A bulky figure was pulling a saddle from a horse.  Lorry called a greeting.

“Just a minute, friend,” came from the darkness.

Lorry stepped to the kitchen, and put the biscuit pan in the oven.  A saddle thumped on the veranda, and Bud Shoop, puffing heavily, strode in.  He nodded, filled a basin, and washed.  As he polished his bald spot, his glance traveled from the stove to the table, and thence to Lorry, and he nodded approval.