I’m sure with Jack—­only I was a puncher first afore I took to cookin’.  And I’m a puncher yet—­inside.”  Which was his singular and only spoken tribute to the memory of Sinker.  He had reasoned that it was only right and fitting that the slayer of a cowman should be slain by a cowman—­a code that held good in his time and would hold good now—­especially when the boys saw the battered Stetson, every line of which was mutely eloquent of its owner’s individuality.

Sundown drifted through the afternoon solitudes, his mind dulled by the monotony of the theme which obsessed him.  It was evening when he reached the water-hole.  Around the enclosure straggled a few stray sheep.  He cautioned Chance against molesting them.  Ordinarily he would have approached the ranch-house timidly, but he was beyond fear.  He rode to the gate, tied his horse, and stepped to the doorway.  The door was open.  He entered and struck a match.  In the dusk he saw that the room was empty save for a tarpaulin and a pair of rawhide kyacks such as the herders use.  Examining the kyacks he found that they contained flour, beans, salt, sugar, and coffee.  Evidently the herders had intended making the deserted ranch-house their headquarters.  He wondered vaguely where the Mexicans were.  The thought that they might return did not worry him.  He knew what he would do in that instance.  He would find out which one was ’Sandro . . . and then . . .

The bleating of the stray sheep annoyed him.  He told Chance to stay in the room.  Then he stalked out and opened the gate.  “Mebby they want water.  I dunno.  Them’s Loring’s sheep, all right, but they ain’t to blame for—­for Sinker.”  With the idea came a more reasonable mood.  The sheep were not to blame for the killing of Sinker.  The sheep belonged to Loring.  The herders, also, practically belonged to Loring.  They were only following his bidding when they protected the sheep.  With such reasoning he finally concluded that Loring, not his herder, was responsible for the cowboy’s death.  He returned to the house, built a fire, and cooked an indifferent meal.

Sundown sat up suddenly.  In the dim light of the moon flickering through the dusty panes he saw Chance standing close to the door with neck bristling and head lowered.  Throwing back his blanket he rose and whispered to the dog.  Chance came to him obediently.  Sundown saw that the dog was trembling.  He motioned him back and stepped to the door.  His slumbers had served to restore him to himself in a measure.  His old timidity became manifest as he hesitated, listening.  In the absolute silence of the night he thought he heard a shuffling as of something being dragged across the enclosure.  Tense with anticipating he knew not what, he listened.  Again he heard that peculiar slithering sound.  He opened the door an inch and peered out.  In the pallid glow of the moon he beheld a shapeless object that seemed to be crawling