toward him.  Something in the helpless attitude of the object suggested Sinker as he had risen on his arm, endeavoring to tell of the disaster which had overtaken him.  With a gesture of scorn at his own fear he swung open the door.  Chance crept at his heels, whining.  Then Sundown stepped out and stood gazing at the strange figure on the ground.  Not until a groan of agony broke the utter silence did he realize that the night had brought to him a man, wounded and suffering terribly.  “Who are you?” he questioned, stooping above the man.  The other dragged himself to Sundown’s feet and clawed at his knees. “’Sandro . . .  It is—­that I—­die.  You don’ keel . . .  You don’ . . .”

Sundown dragged the herder to the house and into the bedroom.  He got water, for which the herder called piteously.  With his own blanket he made him as comfortable as he could.  Then he built a fire that he might have light.  The herder was shot through the thigh, and had all but bled to death dragging himself across the mesa from where he had fallen from his horse.  Sundown tried to stop the bleeding with strips torn from his bandanna.  Meanwhile the wounded man was imploring him not to kill him.

“I’m doin’ me best to fix you up, Dago,” said Sundown.  “But you better go ahead and say them prayers—­and you might put in a couple for Sinker what you shot.  I reckon his slug cut the big vein and you got to go.  Wisht I could do somethin’ . . . to help . . . you stay . . . but mebby it’s better that you cross over easy.  Then the boys don’t get you.”

The Mexican seemed to understand.  He nodded as he lay gazing at the lean figure illumined by the dancing light of the open stove.  “Si.  You good hombre, si,” he gasped.

Sundown frowned.  “Now, don’t you take any idea like that along to glory with you.  Sinker—­what you shot—­was me friend.  I ought to kill you like a snake.  But God A’mighty took the job off me hands.  I reckon that makes me square with—­with Sinker—­and Him.”

Again Sundown brought water to the herder.  Gently he raised his head and held the cup to his lips.  Chance stood in the middle of the room strangely subdued, yet he watched each movement of his master with alert eyes.  The moonlight faded from the window and the fire died down.  The air became chill as the faint light of dawn crept in to emphasize the ghastly picture—­the barren, rough-boarded room, the rusted stove, the towering figure of Sundown, impassively waiting; and the shattered, shrunken figure of the Mexican, hopeless and helpless, as the morning mesas welcomed the golden glow of dawn and a new day.

The herder, despite his apparent torpor, was the first to hear the faint thud of hoofs in the loose sand of the roadway.  He grew instantly alert, raising himself on his elbow and gazing with fear-wide eyes toward the south.

Sundown nodded.  “It’s the boys,” he said, as though speaking to himself.  “I was hopin’ he could die easy.  I dunno.”