Sundown was established at the water-hole.  Corliss had sent a team to Antelope for provisions, implements, and fencing.  Meanwhile, Sundown had been industrious, not alone because he felt the necessity for something to occupy his time, but that he wanted to forget the tragedy he had so recently witnessed.  And he had dreams of a more companionable future which included Mexican dishes served hot, evenings of blissful indolence accompanied by melody, and a Senora who would sing “Linda Rosa, Adios!” which would be the “piece de resistance” of his pastoral menu.

The “tame cow,” which he had so ardently longed for, now grazed soulfully in a temporary enclosure out on the mesa.  Two young and sprightly black pigs prospected the confines of their littered hermitage.  Four gaunt hens and a more or less dilapidated rooster stalked about the yard, no longer afraid of the watchful Chance, who had previously introduced himself to the rooster without the formality of Sundown’s presence as mediator.  Sundown was proud of his chickens.  The cow, however, had been, at first, rather a disappointment to him.  Milk had not heretofore been a conspicuous portion of Sundown’s diet, nor was he versed in the art of obtaining it except over the counter in tins.  With due formality and some trepidation he had placed a pail beneath “Gentle Annie” as he called her, and had waited patiently.  So had Gentle Annie, munching a reflective cud, and Sundown, in a metaphorical sense, doing likewise.  He had walked around the cow inspecting her with an anxious and critical eye.  She seemed healthful and voluptuously contented.  Yet no milk came.  Bud Shoop, having at that moment arrived with the team, sized up the situation.  When he had recovered enough poise to stand without assistance and had wiped the wild tears from his eyes, he instructed the amazed Sundown as to certain manipulations necessary to produce the desired result.  “Huh!  Folks says cows give milk.  But I reckon that ain’t right,” Sundown had asserted.  “You got to take it away from ’em.”  So he had taken what he could, which was not, at first, a great deal.

This momentous morning he had decided that his unsolicited mission was to induce or persuade Loring to arbitrate the question of grazing-rights.  It was a strange idea, although not incompatible with Sundown’s peculiar temperament.  He felt justified in taking the initiative; especially in view of the fact that Loring’s sheep had been trespassing on his property.

He saddled “Pill,” and called to Chance.  “See here, Chance, you and me’s pals.  No, you ain’t comin’ this trip.  You stick around and keep your eye on me stock.  What’s mine is yourn exceptin’ the rooster.  Speakin’ poetical, he belongs to them hens.  If he ain’t here when I get back, I can pretty nigh tell by the leavin’s where he is.  When I git back I look to find you hungry, sabe?  And not sneakin’ around lookin’ at me edgeways with leetle feathers stickin’ to your nose.  I reckon you understand.”