“Don’t mind if I do.  Thanks.  Say, you can cook?”

“Next to writin’ po’try it’s me long suit.”

“Well, I’m no judge of poetry,” said Corliss.  “This rabbit tastes pretty good.”

“You ain’t a cop, be you?” queried Sundown.

“No.  Why?”

“Nothin’.  I was jest wonderin’.”

“You have traveled some, I take it.”

“Me?  Say!  I’m the ramblin’ son with the nervous feet.  Been round the world and back again on them same feet, and some freights.  Had a pal onct.  He was a college guy.  Run on to him on a cattle-boat.  He writ po’try that was the real thing!  It’s ketchin’ and I guess I caught it from him.  He was a good little pal.”

“What became of him?”

“I dunno, pardner.  They was a wreck—­but guess I’ll get that coffee.”

“How did you cross the Beaver Dam?” inquired Corliss as Sundown reappeared with his can of coffee.

“So that’s what you call that creek back there?  Well, it don’t need no Beaver hitched on to it to say what I’d call it.  I come through last night, but I’m dry now.”

The cattle-man proffered Sundown tobacco and papers.  They smoked and gazed at the stars.  “Said your friend was a college man.  What was his name?” queried Corliss, turning to glance at Sundown.

“Well, his real name was Billy Corliss, but I called him jest Bill.”

“Corliss!  When did you lose track of him?”

“In that wreck, ‘bout a year ago.  We was ridin’ a fast freight goin’ west.  He said he was goin’ home, but he never said where it was.  Hit a open switch—­so they said after—­and when they pulled the stitches, and took that plaster dingus off me leg, I starts out huntin’ for Billy.  Nobody knowed anything about him.  Wasn’t no signs in the wreck,—­so they said.  You see I was in that fadeaway joint six weeks.”

“What did he look like?”

“Billy?  More like a girl than a man.  Slim-like, with blue eyes and kind o’ bright, wavy-like hair.  He never said nothin’ about his folks.  He was a awful quiet kid.”

John Corliss studied Sundown’s face.  “You say he was killed in a wreck?”

“I ain’t sure.  But I reckon he was.  It was a bad one.  He was ridin’ a empty, just ahead of me.  Then the whole train buckled up and somethin’ hit me on the lid.  That’s all I remember, till after.”

“What are you going to do now?  Go back to Antelope?”

“Me?  Guess I will.  I was lookin’ for a job cooking but the pay ain’t right here.  What you lookin’ at me that way for?”

“Sit still.  I’m all right.  My brother Will left home three years ago.  Didn’t say a word to any one.  He’d been to school East, and he wrote some things for the magazines—­poetry.  I was wondering—­”

“Say, mister, what’s your name?”

“John Corliss.”

“Gee Gosh!  I knowed when I et that rabbit this mornin’ that somethin’ was goin’ to happen.  Thought it was po’try, but I was mistook.”