“Then you’re takin’ me prisoner?” queried Sundown.

“That’s correc’.”

“How about the law of that?”

“This outfit’s makin’ its own laws these days,” said Loring.

And so far as Loring was concerned that ended the argument.  Not so, however, with Sundown.  He said nothing.  Had Loring known him better, that fact would have caused him to suspect his prisoner.  With evident meekness the tall one entered the house and gazed with disconsolate eyes at the piled kyacks of provisions, the tarpaulins and sheepskins.  His citadel of dreams had been rudely invaded, in truth.  He was not so much angered by the possible effects of the invasion as by the fact.  Gentle Annie was lowing plaintively.  The chickens were scurrying about the yard, cackling hysterically as they dodged this and that herder.  The two pigs, Sundown reflected consolingly, seemed happy enough.  Loring, standing in the doorway, pointed to the stove.  “Get busy,” he said tersely.  That was the last straw.  Silently Sundown stalked to the stove, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work.  If there were not a score of mighty sick herders that night, it would not be his fault.  He had determined on a bloodless but effective victory, wherein soda and cream-of-tartar should be the victors.

Soda and cream-of-tartar in proper proportions is harmless.  But double the proportion of cream-of-tartar and the result is internal riot.  “And a leetle spice to kill the bitter of the taste ought to work all right,” he soliloquized.  Then he remembered Chance.  Loring had left to oversee the establishment of an outlying camp.  The Mexican who assisted Sundown seemed stupid and sullen.  Sundown found excuse to enter his bedroom, where he hastily scrawled a note to Corliss.  Later he tied the note to the inside of the dog’s collar.  The next thing was to get Chance started on the road to the Concho.  He rolled down his sleeves and strolled to the doorway.  A Mexican sat smoking and watching the road.  Sundown stepped past him and began to tinker with the gas-engine.  Chance stood watching him.  Presently the gas-engine started with a cough and splutter.  Sundown walked to the door and seemed about to enter when the Mexican called to him and pointed toward the distant tank.  Water was pouring over its rim.  “Gee Gosh!” exclaimed Sundown.  “I got to shut her off.”  He ran to the engine and its sound ceased.  Yet the water still poured from the rim of the tank.  “Got to fix that!” he asserted, and started toward the tank.  The Mexican followed him to the fence.

“You come back?” he queried significantly.

“Sure thing!  I ain’t got a hoss, have I?”

The Mexican nodded.  Sundown crawled through the fence and strode slowly to the tank.  He pretended to examine it first in view of the house and finally on the opposite side.  As Chance sniffed along the bottom of the tank, Sundown spoke to him.  The dog’s ears pricked forward.  Sundown’s tone suggested action.  “Here, Chance,—­you fan it for the Concho—­Jack—­the boss.  Beat it for all you’re worth.  The Concho!  Sabe?” And he patted the dog’s head and pointed toward the south.