“So you ate your half of the rabbit this morning, eh?”

“Sure!!—­”

“And you gave me the rest.  You sure are loco.”

“Mebby I be.  Anyhow, I’m used to bein’ hungry.  They ain’t so much of me to keep as you—­crossways, I mean.  Of course, up and down—­”

“Well, I’m right sorry,” said Corliss.  “You’re the queerest Hobo I ever saw.”

“That’s what they all say,” said Sundown, grinning.  “I ain’t no common hand-out grabber, not me!  I learnt things from Bill.  He had class!”

“You sure Will never said anything about the Concho, or his brother, or Chance?”

“Chance?  Who’s he?”

“Wolf-dog that belonged to Will.”

“Gee Gosh!  Big, and long legs, and kind of long, rough hair, and deep in the chest and—­”

“That’s Chance; but how did you know?”

“Why, Billy writ a pome ’bout him onct.  Sold it and we lived high—­for a week.  Sure as you live!  It was called ‘Chance of the Concher.’  Gee Gosh!  I thought it was jest one of them poetical dogs, like.”

Corliss, who was not given to sentiment, smoked and pondered the possibility of his brother’s whereabouts.  He had written to all the large cities asking for information from the police as to the probability of their being able to locate his brother.  The answers had not been encouraging.  At the end of three years he practically gave up making inquiry and turned his whole attention to the management of the Concho.  There had been trouble between the cattle and sheep interests and time had passed more swiftly than he had realized.  His meeting with Sundown had awakened the old regret for his brother’s uncalled-for disappearance.  Had he been positive that his brother had been killed in the wreck he would have felt a kind of relief.  As it was, the uncertainty as to his whereabouts, his welfare, worried and perplexed him, especially in view of the fact that he was on his way to Antelope to present to the Forest Service a petition from the cattle-men of the valley for grazing allotments.  The sheep had been destroying the grazing on the west side of the river.  There had been bickerings and finally an open declaration of war against David Loring, the old sheep-man of the valley.  Corliss wished to avoid friction with David Loring.  Their ranches were opposite each other.  And as Corliss was known as level-headed and shrewd, it devolved upon him to present in person the complaint and petition of his brother cattle-men.  Argument with David Loring, as he had passed the latter’s homestead that morning, had delayed him on his journey to Antelope.  Presently he got up and entered the ranch-house.  Sundown followed and poked about in the corners of the room.  He found a bundle of gunny-sacks and spreading them on the floor, laid his blankets on them.

Corliss stepped out and led Chinook to the distant mesa and picketed him for the night.  As he returned, he considered the advisability of hiring the tramp to cook until his own cook returned from Phoenix.  He entered the house, kicked off his leather chaps, tossed his spurs into a corner, and made a bed of his saddle-blankets and saddle.  “I’ll be starting early,” he said as he drew off his boots.  “What are you intending to do next?”