Sundown was a self-confessed coward, physically.  Above all things he feared dogs.  His reception by the men, aside from Bud Shoop’s greeting, had been cool.  Even the friendship of a dog seemed acceptable at that moment.  Plodding along the weary miles between the water-hole and the ranch, he had, in his way, decided to turn over a new leaf:  to ignore the insistent call of the road and settle down to something worth while.  Childishly egotistical, he felt in a vague way that his virtuous intent was not appreciated, not reasoning that the men knew nothing of his wanderings, nor cared to know anything other than as to his ability to cook.  So he timidly stroked the long muzzle of the wolf-dog, and was agreeably surprised to find that Chance seemed to like it.  In fact, Chance, having an instinct superior to that of his men companions of the Concho, recognized in the gaunt and lonely figure a kindred spirit; a being that had the wander-fever in its veins; that was forever searching for the undiscoverable, the something just beyond the visible boundaries of day.  The dog, part Russian wolf-hound and part Great Dane, deep-chested, swift and powerful, shook his shaggy coat and sneezed.  Sundown jumped.  Again the men laughed.  “You and me’s built about alike—­for speed,” he said, endeavoring to convey his friendly intent through compliment.  “Did you ever ketch a rabbit?”

Chance whined.  Possibly he understood.  In any event, he leaped playfully against Sundown’s chest and stood with his paws on the tramp’s shoulders.  Sundown shrunk back against the corral bars.  “Go to it,” he said, trying to cover his fear with a jest, “if you like bones.”

From behind him came a rush of feet.  “Great Scott!” exclaimed Shoop.  “Come ’ere, Chance.  I sure didn’t know he was loose.”

The dog dropped to his feet and wagged his tail inquiringly.

“Chance—­there—­he don’t cotton to strangers,” explained Shoop, slipping his hand in the wolf-dog’s collar.  “Did he nip you?”

“Nope.  But me and him ain’t strangers, mister.  You see, I knowed the boss’s brother Billy, what passed over in a wreck.  He used to own Chance, so the boss says.”

“You knew Billy!  But Chance don’t know that.  I’ll chain him up till he gets used to seein’ you ’round.”

Shoop led the dog to the stable.  Sundown felt relieved.  The solicitude of the foreman, impersonal as it was, made him happier.

Next morning he was installed as cook.  He did fairly well, and the men rode away joking about the new “dough-puncher.”

Then it was that Sundown had an inspiration—­not to write verse, but to manufacture pies.  He knew that the great American appetite is keen for pies.  Finding plenty of material,—­dried apples, dried prunes, and apricots,—­he set to work, having in mind former experiences on the various “east-sides” of various cities.  Determined that his reputation should rest not alone