Sundown dreamed that he was chasing an elusive rabbit over endless wastes of sand and greasewood.  With him ran a phantom dog, a lean, shaggy shape that raced tirelessly.  When Sundown wanted to give up the dream-hunt and rest, the dog would urge him on with whimperings and short, explosive barks of impatience.  Presently the dream-dog ran ahead and disappeared beyond a rise.  Sundown sank to the desert and slept.  He dreamed within his dream that the dog was curled beside him.  He put out his hand and stroked the dog’s head.  Presently a side of the box-stall took outline.  A ray of sunlight filtered in; sunlight flecked with fine golden dust.  The straw rustled at his side and he sat up quickly.  Chance, stretching himself and yawning, showed his long, white fangs in an elaborated dog-smile.  “Gee Gosh!” exclaimed Sundown, eyeing the dog sideways, “so it’s you, eh?  You wasn’t foolin’ me, then, when you said we’d be pals?”

Chance settled down in the straw again and sighed contentedly.

From the corral came the sound of horses running.  The boys were catching up their ponies for the day’s work.  Chance pricked his ears.  “I guess it’s up to me and you to move lively,” said Sundown, stretching and groaning.  “We’re sleepin’ late, account of them midnight abolitions.”

He rose and limped to the doorway.  Chance followed him, evidently quite uninterested in the activities outside.  Would this queer, ungainly man-thing saddle a horse and ride with the others, or would he now depart on foot, taking the trail to Antelope?  Chance knew quite as well as did the men that something unusual was in the air.  Hi Wingle, the cook, had returned unexpectedly that night.  Chance had listened gravely while his master had told Bud Shoop that “the outfit” would move over to Bald Knoll in the morning.  Then the dog had barked and capered about, anticipating a break in the monotony of ranch-life.

Sundown hurried to the cook-room.  Chance at his heels.  Hi Wingle was already installed in his old quarters, but he greeted Sundown heartily, and set him to work helping.

After breakfast, Bud Shoop, in heavy wing chaps and trailing his spurs, swaggered up to Sundown.  “How you makin’ it this mornin’?” he inquired.  There was a note of humorous good-fellowship in his voice that did not escape Sundown.

“Doin’ fine without crutches,” replied Sundown, grinning.

“Well, you go eat now, and I’ll catch up a cayuse for you.  We’re goin’ to fan it for Bald Knoll in about ten minutes.”

“Do I go, too?”

“Sure!  Do you think we don’t eat pie only onct a year?  You bet you go—­helpin’ Hi.  Boss’s orders.”

“Thanks—­but I ain’t no rider.”

Shoop glanced questioningly at Sundown’s legs.  “Mebby not.  But if I owned them legs I’d contract to ride white-lightnin’ bareback.  I’d just curl ’em ’round and grab holt of my feet when they showed up on the other side.  Them ain’t legs; them’s cinchas.”