“It’s one of Fadeaway’s string,” said Shoop.

“I know it.  Catch him up.”

Shoop, who felt that his opportunity to confirm his dream-like statement about Sundown’s bathing, was slipping away, suddenly evolved a plan.  He knew that the horses had all been watered.  “Hey!” he called to Sundown, who stood gravely inspecting his own mount.  “Come over here and make this cayuse drink.  He won’t for me.”

Shoop roped the horse and handed the rope to Sundown, who marched to the water-trough.  The pony sniffed at the water and threw up his head.  “I reckoned that was it!” said Shoop.

“What?” queried Corliss, meanwhile watching Sundown’s face.

“Oh, some dam’ coyote’s been paddlin’ in that trough again.  No wonder the hosses won’t drink this mornin’.  I don’t blame ’em.”

Sundown rolled a frightened eye and tried to look at everything but his companions.  Corliss and Shoop exploded simultaneously.  Slowly the light of understanding dawned, rose, and radiated in the dull red of the new cook’s face.  He was hurt and a bit angry.  The anticipating and performing of his midnight ablutions had cost Slim a mighty struggle, mentally and otherwise.

“If you think it’s any early mornin’ joke to take a wash-up in that there Chinese coffin—­why, try her yourself, about midnight.”  Then he addressed Shoop singly.  “If I was you, and you got kind of absent-minded and done likewise, and I seen you, do you think I’d go snitch to the boss?  Nix, for it might set him to worryin’.”

Shoop accepted the compliment good-naturedly, for he knew he had earned it.  He swaggered up to Sundown and slapped him on the back.  “Cheer up, pardner, and listen to the good news.  I’m goin’ to have that trough made three foot longer so it’ll be more comfortable.”

“Thanks, but never again at night.  Guess if I hadn’t been feelin’ all-to-Gosh happy at havin’ a home and a job, I’d ‘a’ froze stiff.”

CHAPTER V

ON THE CANON TRAIL

The Loring homestead, a group of low-roofed adobe buildings blending with the abrupt red background of the hill which sheltered it from the winter winds, was a settlement in itself, providing shelter and comfort for the wives and children of the herders.  Each home maintained a small garden of flowers and vegetables.  Across the somber brown of the ’dobe walls hung strings of chiles drying in the sun.  Gay blossoms, neatly kept garden rows, red ollas hanging in the shade of cypress and acacia, the rose-bordered plaza on which fronted the house of the patron, the gigantic windmill purring lazily and turning now to the right, now to the left, to meet the varying breeze, the entire prospect was in its pastoral quietude a reflection of Senora Loring’s sweet and placid nature.  Innuendo might include the windmill, and justly so, for the Senora in truth met the varying breeze of circumstance and invariably turned it to good uses, cooling the hot temper of the patron with a flow of soft Spanish utterances, and enriching the simple lives of the little colony with a charity as free and unvarying as the flow of the clear, cool water.