The jovial puncher, having enjoyed Sundown’s society to the extent of six-bits’ worth of Mexican provender, suggested a return to “The Last Chance,” where the tramp was solemnly introduced to a newly arrived coterie of thirsty riders of the mesas.  Gaunt and exceedingly tall, he loomed above the heads of the group in the barroom “like a crane in a frog-waller,” as one cowboy put it.  “Which ain’t insinooatin’ that our hind legs is good to eat, either,” remarked another.  “He keeps right on smilin’,” asserted the first speaker.  “And takin’ his smile,” said the other.  “Wonder what’s his game?  He sure is the lonesomest-lookin’ cuss this side of that dead pine on Bald Butte, that I ever seen.”  But conviviality was the order of the evening, and the punchers grouped together and told and listened to jokes, old and new, talked sagebrush politics, and threw dice for the privilege of paying rather than winning.  “Says he’s scoutin’ for a job cookin’,” remarked a young cowboy to the main group of riders.  “Heard him tell Johnny.”

Meanwhile, Sundown, forgetful of everything save the congeniality of the moment, was recounting, to an amused audience of three, his experiences as assistant cook in an Eastern hotel.  The rest of the happy and irresponsible punchers gravitated to the far end of the bar and proposed that they “have a little fun with the tall guy.”  One of them drew his gun and stepped quietly behind the tramp.  About to fire into the floor he hesitated, bolstered his gun and tiptoed clumsily back to his companions.  “Got a better scheme,” he whispered.

Presently Sundown, in the midst of his recital, was startled by a roar of laughter.  He turned quickly.  The laughter ceased.  The cowboy who had released him from the box-car stated that he must be going, and amid protests and several challenges to have as many “one-mores,” swung out into the night to ride thirty miles to his ranch.  Then it was, as has been said elsewhere and oft, “the plot thickened.”

A rider, leaning against the bar and puffing thoughtfully at a cigar of elephantine proportions, suddenly took his cigar from his lips, held it poised, examined it with the eye of a connoisseur—­of cattle—­and remarked slowly:  “Now, why didn’t I think of it?  Wonder you fellas didn’t think of it.  They need a cook bad!  Been without a cook for a year—­and everybody fussin’ ‘round cookin’ for himself.”

Sundown caught the word “cook” and turned to, face the speaker.  “I was lookin’ for a job, meself,” he said, apologetically.  “Did you know of one?”

“You was!” exclaimed the cowboy.  “Well, now, that’s right queer.  I know where a cook is needed bad.  But say, can you honest-to-Gosh cook?”

“I cooked in everything from a hotel to a gradin’-camp.  All I want is a chanct.”

The cowboy shook his head.  “I don’ know.  It’ll take a pretty good man to hold down this job.”

“Where is the job?” queried Sundown.