The men seemed satisfied with Sundown’s graphic account in the main.  Hi Wingle, the cook, asked no questions, but did a great deal of thinking.  He was aware that Will Corliss had returned to the Concho, and also, through rumor, that Corliss and Fadeaway had been together in Antelope.  The fact that the robbers failed to get the money—­so it was given out—­left the drama unfinished, and as such it lacked sustained interest.  There would be no bandits to capture; no further excitement; so the talk eventually drifted to other subjects.

The assistant cook’s evident melancholy finally gave place to a happier mood as he realized that he had gained a modicum of respect in a camp where hitherto he had been more or less of a joke.  While he grieved over the events which led up to his newly attained prestige as a man of nerve, he was not a little proud of the prestige itself, and principally because he lacked the very quality of courage that he was now accredited with.  Perhaps the fact that he had “played square,” as he saw it, was the true foundation of his attitude.

He discharged his duties as assistant cook with a new and professional flourish that amused the riders.  When they rolled from their blankets in the crisp air of the morning, they were never kept waiting for their coffee, hot bread, and frijoles.  Moreover, he always had a small fire going, around which he arranged the tin plates, cups, knives and forks.  This additional fire was acceptable, as the cooking was done on a large sheet-iron camp-stove, the immediate territory of which was sacred to Hi Wingle.  Wingle, who had been an old-timer when most of the Concho hands were learning the rudiments of the game, took himself and his present occupation seriously.  His stove was his altar, though burnt offerings were infrequent.  He guarded his culinary precincts with a watchful eye.  His attitude was somewhat akin to that of Cardinal Richelieu in the handkerchief scene, “Take but one step within these sacred bounds and on our head I’ll lunch the cuss of Rum,” or something to that effect.  He was short, ruddy, and bald, and his antithesis, Sundown, was a source of constant amazement to him.  Wingle had seen many tall men, but never such an elongated individual as his assistant.  It became the habit of one or another of the boys to ask the cook the way to the distant Concho, usually after the evening meal, when they were loafing by the camp-fire.  Wingle would thereupon scratch his head and assume an air of intense concentration.  “Well,” he would invariably remark, “you take the trail along Sundown’s shadder there, and keep a-fannin’ it smart for about three hours.  When you come to the end of the shadder, take the right fork of the river, and in another hour you’ll strike the Concho.  That’s the quickest way.”  And this bit of attenuated humor never failed to produce an effect.

One morning, about a week after Sundown’s return to his duties as assistant, while Wingle was drying his hands, preparatory to reading a few pages of his favorite novel, Sundown ambled into camp with an armful of greasewood, dumped it near the wagon, and, straightening up, rolled a cigarette.