In his spare time he built a lean-to of odds and ends, and beneath it Chance drowsed away the long, sunny hours while Sundown was rustling firewood or holding hot argument with an obstreperous dutch-oven.  And Chance became the pet and the pride of the outfit.  Riders from distant ranches would stray over to the lean-to and look at him, commenting on his size and elaborating on the fact that it usually took two of the best dogs ever whelped to pull down a timber-wolf.

Even Fadeaway, now riding for the Blue, became enthusiastic and boasted of his former friendship with Chance.  When he essayed the intimacy of patting the dog’s head, some of the onlookers doubted him, for Chance received these overtures with a deep-throated growl.

“He won’t let nobody touch him but that Sundown gent,” cautioned a bystander.

“Guess he’s loco since he got chewed up,” said Fadeaway, retreating.

Chance licked his wounds and recovered slowly.  He would lie in the sun, watching with unwinking gaze the camp and the cluster of men about it until the form of Sundown loomed through the mass.  Then he would beat the ground with his tail and whine expectantly.  As he became stronger, he ventured to stretch his wound-stiffened muscles in short pilgrimages to the camp, where the men welcomed him with hearty and profane zest.  Was he not the slayer of their enemy’s sheep and the killer of the timber-wolf?  Eventually he was presented with a broad collar studded with brass spikes, and engraved upon it was the sanguinary and somewhat ambiguous legend:  “Chance—­The Killer of the Concho.”

John Corliss, visiting the round-up, rode over to Sundown’s tepee, as it was called.  The assistant cook was greasing Chance’s wounds.

“How is he getting along?” asked Corliss.

“Fine, boss, fine!  This here is some little ole red-cross ward, believe me!  He’s gettin’ over bein’ lame and he eats regular.”

“Here, Chance!” called Corliss.

The dog rose stiffly and stalked to his master, smelt of him and wagged his tail, then stood with lowered head as though pondering some serious dog-logic.

“He’s kind of queer,” explained Sundown, “but he’s a whole pile better than he was a spell ago.  Had to bring him water and feed him like a baby cuttin’ teeth—­though I never seen one doin’ that.  He wouldn’t let nobody touch him ‘ceptin’ me.”

“Is he able to travel?”

“Oh, some.”

“Think he could make it to the Concho?”

Sundown hesitated.  “Mebby.  Yes, I reckon he could.  He can run all right, only I guess he kind of likes hangin’ around me.”  And Sundown glanced sideways at Corliss.

“He seems all right.  I guess I’ll take him back with me.  I don’t like the idea of his running loose here.”

“He ain’t bitin’ nobody,” assured Sundown.

Corliss glanced shrewdly at the other’s lean, questioning face.  “Guess you won’t miss him much.  How are you making it?”