“And that there Chance is with the boss,” said the cowboy, gesturing toward the north.  “Seen him foller him down the trail.”

Sundown nodded.  The cowboy departed, swaggering away in the dusk.

Just before Sundown was called to take his turn with the night-shift, a lean, brown shape tore through the camp, upsetting a pot of frijoles and otherwise disturbing the peace and order of the culinary department.

“Coyote!” shouted Wingle, vainly reaching for the gun that he had given to Sundown.

“Coyote nothin’!” said a puncher, laughing.  “It’s the Killer come back hot-foot to find his pardner.”

Chance bounded into the lean-to:  it was empty.  He sniffed at the place where his bed had once been, found Sundown’s tracks and followed them toward the river.  Sundown was on his knees pawing over something that looked very much like a torn and frayed saddle-blanket.  Chance volleyed into him, biting playfully at his sleeve, and whining.

Sundown jumped to his feet.  He stood speechless.  Then a slow grin crept to his face.  “Gee Gosh!” he said, softly.  “Gee Gosh!  It’s you!”

Chance lay down panting.  He had come far and fast.  Sundown gathered up the blanket and pan, rose and marched to the shack.  “I was airin’ ‘em out against your comin’ back,” he explained, untruthfully.  The fact was that he could not bear to see the empty bed in the lean-to and had hidden it in the bushes.

The dog watched him spread the blanket, but would not lie down.  Instead he followed Sundown to the camp and found a place under the chuck-wagon, where he watched his lean companion work over the fires until midnight.  If Sundown disappeared for a minute in search of something.  Chance was up and at his heels.  Hi Wingle expressed himself profanely in regard to the return of the dog, adding with unction, “There’s a pair of ’em; a pair of ’em.”  Which ambiguity seemed to satisfy him immensely.

When Sundown finally returned to the lean-to, he was too happy to sleep.  He built a small fire, rolled a cigarette and sat gazing into the flames.  Chance sat beside him, proud, dignified, contented.  Sundown became drowsy and slept, his head fallen forward and his lean arms crossed upon his knees.  Chance waited patiently for him to waken.  Finally the dog nuzzled Sundown’s arm with little jerks of impatience.  “What’s bitin’ you now?” mumbled Sundown.  “We’re here, ain’t we?” Nevertheless he slipped his arm around the dog’s muscular shoulders and talked to him.  “How’d you get away?  The boss’ll raise peelin’s over this, Chance.  It ain’t like to set good with him.”  He noticed that Chance frequently scratched at his collar as though it irritated him.  Finally he slipped his fingers under the collar.  “Suthin’ got ketched in here,” he said, unbuckling the strap.  Tied inside the collar was a folded piece of paper.  Sundown was about to throw it away when he reconsidered and unfolded it.  In the flickering light of the fire he spread the paper and read laboriously:—­