Sundown essayed a step, halted and groaned.  He felt of himself gingerly.  He did not seem to be injured in any special place, as he ached equally all over.  “I’ll be goin’, lady.  I say thanks for savin’ me life.”

The girl smiled and nodded.  “Will you please tell Mr. Corliss that I should like to see him, to-morrow, at Fernando’s camp?  I think he’ll understand.”

“Sure, miss!  I’ll tell him.  That Fernando man looks to be havin’ some trouble with them sheep.”

The girl glanced toward the mesa.  Fernando and his assistant were herding the sheep closer, and despite their activity were really getting the frightened animals bunched well.  When she turned again Sundown had disappeared.

Sundown’s arrival in camp, on foot, was not altogether unexpected.  One of the men had seen a riderless horse grazing on the mesa, and had ridden out and caught it.  Circumstantial evidence—­rider and rope missing—­confirmed Hi Wingle’s remark that “that there walkin’ clothes-pin has probably roped somethin’ at last.”  And the “walking clothes-pin’s” condition when he appeared seemed to substantiate the cook’s theory.

“Lose your rope?” queried Wingle as Sundown limped up.

“Uhuh.  And that ain’t all.  You ain’t got a pair of pants that ain’t working have you?”

Wingle smiled.  “Pants?  Think this here’s a Jew clothin’-store?”

“Nope.  But if she was a horsepital now—­”

“Been visitin’?”

“Uhuh.  I jest run over to see some friends of mine in a sheep-camp.”

“Did, eh?  And mebby you can tell me what you run over?”

“’Most everything out there,” said Sundown, pointing to the mesa.  “Say, you ain’t got any of that plaster like they put on a guy’s head when he gets hit with a brick?”

“Nope.  But I got salt.”

“And pepper,” concluded Sundown with some sarcasm.  “Mebby I do look like a barbecue.”

“Straight, Sun, salt and water is mighty healin’.  You better ride over to the Concho and get fixed up.”

“Reckon that ain’t no dream, Hi.  Got to see the boss, anyhow.”

“Well, ‘anyhow’ is correc’.  And, say, you want to see him first and tell him it’s you.  Your hoss is tied over there.  Sinker fetched him in.”

“Hoss?  Oh, yes, hoss!  My hoss!  Uhuh!”

With this somewhat ambiguous string of ejaculations Sundown limped toward the pony.  He turned when halfway there and called to Wingle.  “The cattle business is fine, Hi, fine, but between you and me I reckon I’ll invest in sheep.  A fella is like to live longer.”

Wingle stared gravely at the tall and tattered figure.  He stared gravely, but inwardly he shook with laughter.  “Say, Sun!” he managed to exclaim finally, “that there Nell Loring is a right fine gal, ain’t she?”

“You bet!”

“And Jack ain’t the worst . . .”  Wingle spat and chewed ruminatively.  “No, he ain’t the worst,” he asserted again.