The horse, nipping at scant shoots of bunch-grass and the blue-flowered patches of wild peas, gravitated toward the old trail to the Blue and, once upon it, turned toward home.  Chance, refreshing his memory of the old trail, ran ahead, pausing at this fallen log and that fungus-spotted stump to investigate squirrel-holes with much sniffing and circling of the immediate territory.  Sundown imagined that Chance was leading the way toward home, though in reality the dog was merely killing time, so to speak, while the pony plodded deliberately down the homeward trail.

Dawdling along in the barred sunshine, at peace with himself and the pleasant solitudes, Sundown relaxed and fell to dreaming of Andalusian castles builded in far forests of the south, and of some Spanish Penelope—­possibly not unlike the Senorita Loring—­who waited his coming with patient tears and rare fidelity.  “Them there true-be-doors,” he muttered, “like Billy used to say, sure had the glad job—­singin’ and wrastlin’ out po’try galore!  A singin’-man sure gets the ladies.  Now if I was to take on a little weight—­mebby . . .”  His weird soliloquy was broken by a sharp and excited bark.  Chance was standing in the trail, and beyond him there was something . . .

Sundown, anticipating more turkeys, slid from his horse without delay.  He stalked stealthily toward the quivering dog.  Then, dropping the reins, he ran to Corliss, knelt beside him, and lifted his head.  He called to him.  He ripped the rancher’s shirt open and felt over his heart.  “They killed me boss!  They killed me boss!” he wailed, rising and striding back and forth in impotent excitement and grief.  He did not know where to look for water.  He did not know what to do.  A sudden fury at his helplessness overcame him, and he mounted and rode down the trail at a wild gallop.  Fortunately he was headed in the right direction.

Wingle, Bud Shoop, and several of the men were holding a heated conference with old man Loring when Sundown dashed into the Concho.  Trembling with rage and fear he leaped from his horse.

“They killed the boss!” he cried hoarsely.  “Up there—­in the woods.”

“Killed who?  Where?  Slow down and talk easy!  Who’s killed?” volleyed the group.

“Me boss!  Up there on the trail with his head bashed in!  Chance and me found him layin’ on the trail.”

The men swung to their saddles.  “Better come along, Loring,” said Shoop, riding close to the old sheep-man.  “Looks like they was more ’n one side to this deal.  And you, too, Sun.”

The riders, led by the gesticulating and excited Sundown, swung out to the road and crossed to the forest.  Shoop and Hi Wingle spurred ahead while the others questioned Sundown, following easily.  When they arrived at the scene of the fight, Corliss was sitting propped against a tree with Shoop and Wangle on either side of him.  Corliss stared stupidly at the men.