When the dog at last reached the edge of the timber and dashed into Fernando’s deserted camp, Sundown was puzzled until he happened to recall the incidents leading to Fadeaway’s discharge from the Concho.  He reclined beneath a tree familiar to him as a former basis for recuperation.  He felt of himself reminiscently while watching Chance nose about the camp.  Presently the dog came and, squatting on his haunches, faced his master with the query, “What next?” scintillating in his glowing eyes.

“I dunno,” replied Sundown.  “You see, pardner, this here’s Fernando’s camp all right.  Now, I ain’t got nothin’ ag’in’ that little ole Fernando man, ‘specially as it was him cut the rope that was snakin’ me to glory onct.  I ain’t got nothin’ ag’in’ him, or nobody.  Mebby Fade did set after them sheep.  Mebby Fernando knows it and sets after him.  Mebby he squats in them cotton-woods by the ford and ‘Pom!’ goes somethin’ and pore Fadeaway sure makes his name good.  Never did like him, but I ain’t got nothin’ ag’in’ him now.  You see, Chance, he’s quit bein’ mean, now.  And say, gettin’ killed ain’t no dream.  I been there three, four times myself—­all but the singin’.  Two wrecks, one shootin’, and one can o’ beans that was sick.  It sure ain’t no fun.  Wonder if gettin’ killed that way will square Fade with the Big Boss over there?  I reckon not.  ’T ain’t what a fella gets done to him that counts.  It’s what he does to the other guy, good or bad.  Now, take them martyrs what my pal Billy used to talk about.  They was always standin’ ‘round gettin’ burned and punctured with arrers, and lengthened out and shortened up when they ought to been takin’ boxin’ lessons or sords or somethin’.  Huh!  I never took much stock in them.  If it’s what a fella gets done to him, it’s easy money I’ll be takin’ tickets at the gate instead of crawlin’ under the canvas—­and mebby tryin’ to sneak you in, too—­eh, Chance?”

To all of which the great wolf-dog listened with exemplary patience.  He would have preferred action, but not unlike many human beings who strive to appear profound under a broadside of philosophical eloquence, applauding each bursting shrapnel of platitudes by mentally wagging their tails, Chance wagged his tail, impressed more by the detonation than the substance.  And Chance was quite a superior dog, as dogs go.

When Sundown finally arrived at the Concho, he was met by Bud Shoop, who questioned him.  Sundown gave a detailed account of his recent exploration.

“You say they was no burros at the camp—­no tarp, or grub, or nothin’?”

“Nope.  Nothin’ but a dead fire,” replied Sundown.

“Any sheep?”

“Mebby four or five.  Didn’t count ’em.”

“Huh!  Wonder where the rest of the greaser’s herd is grazin’?”

“I dunno.  I rode straight acrost to here.”

“Looks mighty queer to me,” commented the foreman.  “I take it that Fernando’s lit out.”