“Thanks, boss, but I’m gettin’ kind of used to Pill.”

“Pill?  You mean Phil—­Phil Sheridan.  That’s your horse’s name.”

“Mebby.  I did try callin’ him ‘Phil.’  It went all right when he was standin’ quiet.  But when he got to goin’ I was lucky if I could holler just ‘Whoa, Pill!’ The ‘h’ got jarred loose every time.  ’Course, bein’ a puncher now,”—­and Sundown threw out his chest,—­“it’s different.  Anyhow, Pill is his name because there ain’t anything a doc ever give a fella that can stir up your insides worse ’n he can when he takes a spell.  Your head hurtin’ much?”

“No.  But it will be if you don’t get out of here.”  And Corliss laughed and waved his hand toward the door.

CHAPTER XVII

THE STRANGER

Sundown, maintaining a mysterious and unusual silence, prepared to carry out his employer’s plans.  His preparations were not extensive.  First, he polished his silver spurs.  Then he borrowed a coat from one of the boys, brushed his Stetson, and with the business instinct of a Hebrew offered Hi Wingle nine dollars for a pair of Texas wing chaps.  The cook, whose active riding-days were over, had no use for the chaps and would have gladly given them to Sundown.  The latter’s offer of nine dollars, however, interested Wingle.  He decided to have a bit of fun with the tall one.  He cared nothing for the money, but wondered why Sundown had offered nine dollars instead of ten.

“What you been eatin’?” he queried as Sundown made his bid.  “Goin’ courtin’?”

“Nope,” replied the lean one.  “Goin’ east.”

“Huh!  Expect to ride all the way in them chaps?”

“Nope!  But I need ’em.  Heard you tell Bud you paid ten dollars for ’em ’way back fifteen years.  Guess they’s a dollar’s worth worn off of ’em by now.”

“Well, you sure do some close figurin’.  I sure paid ten for ’em.  Got ‘em from a Chola puncher what was hard up.  Mebby you ain’t figurin’ that they’s about twenty bucks’ worth of hand-worked silver conchas on ’em which ain’t wore off any.”

Sundown took this as Wingle’s final word.  The amused Hi noted the other’s disappointment and determined to enhance the value of the chaps by making them difficult to obtain, then give them to his assistant.  Wingle liked Sundown in a rough-shod way, though Sundown was a bit too serious-minded to appreciate the fact.

The cook assumed the air of one gravely concerned about his friend’s mental balance.  “Somethin’ sure crawled into your roost, Sun, but if you’re goin’ crazy I suppose a pair of chaps won’t make no difference either way.  Anyhow, you ain’t crazy in your legs—­just your head.”

“Thanks, Hi.  It’s accommodatin’ of you to put me wise to myself.  I know I ain’t so durned smart as some.”

“Say, you old fool, can’t you take a fall to it that I’m joshin’?  You sure are the melancholiest stretch of bones and hide I ever seen.  Somehow you always make a fella come down to cases every time, with that sad-lookin’ mug of yourn.  You sure would ‘a’ made a good undertaker.  I’ll get them chaps.”