For a while he rode silently, enjoying his utter freedom.  But followers of Romance must ever be minute-men, armed and equipped to answer her call with instant readiness and grace.  Lacking, perhaps, the grace, nevertheless Sundown was loyal to his sovereign mistress, in proof of which he again sat straight in the saddle, stirred to speech by hidden voices.  “Now, take it like I was wearin’ a hard-boiled hat and a collar and buttin shoes, like the rest of them sports.  Why, that wouldn’t ketch the eye of some likely-lookin’ lady wantin’ to get married.  Nix!  When I hit town it’s me for the big smoke and me picture on the front page, standin’ with me faithful dog and a lot of them fat little babies without any clothes on, but wings, flyin’ around the edge of me picture and down by me boots and up around me hat—­and in big letters she’ll say:  ’Romance of A Cowboy.  Western Cattle King in Search for his Long-lost Sweetheart.  Sundown, once one of our Leading Hoboes, now a Wealthy Rancher, visits the Metrokolis on Mysterious Errand.’  Huh!  I guess mebby that wouldn’t ketch a good one, mebby with money.”

But the proverbial fly must appear in the equally proverbial amber.  “’Bout as clost as them papers ever come to it,” he soliloquized.  “Anyhow, if she was the wrong one, and not me long-lost affiniky, and was to get stuck on me shape and these here chaps and spurs, reckon I could tell her that the papers made the big mistake, and that me Mexican wife does the cookin’ with a bread-knife in her boot-leg, and that I never had no Mormon ideas, nohow.  That ought to sound kind o’ home-like, and let her down easy and gentle.  I sure don’t want to get sent down for breakin’ the wimmen’s hearts, so I got to be durned careful.”

So immersed was he in his imaginings that he did not at once realize that his horse had stopped and was leisurely grazing at the edge of the trail.  Chance, who had been running ahead, swung back in a wide circle and barked impatiently.  Sundown awakened to himself.  “Here, you red hoss, this ain’t no pie-contest.  We got to hit the water-hole afore dark.”  Once more in motion, he reverted to his old theme, but with finality in his tone.  “I guess mebby I can’t tell them reporters somethin’ about me hotel out here on the desert!  ’The only prevailable road-house between Antelope and the Concho, run by the retired cattle-king, Sundown Slim.’  Sounds good to me.  Mebby I could work up a trade by advertisin’ to some of them Eastern folks that eats nothin’ tougher for breakfast than them quakin’-oats and buns and coffee.  Get along, you red hoss.”

About six o’clock that evening Sundown arrived at the deserted ranch.  He unsaddled and led the horse to water.  Then he picketed him for the night.  Returning, he prepared a meal and ate heartily.  Just as the light faded from the dusty windows, Chance, who was curled in a corner, rose and growled.  Sundown strode to the door.  The dog followed, sniffing along the crack.  Presently Sundown heard the shuffling tread of a horse plodding through the sand.  He swung open the door and stood peering into the dusk.  He saw a horseman dismount and enter the gateway.  Chance again bristled and growled.  Sundown restrained him.