So the day blew itself red in the face, and then purple, with a tender, rose-violet haze under its one crimson, lazily drooping eye.  And at last it wrapped itself in its royal, gemmed robe, and settled quietly down to sleep.  Night came stepping softly across the hills and the sandy plains, carrying her full-lighted lantern that painted black shadows beside every rock and bush and cut-bank.

With the deepening of the shadows and the rising drone of night sounds and the whispering of the breeze which was all that was left of the wind, the man came riding cautiously up through a draw to the willow growth just below Sinkhole watering place.  He tied his horse there and went on afoot, stepping on rocks and grass tufts and gravelly spots as easily as though he had practiced that mode of travel.

Sinkhole cabin was dark and quiet and lonesome, but still he waited for awhile in the shadow and watched the place before he ventured forth.  He did not go at once to the cabin, but always treading carefully where imprints would be lightest, he made a further inspection of the corral.  The wind had done its work there, and hoofprints were practically obliterated.  Satisfied, he returned to the cabin and sat down on the bench beside the door, where he could watch the trail while he waited.

The telephone rang.  The man untied the door, went in, and answered it hoarsely.  Everything was all right, he reported.  He had ridden the fence and tightened one or two loose wires.  Yes, the water was holding out all right, and the horses came to water every night about sundown, or else early in the morning before the flies got too bad.  His cold was better, and he didn’t need a thing that he knew of.  And good-bye, Mr. Selmer.

He went out, very well satisfied with himself; re-tied the door carefully with Johnny’s own peculiar kind of hitch, stooped and felt the hard-packed earth to make sure he had not inadvertently dropped a cigarette butt that might possibly betray him, and rolled a fresh smoke before leaving for home.  He had just lighted it and was moving away toward the creek when the telephone jingled a second summons.  He would have to answer it, of course.  Old Sudden knew he couldn’t be far away, and would ring until he did answer.  He unfastened the door again, cursing to himself and wondering if the Rolling R people were in the habit of calling Johnny Jewel every ten minutes or so.  He stumbled over a box that he had missed before, swore, and called a gruff hello.

“Oh, hello, cowboy!” Unmistakably feminine, that voice; unmistakably provocative, too—­subdued, demure, on guard, as though it were ready to adopt any one of several tones when it spoke again.

“Oh—­er—­hello!  That you, Mr. Selmer?” The man did not forget his hoarseness.  He even coughed discreetly.

“Why, no!  This is Venus speaking.  May I ask if you expected Miss Selmer to call you up?” Raised eyebrows would harmonize perfectly with that tone, which was sugary, icily gracious.