Rabbit, fried on a stove-lid, makes a pretty satisfying meal when eating ceases to be a pleasure and becomes a necessity. Sundown wisely reserved a portion of his kill for future consumption.
As the morning grew warmer, he fell asleep in the shade of the ranch-house. Late in the afternoon he wakened, went into the house and made coffee. After the coffee he came out, rolled a cigarette, and sat smoking and gazing out across the afternoon mesas. "I feel it comin'," he said to himself. "And it's a good one, so I guess I'll put her in me book."
He rummaged in his blankets and unearthed a grimy, tattered notebook. Lubricating the blunt point of a stubby pencil he set to work. When he had finished, the sun was close to the horizon. He sat back and gazed sideways at his effort. "I'll try her on meself," he said, drawing up his leg and resting the notebook against his lean knee. "Wish I could stand off and listen to meself," he muttered. "Kind o' get the defect better." Then he read laboriously:—
"Bo, it's goin' to be hot all right;
Sun's a floodin' the eastern range.
Mebby it was kind o' cold last night,
But there's nothin' like havin' a little change.
Money? No. Only jest room for me;
Mountings and valleys and plains and such.
Ain't I got eyes that was made to see?
Ain't I got ears? But they don't hear much:
Only a kind of a inside song,
Like when the grasshopper quits his sad,
And says: 'Rickety-chick! Why, there is nothin' wrong!'
And after the coffee, things ain't so bad."
"Huh! Sounds all right for a starter. Ladies and them as came with you, I will now spiel the next section."
"The wind is makin' my bed for me,
Smoothin' the grass where I'm goin' to flop,
When the quails roost up in the live-oak tree,
And my legs feel like as they want to stop.
Pal or no pal, it's about the same,
For nobody knows how you feel inside.
Hittin' the grit is a lonesome game,—
But quit it? No matter how hard I tried.
But mebby I will when that inside song
Stops a-buzzin' like bees that's mad,
Grumblin' together: 'There's nothin' wrong!'
And—after the coffee things ain't so bad."
"Bees ain't so darned happy, either. They're too busy. Guess it's a good thing I went back to me grasshopper in the last verse. And now, ladies and gents, this is posituvely the last appearance of the noted electrocutionist, Sundown Slim; so, listen."
"Ladies, I've beat it from Los to Maine.
And, gents, not knowin' jest what to do,
I turned and slippered it back again,
Wantin' to see, jest the same as you.
Ridin' rods and a-dodgin' flies;
Eatin' at times when me luck was good.
Spielin' the con to the easy guys,
But never jest makin' it understood,
Even to me, why that inside song
Kep' a-handin' me out the glad,
Like the grasshopper singin': 'There's nothin' wrong!'
And—after the coffee things ain't so bad."
Sundown grinned with unalloyed pleasure. His mythical audience seemed to await a few words, so he rose stiffly, and struck an attitude somewhat akin to that of Henry Irving standing beside a milk-can and contemplating the village pump. "It gives me great pleasure to inform you"—he hesitated and cleared his throat—"that them there words of mine was expired by half a rabbit—small—and two cans of coffee. Had I been fed up like youse"—and he bowed grandly—"there's no tellin' what I might 'a' writ. Thankin' you for the box-office receipts, I am yours to demand, Sundown Slim, of Outdoors, Anywhere, till further notice."
Then he marched histrionically to the ranchhouse and made a fire in the rusted stove.