Corliss made a negative gesture. "He'll come back when he gets hungry. It's a long ride to the water-hole. Sinker had sand to get as near home as he did. It's going to be straight hell from now on, Hi."
Wingle nodded. Through force of habit he reached for his apron to wipe his hand—his invariable preliminary before he shook hands with any one. His apron being off, he hesitated, then stepped to his employer. "It sure is," he said, "and I'm ridin' with you."
They shook hands. Moved by a mutual impulse they glanced at the long, rigid shape covered with a blanket. "When the boys come—" began Wingle.
"It will be out of our hands," concluded Corliss.
"If Sun—"
"I ought to ride out after him," said Corliss, nodding. "But I can't leave. And you can't."
Wingle stepped to the doorway and shaded his eyes. Far out on the mesa the diminishing figure of a horseman showed black against the glare of the sun. Wingle turned and, with a glance at the shrouded figure on the bunk-house floor, donned his apron and shuffled to the kitchen. Corliss tied his horse and strode to the office.
Hi Wingle puttered about the kitchen. There would be supper to get for fifteen hungry—No! fourteen, to-night. He paused, set down the pan that he held and opened the door of the chuck-room. With finger marking the count he totaled the number of chairs at the table. Fifteen. Then he stepped softly to the bunk-room, took Sinker's hat and stepped back to the table. He placed the hat on the dead cowboy's chair. Then he closed the door and turned to the preparation of the evening meal. "Jack'll report to Antelope and try and keep the boys quiet. I'm sure with Jack—only I was a puncher first afore I took to cookin'. And I'm a puncher yet—inside." Which was his singular and only spoken tribute to the memory of Sinker. He had reasoned that it was only right and fitting that the slayer of a cowman should be slain by a cowman—a code that held good in his time and would hold good now—especially when the boys saw the battered Stetson, every line of which was mutely eloquent of its owner's individuality.
Sundown drifted through the afternoon solitudes, his mind dulled by the monotony of the theme which obsessed him. It was evening when he reached the water-hole. Around the enclosure straggled a few stray sheep. He cautioned Chance against molesting them. Ordinarily he would have approached the ranch-house timidly, but he was beyond fear. He rode to the gate, tied his horse, and stepped to the doorway. The door was open. He entered and struck a match. In the dusk he saw that the room was empty save for a tarpaulin and a pair of rawhide kyacks such as the herders use. Examining the kyacks he found that they contained flour, beans, salt, sugar, and coffee. Evidently the herders had intended making the deserted ranch-house their headquarters. He wondered vaguely where the Mexicans were. The thought that they might return did not worry him. He knew what he would do in that instance. He would find out which one was 'Sandro… and then…
The bleating of the stray sheep annoyed him. He told Chance to stay in the room. Then he stalked out and opened the gate. "Mebby they want water. I dunno. Them's Loring's sheep, all right, but they ain't to blame for—for Sinker." With the idea came a more reasonable mood. The sheep were not to blame for the killing of Sinker. The sheep belonged to Loring. The herders, also, practically belonged to Loring. They were only following his bidding when they protected the sheep. With such reasoning he finally concluded that Loring, not his herder, was responsible for the cowboy's death. He returned to the house, built a fire, and cooked an indifferent meal.