"That's all right, pardner. They ain't nothin' goin' to happen to me. You go!"
Chance trotted off a few yards and then turned his head inquiringly.
"That's right. Keep a-goin'. It's your stunt this time." And Sundown waved his arm.
The return of Sundown without the dog occasioned no suspicion on the Mexican's part. He most naturally thought, if he considered the fact at all, that the dog was hunting the mesas. Then Sundown entered the house and experimented with soda and cream-of-tartar as though he were concocting a high explosive with proportions of the ingredients calculated to produce the most satisfactory results. His plan, however, was nipped in the bud. That night the herders refused to eat the biscuits after tasting them.
Hi Wingle, coming from the bunk-house, wiped his hands on his apron, rolled a cigarette, and squatted in the shade. From within came the clatter of knives and forks and the rattle of dishes. The riders of the Concho were about through dinner. Wingle, gazing down the road, suddenly cast his cigarette away and rose. The road seemed empty save for a lean brown shape that raced toward the Concho with sweeping stride. "It's the dog. Wonder what's up now?"
Chance, his muzzle specked with froth and his tongue lolling, swung into the yard and trotted to Wingle. "Boss git piled ag'in?" queried the cook, patting Chance's head. "What you scratchin' about?"
The dog lay panting and occasionally pawing at his collar.
"What's the matter? Cockle-burr?" And Wingle ran his fingers under the collar. "So? Playin' mail-man, eh?"
He spread out the note and read it. Slowly he straightened up and slowly he walked to the bunk-house. "No. Guess I'll tell Jack first."
He strode to the office and laid the note on Corliss's desk. The rancher, busy running up totals on the pay-roll, glanced at the sweat-stained piece of paper. He read it and pushed it from him. "All right, Hi."