Sundown rose from beside the dog. Shoot Chance? Not so long as he could keep between the dog and the cowboy's gun. The puncher, half in jest, reached for his holster. Sundown's overwrought nerves gave way. He dropped to his knees and lifted his long arms imploringly. "Don't! Don't!" he wailed. "He ain't dead! Don't shoot my pal!"
Bud Shoop, who had kept silent, shouldered the puncher aside. "Cut it out, Sinker," he growled. "Can't you sabe that Sundown means it?"
Later in the evening, and fortified with a hearty meal. Sundown gave a revised version of the fight, wherein his participation was modified, though the story lost nothing in re-telling. And, indeed, his own achievement, of lugging Chance up the cañon trail, awakened a kind of respect among the easy-going cowboys. To carry an eighty-pound dog up that trail took sand! Again Sundown had unconsciously won their respect. Nothing was said about his late return. And his horse had found its way back to the camp.
Sometime in the night, Bud Shoop was awakened by the man next him.
"What's goin' on?" queried Shoop, rising on his elbow.
"Ask me again," said the puncher. "Listen!"
From the vicinity of the wagon came the gurgle of water and then a distinctly canine sneeze.
"Dinged if he ain't fussin' with that dog again!" grumbled Shoop. "The dam' fool!" Which, as it is the spirit which giveth life to the letter, was not altogether uncomplimentary.