Sundown Slim

by Henry Herbert Knibbs

  CHAPTER XX

  THE WALKING MAN

  Sundown's sense of the dramatic, his love for posing, with hislinguistic ability to adopt the vernacular of the moment so impressedthe temperamental Murphy that he disregarded a portion of his friendCorliss's note, and the morning following his lean guest's arrival atthe ranch the jovial Irishman himself saddled and bridled the swiftestand most vicious horse in the corral; a glass-eyed pinto, bronc fromthe end of his switching tail to his pink-mottled muzzle. He was ahorse with a record which he did not allow to become obsolete, althoughhe had plenty of competition to contend with in the string of broncsthat Murphy's riders variously bestrode. Moreover, the pinto, likedynamite, "went off" at the most unexpected intervals, as did many ofhis riders. Sundown, bidding farewell to his host, mounted and swungout of the yard at a lope. The pinto had ideas of his own. Should hebuck in the yard, he would immediately be roped and turned into thecorral again. Out on the mesas it would be different--and it was.

  He paid no attention to a tumble-weed gyrating across the Apache road.Neither did he seem disturbed when a rattler burred in the bunch-grass.Even the startled leap of a rabbit that shot athwart his immediatecourse was greeted with nothing more than a snort and a toss of hisswinging head. Such things were excuses for bad behavior, but he wasof that type which furnishes its own excuse. He would lull his riderto a false security, and then . . .

  The pinto loped over level and rise tirelessly. Sundown stood in hisstirrups and gazed ahead. The wide mesas glowing in the sun, the senseof illimitable freedom, the keen, odorless air wrought him to a pitchof inspiration. He would, just over the next rise, draw rein and woohis muse. But the next rise and the next swept beneath the pinto'srhythmic hoofs. The poetry of motion swayed his soul. He was enjoyinghimself. At last, he reflected, he had mastered the art of sitting ahorse. He had already mastered the art of mounting and of descendingunder various conditions and at seemingly impossible angles. As HiWingle had once remarked--Sundown was the most _durable_ rider on therange. His length of limb had no apparent relation to his shortcomingsas a vaquero.

  Curiosity, as well as pride, may precede a fall. Sundown eventuallyreined up and breathed the pinto, which paced with lowered head asthough dejected and altogether weary--which was merely a pose, if anobject in motion can be said to pose. His rider, relaxing, slouched inthe saddle and dreamed of a peaceful and domestic future as owner of asmall herd of cattle, a few fenced acres of alfalfa and vegetables, asaddle-horse something like the pinto which he bestrode, with Chance ascompanion and audience--and perhaps a low-voiced senora to welcome himat night when he rode in with spur-chains jingling and the silverconchas on his chaps gleaming like stars in the setting sun. "But mechaps did their last gleam in that there fire," he reflected sadly."But I got me big spurs yet." Which after-thought served in a measureto mitigate his melancholy. Like a true knight, he had slept spurredand belted for the chance encounter while held in durance vile atAntelope. "But me ranch!" he exclaimed. "Me! And mebby a tame cowand chickens and things,--eh, Chance!" But Chance, he immediatelyrealized, was not with him. He would have a windmill and shade-treesand a border of roses along the roadway to the house--like the Loringrancho. But the senorita to be wooed and won--that was a differentmatter. "'T ain't no woman's country nohow--this here Arizona. She'sfine! But she's a man's country every time! Only sech as me and JackCorliss and Bud and them kind is fit to take the risks of makin' goodin this here State. But we're makin' good, you calico-hoss! Listen:--

  "Oh, there's sunshine on the Concho where the little owls are cryin', And red across the 'dobe strings of chiles are a-dryin'; And if Arizona's heaven, tell me what's the use of dyin'? Yes, it's good enough down here, just breathin' air;

  "For the posies are a-bloomin' and the mockin'-birds are matin', And somewhere in Arizona there's a Chola girl a-waitin' For to cook them enchiladas while I do the irrigatin' On me little desert homestead over there.

  "While I'm ridin' slow and easy . . ."

  "Whoa! Wonder what that is? Never seen one of them things before. 'Tain't a lizard, but he looks like his pa was a lizard. Mebby his mawas a toad. Kind of a Mormon, I guess."

  He leaned forward and gravely inspected the horned toad that blinked athim from the edge of the grass. The pinto realized that his rider'sattention was otherwise and thoroughly occupied. With thatunforgettable drop of head and arch of spine the horse bucked. Sundowndid an unpremeditated evolution that would have won him much applauseand gold had he been connected with a circus. He landed in a clump ofbrush and watched his hat sail gently down. The pinto whirled and tookthe homeward road, snorting and bounding from side to side as the dustswirled behind him. Sundown scratched his head. "Lemme see. 'We wasridin', slow and easy . . .' Huh! Well, I ain't cussin' because Idon' know how. Lemme see . . . I was facin' east when I started. NowI'm lit, and I'm facin' south. Me hat's there, and that theretoad-lizard oughter be over there, if he ain't scared to death. ReckonI'll quit writin' po'try jest at present and finish gettin' acquaintedwith that there toad-lizard. Wonder how far I got to walk? Anyhow, Iwas gettin' tired of ridin'. By gum! me eats is tied to the saddle!It's mighty queer how a fella gets set back to beginnin' all over ag'inevery onct in a while. Now, this mornin' I was settin' up ridin' agood hoss and thinkin' poetical. Now I'm settin' down restin'. Thesun is shinin' yet, and them jiggers in the brush is chirpin' and theair is fine, but I ain't thinkin' poetical. I'd sure hate to have areal lady read what I'm thinkin', if it was in a book. 'Them that setson the eggs of untruth,' as the parson says, 'sure hatches lies.' Jestyesterday I was tellin' in Usher how me bronc piled me when I'd beenridin' the baggage, which was kind of a hoss-lie. I must 'a' had itcomin'."

  He rose and stalked to the roadway. The horned toad, undisturbed,squatted in the grass and eyed him with bright, expressionless eyes.

  "If I was like some," said Sundown, addressing the toad, "I'd pull mesix-shooter, only I ain't got it now, and bling you to nothin'.Accordin' to law you're the injudicious cause preceding the act, whichmakes you guilty accordin' to the statues of this here commonwealth,and I seen lots of 'em on the same street, in Boston, scarin' hosses todeath and makin' kids and nuss-girls cry. But I ain't goin' to shootyou. If I was to have the sayin' of it, I'd kind o' like to shoot thathoss, though. He broke as fine a pome in the middle as I ever writ, tosay nothin' of hurtin' me personal feelin's. Well, so-long, leetletoad-lizard. Just tell them that you saw me--and they will know therest--if anybody was to ask you, a empty saddle and a man a-foot in thedesert is sure circumvential evidence ag'in the hoss. Wonder how farit is to the Concho?"

  With many a backward glance, inspired by fond imaginings that the pinto_might_ have stopped to graze, Sundown stalked down the road. Waif ofchance and devotee of the goddess "Maybeso," he rose sublimely superiorto the predicament in which he found himself. "The only reason I'mgoin' east is because I ain't goin' west," he told himself, ignoring,with warm adherence to the glowing courses of the sun the frigidpossibilities of the poles. Warmed by the exercise of plodding acrossthe mesa trail in high-heeled boots, he swung out of his coat and slungit across his shoulder. Dust gathered in the wrinkles of his boots,and more than once he stopped to mop his sweating face with hisbandanna. Rise after rise swept gently before him and within the hourhe saw the misty outline of the blue hills to the south. Slowly hismoving shadow shifted, bobbing in front of him as the sun slippedtoward the western horizon. A little breeze sighed along the road andwhirls of sand spun in tiny cones around the roots of the chaparral.He reached in his pocket, drew forth a silver dollar, and examined it."Now if they weren't any folks on this here earth, I reckon silver andgold and precious jools wouldn't be worth any more than rocks and mudand gravel, eh? Why, even if they weren't no folks, water would beworth more to this here world than gold. Water makes things growand--and keeps a fella from gettin' thirsty. And mud makes thingsgrow, too, but I dunno what rocks are for. Jus
t to sit on when you'retired, I reckon." The sibilant burring of a rattler in the brush sethis neck and back tingling. "And what snakes was made for, gets me!They ain't good to eat, nohow. And they ain't friendly like some ofthe bugs and things. I'm thinkin' that that there snake what clumb thetree and got Mrs. Eve interested in the apple business would 'a' been awhole lot better for folks, if he'd 'a' stayed up that tree and died,instead o' runnin' around and raisin' young ones. Accordin' to my wayof thinkin' a garden ain't a garden with a snake in it, nohow. Now,Mrs. Eve--if she'd had to take a hammer and nails and make a ladder toget to them apples, by the time she got the ladder done I reckon themapples wouldn't 'a' looked so good to her. That's what comes of havin'a snake handy. 'Course, bein' a woman, she jest nacherally couldn'twait for 'em to get ripe and fall off the tree. That would 'a' beentoo easy. It sure is funny how folks goes to all kinds o' trouble toget into it. Mebby she did get kind o' tired eatin' the samebreakfast-food every mornin'. Lots o' folks do, and hankers to try anew one. But I never got tired of drinkin' water yet. Wisht I had abarrel with ice in it. Gee Gosh! Ice! Mebby a cup of water would beenough for a fella, but when he's dry he sure likes to see lots aheadeven if he can't drink it all. Mebby it's jest knowin' it's there thatkind o' eases up a fella's thirst. I dunno."

  Romance, as romance was wont to do at intervals, lay in wait for theweary Sundown. Hunger and thirst and a burning sun may not beimmediately conducive to poetry or romantic imaginings. But the 'dobein the distance shaded by a clump of trees, the gleam of the dryingchiles, the glow of flowers, offered an acceptable antithesis to thebarren roadway and the empty mesas. Sundown quickened his pace. Eden,though circumscribed by a barb-wire fence enclosing scant territory,invited him to rest and refresh himself. And all unexpected theimmemorial Eve stood in the doorway of the 'dobe, gazing down the roadand doubtless wondering why this itinerant Adam, booted and spurred,chose to walk the dusty highway.

  At the gate of the homestead Sundown paused and raised his broadsombrero. Anita, dusky and buxom daughter of Chico Miguel, "the littlehombre with the little herd," as the cattle-men described him, nodded abashful acknowledgment of the salute, and spoke sharply to the dogwhich had risen and was bristling toward the Strange wayfarer.

  "Agua," said Sundown, opening the gate, "Mucha agua, Senorita," adding,with a humorous gesture of drinking, "I'm dry clean to me boots."

  The Mexican girl, slow-eyed and smiling, gazed at this most wonderfulman, of such upstanding height that his hat brushed the limbs of theshade-trees at the gateway. Anita was plump and not tall. As Sundownstalked up the path assuming an air of gallantry that was not wasted onthe desert air, the girl stepped to the olla hanging in the shade andoffered him the gourd. Sundown drank long and deep. Anita watched himwith wondering eyes. Such a man she had never seen. Vaqueros? Ah,yes! many of them, but never such a man as this. This one smiled, yethis face had much of the sadness in it. He had perhaps walked manyweary miles in the heat. Would he--with a gesture interpreting herspeech--be pleased to rest awhile? Without hesitation, he would. Ashe sat on the doorstep gazing contentedly at the flowers bordering thepath, Anita's mother appeared from some mysterious recess of the 'dobeand questioned Anita with quick low utterance. The girl's answer,interpretable to Sundown only by its intonation, was music to him. TheMexican woman, more than buxom, large-eyed and placid, turned toSundown, who rose and again doffed his sombrero.

  "I lost me horse--back there. I'm headed for the Concho--ma'am.Concho," he reiterated in a louder tone. "Sabe?"

  The mother of Anita nodded. "You sick?" she asked.

  "What? Me? Not on your life, lady! I'm the healthiest Ho--puncher inthis here State. You sabe Concho?"

  "Si! Zhack Corlees--'Juan,' we say. Si! You of him?"

  "Yes, lady. I'm workin' for him. Lost me hoss."

  Anita and her mother exchanged glances. Sundown felt that his statusas a vaquero was in question. Would he let the beautiful Anita knowthat he had been ignominiously "piled" by that pinto horse? Not he."Circumventions alters cases," he soliloquized, not altogetheruntruthfully. Then aloud, "Me hoss put his foot in a gopher-hole.Bruk his leg, and I had to shoot him, lady. Hated to part with him."And the inventive Sundown illustrated with telling gesture theimaginary accident.

  Sympathy flowed freely from the gentle-hearted Senora and her daughter."Si!" It was not of unusual happening that horses met with suchaccidents. It was getting late in the afternoon. Would theunfortunate caballero accept of their hospitality in the way offrijoles and some of the good coffee, perhaps? Sundown would, withoutquestion. He pressed a dollar into the palm of the reluctant Senora.He was not a tramp. Of that she might be assured. He had met withmisfortune, that was all. And would the patron return soon? Thepatron would return with the setting of the sun. Meanwhile the vaqueroof the Concho was to rest and perhaps enjoy his cigarette? And the"vaquero" loafed and smoked many cigarettes while the glowing eyes ofAnita shone upon him with large sympathy. As yet Sundown had notespecially noticed her, but returning from his third visit to thecooling olla, he caught her glance and read, or imagined he read, deepadmiration, lacking words to utter. From that moment he became achanged man. He shed his weariness as a tattered garment is thrownaside. He straightened his shoulders and held his head high. At lasta woman had looked at him and had not smiled at his ungainly stature.Nay! But rather seemed impressed, awe-stricken, amazed. And his heartquickened to faster rhythm, driving the blood riotously through hisimaginative mind. He grew eloquent, in gesture, if not in speech. Hetold of his wanderings, his arrival at the Concho, of Chance his greatwolf-dog, his horse "Pill," and his good friends Bud Snoop and HiWangle. Sundown could have easily given Othello himself "cards andspades" in this chance game of hearts and won--moving metaphor!--in acanter. That the little Senorita with the large eyes did notunderstand more than a third of that which she heard made no differenceto her. His ambiguity of utterance, backed by assurance and illuminedby the divine fire of inspiration, awakened curiosity in the placidbreast of this Desdemona of the mesas. It required no sophisticationon her part to realize that this caballero was not as the vaqueros shehad heretofore known. He made no boorish jests; his eyes were not asthe eyes of many that had gazed at her in a way that had tinged herdusky cheeks with warm resentment. She felt that he was endeavoring tointerest her, to please her rather than to woo. And more than that--heseemed intensely interested in his own brave eloquence. A child couldhave told that Sundown was single-hearted. And with the instinct of achild--albeit eighteen, and quite a woman in her way--Anita approved ofthis adventurer as she had never approved of men, or man, before. Hisgreat height, his long, sweeping arms, moving expansively as heillustrated this or that incident, his silver spurs, his loose-jointed"tout ensemble," so to speak, combined with an eloquent though puzzlingmanner of speech, fascinated her. Warmed to his work, and forgetful ofhis employer's caution in regard to certain plans having to do with thewater-hole ranch, Sundown elaborated, drawing heavily on futurepossibilities, among which he towered in imagination monarch of richmellow acres and placid herds. He intimated delicately that arancher's life was lonely at best, and enriched the tender intimationwith the assurance that he was more than fond of enchiladas, frijoles,carne-con-chile, tamales, adding as an afterthought that he wassomewhat of an expert himself in "wrastlin' out" pies and doughnuts andvarious other gastronomical delicacies.

  A delicate frown touched the gentle Anita's smooth forehead when hermother interrupted Sundown with a steaming cup of coffee and a plate offrijoles, yet Anita realized, as she saw his ardent expression when thearoma of the coffee reached him, that this was a most sensible andfitting climax to his glowing discourse. Her frown vanished togetherwith the coffee and beans.

  Fortified by the strong black coffee and the nourishing frijoles,Sundown rose from his seat on the doorstep and betook himself to theback of the house where he labored with an axe until he had accumulatedquite a pile of firewood. Then
he rolled up his sleeves, washed hishands, and asked permission to prepare the evening meal. Although alittle astonished, the Senora consented, and watched Sundown, at firstwith a smile of indulgence, then with awakening curiosity, and finallywith frank and complimentary amazement as he deftly kneaded and rolledpie-crust and manufactured a pie that eventually had, for thoseimmediately concerned, historical significance.

  The "little hombre," Chico Miguel, returning to his 'dobe that evening,was greeted with a tide of explanatory utterances that swept him offhis feet. He was introduced to Sundown, apprised of the strangeguest's manifold accomplishments, and partook of the substantialevidence of his skill until of the erstwhile generous pie there wasnothing left save tender reminiscence and replete satisfaction.

  Later in the evening, when the Arizona stars glowed and shimmered onthe shadowy adobe, when the wide mesas grew mysteriously beautiful inthe soft radiance of the slow moon, Chico Miguel brought his guitarfrom the bedroom, tuned it, and struck a swaying cadence from itsstrings. Then Anita's voice, blending with the rhythm, made melody,and Sundown sat entranced. Mood, environment, temperament, lentromance to the simple song. Every singing string on the old guitar wassilver--the singer's girlish voice a sunlit wave of gold.

  The bleak and almost barren lives of these isolated folk becameillumined with a reminiscent glow as the tinkling notes of the guitarhushed to faint echoes of fairy bells hung on the silver boughs ofstarlit trees. "Adios, linda Rosa," ran the song. Then silence, thesummer night, the myriad stars.

  Sundown, turning his head, gazed spellbound at the dark-eyed singinggirl. In the dim light of the lamp she saw that his lean cheeks werewet with tears.