His reception by the men, aside from Bud Shoop's
greeting, had been cool. Even the friendship of a dog seemed
acceptable at that moment. Plodding along the weary miles between the
water-hole and the ranch, he had, in his way, decided to turn over a
new leaf: to ignore the insistent call of the road and settle down to
something worth while. Childishly egotistical, he felt in a vague way
that his virtuous intent was not appreciated, not reasoning that the
men knew nothing of his wanderings, nor cared to know anything other
than as to his ability to cook. So he timidly stroked the long muzzle
of the wolf-dog, and was agreeably surprised to find that Chance seemed
to like it. In fact, Chance, having an instinct superior to that of
his men companions of the Concho, recognized in the gaunt and lonely
figure a kindred spirit; a being that had the wander-fever in its
veins; that was forever searching for the undiscoverable, the something
just beyond the visible boundaries of day. The dog, part Russian
wolf-hound and part Great Dane, deep-chested, swift and powerful, shook
his shaggy coat and sneezed.
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