He was obsessed with a fanaticism akin to that of those
who had burned witches and thanked their Maker for the opportunity.
In his simple way he wondered why he had not wept. He rode slowly to
the Concho. Chance leaped circling about his horse. He greeted the
dog with a word. When he dismounted, Chance cringed and crept to him.
Without question this was his master, and yet there was something in
Sundown's attitude that silenced the dog's joyous welcoming. Chance
sat on his haunches, whined, and did his best by his own attitude to
show that he was in sympathy with his master's strange mood.
John Corliss saw instantly that there was something wrong, and his
hearty greeting lapsed into terse questioning. Sundown pointed toward
the northern mesas.
"What's up?" he queried.
"Sinker--he's dead--over there."
"Sinker?" Corliss ran to the corral, calling to Wingle, who came from
the bunk-house. The cook whisked off his apron, grabbed his hat, and
followed Corliss. "Sinker's done for!" said Corliss. "Saddle up, Hi.
Sun found him out there. Must have had trouble at the water-hole.
Pages:
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281