It was mid-afternoon, when Sundown, gaunt and weary, arrived at the
Concho. He was faint for lack of food and water. The Mexican cook, or
rather the cook's assistant, was the only one present when Sundown
drifted in, for the Concho was, in the parlance of the riders, "A man's
ranch from chuck to sunup, and never a skirt on the clothes-line."

Not until evening was Sundown able to make his errand known, and
appreciated. A group of riders swung in in a swirl of dust,
dismounted, and, as if by magic, the yard was empty of horses.

The riders disappeared in the bunk-house to wash and make ready for
supper. One of the men, who had spoken to him in passing, reappeared.

"Lookin' for the boss?" he asked.

"Nope. I seen him. I'm lookin' for Mr. Shoop."

"All right, pardner. Saw off the mister and size me up. I'm him."

"The boss said I was to be cook," said Sundown, rather awed by the
personality of the bluff foreman.

"Meet him at Antelope?"

"No. It was the American Hotel. He said for me to tell you if I
walked in I could get a job cookin'."

"All right. What he says goes. Had anything to eat recent?"