where hitherto he had been more or less of a joke. While he grieved
over the events which led up to his newly attained prestige as a man of
nerve, he was not a little proud of the prestige itself, and
principally because he lacked the very quality of courage that he was
now accredited with. Perhaps the fact that he had "played square," as
he saw it, was the true foundation of his attitude.

He discharged his duties as assistant cook with a new and professional
flourish that amused the riders. When they rolled from their blankets
in the crisp air of the morning, they were never kept waiting for their
coffee, hot bread, and frijoles. Moreover, he always had a small fire
going, around which he arranged the tin plates, cups, knives and forks.
This additional fire was acceptable, as the cooking was done on a large
sheet-iron camp-stove, the immediate territory of which was sacred to
Hi Wingle. Wingle, who had been an old-timer when most of the Concho
hands were learning the rudiments of the game, took himself and his
present occupation seriously. His stove was his altar, though burnt
offerings were infrequent. He guarded his culinary precincts with a
watchful eye. His attitude was somewhat akin to that of Cardinal
Richelieu in the handkerchief scene, "Take but one step within these
sacred bounds and on our head I'll lunch the cuss of Rum," or something
to that effect. He was short, ruddy, and bald, and his antithesis,
Sundown, was a source of constant amazement to him. Wingle had seen
many tall men, but never such an elongated individual as his assistant.
It became the habit of one or another of the boys to ask the cook the
way to the distant Concho, usually after the evening meal, when they
were loafing by the camp-fire. Wingle would thereupon scratch his head
and assume an air of intense concentration. "Well," he would
invariably remark, "you take the trail along Sundown's shadder there,
and keep a-fannin' it smart for about three hours. When you come to