some fighter, too. Mebby he didn't like to get licked any more than
Chance, here. Wonder what they was fightin' about? I dunno. But, Gee
Gosh, she was one dandy scrap!"

At the top of the cañon wall he again rested. He expected to be
discharged for being late, but solaced himself with the thought that if
he could save Chance, it was worth the risk.

The riders had returned to the chuck-wagon when Sundown arrived lugging
the inert body of the wolf-dog. They gathered around and asked brief
questions. Sundown, busy washing the dog's wounds, answered as well as
he could. His account of the fight did not suffer for lack of
embellishment, and while he did not absolutely state that he had taken
a hand in the fight, his story implied it.

"Don't see nothin' on you to show you been in a scrap," remarked a
young puncher.

"That's because you can't see in deep enough," retorted Sundown. "If I
wasn't in every jump of that fight, me heart was."

"Better shoot him and put him out of his sufferin'," suggested the
puncher.

Sundown rose from beside the dog. Shoot Chance? Not so long as he
could keep between the dog and the cowboy's gun. The puncher, half in
jest, reached for his holster. Sundown's overwrought nerves gave way.
He dropped to his knees and lifted his long arms imploringly. "Don't!
Don't!" he wailed. "He ain't dead! Don't shoot my pal!"