"So-long."

Chance, a prisoner in the stable, whined and gnawed at the rope with
which Corliss had tied him. The rope was hard-twisted and tough.
Finally the last strand gave way. The dog leaped through the doorway
and ran sniffing around the enclosure. He found Sundown's trail and
followed it to the ranch-house. At the threshold the dog stopped. His
neck bristled and he crooked one foreleg. Slowly he stalked to the
prone figure on the floor. He sniffed at Sundown's hands and pawed at
him. Slowly Sundown's eyes opened. He tried to rise and sank back
groaning. Chance frisked around him playfully coaxing. Finally
Sundown managed to sit up. With pain-heavy eyes he gazed around the
room. Slowly he got to his feet and staggered to the doorway. He
leaned against the lintel and breathed deeply of the fresh morning air.
The clear cold tang of the storm that had passed, lingered, giving a
keen edge to the morning. "We're sure in wrong," he muttered, gazing
at Chance, who stood watching him with head cocked and eyes eager for
something to happen--preferably action. Sundown studied the dog dully.
"Say, Chance," he said finally, "do you think you could take a little
word to the camp? I heard of dogs doin' such things. Mebby you could.
Somebody's got to do 'somethin' and I can't." Painfully he stooped and
pointed toward the south. "Go tell the boss!" he commanded. Chance
whined. "No, that way. The camp!"

Chance nosed across the yard toward the gate. Then he stopped and
looked back. Sundown encouraged him by waving his arm toward the
south. "Go ahead, Chance. The boss wants you."

Chance trotted toward the cottonwood, nosed among them, and finally
took Sundown's trail to the knoll.