assuming the characteristics of a genuine
cow-puncher. He would show the folks in Antelope what a rider for the
Concho looked like.

The following morning, much earlier than necessary, he mounted and rode
to the bunk-house, where Corliss gave him the letter and told him to
leave the horse at the stables in Antelope until he returned from Usher.

Sundown, stiffened by the importance of his mission, rode straight up,
looking neither to the right nor to the left until the Concho was far
behind him. Then he slouched in the saddle, gazing with a pleased
expression first at one leather-clad leg and then the other. For a
time the wide, free glory of the Arizona morning mesas was forgotten.
The shadow of his pony walked beside him as the low eastern sun burned
across the golden levels. Long silhouettes of fantastic buttes spread
across the plain. The sky was cloudless and the crisp thin air
foretold a hot noon. The gaunt rider's face beamed with an inner
light--the light of romance. What more could a man ask than a good
horse, a faithful and intelligent dog, a mission of trust, and sixty
undisturbed miles of wondrous upland o'er which to journey, fancy-free
and clad in cowboy garb? Nothing more--except--and Sundown realized
with a slight sensation of emptiness that he had forgotten to eat
breakfast. He had plenty to eat in his saddle-bags, but he put the
temptation to refresh himself aside as unworthy, for the nonce, of his
higher self. Naturally the pent-up flood of verse that had been
oppressing him of late surged up and filled his mind with vague and
poignant fancies. His love for animals, despite his headlong
experiences on the Concho, was unimpaired, so to speak. He patted the
neck of the rangy roan which he bestrode, and settled himself to the
serious task of expressing his inner-most being in verse. He dipped
deep into the Pierian springs, and poesy broke forth. But not,
however, until he had "cinched up," as he mentally termed it, the
saddle of his Pegasus of the mesas.

Sundown paused and called the attention of his horse to the last line.

He hesitated, harking back for his climax. "Jing!" he exclaimed, "it's
the durndest thing to put a finish on a piece of po'try! You get to
goin' and she goes fine. Then you commence to feel that you're comin'
to the end and nacherally you asks yourself what's the end goin' to be
like. Fust thing you're stompin' around in your head upsettin' all
that you writ tr