Sundown Slim

Henry Herbert Knibbs

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• Publié par: pheal
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 20
• Langue: English

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sundown Slim, by Henry Hubert Knibbs This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: Sundown Slim Author: Henry Hubert Knibbs Illustrator: Anton Fischer Release Date: July 20, 2005 [EBook #16334] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUNDOWN SLIM *** Produced by Al Haines [Frontispiece: "You!" she exclaimed. "You!"] SUNDOWN SLIM BY HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ANTON FISCHER NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Published May 1915 DEDICATED TO EVERETT E. HARASZTHY Contents I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI. ARIZONA SUNDOWN IN ANTELOPE THE JOKE THIRTY MILES TO THE CONCHO PIE; AND SEPTEMBER MORN ON THE CAÑON TRAIL THE BROTHERS FADEAWAY'S HAND AT "THE LAST CHANCE" SUNDOWN'S FRIEND THE STORM CHANCE—CONQUEROR A GIFT SUNDOWN, VAQUERO ON THE TRAIL TO THE BLUE THEY KILLED THE BOSS! SUNDOWN ADVENTURES XVII. XVIII. XIX. XX. XXI. XXII. XXIII. XXIV. XXV. XXVI. XXVII. XXVIII. XXIX. THE STRANGER THE SHERIFF—AND OTHERS THE ESCAPE THE WALKING MAN ON THE MESA WAIT! THE PEACEMAKER AN UNEXPECTED VISIT VAMOSE, EH? THE INVADERS "JUST ME AND HER" IMPROVEMENTS A MAN'S COUNTRY List of Illustrations "You!" she exclaimed. "You!" … Frontispiece "God A'mighty, sech things is wrong." Arizona Across the wide, sun-swept mesas the steel trail of the railroad runs east and west, diminishing at either end to a shimmering blur of silver. South of the railroad these level immensities, rich in their season with ripe bunch-grass and gramagrass roll up to the barrier of the far blue hills of spruce and pine. The red, ragged shoulders of buttes blot the sky-line here and there; wind-worn and grotesque silhouettes of gigantic fortifications, castles and villages wrought by some volcanic Cyclops who grew tired of his labors, abandoning his unfinished task to the weird ravages of wind and weather. In the southern hills the swart Apache hunts along historic trails o'er which red cavalcades once swept to the plundering of Sonora's herds. His sires and their flashing pintos have vanished to other hunting-grounds, and he rides the boundaries of his scant heritage, wrapped in sullen imaginings. The cañons and the hills of this broad land are of heroic mould as are its men. Sons of the open, deep-chested, tall and straight, they ride like conquerors and walk—like bears. Slow to anger and quick to act, they carry their strength and health easily and with a dignity which no worn trappings, faded shirt, or flop-brimmed hat may obscure. Speak to one of them and his level gaze will travel to your feet and back again to your eyes. He may not know what you are, but he assuredly knows what you are not. He will answer you quietly and to the point. If you have been fortunate enough to have ridden range, hunted or camped with him or his kind, ask him, as he stands with thumb in belt and wide Stetson tilted back, the trail to heaven. He will smile and point toward the mesas and the mountains of his home. Ask him the trail to that other place with which he so frequently garnishes his conversation, and he will gravely point to the mesas and the hills again. And there you have Arizona. SUNDOWN SLIM CHAPTER I SUNDOWN IN ANTELOPE Sundown Slim, who had enjoyed the un-upholstered privacy of a box-car on his journey west from Albuquerque, awakened to realize that his conveyance was no longer an integral part of the local freight which had stopped at the town of Antelope, and which was now rumbling and grumbling across the Arizona mesas. He was mildly irritated by a management that gave its passengers such negligent service. He complained to himself as he rolled and corded his blankets. However, he would disembark and leave the car to those base uses for which corporate greed, and a shipper of baled hay, intended it. He was further annoyed to find that the door of the car had been locked since he had taken possession. Hearing voices, he hammered on the door. After an exchange of compliments with an unseen rescuer, the door was pushed back and he leaped to the ground. He was a bit surprised to find, not the usual bucolic agent of a water-plug station, but a belted and booted rider of the mesas; a cowboy in all the glory of wide Stetson, wing chaps, and Mexican spurs. "Thought you was the agent. I couldn't see out," apologized the tramp. The cowboy laughed. "He was scared to open her up, so I took a chanct, seein' as I'm agent for the purvention of crulty to Hoboes." "Well, you got a fine chance to make a record this evening" said Sundown, estimating with experienced eye the possibilities of Antelope and its environs. "I et at Albuquerque." "Ain't a bad town to eat in," commented the puncher, gazing at the sky. "I never seen one that was," the tramp offered, experimentally. The cowboy grinned. "Well, take a look at this pueblo, then. You can see her all from here. If the station door was open you could see clean through to New Mexico. They got about as much use for a Bo in these parts as they have for raisin' posies. And this ain't no garden." "Well, I'm raised. I got me full growth," said Sundown, straightening his elongated frame,—he stood six-feet-four in whatever he could get to stand in,—"and I raised meself." "Good thing you stopped when you did," commented the puncher. "What's your line?" "Me line? Well, the Santa Fe, jest now. Next comes cookin'. I been cook in everything from a hotel to a gradin'-camp. I cooked for high-collars and swalley-tails, and low-brows and jeans—till it come time to go. Incondescent to that I been poet select to the T.W.U." "Temperance?" "Not exactly. T.W.U. is Tie Walkers' Union. I lost me job account of a long-hair buttin' in and ramblin' round the country spielin' high-toned stuff about 'Art for her own sake'—and such. Me pals selected him animus for poet, seein' as how I just writ things nacheral; no high-fluted stuff like him. Why, say, pardner, I believe in writin' from the ground up, so folks can understand. Why, this country is sufferin' full of guys tryin' to pull all the G strings out of a harp to onct—when they ought to be practicin' scales on a mouth-organ. And it's printed ag'in' 'em in the magazines,