Never so much at home as when alone, the mellifluous Sundown’s imagination expanded, till it embraced the farthest outpost of his theme.  He became the towering center of things terrestrial.  The world revolved around but one individual that glorious morning, and he generously decided to let it revolve.  He felt—­being, for the first time in his weird career, very much in love—­that Dame Fortune, so long indifferent to his modest aspirations, had at last recognized in him a true adventurer worthy of her grace.  He was a remarkable man, physically.  He considered himself a remarkable man mentally, and he was, in Arizona.  “Why,” he announced to his horse, “they’s folks as says they ain’t no romantics left in this here world!  Huh!  Some of them writin’ folks oughter jest trail my smoke for a week, instead o’ settin’ in clubs and drinkin’ high-balls and expectin’ them high-balls to put ’em wise to real life!  Huh!  A fella’s got to sweat it out himself.  The kind of romantics that comes in a bottle ain’t the real thing.  Pickles is all right, but they ain’t cucumbers, nohow.  Wisht I had one—­and some salt.  The stories them guys write is like pickles, jest two kinds of flavor, sweet and sour.  Now, when I write me life’s history she’ll be a cucumber sliced thin with a few of them little red chiles to kind o’ give the right kick, and mebby a leetle onion representin’ me sentiment, and salt to draw out the proper taste, and ‘bout three drops o’ vinegar standin’ for hard luck, and the hull thing fixed tasty-like on a lettuce leaf, the crinkles representin’ the mountings and valleys of this here world, and me name on the cover in red with gold edges.  Gee Gosh!”

The creak of the saddle, the tinkle of his spurs, the springy stride of the horse furnished a truly pastoral accompaniment to Sundown’s “romantics.”

As he rode down a draw, he came suddenly upon two coyotes playing like puppies in the sun.  He reined up and watched them, and his heart warmed to their antics.  “Now, ‘most any fella ridin’ range would nacherally pull his gun and bling at ’em.  What for?  Search me!  They ain’t botherin’ nobody.  Jest playin’.  Guess ’most any animals like to play if they wasn’t scared o’ gettin’ shot all the time.  Funny how some folks got to kill everything they see runnin’ wild.  What’s the use?  Now, mebby them coyotes is a pa and ma thinkin’ o’ settin’ up ranchin’ and raisin’ alfalfa and young ones.  Or mebby he’s just a-courtin’ her and showin’ how he can run and jump better than any other coyote she ever seen.  I dunno.  There they go.  Guess they seen me.  Say! but they are jest floatin’ across the mesa—­they ain’t runnin’.  Goin’ easy, like their legs belonged to somebody else and they was jest keepin’ up with ’em.  So-long, folks!  Here’s hopin’ you get settled on that coyote-ranch all right!”

Thus far on his journey Sundown had enjoyed the pleasing local flavor of the morning and his imaginings.  The vinegar, which was to represent “hard luck,” had not as yet been added to the salad.