Chico Miguel wondered why the hour of eating had been so long past.  To which the Senora replied that he had just arrived, and, moreover, that she had already called to Anita this the third time, yet had had no response.  Chico Miguel moved toward the doorway, but his wife laid her hand on his arm.  “It is that you take the big guitar and play the ‘Linda Rosa, Adios.’  Then, to be sure, they will hear and the supper will not grow cold.”

Grumblingly Chico Miguel took his guitar and struck the opening chords of the song.  Presently up the pathway came two shadowy figures, close together and seemingly in no haste.  As they entered the house, Sundown apologized for having delayed supper, stating that he had been so interested in discussing with Anita the “best breed of chickens to raise for eggs,” that other things had for the nonce not occupied his attention.  “And we’re sure walkin’ on music,” he added.  “Jest steppin’ along on the notes of that there song.  I reckon I got to get one of them leetle potato-bug mandolins and learn to tickle its neck.  There’s nothin’ like music—­exceptin’”—­and he glanced at the blushing Anita—­“exceptin’ ranchin’.”

It was late when Sundown finally departed, He grew anxious as he rode across the mesas, wondering if he had not taken advantage, as it were, of Gentle Annie’s good nature, and whether or not the chickens were very hungry.  Chance plodded beside him, a vague shadow in the starlight.  The going was more or less rough and Pill dodged many gopher-holes, to the peril of his rider’s equilibrium.  Yet Sundown was glad that it was night.  There was nothing to divert him from the golden dreams of the future.  He felt that success, as he put it, “was hangin’ around the door whinin’ to be let in.”  He formulated a creed for himself and told the stars.  “I believe in meself—­you bet.”  Yet he was honest with his soul.  “I know more about everything and less about anything than anybody—­exceptin’ po’try and cookin’.  But gettin’ along ain’t jest what you know.  It’s more like what you do.  They’s fellas knows more than I could learn in four thousand eight hundred and seventy-six years, but that don’t help ’em get along none.  It’s what you know inside what counts.”

He lapsed into silence and slouched in the saddle.  Presently he nodded, recovered, and nodded again.  He would not wittingly have gone to sleep in the saddle, being as yet too unaccustomed to riding to relax to that extent.  But sleep had something to say anent the matter.  He dozed, clasping the saddle-horn instinctively.  Pill plodded along patiently.  The east grew gray, then rose-pink, then golden.  The horse lifted its head and quickened pace.  Sundown swayed and nodded.

His uneasy slumber was broken by an explosive bark from Chance.  Sundown straightened and rubbed his eyes.  Before him lay the ranch-house, glittering in the sun.  Out on the mesa grazed a herd of sheep and past them another and another.  Again he rubbed his eyes.