That Sundown should consider himself morally bound to become one of those who he knew would avenge the killing of the cowboy, and without recourse to law, was not altogether strange. The iron had entered his soul. Heretofore at loose ends with the world, the finding of Sinker, dying on the mesas, kindled within him righteous wrath against the circumstance rather than the individual slayer. His meandering thoughts and emotions became crystallized. His energies hardened to a set purpose. He was obsessed with a fanaticism akin to that of those who had burned witches and thanked their Maker for the opportunity. In his simple way he wondered why he had not wept. He rode slowly to the Concho. Chance leaped circling about his horse. He greeted the dog with a word. When he dismounted, Chance cringed and crept to him. Without question this was his master, and yet there was something in Sundown's attitude that silenced the dog's joyous welcoming. Chance sat on his haunches, whined, and did his best by his own attitude to show that he was in sympathy with his master's strange mood. John Corliss saw instantly that there was something wrong, and his hearty greeting lapsed into terse questioning. Sundown pointed toward the northern mesas. "What's up?" he queried. "Sinker--he's dead--over there." "Sinker?" Corliss ran to the corral, calling to Wingle, who came from the bunk-house. The cook whisked off his apron, grabbed his hat, and followed Corliss. "Sinker's done for!" said Corliss. "Saddle up, Hi. Sun found him out there. Must have had trouble at the water-hole. I should have sent another man with him." Wingle, with the taciturnity of the plainsman, jerked the cinchas tight and swung to the saddle. Sinker's death had come like a white-hot flash of lightning from the bulked clouds that had shadowed disaster impending--and in that shadow the three men rode silently toward the north. Again Corliss questioned Sundown. Tense with the stress of an emotion that all but sealed his lips, Sundown turned his white face to Corliss and whispered, "Wait!" The rancher felt that that one terse, whispered word implied more than he cared to imagine. There was something uncanny about the man. If the killing of Sinker could so change the timorous, kindly Sundown to this grim, unbending epitome of lean death and vengeance, what could he himself do to check the wild fury of his riders when they heard of their companion's passing from the sun? Sinker's horse, grazing, lifted its head and nickered as they rode up. They dismounted and turned the body over. Wingle, kneeling, examined the cowboy's six-gun. Corliss, in a burst of wrath, turned on Sundown. "Damn you, open your mouth. What do you know about this?" Sundown bit his nails and glowered at Corliss. "God A'mighty sent me--" he began. With a swift gesture Corliss interrupted. "You're working for the Concho. Was he dead when you found him?"