"Nope. But me and him ain't strangers, mister. You see, I knowed the boss's brother Billy, what passed over in a wreck. He used to own Chance, so the boss says." "You knew Billy! But Chance don't know that. I'll chain him up till he gets used to seein' you 'round." Shoop led the dog to the stable. Sundown felt relieved. The solicitude of the foreman, impersonal as it was, made him happier. Next morning he was installed as cook. He did fairly well, and the men rode away joking about the new "dough-puncher." Then it was that Sundown had an inspiration--not to write verse, but to manufacture pies. He knew that the great American appetite is keen for pies. Finding plenty of material,--dried apples, dried prunes, and apricots,--he set to work, having in mind former experiences on the various "east-sides" of various cities. Determined that his reputation should rest not alone upon flavor, he borrowed a huge Mexican spur from his assistant and immersed it in a pan of boiling water. "And speakin' of locality color," he murmured, grinning at the possibilities before him, "how's that, Johnny?" And he rolled out a thin layer of pie-dough and taking the spur for a "pattern-wheel," he indented a free-hand sketch of the Concho brand on the immaculate dough. Next he wheeled out a rather wobbly cayuse, then an equally wobbly and ferocious cow. Each pie came from the oven with some symbol of the range printed upon it, the general effect being enhanced by the upheaval of the piecrust in the process of baking. When the punchers rode in that evening and entered the messroom, they sniffed knowingly. But not until the psychological moment did Sundown parade his pies. Then he stepped to the kitchen and, with the lordly gesture of a Michael Angelo unveiling a statue for the approval of Latin princes, commanded the assistant to "Bring forth them pies." And they were "brung." Each astonished puncher was gravely presented with a whole pie--bubbling kine, dimpled cayuses, and sprawling spurs. Silence--as silence is wont to do in dramatic moments--reigned supreme. Then it was that the purveyor of spontaneous Western exclamations missed his opportunity, being elsewhere at the time. "Whoop! Let 'er buck!" exclaimed Bud Shoop, swinging an imaginary hat and rocking from side to side. "So-o, Boss!" exclaimed a puncher from the Middle West. "Hand-made and silver mounted," remarked another. "Hate to eat 'em." "Trade you my pinto for a steer," offered still another. "Nothin" doin'! That hoss of yours has got colic--bad." "Swap this here goat for that rooster of yours," said "Sinker," a youth whose early education in art had been neglected. "Goat? You box-head! That's a calf. Kind 'a' mired down, but it's sure a calf. And this ain't no rooster. This here's a eagle settin' on his eggs. You need specs." "Noah has sure been herdin' 'em in," said another puncher.