Meanwhile, Sundown, forgetful of everything save the congeniality of the moment, was recounting, to an amused audience of three, his experiences as assistant cook in an Eastern hotel. The rest of the happy and irresponsible punchers gravitated to the far end of the bar and proposed that they "have a little fun with the tall guy." One of them drew his gun and stepped quietly behind the tramp. About to fire into the floor he hesitated, bolstered his gun and tiptoed clumsily back to his companions. "Got a better scheme," he whispered. Presently Sundown, in the midst of his recital, was startled by a roar of laughter. He turned quickly. The laughter ceased. The cowboy who had released him from the box-car stated that he must be going, and amid protests and several challenges to have as many "one-mores," swung out into the night to ride thirty miles to his ranch. Then it was, as has been said elsewhere and oft, "the plot thickened." A rider, leaning against the bar and puffing thoughtfully at a cigar of elephantine proportions, suddenly took his cigar from his lips, held it poised, examined it with the eye of a connoisseur--of cattle--and remarked slowly: "Now, why didn't I think of it? Wonder you fellas didn't think of it. They need a cook bad! Been without a cook for a year--and everybody fussin' 'round cookin' for himself." Sundown caught the word "cook" and turned to, face the speaker. "I was lookin' for a job, meself," he said, apologetically. "Did you know of one?" "You was!" exclaimed the cowboy. "Well, now, that's right queer. I know where a cook is needed bad. But say, can you honest-to-Gosh _cook_?" "I cooked in everything from a hotel to a gradin'-camp. All I want is a chanct." The cowboy shook his head. "I don' know. It'll take a pretty good man to hold down this job." "Where is the job?" queried Sundown. Several of the men grinned, and Sundown, eager to be friendly, grinned in return. "Mebby you _could_ hold it down," continued the cowboy. "But say, do you eat your own cookin'?" "Guess you're joshin' me." And the tramp's face expressed disappointment. "I eat my own cookin' when I can't get any better," he added, cheerfully. "Well, it ain't no joke--cookin' for that hotel," stated the puncher, gazing at the end of his cigar and shaking his head. "Is it, boys?" "Sure ain't," they chorused. "A man's got to shoot the good chuck to hold the trade," he continued. "Hotel?" queried Sundown. "In this here town?" "Naw!" exclaimed the puncher. "It's one o' them swell joints out in the desert. Kind o' what folks East calls a waterin'-place. Eh, boys?" "That's her!" volleyed the group. "Kind o' select-like," continued the puncher. "Sure is!" they chorused. "Do you know what the job pays?" asked Sundown. "U-m-m-m, let's see. Don't know as I ever heard. But there'll be no trouble about the pay. And you'll have things your own way, if you can deliver the goods." "That's right!" concurred a listener.