In the meantime, the H-B outfit was bending all energies to a completion of the roundup, looking forward to a return to the “flesh pots” of Mrs. Carter’s kitchen, as Rodeo expressed it, who was blessed with splendid gastronomical appurtenances.

Among the last riders to be picked up by Jim, was a handsome, active man in his early thirties. Superbly mounted on a fine black gelding of remarkable swiftness, an expert with the rope, this tall, lithe stranger proved a valuable asset to the force. Because of his proneness to sing and trill Southern plantation melodies, he was soon dubbed the “Dixie Canary.” Educated beyond his associates and possessing an exquisite voice, he rendered the evening campfire gatherings more cheery and it was not long before the singer was a general favorite with all. Devoted to his horse, he rode without whip or spur; and he invariably made his couch alongside of Twilight, as the great black was known. The boys declared that the Canary even shared his blanket with his dumb companion, when the nights were chilly.

Of his past life, the Canary was never known to speak; a prerogative courteously recognized in range etiquette. Ofttimes he appeared distraught, to live over again some pathetic episode of other days. On these occasions, oblivious of his surroundings and gazing southwards, he ever sang a low, sad, childlike refrain:

“You may holler down my apple tree;
I don’t like you any more!”

Then gathering himself with a start, the Canary would hasten about his duties with alacrity, as if to down some hauntings of troubled memory.

In a remote and wild section of the range, the riders were gathering in the last herd-stragglers, working in organized order. In the final rangle, Rodeo and the Dixie Canary, had, in a dice contest, drawn a particularly rough mountain belt, gutted by deep gulches and yawning precipitous canyons. It was still early morning, when the two reached their assigned field of operations; and separating, they climbed parallel ridges, to be followed to a conjunction at the head of the gorge. This route would lead them miles into the fastness of the upper timbered range, where comforts of the “Last Rest” awaited them. This camp consisted of a corral and a crudely built log cabin, with wall-bunks constructed of poles and covered with pine boughs.

The sun was tipping the crest of the lower hills, when Rodeo, reining in his horse, gazed intently across the canyon, where Canary had appeared on the skyline. The mighty black was skimming along the summit, to suddenly disappear as if swallowed up by the earth. After a few moments Rodeo continued his way, evidently satisfied as to how fared his companion, whom he knew to be an experienced and dexterous horseman. He knew, too, that Twilight was the most surefooted equine of the outfit.

The evening brought a cold wind from the north, which, by nightfall, was fraught with a bone-chilling, drizzling rain. Rodeo was the last to reach the rendezvous; and long after the fog-thickened darkness had settled down over the gorge and mountain peak. Caring for his mount, Rodeo entered the cabin, made cheery by a pile of logs blazing in the open fireplace, where Jake was baking bannocks, frying slab-bacon and boiling coffee. As the wet, chilled rider broke into the circle, he was accosted with a chorus of inquiry as to the Canary.

“His moosic is absent an’ th’ home-gatherin’ is lonely,” observed Celluloid Bill. “Life ain’t none too sweet at th’ bitterest.”

“Why! ain’t the Canary here?” Rodeo’s voice attested his deep concern. “I s’pose he got in long ago.”

“Whar’ yo’ leave him?” questioned the Silent One. “I hater think of th’ Canary bein’ out such a night; I hater not hear his singin’ befo’ goin’ to bed.”

“We rode different trails a comin’,” answered Rodeo.

“When did you see the Canary last?” asked the foreman.

“Airly mornin’ on Badger Ridge. He was ranglin’ to beat hell, a bunch of stampeders a headin’ for Standin’ Boulder Gulch. Hiss hoss kinder snuffed out; seemed to go down an’ not git up. It was at some big rocks an’ I thought maybe he passed behin’ them. Say! Yo’ fellers!” he continued in agitation, “do yo’ s’pose anythin’ happened to th’ Canary? Do yo’ think⁠—”

Rodeo’s voice broke. His mind had been ill at ease ever since he had witnessed the mystifying episode on the remote and isolated heights, and now the sudden realization that it might prove a tragedy, upset his usually passive nerves. Silent Bob was on his feet.

“Boys, I’m a goin’ to fin’ th’ Canary who sings of Dixie. Do yo’-all want to go? I hater⁠—”

The Silent one turned aside, blinking hard. The firelight evidently hurt his eyes. During the brief interim of their acquaintance, an attachment had sprung up between the two Southerners, undemonstrative, yet warm and reciprocal. The response to his appeal was an immediate donning of chaps and buckling on of spurs by all the riders. The even voice of the foreman interrupted the proceedings:

“Boys, this here is a ser’ous undertakin’: a ridin’ that hellbusted country this black night. But we’re a goin! Listen: Our hosses, all tired out, ain’t yet had much rent and but little feed. Let ’em eat while we swaller some grub and hot coffee. We’ll make better time for it after gittin’ started. Them lanterns better have more oil. Fill your canteens with fresh water.”

The logic of this was apparent to all, notwithstanding the impatience to be off. It was agreed that Carter, who was suffering from a sprained ankle, Frenchy and one or two others unfamiliar with the region, were to remain with Jake in Camp, as being of no actual assistance in the undertaking. Within an hour the cavalcade was wending its precarious way over a weirdly wild and dismal country, storm-swept and mist-shrouded. The feeble rays of the camp-lanterns penetrated but a few feet, the wall of dense blackness that ever loomed just ahead of the leader. For an interminable time the horses toiled, their riders growing numb in the saddle from wet and cold. Even at that time of year, a “northerner” in the mountains was a grim reality for the summer-clad men. Compelled to make wide detours in surmounting some cliffy height, or in avoiding some abysmal canyon⁠—rock-ribbed and yawning⁠—it was long after midnight, when, because of an inadequate knowledge of their bearings and because of the exhaustion of their horses, the rescuers were constrained to dismount and await the coming of day. Accordingly saddles were removed and the animals staked to graze on the sparse vegetation, while the slicker-encased riders crouched together for mutual warmth and comfort. Fire was not to be thought of.

Well towards morning, the rain ceased, but lowering clouds and mists barred all safety of movement. Not until the fog had been dispersed by the sun’s rays, did the searchers find that they were still several miles from where Rodeo had last seen Canary. Despite all possible haste, it was a long hour before the scene of a ghastly accident was reached.

Dixie Canary, one side badly crushed, was semiconscious, delirious. He was huddled against Twilight, whose velvety muzzle was pressed against the injured man’s cheek. Later investigation disclosed that the horse had gone into a concealed badger hole breaking a front leg at the knee. Turning a somersault, he landed full on his rider. That the Canary escaped death outright seemed hardly short of miraculous.

The riders gathered close, feeling that the end could not be far. Rodeo bent over his companion, speaking gently. There was an indistinct murmur, “boys” alone being distinguishable.

“Yes, th’ boys are all here,” said Rodeo, lifting the bruised head. “We’re going to carry yo’ out an’ git a doctor. Yo’ll be alright soon.”

A canteen was held to the parched lips, and the Canary drank greedily. With the draining of the contents, his head sank back, pillowed against the shoulder of the horse. Twice he tried to speak. Silent Bob kneeling, took his “Chum’s” hand:

“What is it, Canary? This is Bob. Tell what it is!”

The eyes of Dixie Canary opened. A wan smile lit his face as he recognized his “Pard.” A moment later he spoke, the words broken and faltering:

“Twi‑light! Give⁠—him⁠—wa⁠—wa⁠—”

“Yes! yes!” hastened Bob. “Bill is a goin’ give Twilight water now.”

The nose of the intelligent animal was elevated and the contents of two canteens poured down its throat. There was no struggling, and when the drink was exhausted, the soft muzzle again gently caressed the cheek now rapidly growing cold. For several moments there was silence, Bob still kneeling, chafed the fast chilling brow. The passing shadow of a great buzzard, sailing low and in ever narrowing circles, swept the dying Southerner’s upturned face. He started, as he glimpsed the bird of ill-omen, and faltered appealingly:

“Bob⁠—you won’t⁠—let⁠—that⁠—damned⁠—thing⁠—”

Eyes expressive of indefinable tenderness turned to Twilight. The Silent one understood:

“No! Canary. That there feathered hoodoo ain’t a goin’ dese’rate yo’ hoss. We’ll lay Twilight ’longside⁠—”

Bob struggled to hide an emotion that was choking. A wave of comprehension suffused the dimming eyes, as the sufferer fought for speech:

“Twilight⁠—was all⁠—I had. Bury us⁠—together. Up here where⁠—sunshine⁠—clouds⁠—remind me of⁠—of⁠—But no difference! Maybe⁠—somewhere⁠—we will be⁠—together again⁠—with no⁠—cussed⁠—badger holes⁠—to bother.”

There was a long pause, and then:

“Bob⁠—I’m going. I wanted⁠—to end⁠—Twilight’s⁠—suffering. But⁠—I⁠—couldn’t do it. You will⁠—make it⁠—easy for⁠—him⁠—won’t you?”

“Twilight won’t never know. He’ll be with yo’! But I hater⁠—”

A suppressed sob shook the kneeling form. The dying singer of Dixie melodies, seemed, through sheer force of an indomitable will, to hold an ebbing strength, for imparting, a soul troubling secret. While the mind struggled with the gathering mists of a fast approaching sunset, the voice was less husky as he continued:

“Bob, you and⁠—the boys have⁠—been good friends⁠—to me. But you seemed⁠—the closest! Maybe it was⁠—the Dixie tie. I never told⁠—you about the⁠—little⁠—little⁠—But no use now. It’s alright! Last night⁠—she came. Little gal⁠—of long ago. When children⁠—we played in⁠—old orchard⁠—back home. We’d sing⁠—‘hollerin’ down⁠—my apple tree.’ Last night I was⁠—oh! so cold. Wet, freezing! Twilight⁠—shivered. She came⁠—little gal. Spread blanket⁠—over me and⁠—Twilight. Sang again⁠—that song. Placed hand on⁠—my head. Pain⁠—all left. I slept warm. Twilight⁠—seemed not⁠—cold. Dreamed of⁠—the apple tree⁠—old⁠—crooked. Heard song as⁠—we used to⁠—”

The range waif reared himself on an elbow. An ineffable light suffused the pallid countenance, as the gaze went out and beyond the circle of awed watchers. Were those glazing orbs visioning that which is withheld from mortal kind? The voice of the Dixie Canary was clear; the cadence that of the campfire trill, as he sang:

“I’m a comin’! I’m a comin’!
Sho’ my haid’s a bendin’ low;
I heah tha’r gentle voices callin’,”

And then:

“You may holler down my apple tree;
I don’t like you any⁠—”

The poor, broken body fell back against the breast of the only Twilight.

The Dixie Canary was dead.

The sun, at his zenith, blazed down on an imposing mound of rough stone, marking the final resting place of the mysterious “Canary” and his inseparable “Twilight.” The pile was surmounted with a once fine, but now battered saddle, a silver mounted bridle with an easy bit, and fancy chapajeros. A tin tobacco box, placed in a crevice of the wall, contained a leaf torn from the foreman’s time-book, bearing, in labored pencil scrawl, this legend

To memery uv
the
Dixey Canery
&
Twilite
arected by they boys

---

Angils Drempt A Singin Voise.
God Gived That Voise To The
Dixey Canery

A Cattle King Offered All His
Range For a Hoss Woth While.
God Knowed His Bisnis.
He Saived That Hoss For The
Dixey Canery