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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:43:40 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:43:40 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/14085-0.txt b/14085-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3f43a5f --- /dev/null +++ b/14085-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6965 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14085 *** + +PARTNERS OF CHANCE + +by + +HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS + +Author of _The Ridin' Kid from Powder River_, _Sundown Slim_, +_Overland Red_, etc. + +Grosset & Dunlap +Publishers, New York + +1921 + + + + + + + +CONTENTS + + I. LITTLE JIM + II. PANHANDLE + III. A MINUTE TOO LATE + IV. "A LITTLE GREEN RIVER" + V. "TOP HAND ONCE" + VI. A HORSE-TRADE + VII. AT THE WATER-HOLE + VIII. HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS + IX. AT THE BOX-S + X. TO TRY HIM OUT + XI. PONY TRACKS + XII. JIMMY AND THE LUGER GUN + XIII. AT AUNT JANE'S + XIV. ANOTHER GAME + XV. MORE PONY TRACKS + XVI. SAN ANDREAS TOWN + XVII. THAT MESCAL + XVIII. JOE SCOTT + XIX. DORRY COMES TO TOWN + XX. ALONG THE FOOTHILLS + XXI. "GIT ALONG CAYUSE" + XXII. BOX-S BUSINESS + XXIII. THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL + XXIV. CHEYENNE PLAYS BIG + XXV. TWO TRAILS HOME + + + + + + +CHAPTER I + +LITTLE JIM + + +Little Jim knew that something strange had happened, because Big Jim, +his father, had sold their few head of cattle, the work team, and the +farm implements, keeping only the two saddle-horses and the pack-horse, +Filaree. When Little Jim asked where his mother had gone, Big Jim told +him that she had gone on a visit, and would be away a long time. Little +Jim wanted to know if his mother would ever come back. When Big Jim said +that she would not, Little Jim manfully suppressed his tears, and, being +of that frontier stock that always has an eye to the main chance, he +thrust out his hand. "Well, I'll stick with you, dad. I reckon we can +make the grade." + +Big Jim turned away and stood for a long time gazing out of the cabin +window toward town. Presently he felt a tug at his coat-sleeve. + +"Is ma gone to live in town?" + +"Yes." + +"Then why don't you go get her?" + +"She don't want to come back, Jimmy." + +Little Jim could not understand this. Yet he had often heard his mother +complain of their life on the homestead, and as often he had watched his +father sitting grimly at table, saying nothing in reply to his wife's +querulous complainings. The boy knew that his father had worked hard to +make a home. They had all worked hard. But, then, that had seemed the +only thing to do. + +Presently Big Jim swung round as though he had made a decision. He +lighted the lamp in the kitchen and made a fire. Little Jim scurried out +to the well with a bucket. Little Jim was a hustler, never waiting to be +told what to do. His mother was gone. He did not know why. But he knew +that folks had to eat and sleep and work. While his father prepared +supper, Little Jim rolled up his own shirt-sleeves and washed +vigorously. Then he filled the two glasses on the table, laid the plates +and knives and forks, and finding nothing else to do in the house, just +then, he scurried out again and returned with his small arms filled with +firewood. + +Big Jim glanced at him. "I guess we don't need any more wood, Jimmy. +We'll be leaving in the morning." + +"What? Leavin' here?" + +His father nodded. + +"Goin' to town, dad?" + +"No. South." + +"Just us two, all alone?" + +"Yes. Don't you want to go?" + +"Sure! But I wish ma was comin', too." + +Big Jim winced. "So do I, Jimmy. But I guess we can get along all right. +How would you like to visit Aunt Jane, down in Arizona?" + +"Where them horn toads and stingin' lizards are?" + +"Yes--and Gila monsters and all kinds of critters." + +"Gee! Has Aunt Jane got any of 'em on her ranch?" + +Big Jim forced a smile. "I reckon so." + +Little Jim's face was eager. "Then I say, let's go. Mebby I can get to +shoot one. Huntin' is more fun than workin' all the time. I guess ma got +tired of workin', too. She said that was all she ever expected to do, +'long as we lived out here on the ranch. But she never told _me_ she was +goin' to quit." + +"She didn't tell me, either, Jimmy. But you wouldn't understand." + +Jimmy puckered his forehead. "I guess ma kind of throwed us down, didn't +she, dad?" + +"We'll have to forget about it," said Big Jim slowly. "Down at Aunt +Jane's place in--" + +"Somethin' 's burnin', dad!" + +Big Jim turned to the stove. Little Jim gazed at his father's back +critically. There was something in the stoop of the broad shoulders that +was unnatural, strange--something that caused Little Jim to hesitate in +his questioning. Little Jim idolized his father, and, with unfailing +intuition, believed in him to the last word. As for his mother, who had +left without explanation and would never return--Little Jim missed her, +but more through habit of association than with actual grief. + +He knew that his mother and father had not gotten along very well for +some time. And now Little Jim recalled something that his mother had +said: "He's as much your boy as he is mine, Jim Hastings, and, if you +are set on sending him to school, for goodness' sake get him some decent +clothes, which is more than I have had for many a year." + +Until then Jimmy had not realized that his clothing or his mother's was +other than it should be. Moreover, he did not want to go to school. He +preferred to work on the ranch with his father. But it was chiefly the +tone of his mother's voice that had impressed him. For the first time in +his young life, Little Jim felt that he was to blame for something which +he could not understand. He was accustomed to his mother's sudden fits +of unreasonable anger, often followed by a cuff, or sharp reprimand. But +she had never mentioned his need of better clothing before, nor her own +need. + +As for being as much his father's boy as his mother's--Little Jim felt +that he quite agreed to that, and, if anything, that he belonged more to +his father, who was kind to him, than to any one else in the world. +Little Jim, trying to reason it out, now thought that he knew why his +mother had left home. She had gone to live in town that she might have +better clothes and be with folks and not wear her fingers to the bone +simply for a bed and three meals a day, as Little Jim had heard her say +more than once. + +But the trip to Aunt Jane's, down in Arizona, was too vivid in his +imagination to allow room for pondering. Big Jim had said they were to +leave in the morning. So, while supper was cooking, Little Jim slipped +into his bedroom and busied himself packing his own scant belongings. +Presently his father called him. Little Jim plodded out bearing his few +spare clothes corded in a neat bundle, with an old piece of canvas for +the covering. His father had taught him to pack. + +Big Jim stared. Then a peculiar expression flitted across his face. +Little Jim was always for the main chance. + +"I'm all hooked up to hit the trail, dad." + +In his small blue overalls and jumper, in his alert and manful attitude, +Little Jim was a pocket edition of his father. + +"Where's your shootin'-iron?" queried Big Jim jokingly. + +"Why, she's standin' in the corner, aside of yours. A man don't pack his +shootin'-iron in his bed-roll when he hits the trail. He keeps her +handy." + +"For stingin' lizards, eh?" + +"For 'most anything. Stingin' lizards, Injuns, or hoss-thieves, or +anything that we kin shoot. We ain't takin' no chances on this here +trip." + +Big Jim gestured toward the table and pulled up his chair. Little Jim +was too heartily interested in the meal to notice that his father gazed +curiously at him from time to time. Until then, Big Jim had thought of +his small son as a chipper, sturdy, willing boy--his boy. But now, +Little Jim seemed suddenly to have become an actual companion, a +partner, a sharer in things as they were and were to be. + +Hard work and inherent industry had developed in Little Jim an +independence that would have been considered precocious in the East. Big +Jim was glad that the mother's absence did not seem to affect the boy +much. Little Jim seemed quite philosophical about it. Yet, deep in his +heart, Little Jim missed his mother, more than his father realized. The +house seemed strangely empty and quiet. And it had seemed queer that Big +Jim should cook the supper, and, later, wash the dishes. + +That evening, just before they went to bed, Big Jim ransacked the +bureau, sorting out his own things, and laying aside a few things that +his wife had left: a faded pink ribbon, an old pair of high-heeled +slippers, a torn and unmended apron, and an old gingham dress. Gathering +these things together, Big Jim stuffed them in the kitchen stove. Little +Jim watched him silently. + +But when his father came from the stove and sat down, Little Jim slipped +over to him. "Dad, are you mad at ma for leavin' us?" he queried. + +Big Jim shook his head. "No, Jimmy. Just didn't want to leave her things +around, after we had gone. Benson'll be movin' in sometime this week. I +sold our place to him." + +"The stove and beds and everything?" + +"Everything." + +Little Jim wrinkled his nose and sniffed. "Them things you put in the +stove smell just like brandin' a critter," he said, gesturing toward the +kitchen. + +Big Jim gazed hard at his young son. Then he smiled to himself, and +shook his head. "Just like brandin' a critter," he repeated, half to +himself. "Just like brandin' a critter." + + + + + + +CHAPTER II + +PANHANDLE + + +While his friends and neighbors called Jim Hastings "Big Jim," he was no +more than average size--compact, vigorous, reared in the Wyoming cattle +lands, and typical of the country. He was called Big Jim simply to +distinguish him from Little Jim, who was as well known in Laramie as his +father. Little Jim, when but five years of age, rode his own pony, +jogging alongside his father when they went to town, where he was +decidedly popular with the townsfolk because of his sturdy independence +and humorous grin. + +Little Jim talked horses and cattle and ranching with the grown-ups and +took their good-natured joshing philosophically. He seldom retorted +hastily, but, rather, blinked his eyes and wrinkled his forehead as he +digested this or that pleasantry, and either gave it the indifferent +acknowledgment of "Shucks! Think you can josh _me_?" or, if the occasion +and the remark seemed to call for more serious consideration, he rose to +it manfully, and often to the embarrassment of the initial speaker. + +Little Jim liked to go to town with his father, yet he considered town +really a sort of suburb to his real world, the homestead, which he had +seen change from a prairie level of unfenced space to a small--and to +him--complete kingdom of pasture lot, hayfield, garden, corrals, stable, +and house. Town was simply a place to which you went to buy things, get +the mail, exchange views on the weather and grazing, and occasionally +help the hands load a shipment of cattle. Little Jim helped by sitting +on the top rail of the pens and commenting on the individual +characteristics of the cattle, and, sometimes, of the men loading them. +In such instances he found opportunity to pay off old scores. +Incidentally he kept the men in good humor by his lively comment. + +Little Jim was six years of age when his mother left to resume her +former occupation of waitress in the station restaurant of Laramie, +where she had been popular because of her golden hair, her blue eyes, +and her ability to "talk back" to the regular customers in a manner +which they seemed to enjoy. Big Jim married her when he was not much +more than a boy--twenty, in fact; and during the first few years they +were happy together. But homesteading failed to supply more than their +immediate needs. + +Occasional trips to town at first satisfied the wife's craving for the +attention and admiration that most men paid to her rather superficial +good looks. But as the years slipped by, with no promise of easier +conditions, she became dissatisfied, shrewish, and ashamed of her lack +of pretty things to wear. Little Jim was, of course, as blind to all +this as he was to his need for anything other than his overalls, shoes, +and jumper. He thought his mother was pretty and he often told her so. + +Meanwhile, Big Jim tried to blind himself to his wife's growing +dissatisfaction. He was too much of a man to argue her own short-comings +as against his inability to do more for her than he was doing. But when +she did leave, with simply a brief note saying that she was tired of it +all, and would take care of herself, what hit Big Jim the hardest was +the fact that she could give up Little Jim without so much as a word +about him. Every one liked Little Jim, and the mother's going proved +something that Big Jim had tried to ignore for several years--that his +wife cared actually nothing for the boy. When Big Jim finally realized +this, his indecision evaporated. He would sell out and try his fortunes +in Arizona, where his sister Jane lived, the sister who had never seen +Little Jim, but who had often written to Big Jim, inviting him to come +and bring his family for a visit. + +Big Jim had enough money from the sale of his effects to make the +journey by train, even after he had deposited half of the proceeds at +the local bank, in his wife's name. But being a true son of the open, he +wanted to see the country; so he decided to travel horseback, with a +pack-animal. Little Jim, used to the saddle, would find the journey a +real adventure. They would take it easy. There was no reason for haste. + +It had seemed the simplest thing to do, to sell out, leave that part of +the country, and forget what had happened. There was nothing to be +gained by staying where they were. Big Jim had lost his interest in the +ranch. Moreover, there had been some talk of another man, in Laramie, a +man who had "kept company" with Jenny Simpson, before she became Mrs. +Jim Hastings. Mrs. Hastings was still young and quite good-looking. + +It had seemed a simple thing to do--to leave and begin life over again +in another land. But Big Jim had forgotten Smiler. Smiler was a dog of +vague ancestry, a rough-coated, yellow dog that belonged solely to +Little Jim. Smiler stuck so closely to Little Jim that their shadows +were veritably one. Smiler was a sort of chuckle-headed, good-natured +animal, meek, so long as Little Jim's prerogatives were not infringed +upon, but a cyclone of yellow wrath if Little Jim were approached by any +one in other than a friendly spirit. Even when Big Jim "roughed" his +small son, in fun, Smiler grew nervous and bristled, and once, when the +mother had smacked Little Jim for some offense or other, Smiler had +taken sides to the extent of jumping between the mother and the boy, +ready to do instant battle if his young partner were struck again. + +"I'm afraid we can't take Smiler with us," said Big Jim, as Little Jim +scurried about next morning, getting ready for the great adventure. + +Little Jim stopped as though he had run against a rope. He had not even +dreamed but that Smiler would go with them. + +Now, Little Jim had not forgathered with punchers and townsfolk for +nothing. He was naturally shrewd, and he did not offer or controvert +opinions hastily. He stood holding a bit of old tie-rope in his hand, +pondering this last unthinkable development of the situation. Smiler was +to be left behind. Jimmy wanted to ask why Smiler could not go. He +wanted to assure his father that Smiler would be a help rather than a +hindrance to the expedition. + +Little Jim knew that if he wept, his father might pay some attention to +that sort of plea. But Little Jim did not intend to weep, nor ask +questions, nor argue. Smiler stood expectantly watching the +preparations. He knew that something important was about to happen, and, +with the loyalty of his kind, he was ready to follow, no matter where. +Smiler had sniffed the floor of the empty house, the empty stables, the +corral. His folks were going somewhere. Well, he was ready. + +Little Jim, who had been gazing wistfully at Smiler, suddenly strode to +his pack and sat down. He bit his lips. Tears welled to his eyes and +drifted slowly down his cheeks. He had not intended to let himself +weep--but there was Smiler, wagging his thick tail, waiting to go. + +"I g-g-guess you better go ahead and hit the trail, dad." + +"Why, that's what we're going to do. What--" Big Jim glanced at his boy. +"What's the matter?" + +Little Jim did not answer, but his attitude spoke for itself. He had +decided to stay with Smiler. + +Big Jim frowned. It was the first time that the boy had ever openly +rebelled. And because it was the first time, Big Jim realized its +significance. Yet, such loyalty, even to a dog, was worth while. + +Big Jim put his hand on Little Jim's shoulder. "Smiler'll get sore feet +on the trails, Jimmy. And there won't be a whole lot to eat." + +Little Jim blinked up at his father. "Well, he can have half of my grub, +and I reckon I can pack him on the saddle with me if his feet get +tender." + +"All right. But don't blame me if Smiler peters out on the trip." + +"Smiler's tough, he is!" stated Little Jim. "He's so tough he bites barb +wire. Anyhow, you said we was goin' to take it easy. And he can catch +rabbits, I guess." + +"Perhaps he won't want to come along," suggested Big Jim as he pulled up +a cincha and slipped the end through the ring. + +Little Jim beckoned to Smiler who had stood solemnly listening to the +controversy about himself as though he understood. Smiler trotted over +to Jimmy. + +"You want to take it plumb easy on this trip," said Little Jim, "and not +go to chasin' around and runnin' yourself ragged gettin' nowhere. If you +get sore feet, we'll just have to beef you and hang your hide on the +fence." + +Smiler grinned and wagged his tail. He pushed up and suddenly licked +Little Jim's face. Little Jim promptly cuffed him. Smiler came back for +more. + +Big Jim turned and watched the boy and the dog in their rough-and-tumble +about the yard. He blinked and turned back to the horses. "Come on, +Jimmy. We're all set." + +"Got to throw my pack on ole Lazy, dad. Gimme a hand, will you?" + +Little Jim never would admit that he could not do anything there was to +be done. When he was stuck he simply asked his father to help him. + +Big Jim slung up the small pack and drew down the hitch. Little Jim +ducked under Lazy and took the rope on the other side, passing the end +to his father. + +"Reckon that pack'll ride all right," said the boy, surveying the +outfit. "Got the _morrals_ and everything, dad?" + +"All set, Jimmy." + +"Then let's go. I got my ole twenty-two loaded. If we run on to one of +them stingin' lizards, he's sure a sconer. Does dogs eat lizards?" + +Big Jim swung to the saddle and hazed the old pack-horse ahead. "Don't +know, Jimmy. Sometimes the Indians eat them." + +"Eat stingin' lizards?" + +"Yep." + +"Well, I guess Smiler can, then. Come on, ole-timer!" + +Suddenly Little Jim thought of his mother. It seemed that she ought to +be with them. Little Jim had wept when Smiler was in question. Now he +gazed with clear-eyed faith at his father. + +"It ain't our fault ma ain't goin' with us, is it?" he queried timidly. + +Big Jim shrugged his shoulders. + +"Say, dad, we're headed west. Thought you said we was goin' to Arizona?" + +"We'll turn south, after a while." + +Little Jim asked no more questions. His father knew everything--why they +were going and where. Little Jim glanced back to where Smiler padded +along, his tongue out and his eyes already rimmed with dust, for he +would insist upon traveling tight to Lazy's heels. + +Little Jim leaned back. "Stick it out, ole-timer! But don't you go to +cuttin' dad's trail till he gets kind of used to seein' you around. +Sabe?" + +Smiler grinned through a dust-begrimed countenance. He wagged his tail. + +Little Jim plunked his horse in the ribs and drew up beside his father. +Little Jim felt big and important riding beside his dad. There had been +some kind of trouble at home--and they were leaving it behind. It would +be a long trail, and his father sure would need help. + +Little Jim drew a deep breath. He wanted to express his unwavering +loyalty to his father. He wanted to talk of his willingness to go +anywhere and share any kind of luck. But his resolve to speak evaporated +in a sigh of satisfaction. This was a real holiday, an adventure. +"Smiler's makin' it fine, dad." + +But Big Jim did not seem to hear. He was gazing ahead, where in the +distance loomed an approaching figure on horseback. Little Jim knew who +it was, and was about to say so when his father checked him with a +gesture. Little Jim saw his father shift his belt round so that his gun +hung handy. He said nothing and showed by no other sign that he had +recognized the approaching rider, who came on swiftly, his high-headed +pinto fighting the bit. + +Within twenty yards of them, the rider reined his horse to a walk. +Little Jim saw the two men eye each other closely. The man on the pinto +rode past. Little Jim turned to his father. + +"I guess Panhandle is goin' to town," said the boy, not knowing just +what to say, yet feeling that the occasion called for some remark. + +"Panhandle" Sears and his father knew each other. They had passed on the +road, neither speaking to the other. And Little Jim was not blind to the +significant movement of shifting a belt that a gun might hang ready to +hand. + +Yet he soon forgot the incident in visioning the future. Arizona, Aunt +Jane, and stingin' lizards! + +Big Jim rode with head bowed. He was thinking of the man who had just +passed them. If it had not been for the boy, Big Jim and that man would +have had it out, there on the road. And Jenny Hastings would have been +the cause of their quarrel. "Panhandle" Sears had "kept company" with +Jenny before she became Big Jim's wife. Now that she had left him-- + +Big Jim turned and gazed back along the road. A far-away cloud of dust +rolled toward the distant town of Laramie. + + + + + + +CHAPTER III + +A MINUTE TOO LATE + + +The Overland, westbound, was late. Nevertheless, it had to stop at +Antelope, but it did so grudgingly and left with a snort of disdain for +the cow-town of the high mesa. Curious-eyed tourists had a brief glimpse +of a loading-chute, cattle-pens, a puncher or two, and an Indian +freighter's wagon just pulling in from the spaces, and accompanied by a +plodding cavalcade of outriders on paint ponies. + +Incidentally the westbound left one of those momentarily interested +Easterners on the station platform, without baggage, sense of direction, +or companion. He had stepped off the train to send a telegram to a +friend in California. He discovered that he had left his address book in +his grip. Meanwhile the train had moved forward some sixty yards, to +take water. Returning for his address book, he boarded the wrong +Pullman, realized his mistake, and hastened on through to his car. Out +to the station again--delay in getting the attention of the telegraph +operator, the wire finally written--and the Easterner heard the rumble +of the train as it pulled out. + +Even then he would have made it had it not been for a portly individual +in shirt-sleeves who inadvertently blocked the doorway of the telegraph +office. Bartley bumped into this portly person, tried to squeeze past, +did so, and promptly caromed off the station agent whom he met head on, +halfway across the platform. Gazing at the departing train, Bartley +reached in his pocket for a cigar which he lighted casually. + +The portly individual touched him on the shoulder. "'Nother one, this +afternoon." + +"Thanks. But my baggage is on that one." + +"You're lucky it ain't two sections behind, this time of year. Travel is +heavy." + +Bartley's quick glance took in the big man from his high-heeled boots to +his black Stetson. A cattleman, evidently well to do, and quite +evidently not flustered by the mishaps of other folks. + +"There's a right comfortable little hotel, just over there," stated the +cattleman. "Wishful runs her. It ain't a bad place to wait for your +train." + +Bartley smiled in spite of his irritation. + +The cattleman's eyes twinkled. "You'll be sending a wire to have 'em +take care of your war bag. Well, come on in and send her. You can catch +Number Eight about Winslow." + +The cattleman forged ahead, and in the telegraph office, got the +immediate attention of the operator, who took Bartley's message. + +The cattleman paid for it. "'Tain't the first time my size has cost me +money," he said, as Bartley protested. "Now, let's go over and get +another cigar. Then we can mill around and see Wishful. You'll like +Wishful. He's different." + +They strode down the street and stopped in at a saloon where the +cattleman called for cigars. Bartley noticed that the proprietor of the +place addressed the big cattleman as "Senator." + +"This here is a dry climate, and a cigar burns up right quick, if you +don't moisten it a little," said the cattleman. "I 'most always moisten +mine." + +Bartley grinned. "I think the occasion calls for it, Senator." + +"Oh, shucks! Just call me Steve--Steve Brown. And just give us a little +Green River Tom." + +A few minutes later Bartley and his stout companion were seated on the +veranda of the hotel, gazing out across the mesas. They were both +comfortable, and quite content to watch the folk go past, out there in +the heat. Bartley wondered if the title "Senator" were a nickname, or if +the portly gentleman placidly smoking his cigar and gazing into space +was really a politician. + +A dusty cow-puncher drifted past the hotel, waving his hand to the +Senator, who replied genially. A little later a Navajo buck rode up on a +quick-stepping pony. He grunted a salutation and said something in his +native tongue. The Senator replied in kind. Bartley was interested. +Presently the Navajo dug his heels into his pony's ribs, and clattered +up the road. + +The Senator turned to Bartley. "Politics and cattle," he said, smiling. + +Having learned the Senator's vocation, Bartley gave his own as briefly. +The Senator nodded. + +"It is as obvious as all that, then?" queried Bartley. + +"I wouldn't say that," stated the Senator carefully. "But after you +bumped into me, and then stepped into the agent, and then turned around +and took in my scenery, noticin' the set of my legs, I says to myself, +'painter-man or writer.' It was kind of in your eye. I figured you +wa'n't no painter-man when you looked at the oil paintin' over the bar. + +"A painter-man would 'a' looked sad or said somethin', for that there +paintin' is the most gosh-awful picture of what a puncher might look +like after a cyclone had hit him. I took a painter-man in there once, to +get a drink. He took one look at that picture, and then he says, kind of +sorrowful: 'Is this the only place in town where they serve liquor?' I +told him it was. 'Let's go over and tackle the pump,' he says. But we +had our drink. I told him just to turn his back on that picture when he +took his." + +"I might be anything but a writer," said Bartley. + +"That's correct. But you ain't." + +"You hit the nail on the head. However, I can't just follow your line of +reasoning it out." + +"Easy. Elimination. Now a tourist, regular, stares at folks and things. +But a painter or writer he takes things in without starin'. There's some +difference. I knew you were a man who did things. It's in your eye." + +"Well," laughed Bartley, "I took you for a cattleman the minute I saw +you." + +"Which was a minute too late, eh?" + +"I don't know about that. Since I've been sitting here looking at the +mesa and those wonderful buttes over there, and watching the natives +come and go, I have begun to feel that I don't care so much about that +train, after all. I like this sort of thing. You see, I planned to visit +California, but there was nothing definite about the plan. I chose +California because I had heard so much about it. It doesn't matter much +where I go. By the way, my name is Bartley." + +"I'm Steve Brown--cattle and politics. I tell you, Mr. Bartley--" + +"Suppose you say just Bartley?" + +The Senator chuckled. "Suppose I said 'Green River'?" + +"I haven't an objection in the world," laughed Bartley. + +"Wishful, here, don't keep liquor," explained the Senator. "And he's +right about that. Folks that stay at this hotel want to sleep nights." + +The Senator heaved himself out of his chair, stood up, and stretched. + +"I reckon you'll be wantin' to see all you can of this country. My ranch +lays just fifty miles south of the railroad, and not a fence from here +to there. Then, there's them Indians, up north a piece. And over yonder +is where they dig up them prehistoric villages. And those buttes over +there used to be volcanoes, before they laid off the job. To the west is +the petrified forest. I made a motion once, when the Legislature was in +session, to have that forest set aside as a buryin'-ground for +politicians,--State Senators and the like,--but they voted me down. They +said I didn't specify _dead_ politicians. + +"South of my place is the Apache reservation. There's good huntin' in +that country. 'Course, Arizona ain't no Garden of Eden to some folks. +Two kinds of folks don't love this State a little bit'--homesteaders and +tourists. But when it comes to cattle and sheep and mines, you can't +beat her. She sure is the Tiger Lily of the West. But let's step over +and see Tom. Excuse me a minute. There's a constituent who has somethin' +on his chest. I'll meet you at the station." + +The Senator stepped out and talked with his constituent. Meanwhile, +Bartley turned to gaze down the street. A string of empty freight +wagons, followed by a lazy cloud of dust, rolled slowly toward town. +Here and there a bit of red showed in the dun mass of riders that +accompanied the wagons. A gay-colored blanket flickered in the sun. The +mesas radiated keen dry heat. + +Bartley turned and crossed over to the station. He blinked the effects +of the white light from his eyes as he entered the telegraph office. The +operator, in shirt-sleeves, and smoking a brown-paper cigarette, nodded +and handed Bartley a service message stating that his effects would be +carried to Los Angeles and held for further orders. + +"It's sure hot," said the operator. "Did you want to send another wire?" + +Bartley shook his head. "Who is that stout man I bumped into trying to +catch my train?" + +"That's Senator Steve Brown--State Senator. Thought you knew him." + +"No. I just met him to-day." + +The operator slumped down in his chair. + +Bartley strode to the door and blinked in the Arizona sunshine. "By +George!" he murmured, "I always thought they wore those big Stetsons for +show. But all day in this sun--guess I'll have to have one." + + + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +"A LITTLE GREEN RIVER" + + +To suddenly stop off at a cow-town station, without baggage or definite +itinerary, was unconventional, to say the least. Bartley was amused and +interested. Hitherto he had written more or less conventional +stuff--acceptable stories of the subway, the slums, the docks, and the +streets of Eastern cities. But now, as he strode over to the saloon, he +forgot that he was a writer of stories. A boyish longing possessed him +to see much of the life roundabout, even to the farthest, faint range of +hills--and beyond. + +He felt that while he still owed something to his original plan of +visiting California, he could do worse than stay right where he was. He +had thought of wiring to have his baggage sent back. Then it occurred to +him that, aside from his shaving-kit and a few essentials, his baggage +comprised but little that he could use out here in the mesa country. And +he felt a certain relief in not having trunks to look after. Outing +flannels and evening clothes would hardly fit into the present scheme of +things. The local store would furnish him all that he needed. In this +frame of mind he entered the Blue Front Saloon where he found Senator +Steve and his foreman seated at a side table discussing the merits of +"Green River." + +"Hello!" called the Senator. "Mr. Bartley, meet my foreman, Lon Pelly." + +They shook hands. + +"Lon says the source of Green River is Joy in the Hills," asserted the +Senator, smiling. + +The long, lean cow-puncher grinned. "Steve, here, says the source of +Green River is trouble." + +"Now, as a writin' man, what would you say?" queried the Senator. + +Bartley gazed at the label on the bottle under discussion. "Well, as a +writer, I might say that it depends how far you travel up or down Green +River. But as a mere individual enjoying the blessings of companionship, +I should say, let's experiment, judiciously." + +"Fetch a couple more glasses, Tom," called the Senator. + +After the essential formalities, Bartley pushed back his chair, crossed +one leg over the other, and lighted a cigar. "I'm rather inclined toward +that Joy in the Hills theory, just now," he asserted. + +"That's all right," said Lon Pelly. "Bein' a little inclined don't hurt +any. But if you keep on reachin' for Joy, your foot is like to slip. +Then comes Trouble." + +"Lon's qualified for the finals once or twice," said the Senator. "Now, +take _me_, for a horrible example. I been navigatin' Green River, off +and on, for quite a spell, and I never got hung up bad." + +"Speaking of rivers, they're rather scarce in this country, I believe," +said Bartley. + +"Yes. But some of 'em are noticeable in the rainy season," stated +Senator Steve. "But you ain't seen Arizona. You've only been peekin' +through your fingers at her. Wait till you get on a cayuse and hit the +trail for a few hundred miles--that's the only way to see the country. +Now, take 'Cheyenne.' He rides this here country from Utah to the +border, and he can tell you somethin' about Arizona. + +"Cheyenne is a kind of hobo puncher that rides the country with his +little old pack-horse, stoppin' by to work for a grubstake when he has +to, but ramblin' most of the time. He used to be a top-hand once. Worked +for me a spell. But he can't stay in one place long. Wish you could meet +him sometime. He can tell you more about this State than any man I know. +He's what you might call a character for a story. He stops by regular, +at the ranch, mebby for a day or two, and then takes the trail, singin' +his little old song. He's kind of a outdoor poet. Makes up his own +songs." + +"What was that one about Arizona that you gave 'em over to the State +House onct?" queried Lon Pelly. + +"Oh, that wa'n't Cheyenne's own po'try. It was one he read in a magazine +that he gave me. Let's see-- + + "Arizona! The tramp of cattle, + The biting dust and the raw, red brand: + Shuffling sheep and the smoke of battle: + The upturned face--and the empty hand. + + "Dawn and dusk, and the wide world singing, + Songs that thrilled with the pulse of life, + As we clattered down with our rein chains ringing + To woo you--but never to make you wife." + +The Senator smiled a trifle apologetically. "There's more of it. But +po'try ain't just in my line. Once in a while I bust loose on +po'try--that is, my kind of po'try. And I want to say that we sure +clattered down from the Butte and the Blue in the old days, with our +rein chains jinglin', thinkin'--some of us--that Arizona was ours to +fare-ye-well. + +"But we old-timers lived to find out that Arizona was too young to get +married yet; so we just had to set back and kind of admire her, after +havin' courted her an amazin' lot, in our young days." The Senator +chuckled. "Now, Lon, here, he'll tell you that there ain't no po'try in +this here country. And I never knew they was till I got time to set back +and think over what we unbranded yearlin's used to do." + +"For instance?" queried Bartley. + +Senator Steve waved his pudgy hand as though shooing a flock of chickens +off a front lawn. "If I was to tell you some of the things that +happened, you would think I was a heap sight bigger liar than I am. +Seein' some of them yarns in print, folks around this country would say: +'Steve Brown's corralled some tenderfoot and loaded him to the muzzle +with shin tangle and ancient history!' Things that would seem amazin' to +you would never ruffle the hair of the mavericks that helped make this +country." + +"This country ain't all settled yet," said the foreman, rising. "Reckon +I'll step along, Steve." + +After the foreman had departed, Bartley turned to the Senator. "Are +there many more like him, out here?" + +"Who, Lon? Well, a few. He's been foreman for me quite a spell. Lon he +thinks. And that's more than I ever did till after I was thirty. And Lon +ain't twenty-six, yet." + +"I think I'll step over to the drug-store and get a few things," said +Bartley. + +"So you figure to bed down at the hotel, eh?" + +"Yes. For a few days, at least. I want to get over the idea that I have +to take the next train West before I make any further plans." + +The Senator accompanied Bartley to the drug-store. The Easterner bought +what he needed in the way of shaving-kit and brush and comb. The Senator +excused himself and crossed the street to talk to a friend. The +afternoon sun slanted across the hot roofs, painting black shadows on +the dusty street. Bartley found Wishful, the proprietor, and told him +that he would like to engage a room with a bath. + +Wishful smiled never a smile as he escorted Bartley to a room. + +"I'll fetch your bath up, right soon," he said solemnly. + +Presently Wishful appeared with a galvanized iron washtub and a kettle +of boiling water. Bartley thanked him. + +"You can leave 'em out in the hall when you're through," said Wishful. + +Bartley enjoyed a refreshing bath and rub-down. Later he set the kettle +and tub out in the dim hallway. Then he sat down and wrote a letter to +his friend in California, explaining his change of plan. The afternoon +sunlight waned. Bartley gazed out across the vast mesas, lavender-hued +and wonderful, as they darkened to blue, then to purple that was shot +with strange half-lights from the descending sun. + +Suddenly a giant hand seemed to drop a canopy over the vista, and it was +night. Bartley lighted the oil lamp and sat staring out into the +darkness. From below came the rattle of dishes. Presently Bartley heard +heavy, deliberate footsteps ascending the stairway. Then a clanging +crash and a thud, right outside his door. He flung the door open. +Senator Steve was rising from the flattened semblance of a washtub and +feeling of himself tenderly. The Senator blinked, surveyed the wrecked +tub and the kettle silently, and then without comment he stepped back +and kicked the kettle. It soared and dropped clanging into the hall +below. + +Wishful appeared at the foot of the stairs. "Did you ring, Senator?" + +"Yes, I did! And I'm goin' to ring again." + +"Hold on!" said Wishful, "I'll come up and get the tub. I got the +kettle." + +The Senator puffed into Bartley's room and sat on the edge of the bed. +He wiped his bald head, smiling cherubically. "Did you hear him, askin' +me, a member of the Society for the Prevention of Progress, if I rang +for him! That's about all the respect I command in this community. I +sure want to apologize for not stoppin' to knock," added the Senator. + +Bartley grinned. "It was hardly necessary. I heard you." + +"I just came up to see if you would take dinner with me and my missus. +We're goin' to eat right soon. You see, my missus never met up with a +real, live author." + +"Thanks, Senator. I'll be glad to meet your family. But suppose you +forget that author stuff and just take me as a tenderfoot out to see the +sights. I'll like it better." + +"Why, sure! And while the House is in session, I might rise to remark +that I can't help bein' called 'Senator,' because I'm guilty. But, +honest, I always feel kinder toward my fellow-bein's who call me just +plain 'Steve.'" + +"All right. I'll take your word for it." + +"Don't you take my word for anything. How do you know but I might be +tryin' to sell you a gold mine?" + +"I think the risk would be about even," said Bartley. + +The Senator chuckled. "I just heard Wishful lopin' down the hall with +his bathin' outfit, so I guess the right of way is clear again. And +there goes the triangle--sounds like the old ranch, that triangle. You +see, Wishful used to be a cow-hand, and lots of cow-hands stop at this +hotel when they're in town. That triangle sounds like home to 'em. I'm +stoppin' here myself. But I got a real bathroom out to the ranch. Let's +go down and look at some beef on the plate." + + + + + + +CHAPTER V + +"TOP HAND ONCE" + + +Bartley happened to be alone on the veranda of the Antelope House that +evening. Senator Brown and his "missus" had departed for their ranch. +Mrs. Senator Brown had been a bit diffident when first meeting Bartley, +but he soon put her at her ease with some amusing stories of Eastern +experiences. The dinner concluded with an invitation from Mrs. Brown +that anticipated Bartley visiting the ranch and staying as long as he +wished. The day following the Senator's departure Bartley received a +telegram from his friend in California, wishing him good luck and a +pleasant journey in the Arizona country. The friend would see to +Bartley's baggage, as Bartley had forwarded the claim checks in his +letter. + +The town was quiet and the stars were serenely brilliant. The dusty, +rutted road past the hotel, dim gray in the starlight, muffled the tread +of an occasional Navajo pony passing in the faint glow of light from the +doorway. Bartley was content with things as he found them, just then. +But he knew that he would eventually go away from there--from the untidy +town, the railroad, the string of box-cars on the siding, and seek the +new, the unexpected, an experience to be had only by kicking loose from +convention and stepping out for himself. He thought of writing a Western +story. He realized that all he knew of the West was from hearsay, and a +brief contact with actual Westerners. He would do better to go out in +the fenceless land and live a story, and then write it. And better +still, he would let chance decide where and when he would go. + +His first intimation that chance was in his vicinity was the distant, +faint cadence of a song that floated over the night-black mesa from the +north. Presently he heard the soft, muffled tread of horses and a +distinct word or two of the song. He leaned forward, interested, amused, +alert. The voice was a big voice, mellowed by distance. There was a +take-it-or-leave-it swing to the melody that suggested the singer's +absolute oblivion to anything but the joy of singing. Again the plod, +plod of the horses, and then: + + I was top-hand once for the T-Bar-T, + In the days of long ago, + But I took to seein' the scenery + Where the barbed-wire fence don't grow. + + I was top-hand once--but the trail for mine, + And plenty of room to roam; + So now I'm ridin' the old chuck line, + And any old place is home ... for me ... + And any old place is home. + +Bartley grinned. Whoever he was, drifting in from the northern spaces, +he had evidently lost the pack-horse that bore his troubles. Suddenly, +out of the wall of dusk that edged the strip of road loomed a horse's +head, and then another. The lead horse bore a pack. The second horse was +ridden by an individual who leaned slightly forward, his hands clasped +comfortably over the saddle horn. The horses stopped in the light of the +doorway. + +"Well, I reckon we're here," said a voice. "But hotels and us ain't in +the same class. I stop at the Antelope House, take a look at her, and +then spread my roll in the brush, same as always. Nobody to home? They +don't know what they're missin'." + +Bartley struck a match and lighted his cigar. The pack-horse jerked its +head up. + +"Hello, stranger! Now I didn't see you settin' there." + +"Good-evening! But why 'stranger' when you say you can't see me?" + +"Why? 'Cause everybody knows _me_, and you didn't whoop when I rode up. +Me, I'm Cheyenne, from no place, and likewise that's where I'm goin'. +This here town of Antelope got in the way--towns is always gittin' in my +way--but nobody can help that. Is Wishful bedded down for the night or +is he over to the Blue Front shootin' craps?" + +"I couldn't say. I seem to be the only one around here, just now." + +"That sure excuses me and the hosses. Wishful is down to the Blue Front, +all right. It's the only exercise he gets, regular." Cheyenne pushed +back the brim of his faded black Stetson and sighed heavily. Bartley +caught a glimpse of a face as care-free as that of a happy child--the +twinkle of humorous eyes and a flash of white teeth as the other +grinned. "Reckon you never heard tell of me," said the rider, hooking +his leg over the horn. + +I just arrived yesterday. I have not heard of you--but I heard you down +the road, singing. I like that song." + +"One of my own. Yes, I come into town singin' and I go out singin'. +'Course, we eat, when it's handy. Singin' sure keeps a fellow's appetite +from goin' to sleep. Guess I'll turn the hosses into Wishful's corral +and go find him. Reckon you had your dinner." + +"Several hours ago." + +"Well, I had mine this mornin'. The dinner I had this mornin' was the +one I ought to had day before yesterday. But I aim to catch up--and +mebby get ahead a couple of eats, some day. But the hosses get theirs, +regular. Come on, Filaree, we'll go prospect the sleepin'-quarters." + +Bartley sat back and smiled to himself as Cheyenne departed for the +corral. This wayfarer, breezing in from the spaces, suggested +possibilities as a character for a story No doubt the song was more or +less autobiographical. "A top-hand once, but the trail for mine," seemed +to explain the singer's somewhat erratic dinner schedule. Bartley +thought that he would like to see more of this strange itinerant, who +sang both coming into and going out of town. + +Presently Cheyenne was back, singing something about a Joshua tree as he +came. + +He stopped at the veranda rail. His smile was affable. "Guess I'll go +over and hunt up Wishful. I reckon you'll have to excuse me for not +refusin' to accompany you to the Blue Front to get a drink." + +Bartley was puzzled. "Would you mind saying that again?" + +"Sure I don't mind. I thought, mebby, you bein' a stranger, settin' +there alone and lookin' at the dark, that you was kind of lonesome. I +said I reckoned you'd have to excuse me for not refusin' to go over to +the Blue Front and take a drink." + +"I think I get you. I'll buy. I'll try anything, once." + +Cheyenne grinned. "I kind of hate to drink alone, 'specially when I'm +broke." + +Bartley grinned in turn. "So do I. I suppose it is all right to leave. +The door is wide open and there doesn't seem to be any one in charge. + +"She sure is an orphan, to-night. But, honest, Mr.--" + +"Bartley." + +"Mr. Bartley, nobody'd ever think of stealin' anything from Wishful. +Everybody likes Wishful 'round here. And strangers wouldn't last long +that tried to lift anything from his tepee. That is, not any longer than +it would take Wishful to pull a gun--and that ain't long." + +"If he caught them." + +"Caught 'em? Say, stranger, how far do you think a man could travel out +of here, before somebody'd get him? Anyhow, Wishful ain't got nothin' in +his place worth stealin'." + +"Wishful doesn't look very warlike," said Bartley. + +"Nope. That's right. He looks kind of like he'd been hit on the roof and +hadn't come to, yet. But did you ever see him shoot craps?" + +"No." + +"Then you've got somethin' comin', besides buyin' me a drink." + +Bartley laughed as he stepped down to the road. Bartley, a fair-sized +man, was surprised to realize that the other was all of a head taller +than himself. Cheyenne had not looked it in the saddle. + +"Are you acquainted with Senator Brown?" queried Bartley as he strode +along beside the stiff-gaited outlander. + +Cheyenne stopped and pushed back his hat. "Senator Steve Brown? Say, +pardner, me and Steve put this here country on the map. If kings was in +style, Steve would be wearin' a crown. Why, last election I wore out a +pair of jeans lopin' around this here country campaignin' for Steve. See +this hat? Steve give me this hat--a genuwine J.B., the best they make. +Inside he had printed on the band, in gold, 'From Steve to Cheyenne, +hoping it will always fit.' Do I know Steve Brown? Next time you see him +just ask him about Cheyenne Hastings." + +"I met the Senator, yesterday. Come to think of it, he did mention your +name--'Cheyenne--and said you knew the country." + +"Was you lookin' for a guide, mebby?" + +"Well, not exactly. But I hope to see something of Arizona." + +"Uh-huh. Well, I travel alone, mostly. But right now I'm flat broke. If +you was headin' south--" + +"I expect to visit Mr. and Mrs. Brown some day. Their ranch is south of +here, I believe." + +"Yep. Plumb south, on the Concho road. I'm ridin' down that way." + +"Well, we will talk about it later," said Bartley as they entered the +saloon. + +With a few exceptions, the men in the place were grouped round a long +table, in the far end of the room, at the head of which stood Wishful +evidently about to make a throw with the dice. No one paid the slightest +attention to the arrival of Bartley and his companion, with the +exception of the proprietor, who nodded to Bartley and spoke a word of +greeting to Cheyenne. + +Bartley did the honors which included a sandwich and a glass of beer for +Cheyenne, who leaned with his elbow on the bar gazing at the men around +the table. Out of the corner of his eye Bartley saw the proprietor touch +Cheyenne's arm and, leaning across the bar, whisper something to him. +Cheyenne straightened up and seemed to be adjusting his belt. Bartley +caught a name: "Panhandle." He turned and glanced at Cheyenne. + +The humorous expression had faded from Cheyenne's face and in its stead +there was a sort of grim, speculative line to the mouth, and no twinkle +in the blue eyes. Bartley stepped over to the long table and watched the +game. Craps, played by these free-handed sons of the open, had more of a +punch than he had imagined possible. A pile of silver and bills lay on +the table--a tidy sum--no less than two hundred dollars. + +Wishful, the sad-faced, seemed to be importuning some one by the name of +"Jimmy Hicks" to make himself known, as the dice rattled across the +board. The players laughed as Wishful relinquished the dice. A lean +outlander, with a scarred face, took up the dice and made a throw. He +evidently did not want to locate an individual called "Little Joe," whom +he importuned incessantly to stay away. + +Side bets were made and bills and silver withdrawn or added to the pile +with a rapidity which amazed Bartley. Hitherto craps had meant to him +three or four newsboys in an alley and a little pile of nickels and +pennies. But this game was of robust proportions. It had pep and speed. + +Bartley became interested. His fingers itched to grasp the dice and try +his luck. But he realized that his amateurish knowledge of the game +would be an affront to those free-moving sons of the mesa. So he +contented himself with watching the game and the faces of the men as +they won or lost. Bartley felt that some one was close behind him +looking over his shoulder. Cheyenne's eyes were fixed on the player +known as "Panhandle," and on no other person at that table. Bartley +turned back to the game. + +Just then some one recognized Cheyenne and spoke his name. The game +stopped and Bartley saw several of the men glance curiously from +Cheyenne to the man known as "Panhandle." Then the game was resumed, but +it was a quieter game. One or two of the players withdrew. + +"Play a five for me," said Bartley, turning to Cheyenne. + +"I'll do that--fifty-fifty," said Cheyenne as Bartley stepped back and +handed him a bill. + +Cheyenne straightway elbowed deeper into the group and finally secured +the dice. Wishful, for some unknown reason, remarked that he would back +Cheyenne to win--"shootin' with either hand," Wishful concluded. Bartley +noticed that again one or two players withdrew and strolled to the bar. +Meanwhile, Cheyenne threw and sang a little song to himself. + +His throws were wild, careless, and lucky. Slowly he accumulated easy +wealth. His forehead was beaded with sweat. His eyes glistened. He +forgot his song. Bartley stepped over to the bar and chatted for a few +minutes with the proprietor, mentioning Senator Steve and his wife. + +When Bartley returned to the game the players had dwindled to a small +group--'Wishful, the man called "Panhandle," a fat Mexican, a railroad +engineer, and Cheyenne. + +Bartley turned to a bystander. + +"Cheyenne seems to be having all the luck," he said. + +"Is he a friend of yours?" + +"Never saw him until to-night." + +"He ain't as lucky as you think," stated the other significantly. + +"How is that?" + +"Panhandle, the man with the scar on his face, ain't no friend of +Cheyenne's." + +"Oh, I see." + +Bartley turned from the man, and watched the players. Wishful had +withdrawn from the game, but he stood near the table, watching closely. +Presently the fat Mexican quit playing and left. Cheyenne threw and won. +He played as though the dice were his and he was giving an exhibition +for the benefit of the other players. Finally the engineer quit, and +counted his winnings. Cheyenne and the man, Panhandle, faced each other, +with Bartley standing close to Cheyenne and Wishful, who had moved +around the table, standing close to Panhandle. + +Panhandle took up the dice. There was no joy in his play. He shot the +dice across the table viciously. Every throw was a, sort of insidious +insult to his competitor, Cheyenne. Bartley was more interested in the +performance than the actual winning or losing, although he realized that +Cheyenne was still a heavy winner. + +Presently Wishful stepped over to Bartley and touched his arm. Panhandle +and Cheyenne were intent upon their game. + +"You kin see better from that side of the table," said Wishful mildly, +yet with a peculiar significance. + +Bartley glanced up, his face expressing bewilderment. + +"I seen you slip Cheyenne a bill," murmured Wishful. "Accordin' to that, +you're backin' him. Thought I'd just mention it." + +"I don't understand what you're driving at," said Bartley. + +"That's just why I spoke to you." And Wishful's face expressed a sort of +sad wonder. But then, the Easterner had not been in town long and he did +not know Panhandle. + +Wishful turned away casually. Bartley noticed that he again took up his +position near Panhandle. + +This time Panhandle glanced up and asked Wishful if he didn't want to +come into the game. + +Wishful shook his head. "No use tryin' to bust his luck," he said, +indicating Cheyenne. + +"Oh, I don't know," said Panhandle. + +"And he's got good backin'," continued Wishful. + +Panhandle slanted a narrow glance toward Bartley, and Bartley felt that +the other had somehow or other managed to convey an insult and a +challenge in that glance, which suggested the contempt of the tough +Westerner for the supposedly tender Easterner. + +Bartley did not know just what was on the boards, aside from dice and +money, but he took Wishful's hint and moved around to Panhandle's side +of the table, leaving Cheyenne facing his competitor alone. Bartley +happened to catch Cheyenne's eye. The happy-go-lucky expression was +gone. Cheyenne's face seemed troubled, yet he played with his former +vigor and luck. + +Panhandle posed insolently, his thumb in his belt, watching the dice. He +was all but broke. Cheyenne kept rolling the bones, but now he evoked no +aid from the gods of African golf. His lips were set in a thin line. + +Suddenly he tossed up the dice, caught them and transferred them to his +right hand. Hitherto he had been shooting with his left. "I'll shoot +you, either hand," he said. + +"And win," murmured Wishful. + +Panhandle whirled and confronted Wishful. "I don't see any of your money +on the table," he snarled. + +"I'll come in--on the next game," stated Wishful mildly. + +Panhandle's last dollar was on the table. He reached forward and drew a +handful of bills from the pile and counted them. "Fifty," he said; +"fifty against the pot that you don't make your next throw." + +"Suits me," said Cheyenne, picking up the dice and shaking them. + +Cheyenne threw and won on the third try. Panhandle reached toward the +pile of money again. + +Cheyenne, who had not picked up the dice, stopped him. "You can't play +on that money," he stated tensely. "Half of it belongs to Mr. Bartley, +there." + +"What have you got to say about it," challenged Panhandle, turning to +Bartley. + +"Half of the money on the table is mine, according to agreement. I +backed Cheyenne to win." + +"No dam' tenderfoot can tell me where to head in!" exclaimed Panhandle. +"Go on and shoot, you yella-bellied waddie!" And Panhandle reached +toward the money. + +"Just a minute," said Bartley quietly. "The game is finished." + +"Take your mouth out of this, you dam' dude!" + +"Put your gun on the table--and then tell me that," said Bartley. + +Panhandle lowered his hand to his gun, hesitated, and then whirling, +slapped Bartley's face. + +Wishful, the silent, jerked out his own gun and rapped Panhandle on the +head. Panhandle dropped in a heap. + +It had happened so quickly that Bartley hardly realized what had +happened. Panhandle was on the floor, literally down and out. Bartley +was surprised that such an apparently light tap on the head should put a +man out. + +"Get him out of here," said Tom, the proprietor. "I don't want any rough +stuff in here. And if I were in your boots, Cheyenne, I'd leave town for +a while." + +"I'm leavin' to-morrow mornin'." Cheyenne was coolly counting his +winnings. + +Wishful, the silent, doused a glass of water in Panhandle's face. +Presently Panhandle was revived and helped from the saloon. His former +attitude of belligerency had entirely evaporated. Wishful followed him +to the hitch-rail and saw him mount his horse. + +"Your best bet is to fan it back where you come from, and stay there," +said Wishful softly. "You don't belong in this town, and you can't go +slappin' any of my guests in the face and get away with it. And when you +git so you can think it over, just figure that if I hadn't 'a' slowed +you down, Cheyenne would 'a' killed you." + +Panhandle did not feel like discussing the question just then. He left +without even turning to glance back. If he had glanced back, he would +have seen that Wishful had disappeared. Wishful, familiar with the ways +of Panhandle and his kind, immediately sought the shadows, leaving the +lighted doorway a blank. He entered the saloon from the rear. + +Cheyenne was endeavoring to make Bartley take half of the winnings. "You +staked me--and it's fifty-fifty, pardner," insisted Cheyenne. + +Finally Bartley accepted his share of the money and stuffed it into his +pocket. + +"Now I can get back at you," stated Cheyenne, gesturing toward the bar. + +His gesture included both Wishful and Bartley. Bartley, a bit shaken, +accepted the invitation. Wishful, not at all shaken, but rather a bit +more silent and melancholy than heretofore, also accepted. + +Alone in his room at the hotel, Bartley wondered what would have +happened if Wishful had not rapped Panhandle on the head. Bartley +recalled the fact that he had drawn back his arm, intending to take one +good punch at Panhandle, even if it were his last. But Panhandle had +crumpled down suddenly, silently, and Wishful had stood over him, gazing +down speculatively and swinging his gun back and forth before he +returned it to the holster. "They move quick, in this country," thought +Bartley. "And speaking of material for a story--" Then he smiled. + +Somewhere out on the mesa Cheyenne had spread his bed-roll and was no +doubt sleeping peacefully. Bartley shook his head. He had been in +Antelope but two days and yet it seemed that months had passed since he +had stepped from the westbound train to telegraph to his friend in +California. Incidentally, he decided to purchase an automatic pistol. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +A HORSE-TRADE + + +When Bartley came down to breakfast next morning he noticed two horses +tied at the hitch-rail in front of the hotel. One of the horses, a +rather stocky gray, bore a pack. The other, a short-coupled, sturdy +buckskin, was saddled. Evidently Cheyenne was trying to catch up with +his dinner schedule, for as Bartley entered the dining-room he saw him, +sitting face to face with a high stack of flapjacks, at the base of +which reposed two fried eggs among some curled slivers of bacon. + +Two railroad men, a red-eyed Eastern tourist who looked as though he had +not slept for a week, a saturnine cattleman in from the mesas, and two +visiting ladies from an adjacent town comprised the tale of guests that +morning. As Bartley came in the guests glanced at him curiously. They +had heard of the misunderstanding at the Blue Front. + +Cheyenne immediately rose and offered Bartley a chair at his table. The +two women, alone at their table, immediately became subdued and +watchful. They were gazing their first upon an author. Wishful had made +the fact known, with some pride. The ladies, whom Cheyenne designated as +"cow-bunnies,"---or wives of ranchers,--were dressed in their "best +clothes," and were trying to live up to them. They had about finished +breakfast, and shortly after Bartley was seated they rose. On their way +out they stopped at Cheyenne's table. + +"Don't forget to stop by when you ride our way," said one of the women. + +Bartley noticed the toil-worn hands, and the lines that hard work and +worry had graven in her face. Her "best clothes" rather accentuated +these details. But back of it all he sensed the resolute spirit of the +West, resourceful, progressive, large-visioned. + +"Meet Mr. Bartley," said Cheyenne unexpectedly. + +Which was just what the two women had been itching to do. Bartley rose +and shook hands with them. + +"A couple of lady friends of mine," said Cheyenne when they had gone. + +Cheyenne made no mention of the previous evening's game, or its climax. +Yet Bartley had gathered from Wishful that Panhandle Sears and Cheyenne +had an unsettled quarrel between them. + +In the hotel office Cheyenne purchased cigars and proffered Bartley a +half-dozen. Bartley took one. Cheyenne seemed disappointed. When cigars +were going round, it seemed strange not to take full advantage of the +circumstance. As they stepped out to the veranda, the horses recognized +Cheyenne and nickered gently. + +"Going south?" queried Bartley. + +"That's me. I got the silver changed to bills and some of the bills +changed to grub. I reckon I'll head south. Kind of wish you was headed +that way." + +Bartley bit the end from his cigar and lighted it, as he gazed out +across the morning mesa. A Navajo buck loped past and jerked his little +paint horse to a stop at the drug-store. + +Cheyenne, pulling up a cinch, smiled at Bartley. + +"That Injun was in a hurry till he got here. And he'll be in a hurry, +leavin'. But you notice how easy he takes it right now. Injuns has got +that dignity idea down fine." + +"Did he come in for medicine, perhaps?" + +"Mebby. But most like he's after chewin'-gum for his squaw, and +cigarettes for himself, with a bottle of red pop on the side. Injuns +always buy red pop." + +"Cigarettes and chewing-gum?" + +"Sure thing! Didn't you ever see a squaw chew gum and smoke a +tailor-made cigarette at the same time? You didn't, eh? Well, then, you +got somethin' comin'." + +"Romance!" laughed Bartley. + +"Ever sleep in a Injun hogan?" queried Cheyenne as he busied himself +adjusting the pack. + +"No. This is my first trip West." + +"I was forgettin'. Well, I ain't what you'd call a dude, but, honest, if +I was prospectin' round lookin' for Injun romance I'd use a pair of +field-glasses. Injuns is all right if you're far enough up wind from +'em." + +"When do you start?" asked Bartley. + +"Oh, 'most any time. And that's when I'll get there." + +"Well, give my regards to Senator Brown and his wife, if you happen to +see them." + +"Sure thing! I'm on my way. You know-- + + "I was top-hand once--but the trail for mine: + Git along, cayuse, git along! + But now I'm ridin' the old chuck line, + Feedin' good and a-feelin' fine: + Oh, some folks eat and some folks dine, + Git along, cayuse, git along!" + +Bartley smiled. Here was the real hobo, the irrepressible absolute. +Cheyenne stepped up and swung to the saddle with the effortless ease of +the old hand. Bartley noticed that the pack-horse had no lead-rope, nor +had he been tied. Bartley did not know that Filaree, the pack-horse, +would never let Joshua, the saddle-horse, out of his sight. They had +traveled the Arizona trails together for years. + +In spite of his happy-go-lucky indifference to persons and events, +Cheyenne had a sort of intuitive shrewdness in reading humans. And he +read in Bartley's glance a half-awakened desire to outfit and hit the +trail himself. But Cheyenne departed without suggesting any such idea. +Every man for himself was his motto. "And as for me," he added, aloud: + + Seems like I don't git anywhere, + Git along, cayuse, git along; + But we're leavin' here and we're goin' there: + Git along, cayuse, git along! + + With little ole Josh that steps right free, + And my ole gray pack-hoss, Filaree, + The world ain't got no rope on me: + Git along, cayuse, git along! + +Bartley watched him as he crossed the railroad tracks and turned down a +side street. + +Back in his room Bartley paced up and down, keeping time to the tune of +Cheyenne's trail song. The morning sun poured down upon the station roof +opposite, and danced flickering across the polished tracks of the +railroad. Presently Bartley stopped pacing his room and stood at the +window. Far out across the mesa he saw a rider, drifting along in the +sunshine, followed by a gray pack-horse. + +"By George!" exclaimed Bartley. "He may be a sort of wandering joke to +the citizens of this State, but he's doing what he wants to do, and +that's more than I'm doing. Just fifty miles to Senator Brown's ranch. +Drop in and see us. As the chap in Denver said when he wrote to his +friend in El Paso: 'Drop into Denver some evening and I'll show you the +sights.' Distance? Negligible. Time? An inconsequent factor. Big stuff! +As for me, I think I'll go downstairs and interview the pensive +Wishful." + +Wishful had the Navajo blankets and chairs piled up in the middle of the +hotel office and was thoughtfully sweeping out cigar ashes, cigarette +stubs, and burned matches. Wishful, besides being proprietor of the +Antelope House, was chambermaid, baggage-wrangler, clerk, advertising +manager, and, upon occasion, waiter in his own establishment. And he +kept a neat place. + +Bartley walked over to the desk. Wishful kept on sweeping. Bartley +glanced at the signatures on the register. Near the bottom of the page +he found Cheyenne's name, and opposite it "Arizona." + +"Where does Cheyenne belong, anyway?" queried Bartley. + +Wishful stopped sweeping and leaned on his broom. "Wherever he happens +to be." And Wishful sighed and began sweeping again. + +"What sort of traveling companion would he make?" + +Wishful stopped sweeping. His melancholy gaze was fixed on a defunct +cigar. "Never heard either of his hosses object to his company," he +replied. + +Bartley grinned and glanced up and down the register. Wishful dug into a +corner with his broom. Something shot rattling across the floor. Wishful +laid down the broom and upon hands and knees began a search. Presently +he rose. A slow smile illumined his face. He had found a pair of dice in +the litter on the floor. He made a throw, shook his head, and picked up +the dice. His sweeping became more sprightly. Amused by the +preoccupation of the lank and cautiously humorous Wishful, Bartley +touched the bell on the desk. Wishful promptly stood his broom against +the wall, rolled down his sleeves, and stepped behind the counter. + +"I think I'll pay my bill," said Bartley. + +Wishful promptly named the amount. Bartley proffered a ten-dollar bill. + +Wishful searched in the till for change. He shook his head. "You got two +dollars comin'," he stated. + +"I'll shake you for that two dollars," said Bartley. + +Wishful's tired eyes lighted up. "You said somethin'." And he produced +the dice. + +Just then the distant "Zoom" of the westbound Overland shook the +silence. Wishful hesitated, then gestured magnificently toward space. +What was the arrival of a mere train, with possibly a guest or so for +the hotel, compared with a game of craps? + +While they played, the train steamed in and was gone. Wishful won the +two dollars. + +Bartley escaped to the veranda and his reflections. Presently he rose +and strolled round to the corral. Wishful's three saddle-animals were +lazying in the heat. Bartley was not unfamiliar with the good points of +a horse. He rejected the sorrel with the Roman nose, as stubborn and +foolish. The flea-bitten gray was all horse, but he had a white-rimmed +eye. The chestnut bay was a big, hardy animal, but he appeared rather +slow and deliberate. Yet he had good, solid feet, plenty of bone, deep +withers, and powerful hindquarters. + +Bartley stepped round to the hotel. "Have you a minute to spare?" he +queried as Wishful finished rearranging the furniture of the lobby. + +Wishful had. He followed Bartley round to the corral. + +"I'm thinking of buying a saddle-horse," stated Bartley. + +Wishful leaned his elbows on the corral bar. "Why don't you rent +one--and turn him in when you're through with him." + +"I'd rather own one, and I may use him a long time." + +"I ain't sufferin' to sell any of my hosses, Mr. Bartley. But I wouldn't +turn down a fair offer." + +"Set a price on that sorrel," said Bartley. + +Now, Wishful was willing to part with the sorrel, which was showy and +looked fast. Bartley did not want the animal. He merely wanted to arrive +at a basis from which to work. + +"Well," drawled Wishful, "I'd let him go for a hundred." + +"What will you take for the gray?" + +"Him? Well, he's the best hoss I got. I don't think he's your kind of a +hoss." + +"The best, eh? And a hundred for the sorrel." Bartley appeared to +reflect. + +Wishful really wanted to sell the gray, describing him as the best horse +he owned to awaken Bartley's interest. The best horse in the corral was +the big bay cow-horse; but Wishful had no idea that Bartley knew that. + +"Would you put a price on the gray?" queried Bartley. + +"Why, sure! You can have him, for a hundred and twenty-five." + +"A hundred for the sorrel--and a hundred and twenty-five for the gray; +is that correct?" + +"Yep." + +"And you say the gray is the best horse in the corral?" + +"He sure is!" + +"All right. I'll give you a hundred for that big bay, there. I don't +want to rob you of your best horse, Wishful." + +Wishful saw that he was cornered. He had cornered himself, premising +that the Easterner didn't know horses. "That bay ain't much account, Mr. +Bartley. He's slow--nothin' but a ole cow-hoss I kind of keep around for +odd jobs of ropin' and such." + +"Well, he's good enough for me. I'll give you a hundred for him." + +Wishful scratched his head. He did not want to sell the bay for that +sum, yet he was too good a sport to go back on his word. + +"Say, where was you raised?" he queried abruptly. + +"In Kentucky." + +"Hell, I thought you was from New York?" + +"I lived in Kentucky until I was twenty-five." + +"Was your folks hoss-traders?" + +"Not exactly," laughed Bartley. "My father always kept a few good +saddle-horses, however." + +"Uh-huh? I reckon he did. And you ain't forgot what a real hoss looks +like, either." Wishful's pensive countenance lighted suddenly. "You'll +be wantin' a rig--saddle and bridle and slicker and saddle-bags. Now I +got just what you want." + +Bartley stepped to the stable and inspected the outfit. It was old and +worn, and worth, Bartley estimated, about thirty dollars, all told. + +"I'll let you have the whole outfit--hoss and rig and all, for two +hundred," stated Wishful unblushingly. + +"I priced a saddle, over in the shop across from the station, this +morning," said Bartley. + +"With bridle and blanket and saddle-pockets it would only stand me +ninety dollars. If the bay is the poorest horse you own, then at your +figure this outfit would come rather high." + +"I might 'a' knowed it!" stated Wishful. "Say, Mr. Bartley, give me a +hundred and fifty for the hoss and I'll throw in the rig." + +"No. I know friendship ceases when a horse-trade begins; but I am only +taking you at your word." + +"I sure done overlooked a bet, this trip," said Wishful. "Say, I reckon +you must 'a' cut your first tooth on a cinch-ring. I done learnt +somethin' this mornin'. Private eddication comes high, but I'm game. +Write your check for a hundred--and take the bay. By rights I ought to +give him to you, seein as how you done roped and branded me for a +blattin' yearlin' the first throw; and you been out West just three +days! You'll git along in this country." + +"I hope so," laughed Bartley. "Speaking of getting along, I plan to +visit Senator Brown. How long will it take me to get there, riding the +bay?" + +"He's got a runnin' walk that is good for six miles an hour. He's a +walkin' fool. And anything you git your rope on, he'll hold it till +you're gray-headed and got whiskers. That ole hoss is the best cow-hoss +in Antelope County--and I'm referrin' you to Steve Brown to back me up. +I bought that hoss from Steve. Any time you see the Box-S brand on a +hoss, you can figure he's a good one." + +"I suppose I'd have to camp on the mesa two or three nights," said +Bartley. + +"Nope! Ole Dobe'll make it in two days. He don't look fast, but the +trail sure fades behind him when he's travelin'. I'm kind of glad you +didn't try to buy the Antelope House. You'd started in pricin' the +stable, and kind of milled around and ast me what I'd sell the kitchen +for, and afore I knowed it, you'd 'a' had me selling the hotel for less +than the stable. I figure you'd made a amazin' hand at shootin' craps." + +"Let's step over and buy that saddle, and the rest of it. Will you +engineer the deal? I don't know much about Western saddlery." + +"Shucks! You can take that ole rig I was showin' you. She ain't much on +looks, but she's all there." + +"Thanks. But I'd rather buy a new outfit." + +"When do you aim to start?" + +"Right away. I suppose I'll need a blanket and some provisions." + +"Yes. But you'll catch up with Cheyenne, if you keep movin'. He won't +travel fast with a pack-hoss along. He'll most like camp at the first +water, about twenty-five miles south. But you can pack some grub in your +saddle-bags, and play safe. And take a canteen along." + +Wishful superintended the purchasing of the new outfit, and seemed +unusually keen about seeing Bartley well provided for at the minimum +cost. Wishful's respect for the Easterner had been greatly enhanced by +the recent horse-deal. When it came to the question of clothing, Wishful +wisely suggested overalls and a rowdy, as being weather and brush proof. +Incidentally Wishful asked Bartley why he had paid his bill before he +had actually prepared to start on the journey. Bartley told Wishful that +he would not have prepared to start had he not paid the bill on impulse. + +"Well, some folks git started on impulse, afore they pay their bills, +and keep right on fannin' it," asserted Wishful. + +An hour later Bartley was ready for the trail. With some food in the +saddle-pockets, a blanket tied behind the cantle, and a small canteen +hung on the horn, he felt equipped to make the journey. Wishful +suggested that he stay until after the noon hour, but Bartley declined. +He would eat a sandwich or two on the way. + +"And ole Dobe knows the trail to Steve's ranch," said Wishful, as he +walked around horse and rider, giving them a final inspection. "And you +don't have to cinch ole Dobe extra tight," he advised. "He carries a +saddle good. 'Course that new leather will stretch some." + +"How old _is_ Dobe?" queried Bartley. "You keep calling him 'old.'" + +"I seen you mouthin' him, after you had saddled him. How old would _you_ +say?" + +"Seven, going on eight." + +"Git along! And if anybody gits the best of you in a hoss-trade, wire me +collect. It'll sure be news!" + +Bartley settled himself in the saddle and touched Dobe with the spurs. + +"Give my regards to Senator Steve--and Cheyenne," called Wishful. + +Wishful stood gazing after his recent guest until he had disappeared +around a corner. + +Then Wishful strode into the hotel office and marked a blue cross on the +big wall calendar. A humorous smile played about his mouth. It was a +mark to indicate the day and date that an Eastern tenderfoot had got the +best of him in a horse-deal. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +AT THE WATER-HOLE + + +Before Bartley had been riding an hour he knew that he had a good horse +under him. Dobe "followed his head" and did not flirt with his shadow, +although he was grain-fed and ready to go. When Dobe trotted--an easy, +swinging trot that ate into the miles--Bartley tried to post, English +style. But Dobe did not understand that style of riding a trot. Each +time Bartley raised in the stirrups, Dobe took it for a signal to lope. +Finally Bartley caught the knack of leaning forward and riding a trot +with a straight leg, and to his surprise he found it was a mighty +satisfactory method and much easier than posting. + +The mesa trail was wide--in reality a cross-country road, so Bartley had +opportunity to try Dobe's different gaits. The running walk was a joy to +experience, the trot was easy, and the lope as regular and smooth as the +swing of a pendulum. Finally Bartley settled to the best long-distance +gait of all, the running walk, and began to enjoy the vista; the +wide-sweeping, southern reaches dotted with buttes, the line of the far +hills crowded against the sky, and the intense light in which there was +no faintest trace of blur or moisture. Everything within normal range of +vision stood out clean-edged and definite. + +Unaccustomed to riding a horse that neck-reined at the merest touch, and +one that stopped at the slightest tightening of the rein, Bartley had to +learn through experience that a spade bit requires delicate handling. He +was jogging along easily when he turned to glance back at the town--now +a far, huddled group of tiny buildings. Inadvertently he tightened rein. +Dobe stopped short. Bartley promptly went over the fork and slid to the +ground. + +Dobe gazed down at his rider curiously, ears cocked forward, as though +trying to understand just what his rider meant to do next. Bartley +expected to see the horse whirl and leave for home. But Dobe stood +patiently until his rider had mounted. Bartley glanced round covertly, +wondering if any one had witnessed his impromptu descent. Then he +laughed, realizing that it was a long way to Central Park, flat saddles +and snaffles. + +A little later he ate two of the sandwiches Wishful had thoughtfully +provided, and drank from the canteen. Gradually the shadows of the +buttes lengthened. The afternoon heat ebbed away in little, infrequent +puffs of wind. The western reaches of the great mesa seemed to expand, +while the southern horizon drew nearer. + +Presently Bartley noticed pony tracks on the road, and either side of +the tracks the mark of wheels. Here the wagon had swung aside to avoid a +bit of bad going, yet the tracks of two horses still kept the middle of +the road. "Senator Brown--and Cheyenne," thought Bartley, studying the +tracks. He became interested in them. Here, again, Cheyenne had +dismounted, possibly to tighten a cinch. There was the stub of a +cigarette. Farther along the tracks were lost in the rocky ground of the +petrified forest. He had made twenty miles without realizing it. + +Winding in and out among the shattered and fallen trunks of those +prehistoric trees, Bartley forgot where he was until he passed the +bluish-gray sweep of burned earth edging the forest. Presently a few +dwarf junipers appeared. He was getting higher, although the mesa seemed +level. Again he discovered the tracks of the horses in the powdered red +clay of the road. + +He crossed a shallow arroyo, sandy and wide. Later he came suddenly upon +a red clay cutbank, and a hint of water where the bank shadowed the +mud-smeared rocks. He rode slowly, preoccupied in studying the country. +The sun showed close to the rim of the world when he finally realized +that, if he meant to get anywhere, he had better be about it. Dobe +promptly caught the change of his rider's mental attitude and stepped +out briskly. Bartley patted the horse's neck. + +It was a pleasure to ride an animal that seemed to want to work with a +man and not against him. The horse had cost one hundred dollars--a fair +price for such a horse in those days. Yet Bartley thought it a very +reasonable price. And he knew he had a bargain. He felt clearly +confident that the big cow-pony would serve him in any circumstance or +hazard. + +As a long, undulating stretch of road appeared, softly brown in the +shadows, Bartley began to look about for the water-hole which Wishful +had spoken about. The sun slipped from sight. The dim, gray road reached +on and on, shortening in perspective as the quick night swept down. + +Beyond and about was a dusky wall through which loomed queer shapes that +seemed to move and change until, approached, they became junipers. +Bartley's gaze became fixed upon the road. That, at least, was a +reality. He reached back and untied his coat and swung into it. An early +star flared over the southern hills. He wondered if he had passed the +water-hole. He had a canteen, but Dobe would need water. But Dobe was +thoroughly familiar with the trail from Antelope to the White Hills. And +Dobe smelled the presence of his kind, even while Bartley, peering ahead +in the dusk, rode on, not aware that some one was camped within calling +distance of the trail. A cluster of junipers hid the faint glow of the +camp-fire. + +Dobe stopped suddenly. Bartley urged him on. For the first time the big +horse showed an inclination to ignore the rein. Bartley gazed round, saw +nothing in particular, and spoke to the horse, urging him forward. Dobe +turned and marched deliberately away from the road, heading toward the +west, and nickered. From behind the screen of junipers came an answering +nicker. Bartley hallooed. No one answered him. Yet Dobe seemed to know +what he was about. He plodded on, down a slight grade. Suddenly the soft +glow of a camp-fire illumined the hollow. + +A blanket-roll, a saddle, a coil of rope, and a battered canteen and the +fire--but no habitant of the camp. + +"Hello!" shouted Bartley. + +Dobe shied and snorted as a figure loomed in the dusk, and Cheyenne was +peering up at him. + +"Is this the water-hole?" Bartley asked inanely. + +"This is her. I'm sure glad to see you! I feel like a plumb fool for +standin' you up that way--but I didn't quite get you till I seen your +face. I thought I knowed your voice, but I never did see you in jeans, +and ridin' a hoss before. And that hat ain't like the one you wore in +Antelope." + +"Then you didn't know just what to expect?" + +"I wa'n't sure. But say, I got some coffee goin'--and some bacon. Light +down and give your saddle a rest." + +"I'll just water my horse and stake him out and--" + +"I'll show you where. I see you're ridin' Dobe. Wishful rent him to +you?" + +"No. I bought him." + +"If you don't mind tellin' me--how much?" + +"A hundred." + +"Was Wishful drunk?" + +"No." + +"Well, you got a real hoss, there. The water is right close. Old Dobe +knows where it is. Just lift off your saddle and turn him loose--or +mebby you better hobble him the first night. He ain't used to travelin' +with you, yet." + +"I have a stake-rope," said Bartley. + +"A hoss would starve on a stake-rope out here. I'll make you a pair of +hobbles, pronto. Then he'll stick with my hosses." + +"Where are they?" + +"Runnin' around out there somewhere. They never stray far from camp." + +Bartley watched Cheyenne untwist a piece of soft rope and make a pair of +serviceable hobbles. + +"Now he'll travel easy and git enough grass to keep him in shape. And +them hobbles won't burn him. Any time you're shy of hobbles, that's how +to make 'em." + +Later, as Bartley sat by the fire and ate, Cheyenne asked him if +Panhandle had been seen in town since the night of the crap game. +Bartley told him that he had seen nothing of Panhandle. + +"He's ridin' this country, somewhere," said Cheyenne. "You're headed for +Steve's ranch?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, Steve'll sure give you the time of your life." + +"I think I'll stay there a few days, if the Senator can make room for +me." + +"Room! Wait till you see Steve's place. And say, if you want to get wise +to how they run a cattle outfit, just throw in with the boys, tell 'em +you're a plumb tenderfoot and can't ride a bronc, nohow, and that you +never took down a rope in your life, and that all you know about cattle +is what you've et, and then the boys will use you white. There's nothin' +puts a fella in wrong with the boys quicker than for him to let on he is +a hand when he ain't. 'Course the boys won't mind seem' you top a bronc +and get throwed, just to see if you got sand." + +Meanwhile Cheyenne manipulated the coffee-pot and skillet most +effectively. And while Bartley ate his supper, Cheyenne talked, +seemingly glad to have a companion to talk to. + +"You see," he began, apropos of nothing in particular, "entertainin' +folks with the latest news is my long suit. I'm kind of a travelin' +show, singin' and packin' the news around to everybody. 'Course folks +read the paper and hear about somebody gettin' married, or gettin' shot +or leavin' the country, and then they ask me the how of it. I been +ramblin' so long that I know the pedigrees of 'most everybody down this +way. + +"Newspapers is all right, but folks get plumb hungry to git their news +with human trimmin's. I recollec' I come mighty near gettin' in trouble, +onct. Steve had some folks visitin' down to his ranch. They was new to +the country, and seems they locked horns with a outfit runnin' sheep +just south of Springerville. Now, I hadn't been down that way for about +six months, but I had heard of that ruckus. So after Steve lets me sing +a couple of songs, and I got to feelin' comfortable with them new folks, +I set to and tells 'em about the ruckus down near Springerville. I guess +the fella that told me must 'a' got his reins crossed, for pretty soon +Steve starts to laugh and turns to them visitors and says: 'How about +it, Mr. Smith?' + +"Now, Smith was the fella that had the ruckus, and I'd been tellin' how +that sheep outfit had run _him_ out of the country. He was a young, +long, spindlin' hombre from Texas--a reg'lar Whicker-bill, with that +drawlin' kind of a voice that hosses and folks listen to. I knowed he +was from Texas the minute I seen him, but I sure didn't know he was the +man I was talkin' about. + +"Everybody laughed but him and his wife. I reckon she was feelin' her +oats, visitin' at the Senator's house. I don't know what she said to her +husband, but, anyhow, afore I left for the bunk-house that evenin', he +says, slow and easy, that if I was around there next mornin', he would +explain all about that ruckus to me, when the ladies weren't present, so +I wouldn't get it wrong, next time. I seen I had made a mistake for +myself, and I didn't aim to make another, so I just kind of eased off +and faded away, bushin' down that night a far piece from Senator Steve's +ranch. I know them Whicker-bills and I didn't want to tangle with any of +'em." + +"Afraid you'd get shot?" queried Bartley, laughing. + +"Shot? Me? No, pardner. I was afraid that Texas gent would get shot. You +see, he was married--and I--ain't." + +Bartley lay back on his saddle and gazed up at the stars. The little +fire had died down to a dot of red. A coyote yelped in the far dusk. +Another coyote replied. Cheyenne rose and threw some wood on the fire. +Then he stepped down to the water-hole and washed the plates and cups. +Bartley could hear the peculiar thumping sound of hobbled horses moving +about on the mesa. Cheyenne returned to the fire, picked up his +bed-roll, and marched off into the bushes. Bartley wondered why he +should take the trouble to move his bed-roll such a distance from the +water-hole. + +"Pack your saddle and blanket over, when you feel like turnin' in," said +Cheyenne. "And you might throw some dirt on that fire. I ain't lookin' +for visitors down this way, but you can't tell." + +Bartley carried his saddle out to the distant clump of junipers. + +"Just shed your coat and boots and turn in," invited Cheyenne. + +Bartley was not sleepy, and for a long time he lay gazing up at the +stars. Presently he heard Cheyenne snore. The Big Dipper grew dim. Then +a coyote yelped--a shrill cadence of mocking laughter. "I wonder what +the joke is?" Bartley thought drowsily. + +Sometime during the night he was awakened by the tramping of horses, a +sound that ran along the ground and diminished in the distance. + +Cheyenne was sitting up. He touched Bartley. "Five or six of 'em," +whispered Cheyenne. + +"Our horses?" + +"Too many. Mebby some strays." + +"Or cowboys," suggested Bartley. + +"Night-ridin' ain't so popular out here." + +Bartley turned over and fell asleep. It seemed but a moment later that +he was wide awake and Cheyenne was standing over him. It was daylight. + +"They got our hosses," said Cheyenne. + +"Who?" + +"I dunno." + +"What? _Our_ horses? Great Scott, how far is it to Senator Brown's +ranch?" + +"About twenty-five miles, by road. I know a short cut." + +Bartley jumped up and pulled on his boots. From the far hills came the +faint yelp of a coyote, shrill and derisive. + +"The joke is on us," said Bartley. + +"This here ain't no joke," stated Cheyenne. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS + + +Bartley suggested that, perhaps, the horses had strayed. + +Cheyenne shook his head. "My hosses ain't leavin' good feed, or leavin' +me. They know this here country." + +"Perhaps Dobe left for home and the rest followed him," said Bartley. + +"Nope. Our hosses was roped and led south." + +Bartley stared at Cheyenne, whose usually placid countenance expressed +indecision and worry. Cheyenne seemed positive about the missing horses. +Then Bartley saw an expression in Cheyenne's eyes that indicated more +sternness of spirit than he had given Cheyenne credit for. + +"Roped and led south," reiterated Cheyenne. + +"How do you know it?" + +"I been scoutin' around. The bunch that rode by last night was leadin' +hosses. I could tell by the way the hosses was travelin'. They was goin' +steady. If they'd been drivin' our hosses ahead, they would 'a' gone +faster, tryin' to keep 'em from turnin' back. I don't see nothin' around +camp to show who's been here." + +"I'll make a fire," said Bartley. + +"You got the right idea. We can eat. Then I aim to look around." + +Cheyenne was over in the bushes rolling his bed when Bartley called to +him, and he found Bartley pointing at a pair of dice on a flat rock +beside the fire. + +Cheyenne stooped and picked up the dice. "Was you rattlin' the bones to +see if you could beat yourself?" + +"I found them here. Are they yours?" + +"Nope. And they weren't here last evenin'." + +Cheyenne turned and strode out to the road while Bartley made breakfast. +Cheyenne was gone a long time, examining the tracks of horses. When he +returned he squatted down and ate. + +Presently he rose. "First off, I thought they might 'a' been some stray +Apaches or Cholas. But they don't pack dice. And the bunch that rode by +last night was ridin' shod bosses." + +Bartley turned slowly toward his companion. "Panhandle?" he queried. + +"And these here dice? Looks like it. It's like him to leave them dice +for us to play with while he trails south with our stack. I reckon it +was that Dobe hoss he was after. But he must 'a' knowed who was campin' +around here. You see, when Wishful kind of hinted to Panhandle to leave +town, Panhandle figured that meant to stay out of Antelope quite a +spell. First off he steals some hosses. Next thing, he'll sell 'em or +trade 'em, down south of here. He'll travel nights, mostly." + +"I can't see why he should especially pick us out as his victims," said +Bartley. + +"I don't say he did. But it would make no difference to him. He'd steal +any man's stock. Only, I figure some of his friends must 'a' told him +about you--that seen you ridin' down this way. He would know our camp +would be somewhere near this water-hole. What kind of matches you got +with you?" + +"Why--this kind." And Bartley produced a few blue-top matches. + +"This here is a old-timer sulphur match, cut square. It was right here, +by the rock. Somebody lit a match and laid them dice there--sixes up. No +reg'lar hoss-thief would take that much trouble to advertise himself. +Panhandle done it--and he wanted me to know he done it." + +"You've had trouble with him before, haven't you?" + +"Yes--and no man can say I ever trailed him. But I never stepped out of +his way." + +"Then that crap game in Antelope meant more than an ordinary crap game?" +said Bartley. + +"He had his chance," stated Cheyenne. + +"Well, we're in a fix," asserted Bartley. + +"Yes; we're afoot. But we'll make it. And right here I'm tellin' you +that I aim to shoot a game of craps with Panhandle, usin' these here +dice, that'll be fast and won't last long." + +"How about the law?" + +"The law is all right, in spots. But they's a whole lot of country +between them spots." + +Cheyenne cached the bed-roll, saddles, and cooking-outfit back in the +brush, taking only a canteen and a little food. He proffered a pair of +moccasins, parfleche-soled and comfortable, to Bartley. + +"You wear these. Them new ridin'-boots'll sure kill you dead, walkin'. +You can pack 'em along with you." + +"How about your feet?" + +"Say, you wouldn't call me a tenderfoot, would you?" + +"Not exactly." + +"Then slip on them moccasins. But first I aim to make a circle and see +just where they caught up our stock." + +Bartley drew on the moccasins and, tying his boots together, rolled them +in his blanket. Meanwhile, Cheyenne circled the camp far out, examining +the scattered tracks of horses. When he returned the morning sun was +beginning to make itself felt. + +"I'll toss up to see who wears the moccasins," said Bartley. "I'm more +used to hiking than you are." + +"Spin her!" + +As Bartley tossed the coin, Cheyenne called. The half-dollar dropped and +stuck edge-up in the sand. + +"You wear 'em the first fifteen miles and then we'll swap," said +Cheyenne. + +Bartley filled the canteen and scraped dirt over the fire. Cheyenne took +a last look around, and turned toward the south. + +"You didn't say nothin' about headin' back to Antelope," said Cheyenne. + +"Why, no. I started out to visit Senator Brown's ranch." + +Cheyenne laughed. "Well, you're out to see the country, anyhow. We'll +see lots, to-day." + +Once more upon the road Cheyenne's manner changed. He seemed to ignore +the fact that he was afoot, in country where there was little prospect +of getting a lift from a passing rancher or freighter. And he said +nothing about his horses, Filaree and Joshua, although Bartley knew that +their loss must have hit him hard. + +A mile down the road, and Cheyenne was singing his trail song, +bow-legging ahead as though he were entirely alone and indifferent to +the journey: + + Seems like I don't git anywhere: + Git along, cayuse, git along! + But I'm leavin' here and I'm goin' there, + Git along, cayuse, git along-- + +He stopped suddenly, pulled his faded black Stetson over one eye, and +then stepped out again, singing on: + + They ain't no water and they ain't no shade: + They ain't no beer or lemonade, + But I reckon most like we'll make the grade + Git along, cayuse, git along. + +"That's the stuff!" laughed Bartley. "A stanza or two of that every few +miles, and we'll make the grade all right. That last was improvised, +wasn't it?" + +"Nope. Just naturalized. I make 'em up when I'm ridin' along, to kind of +fit into the scenery. Impervisin' gets my wind." + +"Well, if you are singing when we finish, you're a wonder," stated +Bartley. + +"Oh, I'm a wonder, all right! And mebby I don't feel like a plumb fool, +footin' it into Steve's ranch with no hosses and no bed-roll and no +reputation. And I sure lose mine this trip. Why, folks all over the +country will josh me to death when they hear Panhandle Sears set me +afoot on the big mesa. I reckon I'll have to kind of change my route +till somethin' happens to make folks forget this here bobble." + +Another five miles of hot and monotonous plodding, and Cheyenne stopped +and sat down. He pulled off his boots. + +Bartley offered the moccasins, but Cheyenne waved the offer aside. + +"Just coolin' my feet," he explained. "It ain't so much the kind of +boots, because these fit. It's scaldin' your feet that throws you." + +They smoked and drank from the canteen. Five minutes' rest, and they +were on the road again. The big mesa reached on and on toward the south, +seemingly limitless, without sign of fence or civilization save for the +narrow road that swung over each slight, rounded rise and ran away into +the distance, narrowing to a gray line that disappeared in space. + +Occasionally singing, Cheyenne strode along, Bartley striding beside +him. + +"You got a stride like a unbroke yearlin'," said; Cheyenne, as Bartley +unconsciously drew ahead. + +Bartley stopped and turned into step as Cheyenne caught up. He held +himself to a slower pace, realizing that, while his companion could have +outridden him by days and miles, the other was not used to walking. + +As they topped a low rise a coyote sprang up and floated away. Bartley +flinched as Cheyenne whipped up his gun and fired. The coyote +jack-knifed and lay still. Cheyenne punched the empty shell from his +gun, slipped in a cartridge, and strode on. + +"Pretty fast work," remarked Bartley. + +"Huh! I just throwed down on him to see if I was gettin' slow." + +"It seems to me that if I could shoot like that, I wouldn't let any man +back me down," said Bartley. + +"Mebby so. But you're wrong, old-timer. Bein' fast with a gun is just +like advertisin' for the coroner. Me, I'm plumb peaceful." + +A few miles farther along they nooned in the shade of a piñion. When +they started down the road again, Bartley noticed that Cheyenne limped +slightly. But Cheyenne still refused to put on the moccasins. Bartley +argued that his own feet were getting tender. He was unaccustomed to +moccasins. Cheyenne turned this argument aside by singing a stanza of +his trail song. + +Also, incidentally, Cheyenne had been keeping his eye on the +horse-tracks; and just before they left the main road taking a short +cut, he pointed to them. "There's Filaree's tracks, and there's +Joshua's. Your hoss has been travelin' over here, on the edge. Them +hoss-thieves figure to hit into the White Hills and cut down through the +Apache forest, most like." + +"Will they sell the horses?" + +"Yes. Or trade 'em for whiskey. Panhandle's got friends up in them +hills." + +"How far is it to the ranch?" queried Bartley. + +"We done reached her. We're on Steve's ranch, right now. It's about five +miles from that first fence over there to his house, by trail. It's +fifteen by road." + +"Then here is where you take the moccasins." + +"Nope. My feet are so swelled you couldn't start my boots with a fence +stretcher. They's no use both of us gettin' cripped up." + +Bartley's own feet ached from the constant bruising of pebbles. + +Presently Cheyenne dropped back and asked Bartley to set the pace. + +"I'll just tie to your shadow," said Cheyenne. "Keeps me interested. +When I'm drillin' along ahead I can't think of nothin' but my feet." + +Because there was now no road and scarcely a trail, Bartley began to +choose his footing, dodging the rougher places. The muscles of his +calves ached under the unaccustomed strain of walking without heels. +Cheyenne dogged along behind, suffering keenly from blistered feet, but +centering his attention on Bartley's bobbing shadow. They had made about +two miles across country when the faint trail ran round a butte and +dipped into a shallow arroyo. + +The arroyo deepened to a gulch, narrow and rocky. Up the gulch a few +hundred yards they came suddenly upon a bunch of Hereford cattle headed +by a magnificent bull. The trail ran in the bottom of the gulch. On +either side the walls were steep and rocky. Angling junipers stuck out +from the walls in occasional dots of green. + +"That ole white-face sure looks hostile," Cheyenne remarked. "Git along, +you ole Mormon; curl your tail and drift." + +Cheyenne heaved a stone which took the bull fairly between the eyes. The +bull shook his head and snapped his tail, but did not move. The cattle +behind the bull stared blandly at the invaders of their domain. The +bull, being an aristocrat, gave warning of his intent to charge by +shaking his head and bellowing. Then he charged. + +Cheyenne stooped for another stone, but Bartley had no intention of +playing ping-pong with a roaring red avalanche. Bartley made for the +side of the gulch and, catching hold of the bole of a juniper, drew +himself up. Cheyenne stood to his guns, shied a third stone, scored a +bull's-eye, and then decided to evacuate in favor of the enemy. His feet +were sore, but he managed to keep a good three jumps ahead of the bull, +up the precipitous bank of the gulch. There was no time to swing into +the tree where Bartley had taken refuge, so Cheyenne backed into a +shallow depression beneath the roots of the juniper. + +The bull shook his head and butted at Cheyenne. Cheyenne slapped the +bull's nose with his hat. The bull backed part-way down the grade, +snapped his tail, and bellowed. Up the grade he charged again. He could +not quite reach Cheyenne, who slapped at the bull with his hat and spake +eloquently. + +Bartley, clinging to his precarious perch, gazed down upon the scene, +wondering if he had not better take a shot at the bull. "Shall I let him +have it?" he queried. + +"Have what?" came the muffled voice of Cheyenne. "He's 'most got what +he's after, right now." + +"Shall I shoot him?" + +"Hell, no! No use beefin' twelve hundred dollars' worth of meat. We +don't need that much." + +"Look out! He's coming again!" called Bartley. + +Cheyenne had suddenly poked his head out of the shallow cave. The bull +charged, backed down, and amused himself by tossing dirt over his +shoulders and grumbling like distant thunder. + +"Perhaps if you stay in that cave and don't show yourself, he'll leave," +suggested Bartley. + +"Stay nothin'!" answered Cheyenne. "There's a rattler in this here cave. +I can hear him singin'. I'm comin' out, right now!" + +Bartley leaned forward and glanced down. The branch on which he was +straddled snapped. + +"Look out below!" he shouted as he felt himself going. + +Bartley's surprising evolution was too much for his majesty the bull, +who whirled and galloped clumsily down the slope. Bartley rolled to the +bottom, still holding to a broken branch of the tree. Cheyenne was also +at the bottom of the gulch. The bull was trotting heavily toward his +herd. + +"Is there anything hooked to the back of my jeans?" queried Cheyenne. + +"No. They're torn; that's all." + +"Huh! I thought mebby that ole snake had hooked on to my jeans. He +sounded right mad, singin' lively, back in there. My laigs feel kind of +limp, right now." + +Cheyenne felt of his torn overalls, shook his head, and then a slow +smile illumined his face. "How do you like this here country, anyhow?" + +"Great!" said Bartley. + + + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +AT THE BOX-S + + +When they emerged from the western end of the gulch, they paused to +rest. Not over a half-mile south stood the ranch-house, just back of a +row of giant cottonwoods. + +Cheyenne pointed out the stables, corrals, and bunk-house. "A mighty +neat little outfit," he remarked, as they started on again. + +"Little?" + +"Senator Steve's only got about sixty thousand acres under fence." + +"Then I'd like to see a big ranch," laughed Bartley. + +"You can't. They ain't nothin' to see more'n you see right now. Why, I +know a outfit down in Texas that would call this here ranch their north +pasture--and they got three more about the same size, besides the +regular range. But standin' in any one place you can't see any more than +you do right now. Steve just keeps up this here ranch so he can have +elbow-room. Yonder comes one of his boys. Reckon he seen us." + +A rider had just reined his horse round and was loping toward them. + +"He seen we was afoot," said Cheyenne. + +"Mighty decent of him--" began Bartley, but Cheyenne waved the +suggestion aside. "Decent nothin'! A man afoot looks as queer to a +waddie as we did to that ole bull." + +The puncher loped up, recognized Cheyenne, nodded to Bartley, and seemed +to hesitate. Cheyenne made no explanation of their plight, so the +puncher simply turned back and loped toward the ranch-house. + +"Just steppin' over to tell Steve we're here," said Cheyenne, as +Bartley's face expressed astonishment. + +They plodded on, came to a gate, limped down a long lane, came to +another gate, and there Senator Steve met them. + +"I'd 'a' sent a man with a buckboard if I had known you planned to walk +over from Antelope," he asserted, and his eyes twinkled. + +Cheyenne frowned prodigiously. "Steve," he said slowly, "you can +lovin'ly and trustfully go plumb to hell!" + +Cheyenne turned and limped slowly toward the bunk-house. + +Mrs. Brown welcomed Bartley as the Senator ushered him into the +living-room. The Senator half-filled a tumbler from a cold, dark bottle +and handed it to Bartley. + +"'Green River,'" he said. + +"Mrs. Brown," said Bartley as he bowed. + +Then the Senator escorted Bartley to the bathroom. The tub was already +filled with steaming water. A row of snow-white towels hung on the rack. +The Senator waved his hand and, stepping out, closed the door. + +A few minutes later he knocked at the bathroom door. "There's a spare +razor in the cabinet, and all the fixings. And when you're ready there's +a pair of clean socks on the doorknob." + +Bartley heard the Senator's heavy, deliberate step as he passed down the +hallway. + +"A little 'Green River,' a hot bath, and clean socks," murmured Bartley. +"Things might be worse." + +His tired muscles relaxed under the beneficent warmth of the bath. He +shaved, dressed, and stepped out into the hall. He sniffed. "Chicken!" +he murmured soulfully. + +Mrs. Senator Brown was supervising the cooking of a dinner that Bartley +never forgot. Boiled chicken, dumplings, rich gravy, mashed potatoes, +creamed carrots, sliced tomatoes--to begin with. And then the pie! +Bartley furnished the appetite. + +But that was not until after the Senator had returned from the +bunk-house. He had seen to it that Cheyenne had had a bucket of hot +water, soap, and towels and grease for his sore feet. In direct and +effectual kindliness, without obviously expressed sympathy, the +Westerner is peculiarly supreme. + +Back in the living-room Bartley made himself comfortable, admiring the +generous proportions of the house, the choice Indian blankets, the wide +fireplace, and the general solidity of everything, which reflected the +personality of his hosts. + +Presently the Senator came in. "Cheyenne tells me that somebody set you +afoot, down at the water-hole." + +"Did he also tell you about your bull?" + +"No! Is that how he came to tear his jeans?" + +Bartley nodded. And he told the Senator of their recent experience in +the gulch. + +The Senator chuckled. "Don't say a word to Mrs. Brown about it. I'll +have Cheyenne in, after dinner, and sweat it out of him. You see, +Cheyenne won't eat with us. He always eats with the boys. No use asking +him to eat in here. And, say, Bartley, we've got a little surprise for +you. One of my boys caught up your horse, old Dobe. Dobe was dragging a +rope. Looks like he broke away from some one. I had him turned into the +corral. Dobe was raised on this range." + +"Broke loose and came back!" exclaimed Bartley. "That's good news, +Senator. I like that horse." + +"But Cheyenne is out of luck," said the Senator. "He thought more of +those horses, Filaree and Joshua, than he did of anything on earth. I'll +send one of the boys back to the water-hole to-morrow, for your saddles +and outfit. But now you're here, how do you like the country?" + +"Almost as much as I like some of the people living in it," stated +Bartley. + +"Not including Panhandle Sears, eh?" + +"I'm pretty well fed up on walking," and Bartley smiled. + +"Sears is a worthless hombre," stated the Senator. "He's one of a gang +that steal stock, and generally live by their wits and never seem to get +caught. But he made a big mistake when he lifted Cheyenne's horses. +Cheyenne already has a grievance against Sears. Some day Cheyenne will +open up--and that will be the last of Mr. Sears." + +"I had an idea there was something like that in the wind," said Bartley. +"Cheyenne hasn't said much about Sears, but I was present at that crap +game." + +The Senator chuckled. "I heard about it. Heard you offered to take on +Sears if he would put his gun on the table." + +Bartley flushed. "I must have been excited." + +The Senator leaned forward in his big, easy-chair. "Cheyenne wants me to +let him take a couple of horses to trail Panhandle. And, judging from +what Cheyenne said, he thinks you are going along with him. There's lots +of country right round here to see, without taking any unnecessary +risks." + +"I understand," said Bartley. + +"And this is your headquarters, as long as you want to stay," continued +the Senator. + +"Thank you. It's a big temptation to stay, Senator." + +"How?" + +"Well, it was rather understood, without anything being said, that I +would help Cheyenne find his horses and mine. Dobe came back; but that +hardly excuses me from going with Cheyenne." + +"But your horse is here; and you seem to be in pretty fair health, right +now." + +"I appreciate the hint, Senator." + +"But you don't agree with me a whole lot." + +"Well, not quite. Chance rather chucked us together, Cheyenne and me, +and I think I'll travel with him for a while. I like to hear him sing." + +"He likes to hear him sing!" scoffed the Senator, frowning. He sat back +in his chair, blew smoke-rings, puffed out his cheeks, and presently +rose. "Bartley, I see that you're set on chousin' around the country +with that warbling waddie--just to hear him sing, as you say. I say +you're a dam' fool. + +"But you're the kind of a dam' fool I want to shake hands with. You +aren't excited and you don't play to the gallery; so if there's anything +you want on this ranch, from a posse to a pack-outfit, it's yours. And +if either of you get Sears, I'll sure chip in my share to buy his +headstone." + +"I wouldn't have it inscribed until we get back," laughed Bartley. + +"No; I don't think I will. Trailin' horse-thieves on their own stamping +ground ain't what an insurance company would call a good risk." + + + + + + +CHAPTER X + +TO TRY HIM OUT + + +Two days later Cheyenne was able to get his feet into his boots, but +even then he walked as though he did not care to let his left foot know +what his right foot was doing. Lon Pelly, just in from a ride out to the +line shack, remarked to the boys in the bunk-house that Cheyenne walked +as though his brains were in his feet and he didn't want to get stone +bruises stepping on them. + +Cheyenne made no immediate retort, but later he delivered himself of a +new stanza of his trail song, wherein the first line ended with "Pelly" +followed by the rhymed assertion that the gentleman who bore that +peculiar name had slivers in his anatomy due to a fondness for leaning +against the bar of the Blue Front Saloon. + +The boys were mightily pleased with the stanza, and they also improvised +until, according to their versions, Long Lon bore a marked resemblance +to a porcupine. Lon, being a real person, felt that Cheyenne's +retaliation was just. Moreover, Lon, who never did anything hastily, let +it be known casually that he had seen three riders west of the line +shack some two days past, and that the riders were leading two horses, a +buckskin and a gray. They were too far away to be distinguished +absolutely, but he could tell the color of the horses. + +"Panhandle?" queried a puncher. + +"And two riders with him," said Long Lon. + +"Goin' to trail him, Cheyenne?" came presently. + +"That's me." + +"Then let's pass the hat," suggested the first speaker. + +"Wait!" said Cheyenne, drawing a pair of dice from his pocket. "Somehow, +and sometime, I aim to shoot Panhandle a little game. Then you guys can +pass the hat for the loser. Panhandle left them dice on the flat rock, +by the water-hole. My pardner, Bartley, found them." + +"Kind of sign talk that Pan pulled one on you," said Lon Pelly. + +"He sure left his brains behind him when he left them dice," asserted +Cheyenne. "I suspicioned that it was him--but the dice told me, plain." + +"So you figure to walk up to Pan and invite him to shoot a little game, +when you meet up with him?" queried a puncher. + +"That's me." + +"The tenderfoot"--he referred to Bartley--"is he goin' along with you?" + +"He ain't so tender as you might think," said Cheyenne. "He's green, but +not so dam' tender." + +"Well, it's right sad. He looks like a pretty decent hombre." + +"What's sad?" queried Cheyenne belligerently. + +"Why, gettin' that tenderfoot all shot up, trailin' a couple of +twenty-dollar cayuses. They ain't worth it." + +"They ain't, eh?" + +"Course, they make a right good audience, when you're singin'. They do +all the listenin'," said another puncher. + +"Huh! They ain't one of you got a hoss that can listen to you, without +blushin'. You fellas think you're a hard-ridin'--" + +"Ridin' beats walkin'," suggested Long Lon. + +"Keep a-joshin'. I like it. Shows how much you don't know. I--hello, Mr. +Bartley! Shake hands with Lon Pelly--but I guess you met him, over to +Antelope. You needn't to mind the rest of these guys. They're harmless." + +"I don't want to interrupt--" began Bartley. + +"Set right in!" they invited in chorus. "We're just listenin' to +Cheyenne preachin' his own funeral sermon." + +Bartley seated himself in the doorway of the bunk-house. The joshing +ceased. Cheyenne, who could never keep his hands still, toyed with the +dice. Presently one of the boys suggested that Cheyenne show them some +fancy work with a six-gun--"just to keep your wrist limber," he +concluded. + +Cheyenne shook his head. But, when Bartley intimated that he would like +to see Cheyenne shoot, Cheyenne rose. + +"All right. I'll shoot any fella here for ten bucks--him to name the +target." + +"No, you don't," said a puncher. "We ain't givin' our dough away, just +to git rid of it." + +"And right recent they was talkin' big," said Cheyenne. "I'll shoot the +spot of a playin'-card, if you'll hold it," he asserted, indicating +Bartley. + +The boys glanced at Bartley and then lowered their eyes, wondering what +the Easterner would do. Bartley felt that this was a test of his nerve, +and, while he didn't like the idea of engaging in a William Tell +performance he realized that Cheyenne must have had a reason for +choosing him, out of the men present, and that Cheyenne knew his +business. + +"Cheyenne wants to git out of shootin'," suggested a puncher. + +That settled it with Bartley. "He won't disappoint you," he stated +quietly. "Give me the card." + +One of the boys got up and fetched an old deck of cards. Bartley chose +the ace of spades. Back of the corrals, with nothing but mesa in sight, +he took up his position, while Cheyenne stepped off fifteen paces. +Bartley's hand trembled a little. Cheyenne noticed it and turned to the +group, saying something that made them laugh. Bartley's fingers tensed. +He forgot his nervousness. Cheyenne whirled and shot, apparently without +aim. Bartley drew a deep breath, and glanced at the card. The black pip +was cut clean from the center. + +"That's easy," asserted Cheyenne. Then he took a silver dollar from his +pocket, laid it in the palm of his right hand, hung the gun, by its +trigger guard on his right forefinger, lowered his hand and tossed the +coin up. As the coin went up the gun whirled over. Then came the whiz of +the coin as it cut through space. + +"About seventy-five shots like that and I'm broke," laughed Cheyenne. +"Anybody's hat need ventilatin'?" + +"Not this child's," asserted Lon Pelly. "I sailed my hat for him onct. +It was a twenty-dollar J.B., when I sailed it. When it hit it sure +wouldn't hold water. Six holes in her--and three shots." + +"Six?" exclaimed Bartley. + +"The three shots went clean through both sides," said Lon. + +Cheyenne reloaded his gun and dropped it into the holster. + +Later, Bartley had a talk with Cheyenne about the proposed trailing of +the stolen horses. Panhandle's name was mentioned. And the name of +another man--Sneed. Cheyenne seemed to know just where he would look, +and whom he might expect to meet. + +Bartley and Cheyenne were in the living-room that evening talking with +the Senator and his wife. Out in the bunk-house those of the boys who +had not left for the line shack were discussing horse-thieves in general +and Panhandle and Sneed in particular. Bill Smalley, a saturnine member +of the outfit, who seldom said anything, and who was a good hand but a +surly one, made a remark. + +"That there Cheyenne is the fastest gun artist--and the biggest coward +that ever come out of Wyoming. Ain't that right, Lon?" + +"I never worked in Wyoming," said Long Lon. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +PONY TRACKS + + +Mrs. Senator Brown did not at all approve of Bartley's determination to +accompany Cheyenne in search of the stolen horses. Late that night, long +after Cheyenne had ceased to sing for the boys in the bunk-house, and +while Bartley was peacefully slumbering in a comfortable bed, Mrs. Brown +took the Senator to task for not having discouraged the young Easterner +from attempting such a wild-goose chase. The Senator, whose diameter +made the task of removing his boots rather difficult, puffed, and tugged +at a tight riding-boot, but said nothing. + +"Steve!" + +"Yes'm. I 'most got it off. Wild-goose chase? Madam, the wild goose is a +child that shuns this element. You mean wild-horse chase." + +"That sort of talk may amuse your constituents, but you are talking to +me." + +Off came the stubborn boot. The Senator puffed, and tugged at the other +boot. + +"No, ma'am. You're talking to me. There! Now go ahead and I'll listen." + +"Why didn't you discourage Mr. Bartley's idea of making such a journey?' + +"I did, Nelly. I told him he was a dam' fool." + +Mrs. Senator Brown, who knew her husband's capabilities in dodging +issues when he was cornered,--both at home and abroad,--peered at him +over her glasses. "What else did you tell him?" + +"Well, your honor," chuckled the Senator, "I also told him he was the +kind of dam' fool I liked to shake hands with." + +"I knew it! And what else?" + +"I challenge the right of the attorney for the plaintiff to introduce +any evidence that may--" + +"The attorney for the defense may proceed," said Mrs. Brown, smiling. + +"Why, shucks, Nelly! When you smile like that--why, I told Bartley he +could have anything on this ranch that would help him get a rope on +Sears." + +"I knew it!" + +"Then why did you ask me?" + +Mrs. Brown ignored the question. "Very well, Stephen. Mr. Bartley gave +me his sister's address, in case anything happened. She is his only +living relative and I'm going to write to her at once and tell her what +her brother is up to." + +"And most like she'll head right for this ranch." + +"Well, suppose she does? If she is anything like her brother she will be +welcome." + +"You bet! Just leave that to me!" + +"It's a shame!" asserted Mrs. Brown. + +"It is! With her good looks and inexperience she'll sure need somebody +to look after her." + +"How do you know she is good-looking?" + +"I don't. I was just hoping." + +"I shall write, just the same." + +"I reckon you will. I'm going to bed." + +Just as the sun rounded above the mesa next morning, Bartley stepped out +to the veranda. He was surprised to find the Senator up and about, +inspecting the details of Cheyenne's outfit, for Cheyenne had the horses +saddled and packed. Bartley was still more surprised to find that Mrs. +Brown had breakfast ready. Evidently the good Senator and his wife had a +decided interest in the welfare of the expedition. + +After breakfast the Senator's wife came out to the bunk-house with a +mysterious parcel which she gave to Bartley. He sniffed at it. + +"Cold chicken sandwiches!" he said, smiling broadly. + +"And some doughnuts. It will save you boys fussing with a lunch." + +Long Lon Pelly was also up and ready to start. The air was still cool +and the horses were a bit snuffy. Lon mounted and rode toward the west +gate where he waited for Cheyenne and Bartley. + +"Now don't forget where you live," said the Senator as Bartley mounted. + +With a cheery farewell to their hosts, Cheyenne and Bartley rode away. +The first warmth of the sun touched them as they headed into the western +spaces. Long Lon closed the big gate, stepped up on his horse, and +jogged along beside them. + +Bartley felt as though he had suddenly left the world of reality and was +riding in a sort of morning dream. He could feel the pleasant warmth of +the sun on his back. He sniffed the thin dust cast up by the horses. On +either side of him the big mesa spread to the sky-line. Cattle were +scattered in the brush, some of them lying down, some of them grazing +indolently. + +Presently Cheyenne began to sing, and his singing seemed to fit into the +mood of the morning. He ceased, and nothing but the faint jingle of rein +chains and the steady plod of hoofs disturbed the vast silence. A +flicker of smoke drifted back as Cheyenne lighted a cigarette. Long Lon +drilled on, wrapped in his reflections. Their moving shadows shortened. +Occasionally a staring-eyed cow strayed directly in their way and stood +until Long Lon struck his chaps with his quirt, when the cow, swinging +its head, would whirl and bounce off to one side, stiff-legged and +ridiculous. + +Bartley unbuttoned his shirt-collar and pushed back his hat. Far across +the mesa a dust devil spun up and writhed away toward the distant hills. +As the horses slowed to cross a sandy draw, Bartley turned and glanced +back. The ranch buildings--a dot of white in a clump of green--shimmered +vaguely in the morning sunlight. + +Thus far, Bartley felt that he had been leaving the ranch and the +cheerful companionship of the Senator and his wife. But as Lon Pelly +reined up--it was something like two hours since they had started--and +pointed to a cross-trail leading south, Bartley's mental attitude +changed instantly. Hitherto he had been leaving a pleasant habitation. +Now he was going somewhere. He felt the distinction keenly. Cheyenne's +verse came back to him. + + Seems like I don't git anywhere, + Git along, cayuse, git along; + But we're leavin' here and we're goin' there, + Git along, cayuse, git along-- + +"Just drop a line when you get there," said Long Lon as he reined round +and set off toward the far western sky-line. That was his casual +farewell. + +Cheyenne now turned directly toward the south and a range of hills that +marked the boundary of the mesa level. Occasionally he got off his horse +and stooped to examine tracks. Once he made a wide circle, leaving +Bartley to haze the pack-horse along. Slowly they drew nearer to the +hills. During the remainder of that forenoon, Cheyenne said nothing, but +rode, slouched forward, his hand on the horn, his gaze on the ground. + +They nooned in the foothills. The horses grazed along the edge of a tiny +stream while Cheyenne and Bartley ate the cold chicken sandwiches. In +half an hour they were riding again, skirting the foothills, and, it +seemed to Bartley, simply meandering about the country, for now they +were headed west again. + +Presently Cheyenne spoke. "I been makin' a plan." + +"I didn't say a word," laughed Bartley. + +"You didn't need to. I kind of got what you were thinkin'. This here is +big country. When you're ridin' this kind of country with some fella, +you can read his mind almost as good as a horse can. You was thinkin' I +was kind of twisted and didn't know which way to head. Now take that +there hoss, Joshua. Plenty times I've rode him up to a fork in the +trail, and kep' sayin' to myself, 'We'll take the right-hand fork.' And +Joshua always took the fork I was thinkin' about. You try it with Dobe, +sometime." + +"I have read of such things," said Bartley. + +"Well, I _know_ 'em. What would you say if I was to tell you that Joshua +knowed once they was a fella ridin' behind me, five miles back, and out +of sight--and told me, plain?" + +"I wouldn't say anything." + +"There's where you're wise. I can talk to you about such things. But +when I try to talk to the boys like that, they just josh, till I git mad +and quit. They ain't takin' me serious." + +"What is your plan?" queried Bartley. + +Cheyenne reined up and dismounted. "Step down, and take a look," he +suggested. + +Bartley dismounted. Cheyenne pointed out horse-tracks on the trail along +the edge of the hills. + +"Five hosses," he asserted. "Two of 'em is mine. That leaves three that +are carryin' weight. But we're makin' a mistake for ourselves, trailin' +Panhandle direct. He figures mebby I'd do that. I got to outfigure him. +I don't want to git blowed out of my saddle by somebody in the brush, +just waitin' for me to ride up and git shot. I got the way he's headed, +and by to-morrow mornin' I'll know for sure. + +"If he'd been goin' to swing back, to fool me, he'd 'a' done it before +he hit the timber, up yonder. Once he gits in them hills he'll head +straight south, for they ain't no other trail to ride on them ridges. +But mebby he cut along the foothills, first. I got to make sure." + +Late that afternoon and close to the edge of the foothills, Cheyenne +lost the tracks. He spent over an hour finding them again. Bartley could +discern nothing definite, even when Cheyenne pointed to a queer, blurred +patch in some loose earth. + +"It looks like the imprint of some coarse cloth," said Bartley. + +"Gunnysack. They pulled the shoes off my hosses and sacked their feet." + +"How about their own horses?" + +"They been ridin' hard ground, and the tracks don't show, plain. +Panhandle figured, when I seen that only the tracks of three horses +showed, I'd think he had turned my hosses loose on the big mesa. He +stops, pulls their shoes, sacks their feet, and leads 'em over there. +Whoever done it was afoot, and steppin' careful. Hell, I could learn +that yella-bellied hoss-thief how to steal hosses right, if I was in the +business." + +"Looks like a pretty stiff drill up those hills," remarked Bartley. + +"That's why he turned, right here. 'Tain't just the stealin' of my +hosses that's interestin' him. He's takin' trouble to run a whizzer on +me--get me guessin'. Here is where we quit trailin' him. I got my plan +workin' like a hen draggin' fence rails. We ain't goin' to trail +Panhandle. We're goin' to ride 'round and meet him." + +"Not a bad idea," said Bartley. + +"It won't be--if I see him first." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +JIMMY AND THE LUGER GUN + + +Two days of riding toward the west, along the edge of the hills, and +Bartley and Cheyenne found themselves approaching the high country. The +trail ran up a wide valley, on either side of which were occasional +ranches reaching back toward the slopes. In reality they were gradually +climbing the range on an easy grade and making good time. + +Their course now paralleled the theoretical course of Panhandle and his +fellows. Dodging the rugged land to the south, Cheyenne had swung round +in a half-circle, hoping to head off Panhandle on the desert side of the +range. Since abandoning the tracks of the stolen horses, Cheyenne had +resumed his old habit of singing as he rode. He seemed to know the name +of every ranch, and of every person they met. + +Once or twice some acquaintance expressed surprise that Cheyenne did not +stop and spend the night with him. But Cheyenne jokingly declined all +invitations, explaining to Bartley that in stopping to visit they would +necessarily waste hours in observing the formalities of arrival and +departure, although Cheyenne did not put it just that way. + +They found water and plenty of feed, made their camps early, broke camp +early, and rode steadily. With no visible incentive to keep going, +Bartley lost his first keen interest in the hunt, and contented himself +with listening to Cheyenne's yarns about the country and its folk, or +occasionally chatting with some wayfarer. But never once did Cheyenne +hint, to those they met, just why he was riding south. + +There were hours at a stretch, when the going was level, when Cheyenne +did nothing but roll his gun, throw down on different objects, toss up +his gun, and catch it by the handle; and once he startled Bartley by +making a quick fall from the saddle and shooting from the ground. +Cheyenne explained to Bartley that often, when riding alone, he had +spent hour after hour figuring out the possibilities of gun-play, till +it became evident to the Easterner that, aside from being naturally +quick, there was a very good reason for Cheyenne's proficiency with the +six-gun. He practiced continually. And yet, thought Bartley, one of the +Box-S punchers had said that Cheyenne had never killed anything bigger +than a coyote, and never would--intimating that he was too good-natured +ever to take advantage of his own proficiency with a gun. + +Bartley wondered just how things would break if they did happen to meet +Panhandle unexpectedly. Panhandle would no doubt dispose of the stolen +horses as soon as he could. What excuse would Cheyenne have to call +Panhandle to account? And when it came to a show-down, _would_ Cheyenne +call him to account? + +Bartley was thinking of this when they made an early camp, the afternoon +of the third day out. After the horses were hobbled and the packs +arranged, Bartley decided to experiment a little with his new Luger +automatic. Cheyenne declined to experiment with the gun. + +"It's a mean gat," he asserted, "and it's fast. But I'll bet you a new +hat I can empty my old smoke-wagon quicker than you can that pocket +machine gun." + +For the fun of the thing, Bartley took him up. He selected as target a +juniper stump, and blazed away. + +"I'm leavin' the decision to you," said Cheyenne, as he braced his right +arm against his body and fanned the Colt, emptying it before Bartley +could realize that he had fired three shots--and Cheyenne had fired +five. + +"I'll buy you that hat when we get to town," laughed Bartley. "You beat +me, hands down." + +"Hands down is right, old-timer. Fannin' a gun is show stuff, but it's +wicked, at close range." + +Meanwhile, Bartley had been experimenting further with the Luger. When +he got through he had a hat full of pieces and Cheyenne was staring at +what seemed to be the wreck of a once potent weapon. + +"Why, you done pulled that little lead sprinkler all to bits!" exclaimed +Cheyenne, "and you didn't have no tools to do it with." + +"You can take down and assemble this gun without tools," stated Bartley. +"All you need is your fingers." + +"But what in Sam Hill did you pull her apart for?" + +"Just to see if I could put her together again." + +Cheyenne scratched his head, and stepped over to inspect the juniper +stump. He stooped, whistled, and turned to Bartley. "Man, you like to +sawed that stub in two. Why didn't you say you could shoot?" + +"I can't, in your class. But tell me why you Westerners always seem to +think it strange that an Easterner can sit a horse or shoot fairly well? +Is it because you consider that the average tourist represents the +entire East?" + +"I dunno. But, then, I've met up with Easterners that weren't just like +you." + +Bartley was busy, assembling the Luger, and Cheyenne was watching him, +when they glanced up simultaneously. A shadow drifted between them. + +Cheyenne hesitated and then stepped forward. "I'll be dinged if it ain't +Jimmy! What you doin' up here in the brush, anyhow?" + +The boy, who rode a well-mannered gray pony, kicked one foot out of the +stirrup and hooked his small leg over the horn. He nodded to Cheyenne, +but his interest was centered on Bartley and the Luger. + +"It's Jimmy--my boy," said Cheyenne. "His Aunt Jane lives over yonder, a +piece." + +"Why, hello!" exclaimed Bartley, laying the pistol aside. And he stepped +up and shook hands with the boy, who grinned. + +"How's the folks?" queried Cheyenne. + +"All right. That there is a Luger gun, ain't it?" + +"Yes," said Bartley. "Would you like to try it?" + +The boy scrambled down from the saddle. "Honest?" + +"Ain't you goin' to say hello to your dad?" queried Cheyenne. + +"Sure! Only I was lookin' at that Luger gun--" + +Jimmy shook hands perfunctorily with his father and turned to Bartley, +expectancy in his gaze. + +Bartley reloaded the gun and handed it to the boy, who straightaway +selected the juniper stump and blazed away. Bartley watched him, a +sturdy youngster, brown-fisted, blue-eyed, with sandy hair, and dressed +in jeans and a rowdy--a miniature cow-puncher, even to his walk. + +"Ever shoot one before?" queried Bartley as the boy gave back the +pistol. + +"Nope. There's one like it, over to the store in San Andreas. It's in +the window. I never got to look at it right close." + +"Try it again," said Bartley. + +The boy grinned. "I reckon you're rich?" + +"Why?" + +"'Cause you got a heap of ca'tridges. They cost money." + +"Never mind. Go ahead and shoot." + +Jimmy blazed away again and ran to see where his bullets had hit the +stump. "She's a pretty fair gun," he said as he handed it back. "But I +reckon I'll have to stick to my ole twenty-two rifle. She's gettin' wore +out, but I can hit things with her, yet. I git rabbits." + +"Now, mebby you got time to tell us something about Aunt Jane and Uncle +Frank and Dorry," suggested Cheyenne. + +"Why, they're all right," said the boy. "Why didn't you stop by to our +place instead of bushin' way up here?" + +Cheyenne hesitated. "I reckon I'll be comin' over," he said finally. + +Bartley put the Luger away. The boy turned to his father. Cheyenne's +face expressed happiness, yet Bartley was puzzled. The boy was not what +could be termed indifferent in any sense, yet he had taken his father's +presence casually, showing no special interest in their meeting. And why +had Cheyenne never mentioned the boy? Bartley surmised that there was +some good reason for Cheyenne's silence on that subject--and because it +was obvious that there was a good reason, Bartley accepted the +youngster's presence in a matter-of-fact manner, as though he had known +all along that Cheyenne had a son. In fact, Cheyenne had not stopped to +think about it at all. If he had, he would have reasoned that Bartley +had heard about it. Almost every one in Arizona knew that Cheyenne had +been married and had separated from his wife. + +"That would be a pretty good gun to git hoss-thieves with," asserted the +boy, still thinking of the Luger. + +"What do you know about hoss-thieves?" queried Cheyenne. + +"You think I didn't see you was ridin' different hosses!" said Jimmy. +"Mebby you think I don't know where Josh and Filaree are." + +"You quit joshin' your dad," said Cheyenne. + +"I ain't joshin' _nobody_. Ole 'Clubfoot' Sneed, over by the +re'savation's got Josh and Filaree. I seen 'em in his corral, yesterday. +I was up there, huntin'." + +"Did you talk to him?" queried Cheyenne. + +"Nope. He just come out of his cabin an' told me to fan it. I wasn't +doin' nothin'. He said it was against the law to be huntin' up there. +Mebby he don't hunt when he feels like it!" + +"Did you tell Uncle Frank?" + +"Yep. Wish I hadn't. He says for me to stay away from the high +country--and not to ride by Sneed's place any more." + +Cheyenne turned to Bartley. "I done made one guess right," he said. + +"You goin' to kill Sneed?" queried young Jim enthusiastically. + +"Nobody's goin' to get killed. But I aim to git my hosses." + +Cheyenne turned to Jimmy. "You ride over and tell Uncle Frank and Aunt +Jane that me and Mr. Bartley'll be over after we eat." + +"Will you sing that 'Git Along' song for me, dad?" + +"You bet!" + +"But why don't you come over and eat to our place? You always stop by, +every time you ride down this way," said Jimmy. + +"You ride right along, like I told you, or you'll be late for your +supper." + +Little Jim climbed into the saddle, and, turning to cast a lingering and +hopeful glance at Bartley,--a glance which suggested the possibilities +of further practice with the Luger gun,--he rode away, a manful figure, +despite his size. + +"They're bringin' my kid up right," said Cheyenne, as though in +explanation of something about which he did not care to talk. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +AT AUNT JANE'S + + +Aunt Jane Lawrence was popular with the young folks of the district, not +alone because she was a good cook, but because she was a sort of foster +mother to the entire community. The young ladies of the community +brought to Aunt Jane their old hats and dresses, along with their love +affairs, petty quarrels, and youthful longings. A clever woman at +needlework, she was often able to remodel the hats and "turn" the +dresses so that they would serve a second season or maybe a third. + +The love affairs, petty quarrels, and youthful longings were not always +so easy to remodel, even when they needed it: but Aunt Jane managed +well. She had much patience and sympathy. She knew the community, and so +was often able to help her young friends without conflicting with +paternal or maternal views. Hat-trimming and dressmaking were really +only incidental to her real purpose in life, which was to help young +folks realize their ideals, when such ideals did not lead too far from +everyday responsibilities. + +Yet, with all her capabilities, her gentle wisdom, and her unobtrusive +sympathy, she was unable to influence her Brother Jim--known by every +one as "Cheyenne"--toward a settled habit of life. So it became her +fondest desire to see that Cheyenne's boy, Little Jim, should be brought +up in a home that he would always cherish and respect. Aunt Jane's +husband Frank Lawrence, had no patience with Cheyenne's aimless +meanderings. Frank Lawrence was a hard-working, silent nonentity. Aunt +Jane was the real manager of the ranch, and incidentally of Little Jim, +and her husband was more than content that it should be so. + +Occasionally Aunt Jane gave a dance at her home. The young folks of the +valley came, had a jolly time, and departed, some of them on horseback, +some in buckboards, and one or two of the more well-to-do in that small +but aggressive vehicle which has since become a universal odor in the +nostrils of the world. + +Little Jim detested these functions which entailed his best clothes and +his best behavior. He did not like girls, and looked down with scorn +upon young men who showed any preference for the sex feminine. He made +but two exceptions to this hard-baked rule: his Aunt Jane, and her young +friend who lived on the neighboring ranch, Dorothy. Little Jim called +her Dorry because it sounded like a boy's name. And he liked Dorry +because she could ride, and shoot with a twenty-two rifle almost as well +as he could. Then, she didn't have a beau, which was the main thing. +Once he told her frankly that if she ever got a beau, he--Jimmy--was +going to quit. + +"Quit what?" asked Dorothy, smiling. + +Little Jim did not know just what he was going to quit, but he had +imagination. + +"Why, quit takin' you out huntin' and campin' and showin' you how to +tell deer tracks from goat's tracks--and everything." + +"But I have a beau," said Dorothy teasingly. + +"Who is he?" demanded Little Jim. + +"Promise you won't tell?" + +Little Jim hesitated. He did not consider it quite the thing to promise +a girl anything. But he was curious. "Uh-huh," he said. + +"Jimmy Hastings!" said Dorothy, laughing at his expression. + +"That ain't fair!" blurted Little Jim. "I ain't nobody's beau. Shucks! +Now you gone and spoiled all the fun." + +"I was only teasing you, Jimmy." And she patted Little Jim's tousled +head. He wriggled away and smoothed down his hair. + +"I can beat you shootin' at tin cans," he said suddenly, to change the +subject. + +Shooting at tin cans was much more interesting than talking about beaux. + +"I have to help Aunt Jane get supper," said Dorothy, who had been +invited to stay for supper that evening. In fact, she was often at the +Hastings ranch, a more than welcome guest. + +Jimmy scowled. Dorry was always helping Aunt Jane make dresses or trim +hats, or get supper. A few minutes later Little Jim was out back of the +barn, scowling over the sights of his twenty-two at a tomato can a few +yards away. He fired and punctured the can. + +"Plumb center!" he exclaimed. "You think you're her beau, do you? Well, +that's what you get. And if I see you around this here ranch, just even +_lookin'_ at her, I'll plug you again." Jimmy was romancing, with the +recently discussed subject of beaux in mind. + +When Little Jim informed the household that his father and another man +were coming over, that evening, Uncle Frank asked who the other man was. +Little Jim described Bartley and told about the wonderful Luger gun. + +"My dad is huntin' his hosses," he said. "And I know who's got 'em!" + +"Was the other man a deputy?" queried Uncle Frank. + +"He didn't have a badge on him. He kind of acted like everything was a +joke--shootin' at that stump, and everything. He wasn't mad at nobody. +And he looked kind of like a dude." + +Little Jim meanwhile amused himself by trying to rope the family cat +with a piece of clothesline. Uncle Frank, who took everything seriously, +asked Little Jim if he had told his father where the horses were. + +"Sure I told him. Wouldn't you? They're dad's hosses, Filaree and Josh. +I guess he'll make ole Clubfoot Sneed give 'em back!" + +"You want to be careful what you say about Mr. Sneed, Jimmy. And don't +you go to ridin' over that way again. We aim to keep out of trouble." + +Little Jim had succeeded in noosing the cat's neck. That sadly molested +animal jumped, rolled over, and clawed at the rope, and left hurriedly +with the bit of clothesline trailing in its wake. + +"I got to git that cat afore he hangs himself," stated Little Jim, +diving out of the house and heading for the barn. Thus he avoided +acknowledging his uncle's command to stay away from Sneed's place. + +Supper was over and the dishes were washed and put away when Cheyenne +and Bartley appeared. Clean-shaven, his dark hair brushed smoothly, a +small, dark-blue, silk muffler knotted loosely about his throat, and in +a new flannel shirt and whipcord riding-breeches--which he wore under +his jeans when on the trail--Bartley pretty well approximated Little +Jim's description of him as a dude. And the word "dude" was commonly +used rather to differentiate an outlander from a native than in an +exactly scornful sense. Without a vestige of self-consciousness, Bartley +made himself felt as a distinct entity, physically fit and mentally +alert. Cheyenne, with his cow-puncher gait and his general +happy-go-lucky attitude, furnished a strong contrast to the trim and +well-poised Easterner. Dorothy was quick to appreciate this. She thought +that she rather liked Bartley. He was different from the young men whom +she knew. Bartley was pleased with her direct and natural manner of +answering his many questions about Western life. + +Presently he found himself talking about his old home in Kentucky, and +the thorough-bred horses of the Blue Grass. The conversation drifted to +books and plays, but never once did it approach the subject of guns--and +Little Jim, who had hoped that the subject of horse-thieves might be +broached, felt altogether out of the running. + +He waited patiently, for a while. Then during a lull in the talk he +mentioned Sneed's name. + +"Jimmy!" reprimanded his Uncle Frank. + +"Yes, sir?" + +Uncle Frank merely gestured, significantly. + +Little Jim subsided, frowning, and making a face at Dorothy, who was +smiling at him. It seemed mighty queer that, when _he_ "horned in," his +Aunt Jane or his uncle always said "Jimmy!" in that particular tone. But +when any of the grown-ups interrupted, no one said a word. However, +Bartley was not blind to Little Jim's attitude of forced silence, and +presently Bartley mentioned the subject of guns, much to Little Jim's +joy. Little Jim worked round to the subject of twenty-two rifles, +intimating that his own single-shot rifle was about worn out. + +Uncle Frank heard and promptly changed the subject. Little Jim was +disgusted. A boy just wouldn't talk when other folks were talking, and +he couldn't talk when they were not. What was the use of living, anyhow, +if you had to go around without talking at all, except when somebody +asked you if you had forgotten to close the lane gate and had let the +stock get into the alfalfa--and you had to say that you had? + +However, Little Jim had his revenge. When Aunt Jane proffered apple pie, +later in the evening, Jimmy prefixed his demand for a second piece with +the statement that he knew there was another uncut pie in the kitchen, +because Aunt Jane had said maybe his dad would eat half a one, and then +ask for more. + +This gentle insinuation brought forth a sharp reprimand from Uncle +Frank. But Jimmy had looked before he leaped. + +"Well, Aunt Jane said so. Didn't you, Aunt Jane?" + +Whereat every one laughed, including the gentle Aunt Jane. And Jimmy got +his second piece of pie. + +After the company had found itself, Uncle Frank, Cheyenne, and Bartley +forgathered out on the veranda and talked about the missing horses. +Little Jim sat silently on the steps, hoping that the talk would swing +round to where he could have his say. If he had not discovered the +missing horses, how would his father know where they were? It did not +seem exactly fair to Little Jim that he should be ignored in the matter. + +"I'd just ride over and talk with Sneed," suggested Uncle Frank. + +"Oh, I'll do that, all right," asserted Cheyenne. + +"But I'd go slow. You might talk like your stock had strayed and you +were looking for them. Sneed and Panhandle Sears are pretty thick. I'd +start easy, if I was in your boots." + +This from the cautious Uncle Frank. + +"But you'd go get 'em, if they happened to be your hosses," said +Cheyenne. "You're always tellin' me to step light and go slow. I reckon +you expect me to sing and laugh and josh and take all the grief that's +comin' and forget it." + +"No," said Uncle Frank deliberately. "If they was my hosses, I'd ride +over and get 'em. But I can't step into your tangle. If I did, Sneed +would just nacherally burn us out, some night. There's only two ways to +handle a man like Clubfoot Sneed: one is to kill him, and the other is +to leave him alone. And it's got to be one or the other when you live as +close to the hills as we do. I aim to leave him alone, unless he tries +to ride me." + +"Which means that you kind of think I ought to let the hosses go, for +fear of gettin' you in bad." + +Uncle Frank shook his head, but said nothing. Bartley smoked a cigar and +listened to the conversation that followed. Called upon by Uncle Frank +for his opinion, Bartley hesitated, and then said that, if the horses +were his, he would be tempted to go and get them, regardless of +consequences. Bartley's stock went up, with Little Jim, right there. + +Cheyenne turned to Uncle Frank. "I'm ridin' over to Clubfoot's wikiup +to-morrow mornin'. I'll git my hosses, or git him. And I'm ridin' +alone." + +Little Jim, meanwhile, had been raking his mind for an idea as to how he +might attract attention. He disappeared. Presently he appeared in front +of the veranda with the end of a long rope in his fist. He blinked and +grinned. + +"What's on the other end of that rope?" queried Uncle Frank, immediately +suspicious. + +"Nothin' but High-Tail." + +"I thought I told you not to rope that calf," said Uncle Frank, rising. + +"I didn't. I jest held my loop in front of some carrots and High-Tail +shoves his head into it. Then I says, 'Whoosh!' and he jumps back--and I +hung on." + +"How in Sam Hill did you get him here?" queried Uncle Frank. + +"Jest held a carrot to his nose--and he walked along tryin' to get it." + +"Well you shake off that loop and haze him back into the corral." + +High-Tail, having eaten the carrot, decided to go elsewhere. He backed +away and blatted. Little Jim took a quick dally round a veranda post. +High-Tail plunged and fought the rope. + +"Turn him loose!" cried Uncle Frank. + +"What's the matter?" said Aunt Jane, appearing in the doorway. + +Little Jim eased off the dally, but clung to the rope. High-Tail whirled +and started for the corral. Little Jim set back on his heels, but Little +Jim was a mere item in High-Tail's wild career toward freedom. A patter +of hoofs in the dark, and Little Jim and the calf disappeared around the +corner of the barn. + +Cheyenne laughed and rose, following Uncle Frank to the corral. When +they arrived, High-Tail had made his third round of the corral, with +Jimmy still attached to the rope. Cheyenne managed to stop the calf and +throw off the noose. + +Little Jim rose and gazed wildly around. He was one color, from head to +foot--and it was a decidedly local color. His jeans were torn and his +cotton shirt was in rags, but his grit was unsifted. + +"D-didn't I hang to him, dad?" he inquired enthusiastically. + +"You sure did!" said Cheyenne. + +With a pail of hot water, soap, and fresh raiment, Aunt Jane undertook +to make Little Jim's return to the heart of the family as agreeable as +possible to all concerned. + +"Isn't he hurt?" queried Bartley. + +"Not if he doesn't know it," stated Cheyenne. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +ANOTHER GAME + + +Cheyenne knew enough about Sneed, by reputation, to make him cautious. +He decided to play ace for ace--and, if possible, steal the stolen +horses from Sneed. The difficulty was to locate them without being seen. +Little Jim had said the horses were in Sneed's corral, somewhere up in +the mountain meadows. And because Cheyenne knew little about that +particular section of the mountains, he rolled a blanket and packed some +provisions to see him through. Bartley and he had returned to their camp +after their visit to the ranch, and next morning, as Cheyenne made +preparation to ride, Bartley offered to go with him. + +Cheyenne dissuaded Bartley from accompanying him, arguing that he could +travel faster and more cautiously alone. "One man ridin' in to Sneed's +camp wouldn't look as suspicious as two," said Cheyenne. "And if I +thought you could help any, I'd say to come along. That's on the square. +Me and my little old carbine will make out, I guess." + +So Bartley, somewhat against his inclination, stayed in camp, with the +understanding that, if Cheyenne did not return in two days, he was to +report the circumstance to the authorities in San Andreas, the principal +town of the valley. + +Meanwhile, the regular routine prevailed at the Lawrence ranch. Uncle +Frank had the irrigation plant to look after; and Aunt Jane was immersed +in the endless occupation of housekeeping. Little Jim had his regular +light tasks to attend to, and that morning he made short work of them. +It was not until noon that Aunt Jane missed him. He had disappeared +completely, as had his saddle-pony. + +At first, Jimmy had thought of riding over to his father's camp, but he +was afraid his father would guess his intent and send him back home. So +he tied his pony to a clump of junipers some distance from the camp, +and, crawling to a rise, he lay and watched Cheyenne saddle up and take +the trail that led into the high country. A half-hour later, Jimmy +mounted his pony and, riding wide of the camp, he cut into the hill +trail and followed it on up through the brush to the hillside timber. He +planned to ride until he got so far into the mountains that when he did +overtake his father and offer his assistance in locating the stolen +horses, it would hardly seem worth while to send him back. Jimmy +expected to be ordered back, but he had his own argument ready in that +event. + +Little Jim's pony carried him swiftly up the grade. Meanwhile, Cheyenne +had traveled rather slowly, saving his horse. At a bend in the trail he +drew rein to breathe the animal. On the lookout for any moving thing, he +glanced back and down--and saw an old black hat bobbing along through +the brush below. He leaned forward and peered down. "The little cuss!" +he exclaimed, grinning. Then his expression changed. "Won't do, a-tall! +His aunt will be havin' fits--and Miss Dorry'll be helpin' her to have +'em, if she hears of it. Dog-gone that boy!" + +Nevertheless, Cheyenne was pleased. His boy had sand, and liked +adventure. Little Jim might have stayed in camp, with Bartley, and spent +a joyous day shooting at a mark, incidentally hinting to the Easterner +that "his ole twenty-two was about worn out." But Little Jim had chosen +to follow his father into the hills. + +"Reckon he figures to see what'll happen," muttered Cheyenne as he led +his horse off the trail and waited for Jimmy to come up. + +Little Jim's black hat bobbed steadily up the switchbacks. Presently he +was on the stretch of trail at the end of which his father waited, +concealed in the brush. + +As Little Jim's pony approached the bend it pricked its ears and +snorted. "Git along, you!" said Jimmy. + +"Where you goin'?" queried Cheyenne, stepping out on the trail. + +Little Jim gazed blankly at his father. "I'm just a-ridin'. I wa'n't +goin' no place." + +"Well, you took the wrong trail to get there. You fan it back to the +folks." + +"Aunt Jane is my boss!" said Jimmy defiantly. "'Course she is," agreed +Cheyenne. "You and me, we're just pardners. But, honest, Jimmy, you +can't do no good, doggin' along after me. Your Aunt Jane would sure +stretch my hide if she knowed I let you come along." + +"I won't tell her." + +"But she'd find out. You just ride back and wait down at my camp. I'll +find them hosses, all right." + +Little Jim hesitated, twisting his fingers in his pony's mane. +"Suppose," he ventured, "that a bunch of Sneed's riders was to run on to +you? You'd sure need help." + +"That's just it! Supposin' they did? And supposin' they took a crack at +us, they might git you--for you sure look man-size, a little piece off." + +Jimmy grinned at the compliment, but compliments could not alter his +purpose. "I got my ole twenty-two loaded," he asserted hopefully. + +"Then you just ride back and help Mr. Bartley take care of the hosses. +He ain't much of a hand with stock." + +"Can't I go with you?" + +"Not this trip, son. But I'll tell you somethin'. Mr. Bartley, down +there, said to me this mornin' that he was goin' to buy you a brand-new +twenty-two rifle, one of these days: mebby after we locate the hosses. +You better have a talk with him about it." + +This _was_ a temptation to ride back: yet Jimmy had set his heart on +going with his father. And his father had said that he was simply going +to ride up to Sneed's place and have a talk with him. Jimmy wanted to +hear that talk. He knew that his father meant business when he had told +him to go back. + +"All right for you!" said Jimmy finally. And he reined his pony round +and rode back down the trail sullenly, his black hat pulled over his +eyes, and his small back very straight and stiff. + +Cheyenne watched him until the brush of the lower levels intervened. +Then Cheyenne began the ascent, his eye alert, his mind upon the task +ahead. When Little Jim realized that his father was so far into the +timber that the trail below was shut from view, he reined his pony round +again and began to climb the grade, slowly, this time, for fear that he +might overtake his father too soon. + +Riding the soundless upland trail that meandered among the spruce and +pine, skirting the edges of the mountain meadows and keeping within the +timber, Cheyenne finally reached the main ridge of the range. +Occasionally he dismounted and examined the tracks of horses. + +It was evident that Sneed had quite a bunch of horses running in the +meadows. Presently Cheyenne came to a narrow trail which crossed a +meadow. At the far end of the trail, close to the timber, was a spring, +fenced with poles. The spring itself was boxed, and roundabout were the +marks of high-heeled boots. Cheyenne realized that he must be close to +Sneed's cabin. He wondered if he had been seen. + +If he had, the only thing to do was to act natural. He was now too close +to a habitation--although he could see none--to do otherwise. So he +dismounted and, tying his horse to the spring fence, he stepped through +the gate and picked up the rusted tin cup and dipped it in the cold +mountain water. He had the cup halfway to his lips when his horse +nickered. From somewhere in the brush came an answering nicker. +Cheyenne, kneeling, threw the water from the cup as though he had +discovered dirt in it, and dipped the cup again. + +Behind him he heard his horse moving restlessly. As Cheyenne raised the +cup to drink, he half closed his eyes, and glancing sideways, caught a +glimpse of a figure standing near the upper end of the spring fence. +Cheyenne drank, set down the cup, and, rising, turned his back on the +figure, and, stretching his arms, yawned heartily. He strode to his +horse, untied the reins, mounted, and began to sing: + + Seems like I don't get anywhere + Git along, cayuse, git along! + But we're leavin' here and-- + +"What's your hurry?" came from behind him. + +Cheyenne turned and glanced back. "Hello, neighbor! Now, if I'd 'a' +knowed you was around, I'd 'a' asked you to have a drink with me." + +A tall, heavy-set mountain man, bearded, and limping noticeably, stepped +round the end of the spring fence and strode toward him. From Uncle +Frank's description, Cheyenne at once recognized the stranger as Sneed. +Across Sneed's left arm lay a rifle. Cheyenne saw him let down the +hammer as he drew near. + +"Where you headed?" queried Sneed. + +"Me, I'm lookin' for Bill Sneed's cabin. You ain't Sneed, are you?" + +"Yes, I'm Sneed." + +"Well, I'm in luck. I'm Cheyenne Hastings." + +"That don't buy you nothin' around here. What do you want to see me +about?" + +"Why, I done lost a couple of hosses the other night. I reckon somethin' +stampeded 'em, for they never strayed far from camp before. I trailed +'em up to the hills and then lost their tracks on the rocks. Thought I'd +ride up and see if you had seen 'em--a little ole buckskin and a gray." + +Sneed waved his hand toward the east. "My corrals are over there. You're +welcome to look my stock over." + +"Thanks. This way, you said?" + +"Straight ahead." + +Cheyenne hesitated, hoping that Sneed would take the lead. But the +mountain man merely gestured again and followed Cheyenne through a patch +of timber, and across another meadow--and Cheyenne caught a glimpse of +the ridge of a cabin roof, and smoke above it. Close to the cabin was a +large pole corral. Cheyenne saw the backs of Filaree and Joshua, among +the other horses, long before he came to the corral. Yet, not wishing to +appear too eager, he said nothing until he arrived at the corner of the +fence. + +Then he turned and pointed. "Them's my hosses--the gray and the +buckskin. I'm mighty glad you caught 'em up." + +Sneed nodded. "One of my boys found them in with a bunch of my stock and +run them in here." + +A few rods from the corral stood the cabin, larger than Cheyenne had +imagined, and built of heavy logs, with a wide-roofed porch running +across the entire front. On the veranda lay several saddles. Tied to the +hitch rail stood two chunky mountain ponies that showed signs of recent +hard use. + +Cheyenne smiled as he turned toward Sneed. "You got a mighty snug +homestead up here, neighbor." + +"Tie your horse and step in," invited Sneed. + +"He'll stand," said Cheyenne, dismounting and dropping the reins. + +Cheyenne was in the enemy's country. But he trusted to his ability to +play up to his reputation for an easy-going hobo to get him out again, +without trouble. He appeared unaware of the covert suspicion with which +Sneed watched his every movement. + +"Meet the boys," said Sneed as they entered the cabin. + +Cheyenne nodded to the four men who sat playing cards at a long table in +the main room. They returned his nod indifferently and went on with +their game. Cheyenne pretended an interest in the game, meanwhile +studying the visible characteristics of the players. One and all they +were hard-boiled, used to the open, rough-spoken, and indifferent to +Cheyenne's presence. + +Sneed stepped to the kitchen and pulled the coffee-pot to the front of +the stove. Finally Cheyenne strolled out to the veranda and seated +himself on the long bench near the doorway. He picked up a stick and +began to whittle, and as he whittled his gaze traveled from the log +stable to the corral, and from there to the edge of the clearing. He +heard Sneed speak to one of the men in a low voice. Cheyenne slipped his +knife into his pocket and his fingers touched the pair of dice. + +He drew out the dice and rattled them. "Go 'way, you snake eyes!" he +chanted as he threw the dice along the bench. "Little Jo, where you +bushin' out? You sure are bashful!" He threw again. "Roll on, you +box-car! I don't like you, nohow! Nine? Nine? Five and a four! Six and a +three! Just as easy!" + +Sneed came to the doorway and glanced at Cheyenne, who continued +shooting craps with himself, oblivious to Sneed's muttered comment. +Sneed turned and stepped in. "Crazy as a hoot owl," he said as one of +the card-players glanced up. + +Cheyenne picked up the dice and listened. He heard Sneed stepping +heavily about the kitchen, and he heard an occasional and vivid +exclamation from one of the card-players. He glanced at the distant edge +of timber. He shook his head. "Can't make it!" he declared, and again he +threw the dice. + +One of the cubes rolled off the bench. He stooped and picked it up. As +he straightened, he stared. Just at the edge of the timber he saw Little +Jim's pony, and Little Jim's black hat. Some one in the cabin pushed +back a chair. Evidently the card game was finished. + +Then Cheyenne heard Sneed's voice: "Just lay off that game, if you want +to eat. Come and get it." + +Wondering what Little Jim was up to, Cheyenne turned and walked into the +cabin. "Guess I'll wash up, first," he said, gazing about as though +looking for the wherewithal to wash. He knew well enough where the basin +was. He had noticed it out by the kitchen door, when he rode up to the +cabin. Sneed told him where to find the basin. Cheyenne stepped round +the cabin. Covertly he glanced toward the edge of the timber. Little Jim +had disappeared. + +Entering the cabin briskly, Cheyenne took his place at the table and ate +heartily. + +Lawson, who seemed to be Sneed's right-hand man, was the first to speak +to him. "Bill tells me you are huntin' hosses." + +"Yep! That little gray and the buckskin, out in your corral, are my +hosses. They strayed--" + +"Didn't see no brand on 'em," declared Lawson. + +"Nope. They never was branded. I raised 'em both, when I was workin' for +Senator Steve, over to the Box-S." + +"That sounds all right. But you got to show me. I bought them cayuses +from a Chola, down in the valley." + +Cheyenne suspected that Lawson was trying to create argument and, in so +doing, open up a way to make him back down and leave or take the +consequences of his act in demanding the horses. + +"Honest, they're my hosses," declared Cheyenne, turning to Sneed. + +"You'll have to talk to Lawson," said Sneed. + +Cheyenne frowned and scratched his head. Suddenly his face brightened. +"Tell you what I'll do! I'll shoot you craps for 'em." + +"That's all right, but what'll you put up against 'em?" asked Lawson. + +"What did you pay for 'em?" queried Cheyenne. + +"Fifty bucks." + +"You got 'em cheap. They're worth that much to me." Cheyenne pushed back +his chair and, fishing in his jeans, dug up a purse. "Here's my fifty. +As soon as you get through eatin' we'll shoot for the ponies." + +Lawson, while finishing his meal, made up his mind that Cheyenne would +not get away with that fifty dollars, game or no game; and, also, that +he would not get the horses. Cheyenne knew this--knew the kind of man he +was dealing with. But he had a reason to keep the men in the cabin. +Little Jim was out there somewhere, and up to something. If any of the +men happened to catch sight of Little Jim, they would suspect Cheyenne +of some trickery. Moreover, if Little Jim were caught--but Cheyenne +refused to let himself think of what might happen in that event. + +Cheyenne threw the dice on the table as Lawson got up. "Go ahead and +shoot." + +"Show me what I got to beat," said Lawson. + +"All right. Watch 'em close." + +Cheyenne gathered up the dice and threw. Calling his point, he snapped +his fingers and threw again. The men crowded round, momentarily +interested in Cheyenne's sprightly monologue. Happening to glance +through the doorway as he gathered up the dice for another throw, +Cheyenne noticed that his horse had turned and was standing, with ears +and eyes alert, looking toward the corral. + +Cheyenne tossed up the dice, caught them and purposely made a wild +throw. One of the little cubes shot across the table and clattered on +the floor. Cheyenne barely had time to glance through the kitchen +doorway and the window beyond as he recovered the cube. But he had seen +that the corral bars were down and that the corral was empty. Quickly he +resumed his place at the table and threw again, meanwhile talking +steadily. He had not made his point nor had he thrown a seven. Sweat +prickled on his forehead. Little Jim had seen his father's horses and +knew that the men were in the cabin. With the rashness of boyhood he had +sneaked up to the corral, dropped the bars, and had then flung pine +cones at the horses, starting them to milling and finally to a dash +through the gateway and out into the meadow. + +Cheyenne brushed his arm across his face. "Come on you, Filaree!" he +chanted. + +Somebody would be mightily surprised when the ownership of Filaree and +Joshua was finally decided. Unwittingly, Little Jim had placed his +father in a still more precarious position. Sneed and his men, finding +the corral empty, would naturally conclude that Cheyenne had kept them +busy while some friend had run off the horses. Cheyenne knew the risks +he ran; but, above all, he wanted to prolong the game until Little Jim +got safely beyond reach of Sneed's men. As for himself-- + +Again Cheyenne threw, but he did not make his point, nor throw a seven. +He threw several times; and still he did not make his point. Finally he +made his point. Smiling, he gathered up his money and tucked it in his +pocket. + +"I reckon that settles it," he said cheerfully. + +Sneed and Lawson exchanged glances. Cheyenne, rolling a cigarette, drew +a chair toward them and sat down. He seemed at home, and altogether +friendly. One of the men picked up a deck of cards and suggested a game. +Sneed lighted his pipe and stepped to the kitchen to get a drink of +water. Cheyenne glanced casually round the cabin, drew his feet under +himself, and jumped for the doorway. He heard Sneed drop the dipper and +knew that Sneed would pick up something else, and quickly. + +Cheyenne made the saddle on the run, reined toward the corral, and, +passing it on the run, turned in the saddle to glance back. Sneed was in +the doorway. Cheyenne jerked his horse to one side and dug in the spurs. +Sneed's rifle barked and a bullet whined past Cheyenne's head. He +crouched in the saddle. Again a bullet whistled across the sunlit +clearing. The cow-horse was going strong. A tree flicked past, then +another and another. + +Cheyenne straightened in the saddle and glanced back through the timber. +He saw a jumble of men and horses in front of the cabin. "They got just +two hosses handy, and they're rode down," he muttered as he sped through +the shadows of the forest. + +Across another sun-swept meadow he rode, and into the timber again--and +before he realized it he was back on the mountain trail that led to the +valley. He took the first long, easy grade on the run, checked at the +switchback, and pounded down the succeeding grade, still under cover of +the hillside timber, but rapidly nearing the more open country of brush +and rock. + +As he reined in at the second switchback he saw, far below, and going at +a lively trot, seven or eight horses, and behind them, hazing them along +as fast as the trail would permit, Little Jim. + +"If Sneed's outfit gets to the rim before he makes the next turn, +they'll get him sure," reasoned Cheyenne. + +He thought of turning back and trying to stop Sneed's men. He thought of +turning his horse loose and ambushing the mountainmen, afoot. But +Cheyenne did not want to kill. His greatest fear was that Little Jim +might get hurt. As he hesitated, a rifle snarled from the rim above, and +he saw Little Jim's horse flinch and jump forward. + +"I reckon it's up to us, old Steel Dust," he said to his horse. + +Hoping to draw the fire of the men above, he eased his horse round the +next bend and then spurred him to a run. Below, Little Jim was jogging +along, within a hundred yards or so of the bend that would screen him +from sight. Realizing that he could never make the next turn on the run, +Cheyenne gripped with his knees, and leaned back to meet the shock as +Steel Dust plunged over the end of the turn and crashed through the +brush below. A slug whipped through the brush and clipped a twig in +front of the horse. + +Steel Dust swerved and lunged on down through the heavy brush. A naked +creek-bed showed white and shimmering at the bottom of the slope. Again +a slug whined through the sunlight and Cheyenne's hat spun from his head +and settled squarely on a low bush. It was characteristic of Cheyenne +that he grabbed for his hat--and got it as he dashed past. + +"Keep the change," said Cheyenne as he ducked beneath a branch and +straightened up again. He was almost to the creek-bed, naked to the +sunlight, and a bad place to cross with guns going from above. He pulled +up, slipped from his horse, and slapped him on the flank. + +The pony leaped forward, dashed across the creek-bed, and cut into the +trail beyond. A bullet flattened to a silver splash on a boulder. +Another bullet shot a spurt of sand into the air. Cheyenne crouched +tense, and then made a rush. A slug sang past his head. Heat palpitated +in the narrow draw. He gained the opposite bank, dropped, and crawled +through the brush and lay panting, close to the trail. From above him +somewhere came the note of a bird: _Chirr-up! Chirr-up!_ Again a slug +tore through the brush scattering twigs and tiny leaves on Cheyenne's +hat. + +"That one didn't say, 'Cheer up!'" murmured Cheyenne. + +When he had caught his breath he crawled out and into the narrow trail. +The shooting had ceased. Evidently the men were riding. Stepping round +the shoulder of the next bend, he peered up toward the rim of the range. +A tiny figure appeared riding down the first long grade, and then +another figure. Turning, he saw his own horse quietly nipping at the +grass in the crevices of the rocks along the trail. + +He walked down to the horse slowly and caught him up. Loosening his +carbine from the scabbard, and deeming himself lucky to have it, after +that wild ride down the mountain, he stepped back to the angle of the +bend, rested the carbine against a rocky shoulder and dropped a shot in +front of the first rider, who stopped suddenly and took to cover. + +"That'll hold 'em for a spell," said Cheyenne, stepping back. He mounted +and rode on down the trail, eyeing the tracks of the horses that Little +Jim was hazing toward the valley below. Cheyenne shook his head. "He's +done run off the whole dog-gone outfit! There's nothin' stingy about +that kid." + +Striking to the lower level, Cheyenne cut across country to his camp. He +found Bartley leaning comfortably back against a saddle, reading aloud, +and opposite him sat Dorry, so intent upon the reading that she did not +hear Cheyenne until he spoke. + +"Evenin', folks! Seen anything of Jimmy?" + +"Oh--Cheyenne! No, have you?" It was Dorothy who spoke, as Bartley +closed the book and got to his feet. + +"Was you lookin' for Jimmy's address in that there book?" queried +Cheyenne, grinning broadly. + +Dorothy flushed and glanced at Bartley, who immediately changed the +subject by calling attention to Cheyenne's hat. Cheyenne also changed +the subject by stating that Jimmy had recently ridden down the trail +toward the ranch--with some horses. + +"Then you got your horses?" said Bartley. + +"I reckon they're over to the ranch about now." + +"Jimmy has been gone all day," said Dorothy. "Aunt Jane is terribly +worried about him." + +"Jimmy and me took a little ride in the hills," said Cheyenne casually. +"But you needn't to tell Aunt Jane that Jimmy was with me. It turned out +all right." + +"I rode over to your camp to look for Jimmy," said Dorothy, "but Mr. +Bartley had not seen him." + +Cheyenne nodded and reined his horse round. + +"Why, your shirt is almost ripped from your back!" said Bartley. + +"My hoss shied, back yonder, and stepped off into the brush. We kept on +through the brush. It was shorter." + +Dorothy mounted her horse, and, nodding farewell to Bartley, accompanied +Cheyenne to the ranch. When they were halfway there, Dorothy, who had +been riding thoughtfully along, saying nothing, turned to her companion: +"Cheyenne, you had trouble up there. You might at least tell _me_ about +it." + +"Well, Miss Dorry--" And Cheyenne told her how Jimmy had followed him, +how he had sent Jimmy back, and the unexpected appearance of that young +hopeful in the timber near Sneed's cabin. "I was in there, figurin' hard +how to get my hosses and get away, when, somehow, Jimmy got to the +corral and turned Sneed's stock loose and hazed 'em down the trail. But +where he run 'em to is the joke. I figured he would show up at our camp. +It would be just like him to run the whole bunch into the ranch corral. +And I reckon he done it." + +"But, Mr. Sneed!" exclaimed Dorothy. "If he finds out we had anything to +do with running off his horses--" + +"He never saw Jimmy clost enough to tell who he was. 'Course, Sneed +knows Aunt Jane is my sister, and most he'll suspicion is that I got +help from _some_ of my folks. But so far he don't know _who_ helped me +turn the trick." + +"You don't seem to be very serious about it," declared Dorothy. + +"Serious? Me? Why, ain't most folks serious enough without everybody +bein' took that way?" + +"Perhaps. But I knew something had happened the minute you rode into +camp." + +"So did I," asserted Cheyenne, and he spoke sharply to his horse. + +Dorothy flushed. "Cheyenne, I rode over to find Jimmy. You needn't--Oh, +there's Aunt Jane now! And there's Jimmy, and the corral is full of +horses!" + +"Reckon we better step along," and Cheyenne put Steel Dust to a lope. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +MORE PONY TRACKS + + +Summoned from the west end of the ranch, where he had been irrigating +the alfalfa, Uncle Frank arrived at the house just as Cheyenne and +Dorothy rode up. Little Jim was excitedly endeavoring to explain to Aunt +Jane how the corral came to be filled with strange horses. + +Uncle Frank nodded to Cheyenne and turned to Jimmy. "Where you been?" + +"I was over on the mountain." + +"How did these horses get here?" + +Uncle Frank's eye was stern. Jimmy hesitated. He had been forbidden to +go near Sneed's place; and he knew that all that stood between a harness +strap and his small jeans was the presence of Dorothy and Cheyenne. It +was pretty tough to have recovered the stolen horses single-handed, and +then to take a licking for it. + +Little Jim gazed hopefully at his father. + +"Why, I was chousin' around up there," he explained, "and I seen dad's +hosses, and--and I started 'em down the trail and the whole blame bunch +followed 'em. They was travelin' so fast I couldn't cut 'em out, so I +just let 'em drift. Filaree and Josh just nacherally headed for the +corral and the rest followed 'em in." + +Uncle Frank gazed sternly at Jimmy. "Who told you to help your father +get his horses?" + +"Nobody." + +"Did your Aunt Jane tell you you could go over to the mountain?" + +"I never asked her." + +"You trot right into the house and stay there," said Uncle Frank. + +Little Jim cast an appealing glance at Cheyenne and walked slowly toward +the house, incidentally and unconsciously rubbing his hand across his +jeans with a sort of anticipatory movement. He bit his lip, and the +tears started to his eyes. But he shook them away, wondering what he +might do to avert the coming storm. Perhaps his father would interpose +between him and the dreaded harness strap. Yet Jimmy knew that his +father had never interfered when a question of discipline arose. + +Suddenly Little Jim's face brightened. He marched through the house to +the wash bench, and, unsolicited, washed his hands and face and soaped +his hair, after which he slicked it down carefully, so that there might +be no mistake about his having brushed and combed it. He rather hoped +that Uncle Frank or Aunt Jane would come in just then and find him at +this unaccustomed task. It might help. + +Meanwhile, Cheyenne and his brother-in-law had a talk, outside. Dorothy +and Aunt Jane retired to the veranda, talking in low tones. Presently +Little Jim, who could stand the strain no longer,--the jury seemed a +long time at arriving at a verdict,--appeared on the front veranda, +hatless, washed, and his hair fearfully and wonderfully brushed and +combed. + +"Why, Jimmy!" exclaimed Dorothy. + +Jimmy fidgeted and glanced away bashfully. Presently he stole to his +Aunt Jane's side. + +"Am I goin' to get a lickin'?" he queried. + +Aunt Jane shook her head, and patted his hand. Entrenched beside Aunt +Jane, Jimmy watched his father and Uncle Frank as they talked by the big +corral. Uncle Frank was gesturing toward the mountains. Cheyenne was +arguing quietly. + +"It ain't just the runnin' off of Sneed's hosses," said Uncle Frank. +"That's bad enough. But I told Jimmy to keep away from Sneed's." + +"So did I," declared Cheyenne. "And seein' as I'm his dad, it's up to me +to lick him if he's goin' to get licked." + +"Sneed is like to ride down some night and set fire to the barns," +asserted Uncle Frank. + +"Sneed don't know yet who run off his stock. And he can't say that I +did, and prove it. Now, Frank, you just hold your hosses. I'll ride over +to camp and get my outfit together and come over here. Then we'll throw +Steve Brown's hosses into your pasture, and I'll see that Sneed's stock +is out of here, pronto." + +"That's all right. But Sneed will trail his stock down here." + +"But he won't find 'em here. And he'll never know they was in your +corral." + +Uncle Frank shook his head doubtfully. He was a pessimist and always +argued the worst of a possible situation. + +"And before I'll see Jimmy take a lickin'--this trip--I'll ride back and +shoot it out with Sneed and his outfit," stated Cheyenne. + +"I reckon you're fool enough to do it," said Uncle Frank. + + * * * * * + +An hour later Bartley and Cheyenne were at the Lawrence ranch, where +they changed packs, saddled Filaree and Joshua, and turned the horses +borrowed from Steve Brown into Uncle Frank's back pasture. + +Little Jim watched these operations with keen interest. He wanted to +help, but refrained for fear that he would muss up his hair--and he +wanted Uncle Frank to notice his hair as it was. + +Aunt Jane hastily prepared a meal and Dorothy helped. + +In a few minutes Cheyenne and Bartley had eaten, and were ready for the +road. Cheyenne stepped up and shook hands with Jimmy, as though Jimmy +were a grown-up. Jimmy felt elated. There was no one just like his +father, even if folks did say that Cheyenne Hastings could do better +than ride around the country singing and joking with everybody. + +"And don't forget to stop by when you come back," said Aunt Jane, +bidding farewell to Bartley. + +Dorothy shook hands with the Easterner and wished him a pleasant +journey, rather coolly, Bartley thought. She was much more animated when +bidding farewell to Cheyenne. + +"And I won't forget to send you that rifle," said Bartley as he nodded +to Little Jim. + +Uncle Frank helped them haze Sneed's horses out of the yard on to the +road, where Cheyenne waited to head them from taking the hill trail, +again. + +Just as he left, Bartley turned to Dorothy who stood twisting a +pomegranate bud in her fingers. "May I have it?" he asked, half in jest. + +She tossed the bud to him and he caught it. Then he spurred out after +Cheyenne who was already hazing the horses down the road. Occasionally +one of the horses tried to break out and take to the hills, but Cheyenne +always headed it back to the bunch, determined, for some reason unknown +to Bartley, to keep the horses together and going south. + +The road climbed gradually, winding in and out among the foothills. As +the going became stiffer, the rock outcropped and the dust settled. + +The horses slowed to a walk. Bartley wondered why his companion seemed +determined to drive Sneed's stock south. He thought it would be just as +well to let them break for the hills, and not bother with them. But +Cheyenne offered no explanation. He evidently knew what he was about. + +To their right lay the San Andreas Valley across which the long, +slanting shadows of sunset crept slowly. Still Cheyenne kept the bunch +of horses going briskly, when the going permitted speed. Just over a +rise they came suddenly upon an Apache, riding a lean, active paint +horse. Cheyenne pulled up and talked with the Indian. The latter +grinned, nodded, and, jerking his pony round, rode after the horses as +they drifted ahead. Bartley saw the Apache bunch the animals again, and +turn them off the road toward the hills. + +"Didn't expect to meet up with luck, so soon," declared Cheyenne. "I +figured to turn Sneed's hosses loose when I'd got 'em far enough from +the ranch. But that Injun'll take care of 'em. Sneed ain't popular with +the Apaches. Sneed's cabin is right clost to the res'avation line." + +"What will the Indian do with the horses?" queried Bartley. + +"Most like trade 'em to his friends." + +Bartley gestured toward a spot of green far across the valley. "Looks +like a town," he said. + +"San Andreas--and that's where we stop, to-night. No campin' in the +brush for me while Sneed is ridin' the country lookin' for his stock. It +wouldn't be healthy." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +SAN ANDREAS TOWN + + +A sleepy town, that paid little attention to the arrival or departure of +strangers, San Andreas in the valley merely rubbed its eyes and dozed +again as Cheyenne and Bartley rode in, put up their horses at the +livery, and strolled over to the adobe hotel where they engaged rooms +for the night. + +Bartley was taken by the picturesque simplicity of the place, and next +morning he suggested that they stay a few days and enjoy the advantage +of having some one other than themselves cook their meals and make their +beds. The hotel, a relic of old times, with its patio and long portal, +its rooms whose lower floors were on the ground level, its unpretentious +spaciousness, appealed strongly to Bartley as something unusual in the +way of a hostelry. It seemed restful, romantic, inviting. It was a place +where a man might write, dream, loaf, and smoke. Then, incidentally, it +was not far from the Lawrence ranch, which was not far from the home of +a certain young woman whom Little Jim called "Dorry." + +Bartley thought that Dorothy was rather nice--in fact, singularly +interesting. He had not imagined that a Western girl could be so +thoroughly domestic, natural, charming, and at the same time manage a +horse so well. He had visioned Western girls as hard-voiced horse-women, +masculine, bold, and rather scornful of a man who did not wear chaps and +ride broncos. True, Dorothy was not like the girls in the East. She +seemed less sophisticated--less inclined to talk small talk just for its +own sake; yet, concluded Bartley, she was utterly feminine and quite +worth while. + +Cheyenne smiled as Bartley suggested that they stay in San Andreas a few +days; and Cheyenne nodded in the direction from which they had come. + +"I kinda like this part of the country, myself," he said, "but I hate to +spend all my money in one place." + +Bartley suddenly realized that his companion, was nothing more than a +riding hobo, a vagrant, without definite means of support, and +disinclined to stay in any one place long. + +"I'll take care of the expenses," said Bartley. + +Cheyenne smiled, but shook his head. "It ain't that, right now. Me, I +got to shoot that there game of craps with Panhandle, and I figure he +won't ride this way." + +"But you have recovered your horses," argued Bartley. + +Cheyenne gestured toward the south. "I reckon I'll keep movin', pardner. +And that game of craps is as good a excuse as I want." + +"I had hoped that it would be plain sailing, from now on," declared +Bartley. "I thought of stopping here only three or four days. This sort +of town is new to me." + +"They's lots like it, between here and the border," said Cheyenne. "But +I don't want no 'dobe walls between me and the sky-line, reg'lar. I can +stand it for a day, mebby." + +"Well, perhaps we may agree to dissolve partnership temporarily," +suggested Bartley. "I think I'll stay here a few days, at least." + +"That's all right, pardner. I don't aim to tell no man how to live. But +me, I aim to live in the open." + +"Do you think that man Sneed will ride down this way?" queried Bartley, +struck by a sudden idea. + +"That ain't why I figure to keep movin'," said Cheyenne. "But seein' as +you figure to stay, I'll stick around to-day, and light out to-morrow +mornin'. Mebby you'll change your mind, and come along." + +Bartley spent the forenoon with Cheyenne, prowling about the old town, +interested in its quaint unusualness. The afternoon heat drove him to +the shade of the hotel veranda, and, feeling unaccountably drowsy, he +finally went to his room, and, stretching out on the bed, fell asleep. +He was awakened by Cheyenne's knock at the door. Supper was ready. + +After supper they strolled out to the street and watched the town wake +up. From down the street a ways came the sound of a guitar and singing. +A dog began to howl. Then came a startled yelp, and the howl died away +in the dusk. The singing continued. A young Mexican in a blue serge +suit, tan shoes, and with a black sombrero set aslant on his head, +walked down the street beside a Mexican girl, young, fat, and giggling. +They passed the hotel with all the self-consciousness of being attired +in their holiday raiment. + +A wagon rattled past and stopped at the saloon a few doors down the +street. Then a ragged Mexican, hazing two tired burros, appeared in the +dim light cast from a window--a quaint silhouette that merged in the +farther shadows. Cheyenne moved his feet restlessly. + +Bartley smiled. "The road for mine," he quoted. + +Cheyenne nodded. "Reckon I'll go see how the hosses are makin' it." + +"I'll walk over with you," said Bartley. + +As they came out of the livery barn again, Bartley happened to glance at +the lighted doorway of the cantina opposite. From within the saloon came +the sound of glasses clinking occasionally, and voices engaged in lazy +conversation. Cheyenne fingered the dice in his pocket and hummed a +tune. Slowly he moved toward the lighted doorway, and Bartley walked +beside him. + +"I got a thirst," stated Cheyenne. + +Bartley laughed. "Well, as we are about to dissolve partnership, I don't +mind taking one myself." + +"Tough joint," declared Cheyenne as he stepped up to the doorway. + +"All the better," said Bartley. + +A young rancher, whose team stood at the hitch-rail, nodded pleasantly +as they entered. + +"Mescal," said Cheyenne, and he laid a silver dollar on the bar. + +Bartley glanced about the low-ceilinged room. The place, poorly lighted +with oil lamps, looked sinister enough to satisfy the most hardy +adventurer, although it was supposed to be a sort of social center for +the enjoyment of vino and talk. The bar was narrow, made of some kind of +soft wood, and painted blue. The top of it was almost paintless in +patches. + +Back of the bar a narrow shelf, also painted blue, offered a lean choice +of liquors. Several Mexicans lounged at the side tables along the wall. +The young American rancher stood at the bar, drinking. The proprietor, a +fat, one-eyed Mexican whose face was deeply pitted from smallpox, served +Bartley and Cheyenne grudgingly. The mescal was fiery stuff. Bartley +coughed as he swallowed it. + +"Why not just whiskey, and have it over with?" he queried, grinning at +Cheyenne. + +"Whiskey ain't whiskey, here," Cheyenne replied. "But mescal is just +what she says she is. I like to know the kind of poison I'm drinkin'." + +Bartley began to experience an inner glow that was not unpleasant. Once +down, this native Mexican drink was not so bad. He laid a coin on the +bar and the glasses were filled again. + +Cheyenne nodded and drank Bartley's health. Bartley suggested that they +sit at one of the side tables and study the effects of mescal on the +natives present. + +"Let joy be unconfined," said Cheyenne. + +"Where in the world did you get that?" + +"Oh, I can read," declared Cheyenne. "Before I took to ramblin', I used +to read some, nights. I reckon that's where I got the idea of makin' up +po'try, later." + +"I really beg your pardon," said Bartley. + +"The mescal must of told you." + +"I don't quite get that," said Bartley. + +"No? Well, you ain't the first. Josh and Filaree is the only ones that +sabes me. Let's sit in this corner and watch the mescal work for a +livin'." + +It was a hot night. Sweat prickled on Bartley's forehead. His nose +itched. He lit a cigar. It tasted bitter, so he asked Cheyenne for +tobacco and papers, and rolled a cigarette. He inhaled a whiff, and felt +more comfortable. The Mexicans, who had ceased to talk when Bartley and +Cheyenne entered, were now at it again, making plenty of noise. + +Cheyenne hummed to himself and tapped the floor with his boot-heel. +"She's a funny old world," he declared. + +Bartley nodded and blew a smoke-ring. + +"Miss Dorry's sure a interestin' girl," asserted Cheyenne. + +Bartley nodded again. + +"Kind of young and innocent-like." + +Again Bartley nodded. + +"It ain't a bad country to settle down in, for folks that likes to +settle," said Cheyenne. + +Bartley glanced sharply at his companion. Cheyenne was gazing straight +ahead. His face was unreadable. + +"Now if I was the settlin' kind--" He paused and slowly turned toward +Bartley. "A man could raise alfalfa and chickens and kids." + +"Go ahead," laughed Bartley. + +"I'm goin'--to-morrow mornin'. And you say you figure to stay here a +spell?" + +"Oh, just a few days. I imagine I shall grow tired of it. But to-night, +I feel pretty well satisfied to stay right where I am." + +Cheyenne rose and strode to the bar. After a short argument with the +proprietor, he returned with a bottle and glasses. Bartley raised his +eyebrows questioningly. + +"Once in a while--" And Cheyenne gestured toward the bottle. + +"It's powerful stuff," said Bartley. + +"We ain't far from the hotel," declared Cheyenne. And he filled their +glasses. + +"This ought to be the last, for me," said Bartley, drinking. "But don't +let that make any difference to you." + +Cheyenne drank and shrugged his shoulders. He leaned back and gazed at +the opposite wall. Bartley vaguely realized that the Mexicans were +chattering, that two or three persons had come in, and that the +atmosphere was heavy with tobacco smoke. He unbuttoned his shirt-collar. + +Presently Cheyenne twisted round in his chair. "Remember Little Jim, +back at the Hastings ranch?" + +"I should say so! It would be difficult to forget him." + +"Miss Dorry thinks a heap of that kid." + +"She seems to." + +"Now, I ain't drunk," Cheyenne declared solemnly. "I sure wish I was. +You know Little Jim is my boy. Well, his ma is livin' over to Laramie. +She writ to me to come back to her, onct. I reckon Sears got tired of +her. She lived with him a spell after she quit me. Folks say Sears +treated her like a dog. I guess I wasn't man enough, when I heard +that--" + +"You mean Panhandle Sears--at Antelope?" + +"Him." + +"Oh, I see!" said Bartley slowly. "And that crap game, at Antelope--I +see!" + +"If Panhandle had a-jumped me, instead of you, that night, I'd 'a' +killed him. Do you know why Wishful stepped in and put Sears down? +Wishful did that so that there wouldn't be a killin'. That's the second +time Sears has had his chance to git me, but he won't take that chance. +That's the second time we met up since--since my wife left me. The third +time it'll be lights out for somebody. I ain't drunk." + +"Then Sears has got a yellow streak?" + +"Any man that uses a woman rough has. When Jimmy's ma left us, I reckon +I went loco. It wa'n't just her _leavin'_ us. But when I heard she had +took up with Sears, and knowin' what he was--I just quit. I was workin' +down here at the ranch, then. I went up North, figurin' to kill him. +Folks thought I was yellow, for not killin' him. They think so right +now. Mebby I am. + +"I worked up North a spell, but I couldn't stay. So I lit out and come +down South again. First time I met up with Sears was over on the Tonto. +He stepped up and slapped my face, in front of a crowd, in the Lone +Star. And I took it. But I told him I'd sure see him again, and give him +another chance to slap my face. + +"You see, Panhandle Sears is that kind--he's got to work himself up to +kill a man. And over there at Antelope, that night, he just about knowed +that if he lifted a finger, I'd git him. He figured to start a ruckus, +and then git me in the mix-up. Wishful was on, and he stopped that +chance. Folks think that because I come ridin' and singin' and joshin' +that I ain't no account. Mebby I ain't." + +Cheyenne poured another drink for himself. Bartley declined to drink +again. He was thinking of this squalid tragedy and of its possible +outcome. The erstwhile sprightly Cheyenne held a new significance for +the Easterner. That a man could ride up and down the trails singing, and +yet carry beneath it all the grim intent some day to kill a man-- + +Bartley felt that Cheyenne had suddenly become a stranger, an unknown +quantity, a sinister jester, in fact, a dangerous man. He leaned forward +and touched Cheyenne's arm. + +"Why not give up the idea of--er--getting Sears; and settle down, and +make a home for Little Jim?" + +"When Aunt Jane took him, the understandin' was that Jimmy was to be +raised respectable, which is the same as tellin' me that I don't have +nothin' to do with raisin' him. Me, I got to keep movin'." + +Bartley turned toward the doorway as a tall figure loomed through the +haze of tobacco smoke: a gaunt, heavy-boned man, bearded and limping +slightly. With him were several companions, booted and spurred; +evidently just in from a hard ride. + +Cheyenne turned to Bartley. "That's Bill Sneed--and his crowd. I ain't +popular with 'em--right now." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +THAT MESCAL + + +"The man who had your horses?" queried Bartley. + +Cheyenne nodded. "The one at the end of the bar. The hombre next to him +is Lawson, who claims he bought my hosses from a Mexican, down here. +Lawson is the one that is huntin' trouble. Sneed don't care nothin' +about a couple of cayuses. He won't start anything. He's here just to +back up Lawson if things git interestin'." + +"But what can they do? We're here, in town, minding our own business. +They know well enough that Panhandle stole your horses. And you said the +people in San Andreas don't like Sneed a whole lot." + +"Because they're scared of him and his crowd. And we're strangers here. +It's just me and Lawson, this deal. Sneed is sizin' you up, back of his +whiskers, right now. He's tryin' to figure out who you are. Sneed ain't +one to run into the law when they's anybody lookin' on. He works +different. + +"Now, while he is figurin', you just git up easy and step out and slip +over to the barn and saddle up Joshua. I'm goin' to need him. Take the +tie-rope off Filaree and leave him loose in his stall. Just say 'Adios' +to me when you git up, like you was goin' back to the hotel. And if +you'll settle what we owe--" + +"That's all right. But my feet aren't cold, yet." + +"You figure to stay in town a spell, don't you? Well, I figure to leave, +right soon. I'm tryin' to dodge trouble. It's your chanct to help out." + +"Why can't we both walk out?" + +"'Cause they'd follow us. They won't follow you." + +Bartley glanced at the men ranged along the bar, rose, and, shaking +hands with Cheyenne, strode out, nodding pleasantly to the one-eyed +proprietor as he went. + +Sneed eyed the Easterner sharply, and nudged one of his men as Bartley +passed through the doorway. + +"Just step out and see where he goes, Hull," he ordered in an undertone. +"Keep him in sight." + +The man spoken to hitched up his chaps, and, turning to finish his +drink, strolled out casually. + +Bartley saw a row of saddle-horses tied at the rail. He noticed the +slickers on the saddles and the carbines under the stirrup leathers. It +was evident that the riders were not entirely on pleasure bent. He +crossed the street, wakened the stableman, paid the bill, and saddled +Joshua. Then he took the tie-rope off Filaree, as Cheyenne had directed. +Bartley led Joshua through the barn to the back, where he was tying him +to a wagon wheel when a figure loomed up in the semi-darkness. + +"Ridin', stranger?" + +The figure struck a match and lighted a cigarette. Bartley at once +recognized him as one of Sneed's men. Resenting the other's question and +his attitude of easy familiarity, Bartley ignored his presence. + +"Hard of hearin'?" queried Hull. + +"Rather." + +"I said: Was you ridin'?" + +"Yesterday," replied Bartley. + +Hull blew a whiff of smoke in Bartley's face. It seemed casual, but was +intended as an insult. Bartley flushed, and realizing that the other was +there to intercept any action on his part to aid Cheyenne, he dropped +Joshua's reins, and without the slightest warning of his intent--in +fact, Hull thought the Easterner was stooping to pick up the +reins--Bartley launched a haymaker that landed with a loud crack on +Hull's unguarded chin, and Hull's head snapped back. Bartley jumped +forward and shot another one to the same spot. Hull's head hit the edge +of the doorway as he went down. + +He lay there, inert, a queer blur in the half-light. Bartley licked his +skinned knuckles. + +"He may resent this, when he wakes up," he murmured. "I believe I'll tie +him." + +Bartley took Joshua's tie-rope and bound Mr. Hull's arms and legs, +amateurishly, but securely. + +Then he strode through to the front of the barn. He could hear loud +talking in the saloon opposite and thought he could distinguish +Cheyenne's voice. Bartley wondered what would happen in there, and when +things would begin to pop, if there was to be any popping. He felt +foolishly helpless and inefficient--rather a poor excuse for a partner, +just then. Yet there was that husky rider, back there in the straw. He +was even more helpless and inefficient. Bartley licked his knuckles, and +grinned. + +"There must have been a little mescal in that second punch," he thought. +"I never hit so hard in my life." + +The stableman had retired to his bunk--a habit of night stablemen. The +stable was dark and still, save for the munching of the horses. In the +saloon across the way Cheyenne was facing Sneed and his men, alone. +Bartley felt like a quitter. Indecision irritated him, and curiosity +urged him to do something other than to stand staring at the saloon +front. He recalled his plan to sojourn in San Andreas a few days, and +incidently to ride over to the Lawrence ranch--frankly, to have another +visit with Dorothy. He shrugged his shoulders. That idea now seemed +insignificant, compared with the present possibilities. + +"I'm a free agent," he soliloquized. "I think I'll take a hand in this, +myself." + +He snapped his fingers as he turned and hastened to Dobe's stall. He led +Dobe out to the stable floor, got his saddle from the office, told the +sleepy stableman that he was going to take a little ride, and saddled +Dobe. And he led Dobe back to where Joshua was tied. He had forgotten +his victim on the floor, for a moment, but was aware of him when he +stumbled over him in the dark. The other mumbled and struggled faintly. + +"I left your gun in the wagon-box," said Bartley. "I wouldn't move +around much, if I were you. One of the horses might step on your face +and hurt his foot." + +Mr. Hull was not pleased at this, and he said as much. Bartley tied Dobe +to the back of the wagon. + +"Just keep your eye on the horses a minute," he told Hull. "I'll be back +soon." + +Bartley felt unusually and inexplicably elated. He had not realized the +extreme potency of mescal. The proprietor of the hotel was mildly +surprised when Bartley, remarking that he had been called away +unexpectedly, paid the hotel bill. Bartley hastened back to the stable. +Across the way the horses of the mountain men drowsed in the faint +lamplight. Turning, Bartley saw Joshua and Dobe dimly silhouetted in the +opening at the far end of the stable. Cheyenne was still in the saloon. + +Bartley grinned. "It might help," he said as he stepped across the +street. Taking down the rope from the nearest horse, he tied the end of +the rope in the horse's bridle and threaded the end through the bridles +of all five horses, tying the loose end to the last horse's bridle. +"Just like stringing fish!" he murmured soulfully. "When those gentlemen +from the interior try to mount, there'll be something doing." + +He had just turned to walk back to the stable when he heard a shot, and +the lighted doorway of the saloon became suddenly dark. Without waiting +to see what would happen next, Bartley ran to the rear of the stable and +untied the horses. Behind him he heard the quick trample of feet. He +turned. A figure appeared in the front doorway of the stable, a figure +that dashed toward him, and, with a leap and a swing, mounted Joshua and +spurred out and down the alley back of the building. + +Bartley grabbed for his own stirrup, missed it, grabbed again and swung +up. Dobe leaped after the other horse, turned at the end of the alley, +and, reaching into a long, swinging gallop, pounded across the +night-black open. San Andreas had but one street. The backs of its +buildings opened to space. + +Ahead, Cheyenne thundered across a narrow bridge over an arroyo. Dobe +lifted and leaped forward, as though in a race. From behind came the +quick patter of hoofs. One of Sneed's men had evidently managed to get +his horse loose from the reata. A solitary house, far out on the level, +flickered past. Bartley glanced back. The house door opened. A ray of +yellow light shot across the road. + +"Hey, Cheyenne!" called Bartley. + +But Cheyenne's little buckskin was drumming down the night road at a +pace that astonished the Easterner. Dobe seemed to be doing his best, +yet he could not overtake the buckskin. Behind Bartley the patter of +hoofs sounded nearer. Bartley thought he heard Cheyenne call back to +him. He leaned forward, but the drumming of hoofs deadened all other +sound. + +They were on a road, now--a road that ran south across the spaces, +unwinding itself like a tape flung from a reel. Suddenly Cheyenne pulled +to a stop. Bartley raced up, bracing himself as the big cow-horse set up +in two jumps. + +"I thought you was abidin' in San Andreas," said Cheyenne. + +"There's some one coming!" warned Bartley, breathing heavily. + +"And his name is Filaree," declared Cheyenne. "You sure done a good job. +Let's keep movin'." And Cheyenne let Joshua out as Filaree drew +alongside and nickered shrilly. + +"Now I reckon we better hold 'em in a little," said Cheyenne after they +had gone, perhaps, a half-mile. "We got a good start." + +They slowed the horses to a trot. Filaree kept close to Joshua's flank. +A gust of warm air struck their faces. + +"Ain't got time to shake hands, pardner," said Cheyenne. "Know where +you're goin'?" + +"South," said Bartley. + +"Correc'. And I don't hear no hosses behind us." + +"I strung them together on a rope," said Bartley. + +"How's that?" + +"I tied Sneed's horses together, with a rope. Ran it through the +bridles--like stringing fish. Not according to Hoyle, but it seems to +have worked." + +Cheyenne shook his head. He did not quite get the significance of +Bartley's statement. + +"Any one get hurt?" queried Bartley presently. + +"Nope. I spoiled a lamp, and I reckon I hit somebody on the head, in the +dark, comin' through. Seems like I stepped on somethin' soft, out there +back of the barn. It grunted like a human. But I didn't stop to look." + +"I had to do it," declared Bartley ambiguously. + +"Had to do what?" + +"Punch a fellow that wanted to know what I was doing with your horse. I +let him have it twice." + +"Then you didn't hit him with your gun?" + +"No. I wish I had. I've got a fist like a boiled ham. I can feel it +swell, right now." + +"That there mescal is sure pow'ful stuff." + +"Thanks!" said Bartley succinctly. + +"Got a kick like white lightin'," said Cheyenne. + +"And I paid our hotel bill," continued Bartley. + +"Well, that was mighty thoughtful. I plumb forgot it." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +JOE SCOTT + + +Just before daybreak Cheyenne turned from the road and picked his way +through the scattered brush to a gulch in the western foothills. +Cheyenne's horses seemed to know the place, when they stopped at a +narrow, pole gate across the upper end of the gulch, for on beyond the +gate the horses again stopped of their own accord. Bartley could barely +discern the outlines of a cabin. Cheyenne hallooed. + +A muffled answer from the cabin, then a twinkle of light, then the open +doorway framing a gigantic figure. + +"That you, Shy?" queried the figure. + +"Me and a friend." + +"You're kind of early," rumbled the figure as the riders dismounted. + +"Shucks! You'd be gettin' up, anyway, right soon. We come early so as +not to delay your breakfast." + +In the cabin, Cheyenne and the big man shook hands. Bartley was +introduced. The man was a miner, named Joe Scott. + +"Joe, here, is a minin' man--when he ain't runnin' a all-night +lunch-stand," explained Cheyenne. "He can't work his placer when it's +dark, but he sure can work a skillet and a coffee-mill." + +"What you been up to?" queried the giant slowly, as he made a fire in +the stove, and set about getting breakfast. + +"Up to Clubfoot Sneed's place, to get a couple of hosses that belonged +to me. He was kind of hostile. Followed us down to San Andreas and done +spoiled our night's rest. But I got the hosses." + +"Hosses seems to be his failin'," said the big man. + +"So some folks say. I'm one of 'em." + +"How are the folks up Antelope way?" + +"Kinda permanent, as usual. I hear Panhandle's drifted south again. +Wishful, he shoots craps, reg'lar." + +Scott nodded, shifted the coffee-pot and sat down on the edge of his +bunk. "Got any smokin'?" he queried presently. + +Bartley offered the miner a cigar. "I'm afraid it's broken," apologized +Bartley. + +"That's all right. I was goin' to town this mornin', to get some tobacco +and grub. But this will help." And doubling the cigar Scott thrust it in +his mouth and chewed it with evident satisfaction. + +The gray edge of dawn crept into the room. Scott blew out the light and +opened the door. + +Bartley felt suddenly sleepy and he drowsed and nodded, realizing that +Scott and Cheyenne were talking, and that the faint aroma of coffee +drifted toward him, mingling with the chill, fresh air of morning. He +pulled himself together and drank the coffee and ate some bacon. From +time to time he glanced at Scott, fascinated by the miner's tremendous +forearms, his mighty chest and shoulders. Even Cheyenne, who was a +fair-sized man, appeared like a boy beside the miner. Bartley wondered +that such tremendous strength should be isolated, hidden back there +behind the foothills. Yet Scott himself, easy-going and dryly humorous, +was evidently content right where he was. + +Later the miner showed Bartley about the diggings, quietly proud of his +establishment, and enthusiastic about the unfailing supply of water--in +fact, Scott talked more about water than he did about gold. Bartley +realized that the big miner would have been a misfit in town, that he +belonged in the rugged hills from which he wrested a scant six dollars a +day by herculean toil. + +In a past age, Scott would have been a master builder of castles or of +triremes or a maker of armor, but never a fighting man. It was evident +that the miner was, despite his great strength, a man of peace. Bartley +rather regretted, for some romantic reason or other, that the big miner +was not a fighting man. + +Yet when they returned to the shack, where Cheyenne sat smoking, Bartley +learned that Big Joe Scott had a reputation in his own country. That was +when Scott suggested that they needed sleep. He spread a blanket-roll on +the cabin floor for Cheyenne and offered Bartley his bunk. Then Scott +picked up his rifle and strode across to a shed. Cheyenne pulled off his +boots, stretched out on the blanket-roll, and sighed comfortably. +Bartley could see the big miner busily twisting something in his hands, +something that looked like a leather bag from which occasional tiny +spurts of silver gleamed and trickled. Bartley wondered what Scott was +doing. He asked Cheyenne. + +"He's squeezin' 'quick.'" And Cheyenne explained the process of +squeezing quicksilver through a chamois skin. "And I'm glad it ain't my +neck," added Cheyenne. "Joe killed a man, with his bare hands, onct. +That's why he never gets in a fight, nowadays. He dassn't. 'Course, he +had to kill that man, or get killed." + +"I noticed he picked up his rifle," said Bartley. + +"Nobody'll disturb our sleep," said Cheyenne drowsily. + + * * * * * + +The afternoon shadows were long when Bartley awakened. Through the +doorway he could see Cheyenne out in the shed, talking with Joe Scott. + +"Hello!" called Bartley, sitting up. "Lost any horses, Cheyenne?" + +Presently Scott and Cheyenne came over to the cabin. + +"I'm cook, this trip," stated Cheyenne as he bustled about the kitchen. +"I reckon Joe needs a rest. He ain't lookin' right strong." + +An early supper, and the three men forgathered outside the cabin and +smoked and talked until long after dark. Cheyenne had told Scott of the +happenings since leaving Antelope, and jokingly he referred to San +Andreas and Bartley's original plan of staying there awhile. + +Bartley nodded. "And now that the smoke has blown away, I think I'll go +back and finish my visit," he said. + +Cheyenne's face expressed surprise and disappointment. "Honest?" he +queried. + +"Why not?" asked Bartley, and it was a hard question to answer. + +After all, Bartley had stuck to him when trouble seemed inevitable, +reasoned Cheyenne. + +Now the Easterner felt free to do as he pleased. And why shouldn't he? +There had been no definite or even tentative agreement as to when they +would dissolve partnership. And Bartley's evident determination to carry +out his original plan struck Cheyenne as indicative of considerable +spirit. It was plain that Sneed's unexpected presence in San Andreas had +not affected Bartley very much. With a tinge of malice, born of +disappointment, Cheyenne suggested to Bartley that the man he had +knocked out, back of the livery barn, would no doubt be glad to see him +again. + +Bartley turned to Joe Scott. "He's trying to 'Out-West' me a bit, isn't +he?" + +Scott laughed heartily. "Cheyenne is getting tired of rambling up and +down the country alone. He wants a pardner. Seems he likes your company, +from what he says. But you can't take him serious. He'll be singin' that +everlastin' trail song of his next." + +"He hasn't sung much, recently." + +Cheyenne bridled and snorted like a colt. "Huh! Just try this on your +piano." And seemingly improvising, he waved his arm toward the burro +corral. + + One time I had a right good pal, + Git along, cayuse, git along; + But he quit me cold for a little ranch gal, + Git along, cayuse, git along. + + And now he's took to pitchin' hay + On a rancho down San Andreas way; + He's done tied up and he's got to stay; + Git along, cayuse, git along. + +"I was just learnin' him the ropes, and he quit me cold," complained +Cheyenne, appealing to Scott. + +"He aims to keep out of trouble," suggested Scott. + +"I ain't got no friends," said Cheyenne, grinning. + +"Thanks for that," said Scott. + +Cheyenne reached in his pocket and drew out the dice. His eyes +brightened. He rattled the dice and shot them across the hardpacked +ground near the doorstep. Then he struck a match to see what he had +thrown. "I'm hittin' the road five minutes after six, to-morrow +mornin'," he declared, as he picked up the dice. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +DORRY COMES TO TOWN + + +At six, next morning, Bartley and Scott were on their way to San +Andreas, Bartley riding Dobe and Scott hazing two pack-burros. They took +a hill trail, which, Scott explained, was shorter by miles than the +valley road which Cheyenne and Bartley had taken to the gulch. Cheyenne +was forced to stay at the miner's cabin until Scott returned with the +pack-saddle and outfit left in the livery. Scott was after supplies and +tobacco. + +At first Cheyenne had thought of going along with them. But he +reconsidered. He did not care to risk being arrested in San Andreas for +having disturbed the peace. If the authorities should happen to detain +him, there would be one broken head, one broken lamp, and possibly five +or six witnesses as evidence that he had been the aggressor in the +saloon. Sneed and his men would swear to anything, and the owner of the +saloon would add his bit of evidence. Bartley himself was liable to +arrest for assault and battery should Hull lodge a complaint against +him. Incidentally, Hull had been found by the stableman, curiously roped +and tied and his lower jaw somewhat out of plumb. + +Bartley and Scott arrived in San Andreas about noon, saw to their stock +and had dinner together. Bartley engaged a room at the hotel. Scott +bought supplies. Then, unknown to Bartley, Scott hunted up the town +marshal and told him that the Easterner was a friend of his. The town +marshal took the hint. Scott assured the marshal that, if Sneed or his +men made any trouble in San Andreas, he would gladly come over and help +the marshal establish peace. Cheyenne's name was not mentioned. + +An hour later Scott appeared in front of the hotel with his burros +packed. Bartley, loafing on the veranda, rose and stepped out. + +"If you got time," said Scott, "you might walk along with me, out to the +edge of town." + +Bartley wondered what Scott had in mind, but he agreed to the suggestion +at once. + +Together they trudged through the sleepy town until they reached the +open. + +"I guess you can find your way back," said Scott, his eyes twinkling. +"And, say, it's a good idea not to pack a shootin'-iron--and let folks +know you don't pack one." + +"I think I understand," said Bartley. + +"Ride over to my camp, any time, and if I'm not there, just make +yourself to home." And the big miner turned and started his burros +toward the hills. + +"Give my regards to Cheyenne," called Bartley. + +The miner nodded. + +On his way back through town, Bartley wondered why the miner had asked +him to take that walk. Then suddenly he thought of a reason. They had +been seen in San Andreas, walking and talking together. That would +intimate that they were friends. And a man would have to be blind, not +to realize that it would be a mistake to pick a quarrel with Scott, or +one of his friends. Joe Scott never quarreled; but he had the reputation +of being a man of whom it was safe to step around. + +With his sleeves rolled up, sitting in the quiet of his room, Bartley +spent the afternoon jotting down notes for a story. He thought he had +experienced enough adventure to make a good beginning. Of course, the +love element was lacking, yet he thought that might be supplied, later. +He had a heroine in mind. Bartley laid down his pencil, and sat back, +shaping daydreams. It was hot in the room. It would be cooler down on +the veranda. Well, he would finish his rough sketch of Cheyenne, and +then step down to the veranda. He caught himself drowsing over his work. +He sat up, scribbled a while, nodded sleepily, and, finally, with his +head on his arms, he fell asleep. + +The rattle of wagon wheels wakened him. A ranch team had just pulled up +to the hitch-rail in front of the hotel and a small boy was tying the +horses. The boy's hat seemed familiar to Bartley. Then Bartley heard a +voice. Suddenly he was wide awake. Little Jim was down there, talking to +some one. Bartley rose and peered down. Little Jim's companion was +Dorothy. Bartley could not see her face, because of her wide hat-brim. +Stepping back into the room, Bartley picked up his pencil and, leaning +out of the window, started it rolling down the gentle slope of the +veranda roof. It dropped at Dorothy's feet. She started and glanced up. +Bartley waved a greeting and disappeared from the window. + +Decently clothed, and, imagining that he was in his right mind, he +hastened downstairs. + +Little Jim expressed no surprise at seeing Bartley, but the youngster's +eyes were eager. + +He shook hands, like a grown-up. "Got that twenty-two, yet?" + +"Haven't seen one, Jimmy. But I won't forget." + +"There's a brand-new twenty-two over to Hodges' store, in the window," +declared Little Jim. + +"That so? Then we'll have to walk over and look at it." + +"I done _looked_ at it already," said Little Jim. + +"Well, then, let's go and price it." + +"I done priced it. It's twelve-fifty." + +"Well, what do you say to going over and buying it?" + +"Sure! Is dad gone?" + +"Yes. He left here last night. I thought Miss Gray was with you," said +Bartley. + +"Sure! She had to come to town to buy some things. She's over to Hodges' +now." + +Dorothy had not waited for him to appear. Bartley was a bit piqued. But +he asked himself why should he be? They were the merest acquaintances. +True, they had spent several hours together, reading and discussing +verse. But no doubt that had been purely impersonal, on her part. With +Little Jim as his guide, Bartley entered Hodges' general store. Dorothy +was at the back of the store making purchases. Bartley watched her a +moment. He felt a tug at his sleeve. + +"The guns is over on this side," declared Little Jim. + +"We'll have to wait until Mr. Hodges gets through waiting on Miss Gray," +said Bartley. + +Little Jim scampered across the aisle and stood on tiptoe peering into a +showcase. There were pistols, cheap watches, and a pair of spurs. + +Little Jim gazed a moment and then shot over to Dorothy. "Say, Dorry, +can't you hurry up? Me and Mr. Bartley are waitin' to look at that +twenty-two in the window." + +"Now, Jimmy! Oh, how do you do!" And Dorothy greeted Bartley with +considerable poise for a young woman who was as interested in the +Easterner as she was. + +"Don't let us interrupt you," said Bartley. "Our business can wait." + +Little Jim scowled, and grimaced at Dorothy, who excused herself to +Bartley and went on making her purchases. They were really insignificant +purchases--some pins, some thread, and a roll of binding tape. +Insignificant as they were, Bartley offered to carry them to the wagon +for her. Dorothy declined his offer and took them to the wagon herself. + +"Now for that rifle," said Bartley. + +Little Jim, itching all over to get hold of that new and shining weapon, +squirmed as Hodges took it from the window and handed it to Bartley. +Bartley examined it and passed it over to Little Jim. + +"Is that the kind you wanted?" he asked. + +"This is her! Twenty-two, long or short, genuwine repeater." Jimmy +pretended to read the tags tied to the trigger guard. "Yep! This is +her." + +"And some cartridges," suggested Bartley. + +"How many?" queried the storekeeper. + +"All you got," said Little Jim. + +But Bartley's good nature was not to be imposed upon to that extent. +"Give us five boxes, Mr. Hodges." + +"That cleans me out of twenty-twos," declared Hodges. + +Jimmy grinned triumphantly. Dorothy had come in and was viewing the +purchase with some apprehension. She knew Little Jim. + +Bearing the rifle proudly, Jimmy marched from the store. Dorothy and +Bartley followed him, and Bartley briefly outlined Cheyenne's recent +sprightly exodus from San Andreas. + +"I heard about it, from Mr. Hodges," said Dorothy. "And I also noticed +that you have hurt your hand." + +Bartley glanced at his right hand--and then at Dorothy, who was gazing +at him curiously. It had become common news in town that Cheyenne +Hastings and the Easterner had engaged in a free-for-all fight with the +Sneed outfit, and that two of the Sneed boys were laid up for repairs. +That was Mr. Hodges' version. + +"I also heard that you had left town," said Dorothy. + +Bartley's egoism was slightly deflated. Then Dorothy had come to town to +buy a few trinkets, and not to find out how it fared with him. + +"We have to get back before dark," she declared. + +"And you got to drive," said Little Jim. "I want to try my new gun!" + +"Did you thank Mr. Bartley for the gun?" + +Little Jim admitted that he had forgotten to do so. He stuck out his +small hand. "Thanks, pardner," he said heartily. + +Bartley laughed and patted Jimmy's shoulder--something that Jimmy +utterly detested, but suffered nobly, under the circumstances. + +"You earned that gun--and thank you for fetching Miss Dorry to town." + +"Huh! I didn't fetch _her_. She fetched me. Uncle Frank was comin', but +Dorry said she just had to get some things--" + +"Jimmy, please don't point that gun at the horses." + +Bartley felt better. He didn't know just why he felt better. Yet he felt +more than grateful to Little Jim. + +Nevertheless, Dorothy met Bartley's eyes frankly as he said farewell. "I +hope you will find time to ride over to the ranch," she said. "I'm sure +Aunt Jane would be glad to see you." + +"Thanks. Say, day after to-morrow?" + +"Oh, it doesn't matter. Aunt Jane is nearly always at home." + +"And I got lots of ca'tridges," chirruped Little Jim. "We can shoot all +day." + +"I wouldn't miss such an opportunity for anything," declared Bartley, +yet he was looking at Dorothy when he spoke. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +ALONG THE FOOTHILLS + + +Bartley, enjoying his after-dinner smoke, felt that he wanted to know +more about the girl who had invited him to call at the Lawrence ranch +again. He told himself that he wanted to study her; to find out her +preferences, her ideals, her attitude toward life, and how the thought +of always living in the San Andreas Valley, shut away from the world, +appealed to her. + +With the unconscious intolerance of the city-bred man, he did not +realize that her world was quite as interesting to her as his world was +to him. Manlike, he also failed to realize that Dorothy was studying him +quite as much as he was studying her. While he did not feel in the least +superior, he did feel that he was more worldly-wise than this young +woman whose horizon was bounded by the hills edging the San Andreas +Valley. + +True, she seemed to have read much, for one as isolated as she, and she +had evidently appreciated what she had read. And then there was +something about her that interested him, aside from her good looks. He +had known many girls far more beautiful. It was not her manner, which +was a bit constrained, at times. Her charm for him was indefinable. +Somehow, she seemed different from other girls he had met. Bartley was +himself responsible for this romantic hallucination. He saw her with +eyes hungry for the sympathetic companionship of youth, especially +feminine youth, for he could talk with her seriously about things which +the genial Cheyenne could hardly appreciate. + +In other words, Bartley, whose aim was to isolate himself from +convention, was unconsciously hungry for the very conventions he thought +he was fleeing from. And in a measure, Dorothy Gray represented the life +he had left behind. Had she been a boy, Bartley would have enjoyed +talking with her--or him; but she was a girl, and, concluded Bartley, +just the type of girl for the heroine of a Western romance. Bartley's +egoism would not allow him to admit that their tentative friendship +could become anything more than friendship. And it was upon that +understanding with himself that he saddled up, next morning,--why the +hurry, with a week to spend in San Andreas,--and set out for the +Lawrence ranch, to call on Aunt Jane. + +Purposely he timed his arrival to follow the dinner hour--dinner was at +noon in the ranch country--and was mildly lectured by Aunt Jane for not +arriving earlier. Uncle Frank was at the lower end of the ranch, +superintending the irrigating. Little Jim was on the veranda, needlessly +cleaning his new rifle, preparatory to a rabbit hunt that afternoon. +Bartley was at once invited to participate in the hunt, and he could +think of no reason to decline. Dorothy, however, was not at the ranch. + +Little Jim scrubbed his rifle with an oily rag, and scowled. "Got both +hosses saddled, and lots of ca'tridges--and Dorry ain't here yet! She +promised to be here right after dinner." + +"Was Miss Dorry going with you?" + +Jimmy nodded. "You bet! She's goin' to take my old twenty-two. It's only +a single-shot," added Jimmy scornfully. "But it's good enough for a +girl." + +"Isn't it early to hunt rabbits?" queried Bartley. + +"Sure! But we got to get there, clear over to the flats. If Dorry don't +come as soon as I get this gun cleaned, I'm goin' anyhow." + +But Dorothy appeared before Jimmy could carry out his threat of leaving +without her. Jimmy, mounted on his pony, fretted to be gone, while +Dorothy chatted a minute or so with Aunt Jane and Bartley. Finally they +rode off, with Jimmy in the lead, explaining that there would be no +rabbits on the flat until at least five o'clock, and in the meantime +they would ride over to the spring and pretend they were starving. That +is, Dorothy and Bartley were to pretend they were starving, while Jimmy +scouted for meat and incidentally shot a couple of Indians and returned +with a noble buck deer hanging across the saddle. + +It was hot and they rode slowly. Far ahead, in the dim southern +distances, lay the hills that walled the San Andreas Valley from the +desert. + +Dorothy noticed that Bartley gazed intently at those hills. "Cheyenne?" +she queried, smiling. + +"I beg your pardon. I was dreaming. Yes, I was thinking of him, and--" +Bartley gestured toward Little Jim. + +"Then you know?" + +"Cheyenne told me, night before last, in San Andreas." + +"Of course, Jimmy is far better off right where he is," asserted +Dorothy, although Bartley had said nothing. "I don't think Cheyenne will +ever settle down. At least, not so long as that man Sears is alive. Of +course, if anything happens to Sears--" + +Dorothy was interrupted by Little Jim, who turned in the saddle to +address her. "Say, Dorry, if you keep on talkin' out loud, the Injuns is +like to jump us! Scoutin' parties don't keep talkin' when they're on the +trail." + +"Don't be silly, Jimmy," laughed Dorothy. + +"Well, they _used_ to be Injuns in these hills, once." + +"We'll behave," said Bartley. "But can't we ride toward the foothills +and get in the shade?" + +"You just follow me," said Little Jim. "I know this country." + +It was Little Jim's day. It was his hunt. Dorothy and Bartley were +merely his guests. He had allowed them to come with him--possibly +because he wanted an audience. Presently Little Jim reined his horse to +the left and rode up a dim trail among the boulders. By an exceedingly +devious route he led the way to the spring, meanwhile playing the scout +with intense concentration on some cattle tracks which were at least a +month old. Bartley recognized the spot. Cheyenne and he had camped there +upon their quest for the stolen horses. Little Jim assured his charges +that all was safe, and he suggested that they "light down and rest a +spell." + +The contrasting coolness of the shade was inviting. Jimmy explained that +there would be no rabbits visible until toward evening. Below and beyond +them stretched the valley floor, shimmering in the sun. Behind them the +hills rose and dipped, rose and dipped again, finally reaching up to the +long slope of the mother range. Far above a thin, dark line of timber +showed against the eastern sky. + +"Ole Clubfoot Sneed lives up there," asserted Jimmy, pointing toward the +distant ridge. "I been up there." + +"Yes. And your father saved you from a whipping. Uncle Frank was very +angry." + +"I got that new rifle, anyhow," declared Little Jim. + +"And they lived happily ever afterward," said Bartley. + +"Huh! That's just like them fairy stories that Dorry reads to me +sometimes. I like stories about Buffalo Bill and Injuns and fights. +Fairy stories make me tired." + +"Jimmy thinks he is quite grown up," teased Dorothy. + +"You ain't growed up yourself, anyhow," retorted Jimmy. "Girls ain't +growed up till they git married." + +Dorothy turned to Bartley and began to talk about books and writers. +Little Jim frowned. Why couldn't they talk about something worth +listening to? Jimmy examined his new rifle, sighting it at different +objects, and opening and closing the empty magazine. Finally he loaded +it. His companions of the hunt were deep in a discussion having to do +with Western stories. Jimmy fidgeted under the constant stress of +keeping silent. He would have interrupted Dorothy, willingly enough, but +Bartley's presence rather awed him. + +Jimmy felt that his afternoon was being wasted. However, there was the +solace of the new rifle, and plenty of ammunition. While he knew there +was no big game in those hills, he could pretend that there was. He +debated with himself as to whether he would hunt deer, bear, or mountain +lion. Finally he decided he would hunt bear. He waited for an +opportunity to leave without being noticed, and, carrying his trusty +rifle at the ready, he stealthily disappeared in the brush south of the +spring. A young boy, with a new gun and lots of brush to prowl through! +Under such circumstances the optimist can imagine anything from rabbits +to elephants. + +Some time passed before Dorothy missed him. She called. There was no +reply. "He won't go far," she assured Bartley who rose to go and look +for Jimmy. + +Bartley sat down by the spring again. He questioned Dorothy in regard to +ranch life, social conditions, local ambitions, and the like. Quite +impersonally she answered him, explaining that the folk in the valley +were quite content, so long as they were moderately successful. Of +course, the advent of that funny little machine, the automobile, would +revolutionize ranch life, eventually. Why, a wealthy rancher of San +Andreas had actually driven to Los Angeles and back in one of those +little machines! + +Bartley smiled. "They've come to stay, no doubt. But I can't reconcile +automobiles with saddle-horses and buckboards. I shan't have an +automobile snorting and snuffing through my story." + +"Your story!" + +"I really didn't mean to speak about it. But the cat is out of the bag. +I'm making notes for a Western novel, Miss Gray. I confess it." + +"Confession usually implies having done something wrong, doesn't it?" + +"Yes. But with you as the heroine of my story, I couldn't go very far +wrong." + +Dorothy flushed and bit her lip. So that was why Bartley had been so +attentive and polite? He had been studying her, questioning her, +mentally jotting down what she had said--and he had not told her, until +that moment, that he was writing a story. She had not known that he was +a writer of stories. + +"You might, at least, have asked me if I cared to be a Western heroine +in your story." + +"Oh, that would have spoiled it all! Can't you see? You would not have +been yourself, if you had known. And our visits--" + +"I don't think I care to be the heroine of your story, Mr. Bartley." + +"You really mean it?" + +Dorothy nodded thoughtfully. Bartley knew, intuitively, that she was +sincere--that she was not angling for flattery. He had thought that he +was rather paying her a compliment in making her the heroine of his +first Western book; or, at least, that she would take it as a +compliment. He frowned, twisting a spear of dry grass in his fingers. + +"Of course--that needn't make any difference about your calling--on Aunt +Jane." + +"Thank you," laughed Bartley. "And because of the privilege which I +really appreciate, I'll agree to look for another heroine." + +Dorothy had not expected just such an answer. "In San Andreas?" she +queried. + +"I can't say. I'll be lucky if I find another, anywhere, to compare--" + +"If you had asked me, first," interrupted Dorothy, "I might have said +'yes.'" + +"I'm sorry I didn't. Won't you reconsider?" + +Dorothy shook her head. Then she looked up at him frankly, steadily. "I +think you took me for granted. That is what I didn't like." + +"But--I didn't! It didn't occur to me to really begin my story until +after I had seen you. Of course I knew I would write a new story sooner +or later. I hope you will believe that." + +"Yes. But I think I know why you decided to stay in San Andreas, instead +of riding south, with Cheyenne. Aunt Jane and Little Jim and your +heroine were within easy riding distance." + +"I'll admit I intended to write about Aunt Jane and Jimmy. I actually +adore Aunt Jane. And Little Jim, he's what one might call an unknown +quantity--" + +"He seems to be, just now." + +"Oh, he won't go far," said Bartley, smiling. + +Dorothy tossed her head. "And Cheyenne--" + +"Oh, he is the moving figure in the story. That is not a pun, if you +please. I had no idea that Cheyenne could actually hate any one, until +the other night when he told me about--Laramie, and that man Sears." + +"Did he talk much about Sears?" + +"Not much--but enough. Frankly, I think Cheyenne will kill Sears if he +happens to meet him again." + +"And that will furnish the climax for your story!" said Dorothy +scornfully. + +"Well, if it has to happen--" Bartley paused. + +Dorothy's face was troubled. Finally she rose and picked up her gloves +and hat. + +"I wish some one or something would stop him," she said slowly. "He +liked you. All the years he has been riding up and down the country he +has ridden alone, until he met you. I'm sorry you didn't go with him." + +"He did pretend that he was disappointed when I told him I was going to +stay in San Andreas for a while." + +"You thought he was joking, but he wasn't. We have all tried to get him +to settle down; but he would not listen. If I were a man--" + +"Then you think I could have influenced him?" queried Bartley. + +"You might have tried, at least." + +"Well, he's gone. And I'll have to make the best of it--and also find +another heroine," said Bartley lightly, trying to make her smile. + +"I'll be the heroine of your story, upon one condition," Dorothy said, +finally. + +"And that is--" + +"If you will try and find Cheyenne and--and just be a friend to him. I +suppose it sounds silly, and I would not think of asking you to try and +keep him from doing anything he decided to do. But you might happen to +be able to say the right word at the right time." + +"I hardly took myself as seriously as that, in connection with +Cheyenne," declared Bartley. "I suppose, if I should saddle up and ride +south to-morrow, I might overtake him along the road, somewhere. He +travels slowly." + +"But you won't go, just because I spoke as I did?" + +"Not altogether because of that. I like Cheyenne." + +Impetuously Dorothy stepped close to Bartley and laid her hand on his +arm. "I knew you were like that! And what does writing about people +amount to, when you can really do something for them? It isn't just +Cheyenne. There's Little Jim--" + +"Yes. But where _is_ Little Jim?" + +Dorothy called in her high, clear voice. There was no answering halloo. +"His horse is there. I can't understand--" + +"I'll look around a bit," said Bartley. "He's probably ambushing us, +somewhere, and expects us to be tremendously surprised." + +"I'll catch up my horse," said Dorothy. "No, you had better let me catch +him. He knows me." + +And Dorothy stepped from the clearing round the spring and walked toward +the horses. They were grazing quite a ways off, up the hillside. + +Bartley recalled having glimpsed Little Jim crawling through the brush +on the south side of the spring. No doubt Jimmy had grown tired of +waiting, and had dropped down to the mesa on foot to hunt rabbits. Once +clear of the hillside brush, Bartley was able to overlook the mesa +below. Presently he discerned a black hat moving along slowly. Evidently +the young hunter was stalking game. + +Bartley hesitated to call out. He doubted that Jimmy could hear him at +that distance. Stepping down the gentle slope of the hillside to the +road, Bartley watched Jimmy for a while, hoping that he would turn and +see him. But Jimmy was busy. "Might as well go back and get the horses +and ride over to him," said Bartley. + +He had turned to cross the road, when he heard the sound of quick +hoof-beats. Surely Dorothy had not caught up the horses so soon? Bartley +turned toward the bend of the road. Presently a rider, his worn chaps +flapping, his shapeless hat pulled low, and his quirt swinging at every +jump of the horse, pounded up and had almost passed Bartley, when he set +up his horse and dismounted. Bartley did not recognize him until he +spoke. + +"My name's Hull. I was lookin' for you." + +"All right, Mr. Hull. What do you want?" + +Hull's gaze traveled up and down the Easterner. Hull was looking to see +if the other carried a gun. Bartley expected argument and inwardly +braced himself. Meanwhile he wondered if he could find Hull's chin +again, and as easily as he had found it that night back of the livery +barn. Hull loomed big and heavy, and it was evident from the minute he +dismounted that he meant business. + +Without a word, Hull swung at Bartley, smashing in with right and left, +fighting like a wild-cat, forcing his weight into the fight, and kicking +wickedly when he got a chance. Finally, after taking a straight blow in +the face, Hull clinched--and the minute Bartley felt those tough-sinewed +arms around him he knew that he was in for a licking. + +Bartley's only chance, and that a pretty slim one, lay in getting free +from the grip of those arms. He used his knee effectively. Hull grunted +and staggered back. Bartley jumped forward and bored in, knocking Hull +off his feet. The cow-puncher struck the ground, rolled over, and was up +and coming like a cyclone. It flashed through Bartley's mind that the +only thing to do was to stay with it till the finish. Hull was beating +him down slowly, but surely. + +Dully conscious that some one was calling, behind him, Bartley struck +out, straight and clean, but he might as well have tried to stop a +runaway freight with a whisk-broom. He felt the smashing impact of a +blow--then suddenly he was on his back in the road--and he had no desire +to get up. Free from the hammering of those heavy fists, he felt +comparatively comfortable. + +"You brute!" It was Dorothy's voice, tense with anger. + +Bartley heard another voice, thick with heavy breathing. "That's all +right, Miss Gray. But the dude had it comin'." + +Then Bartley heard the sound of hoof-beats--and somehow or other, +Dorothy was helping him to his feet. He tried to grin--but his lips +would not obey his will. + +"I'm all right," he mumbled. + +"Perhaps," said Dorothy, steady and cool. "But you'll want to wash your +face at the spring. I fetched your horse." + +"Lord, Miss Gray, let's walk. I'm more used to it." + +"It was that man Hull, from the mountain, wasn't it?" + +"I don't know his name. I _did_ meet him once, in San Andreas, after +dark." + +"I'll just tie the horses, here. It's not far to the spring. Feel +dizzy?" + +"A little. But I can walk without help, thank you. Little Jim is down +there, stalking rabbits." + +At the spring Bartley knelt and washed the blood from his face and felt +tenderly of his half closed eye, twisted his neck round and felt a sharp +click--and then his head became clearer. His light shirt was half-torn +from his shoulders, and he was scandalously mussed up, to put it mildly. +He got to his feet and faced Dorothy. + +"There's a formula for this sort of thing, in books," he said. "Just now +I can't recall it. First, however, you say you're 'all right,' if you +are alive. If you are not, it doesn't matter. Then you say, 'a mere +scratch!' But I'm certain of one thing. I never needed a heroine more +than I did when you arrived." + +Dorothy smiled in spite of herself. "You aren't pretending, are you? I +mean--about your condition?" + +"I should say not. My eye is closed. My right arm won't work, and my +head feels queer--and I am _not_ hungry. But my soul goes marching on." + +"Then we'll have to find Jimmy. It's getting late." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +"GIT ALONG CAYUSE" + + +It was dark when Bartley arrived at his hotel in San Andreas. Not caring +to parade his black eye and his swollen mouth, he took his evening meal +at a little Mexican restaurant, and then went back to his room, where he +spent the evening adding a few more pertinent notes to his story; notes +that were fresh in his mind. He knew what it felt like to take a good +licking. In fact, the man is unfortunate who does not. Bartley thought +he could write effectively upon the subject. + +He had found Dorothy's quiet sympathy rather soothing. She had made no +fuss whatever about the matter. And she had not insisted that he stop at +the ranch and get doctored up. Little Jim had promptly asked Bartley, +"Who done it?" and Bartley had told him. Little Jim asked more questions +and was silenced only by a promise from Dorothy to buy him more +cartridges. "That is, if you promise not to say anything about it to +Aunt Jane or Uncle Frank," she stipulated. Little Jim gravely shook +hands upon the agreement. Dorothy knew that he would keep his word. + +This agreement had been made after Bartley had left them. Dorothy had +sworn Little Jim to silence, not so much on Bartley's account as on her +own. Should the news of the fight become public, there would be much +bucolic comment, wherein her name would be mentioned and the whole +affair interpreted to suit the crude imaginings of the community. +Bartley also realized this and, because of it, stuck close to his room +for two days, meanwhile making copious notes for the new story. + +But the making of notes for the story was a rather tame occupation +compared with the possibilities of actual adventure on the road. He had +a good saddle-horse, plenty of optimism, and enough money to pay his way +wherever he chose to go. Incidentally he had a notebook and pencil. What +more did a man need to make life worth while? + +And then, somewhere along the southern highway Cheyenne was jogging with +Filaree and Joshua: + + Seems like I don't git anywhere: + Git along, cayuse, git along. + +Bartley rose and stepped to the window. San Andreas drowsed in the noon +sun. Far to the north he could see a dot of fresh green--the cottonwoods +of the Lawrence rancho. Again he found himself in the grip of +indecision. After all, a fellow didn't have to journey up and down the +land to find material for a story. There was plenty of material right +where he was. All he had to do was to stop, look, and listen. "Hang the +story!" he exclaimed peevishly. "I'll just go out and _live_--and then +write the story." + +It did not take him long to pack his saddle-bags, nor to get together +the few articles of clothing he had had washed by a Mexican woman in +town. He wrote a brief note to Dorothy, stating that he was on his way. +He paid his hotel bill, stepped round to the livery and paid for Dobe's +entertainment, saddled up, and, literally shaking the dust of San +Andreas from his feet, rode down the long trail south, headed for Joe +Scott's placer, as his first stop. + +He would spend the night there and then head south again. The only +living thing that seemed interested in Bartley's exodus was a stray dog +that seemed determined to follow him. Turning from the road, Bartley +took the short cut to Scott's placer. Glancing back he saw that the dog +was still following. Bartley told him to go home. The dog, a very +ordinary yellow dog, didn't happen to have a home--and he was hungry. So +he ignored Bartley's command. + +Whether or not he imagined that Bartley was different from the run of +townsfolk is a question. Possibly he imagined Bartley might give him +something to eat. In any event, the dog stuck to the trail clear up to +Scott's placer. + +Scott was not at the cabin. Bartley hallooed, glanced round, and +dismounted. On the cabin door was a note: "Gone to Phoenix. J. Scott." + +Bartley turned from the cabin to find the dog gazing up at him +mournfully; his expression seemed to convey the idea that they were both +in hard luck. Nobody home and nothing to eat. + +"What, you here!" exclaimed Bartley. + +The yellow dog wagged his tail. He was young and as yet had some faith +in mankind. + +Bartley tied his horse and strode up the trail to the workings. +Everything had been put in order. The dog helped investigate, sniffing +at the wheelbarrow, the buckets, the empty sacks weighted down with rock +to keep them from blowing away, the row of tools, picks and shovels and +bars. Evidently the owner of the place was not concealed beneath any of +these things. + +Meanwhile the afternoon shadows warned Bartley that a camp with water +and feed was the next thing in order. He strode back to the cabin. There +was no problem to solve, although he thought there was. The yellow dog, +an old campaigner in the open, though young in years, solved his problem +by a suggestion. He was tired. There seemed to be no food in sight. He +philosophically trotted to the open shed opposite the cabin and made a +bed for himself in a pile of gunny-sacks. Bartley grinned. Why not? + +Experience had taught Bartley to carry something else, besides a +notebook and pencil, in his saddle-bags. Hence the crackers and can of +corned beef came in handy. The mountain water was cold and refreshing. +There was hay in the burro stable. Moreover, Bartley now had a happy +companion who licked his chops, wagged his tail, and grinned as he +finished a bit of corned beef. Bartley tossed him a cracker. The dog +caught it and it disappeared. This was something like it! Here was a man +who rode a big horse, didn't kick stray dogs, and even shared a meal +with a fellow! Such a man was worth following forever. + +"It would seem that you have adopted me," declared Bartley. The dog had +shown no inclination to leave since being fed. There might possibly be +another meal coming, later. + +"But what am I going to do with you?" queried Bartley, as the dog curled +up on the pile of gunny-sacks. "You don't look as though you habitually +stopped at hotels, and I'll have to, until I catch up with Cheyenne. +What's the answer?" + +The yellow dog, all snuggled down in the sacks, peered at Bartley with +unblinking eyes. Bartley laughed. Then he made his own bed with +gunny-sacks, and after smoking a cigarette, turned in and slept well. + +He did not expect to find the dog there in the morning. But the dog was +there, most evidently waiting for breakfast, grinning his delight at not +being cursed or kicked at, and frisking round the cabin yard in a mad +race after nothing in particular, and indicating in every way possible +that he was the happiest dog that ever wagged a tail. + +Crackers and corned beef again, and spring water for breakfast. And +while Dobe munched his hay, Bartley smoked and roughly planned his +itinerary. He would travel south as far as Phoenix and then swing back +again, over the old Apache Trail--if he did not overtake Cheyenne. + +If he did overtake him, the plan might be changed. It did not matter. He +had set out to find his erstwhile traveling companion. If he found him, +they could just as well travel together. If he did not, Bartley +determined to see much of the country. In so far as influencing Cheyenne +in any way--that would have to be determined by chance. Bartley felt +that his influence with the sprightly Cheyenne weighed very little +against Cheyenne's hatred for Panhandle Sears. + +Once more upon the road, with the early morning shadows slanting across +the valley, Bartley felt that it was his own fault if he did not enjoy +himself. Swinging into an easy trot he turned to see if the yellow dog +were following him. At first Bartley thought the dog had shown wisdom +and had departed for San Andreas, but, happening to glance down on the +other side of his horse, he saw the dog trotting along, close to Dobe's +heels. + +Bartley felt a pity for the dog's dumb, insistent attachment. Reining +in, Bartley told the dog he had better go home. For answer the dog lay +down in the horse's shadow, his head on his paws, and his eyes fixed on +Bartley's face. He did not seem to know what the words meant. But he did +know--only pretended he did not. His rooftree was the Arizona sky, and +his home the place where his adopted master camped at night. + +"Oh, very well," said Bartley, smiling in spite of himself. + +That noon they stopped at a ranch where Bartley had dinner and fed his +horse. Cheyenne had passed that way several days ago, the ranch folk +told him. It was about twenty miles to the next town. Bartley was +invited to stop by and spend the night, but he declined the invitation, +even as they had declined to accept money for their hospitality. +Meanwhile the dog had disappeared. He had not followed Bartley into the +ranch. And it was some twenty minutes or so after Bartley was on the +road again that he discovered the dog, coming round a bend on the run. +There was no getting rid of him. + +The dog, who had often been chased from ranches by other dogs, had at +first waited patiently for Bartley to appear. Then, as Bartley did not +appear, the dog made a short scout through the near-by brush. Finally he +stirred up a rabbit. It was a long, hard chase, but the dog got his +dinner. Then, circling, he took up Bartley's trail from the ranch, +overtaking him with grim determination not to lose sight of him again. + +Arriving at the town of Stacey early that afternoon, Bartley arranged +with the local liveryman for the dog's keep that night. From that night +on, the dog never let Dobe out of his sight. It was evidently intended +that he should sleep in stalls and guard Dobe against the approach of +any one save his master. + +Bartley learned that Cheyenne had passed through Stacey headed south. He +had stopped at the local store to purchase provisions. Estimating +roughly, Bartley was making better time than had Cheyenne, yet it would +be several days before he could possibly overtake him. + +Next day Bartley had ridden better than forty miles, and that night he +stayed at a ranch, where he was made welcome. In fact, any one who rode +a good horse and appeared to be even halfway civil never suffered for +want of a meal or a bed in those days. Gasoline has somewhat diluted +such hospitality, yet there are sections of Arizona still unspoiled, +where the stranger is made to feel that the word "home" has retained its +ancient and honorable significance. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +BOX-S BUSINESS + + +A few days later, Bartley stopped at a small town to have his horse +shod. The blacksmith seemed unusually interested in the horse and +complimented Bartley upon owning such a good mount. + +"Comes from up San Andreas way," said the smith, noticing the brand on +Dobe's flank. + +"Yes. I picked him up at Antelope. I understand he was raised on Senator +Brown's ranch." + +"That's Steve Brown's brand, all right. Heard the news from up that +way?" + +"Nothing special." + +"Seems somebody run off a bunch of Senator Steve's horses, last week. +Thought mebby you'd heard." + +"No." + +"Well, thought I'd just tell you. I seen one posse ride through +yesterday. They'll be lookin' for strangers along the road." + +"Thanks. I bought this horse--and I happen to know Senator Brown." + +"No offense, stranger. If I'd 'a' suspicioned you'd stole that horse, +you wouldn't take him out of here. Like I said to Cheyenne, last week; +he could fetch a whole carload of stock in here and take 'em out again +without trouble. He was tellin' me how he lost his horses, and we got to +talkin' about some folks bein' blind when they're facin' a brand on a +critter. Mebby you heard tell of Cheyenne Hastings?" + +"I have traveled with him. You say he stopped here a few days ago?" + +"Well, not just stopped; he kind of looked in to see how I was gettin' +along. He acted queerlike, for him. I've knowed Cheyenne for years. Said +he was feelin' all right. He ast me if I'd seen Panhandle Sears down +this way, recent. Seemed kind of disappointed when I told him no. +Cheyenne used to be a right-smart man, before he had trouble with that +woman of his." + +"Yes? He told me about it," said Bartley, not caring to hear any more of +the details of Cheyenne's trouble. + +"'Most everybody knows it," stated the smith. "And if I was Sears I'd +sure leave this country." + +"So should I. I've seen Cheyenne handle a gun." + +"You got the right idea!" exclaimed the blacksmith, evidently pleased. +"All Cheyenne's friends have been waitin' for years for him to clean +that slate and start fresh again. He used to be a right-smart hand, +before he had trouble." + +The blacksmith accompanied his conversation with considerable elbow +motion and the rattle and clang of shaping horseshoes. Presently Dobe +was new shod and ready for the road. Bartley paid the smith, thanked him +for a good job, and rode south. Evidently Cheyenne's open quarrel with +Sears was the talk of the countryside. It was expected of Cheyenne that +he would "clean the slate and start fresh" some day. And cleaning the +slate meant killing Sears. To Bartley it seemed strange that any one +should be pleased with the idea of one man killing another deliberately. + +In speaking of the recent horse-stealings, the blacksmith had mentioned +no names. But Bartley at once drew the conclusion that it had been +Sneed's men who had run off the Senator's horses. Sneed was known to be +a horse-thief. He had never been convicted, although he had been +arrested and tried several times. It was also known that Senator Steve +had openly vowed that he would rid the country of Sneed, sooner or +later. + +Several times, during his journey south, Bartley was questioned, but +never interfered with. Thus far he heard of Cheyenne occasionally, but, +nearing Phoenix, he lost track of his erstwhile companion. However, he +took it for granted that Phoenix had been Cheyenne's destination. And +Bartley wanted to see the town for himself, in any event. + + * * * * * + +Cheyenne, arriving in Phoenix, stabled his horses at the Top-Notch +livery, and took a room for himself directly opposite the +Hole-in-the-Wall gambling-house. He refused to drink with the occasional +acquaintance he met, not because he did not like liquor, but because +Colonel Stevenson, the city marshal, had told him that Panhandle Sears +and his friends were in town. + +"Why don't you tell me to go git him?" queried Cheyenne, looking the +marshal in the eye. + +"I didn't think it was necessary," said the marshal. + +"What? To git him?" + +The marshal smiled. Then casually: "I hear that Panhandle and his +friends are drinking heavy and spending considerable money. They must +have made a strike, somewhere." + +"I see by the paper somebody run off a bunch of the Box-S hosses," +remarked Cheyenne, also casually. + +Then, without further comment, he left the marshal wondering if +Panhandle's presence in town had any connection with the recent +running-off of the Box-S stock. The sheriff of Antelope had wired +Colonel Stevenson to be on the lookout for Bill Sneed and his gang, but +had not mentioned Panhandle's name in the telegram. + +The following day, Senator Brown and his foreman, Lon Pelly, arrived in +Phoenix and had a long talk with the marshal. That afternoon Lon Pelly +took the train south. Early in the evening Senator Brown received a +telegram from Pelly stating that Sneed and four men had left Tucson, +headed north and riding horses. + +The stolen horses had been trailed south as far as Phoenix. It was +evident that they had been driven to Tucson and disposed of somewhere in +that vicinity. Yet there was no conclusive proof that Sneed had stolen +the horses. As usual, he had managed to keep a few days ahead of his +pursuers. Sneed was known to have left his camp in the hills above San +Andreas. The first posse had found the camp abandoned. Sneed had not +been identified until Pelly got track of him in Tucson. + +During his talk with Senator Brown the marshal mentioned the fact that +Panhandle Sears was in Phoenix. + +"Did Panhandle come in from the south?" queried the Senator. + +"Nobody seems to know." + +"Well, if he did, we have got the link that's missing in this chain, +Colonel. Pelly is holdin' one end of the chain down in Tucson, and the +other end is layin' right here in Phoenix. If we can connect her up--" + +"But we haven't located the horses, Senator." + +"Colonel, I'll find those horses if I can. But I'm after Sneed, this +journey. He has been running things about ten years too long to suit me. +I've got a check-book with me. You have the men. I'm out to do a little +housecleanin' of my own. If we can get Panhandle to talk, we can find +out something." + +"He's been on a drunk for a week. I could run him in for disturbing the +peace and--" + +"And he'd suspect what we're after and freeze up, tight. No, let him run +loose, but keep your eye on him. He'll give the deal away, sooner or +later." + +"I hope it's sooner," said the Colonel. "Cheyenne is holed up down the +street, waiting for a chance to get Sears. Cheyenne didn't say so, but +it was in his eye. He's changed considerable since I saw him last." + +"Was there any one with him: a tall, dark-haired, kind of clean-cut boy, +for instance?" + +"No, not when I saw him. He rode in with his usual outfit." + +"Wonder where he lost young Bartley? Well, I'm glad the boy isn't here. +He might get hurt." + +"Wild?" + +"No. Quiet. Writes stories. He's out here to look at the West. Stayed at +the ranch a spell. Mrs. Brown likes him." + +Colonel Stevenson nodded and offered the Senator a cigar. "Let's step +over to the hotel, Steve. It's a long time since--" + + * * * * * + +That evening Bartley arrived in Phoenix, put up his horse, and, upon +inquiry, learned that the Grand Central was the best hotel in town. He +was registering when he noticed Senator Brown's name. He made inquiry of +the clerk. Yes, the Senator had arrived that morning. And would Mr. +Bartley prefer a front room? The front rooms on the north side were +cooler. No, the clerk knew nothing about a Mr. Cheyenne. There was no +one by that name registered at the hotel. It was past the regular dinner +hour, but the dining-room was not yet closed. There was a men's +furnishings store just across the street. They carried a complete stock. +And did Mr. Bartley wish to be called at any special hour in the +morning? Breakfast was served from six-thirty to nine-thirty. + +Bartley had dinner, and later strolled around to the Top-Notch livery to +see that Dobe was being well cared for. While talking with the +stableman, Bartley noticed a gray pony and in the next stall a +buckskin--Cheyenne's horses. + +"Those are Cheyenne's horses, aren't they?" he queried. + +"I dunno. Mebby that's his name. He left 'em here a few days ago. I only +seen him once, since then." + +"I'll be around in the morning. If a man called Cheyenne should happen +to come in, just tell him that Bartley is stopping at the Grand +Central." + +"I'll tell him, all right," said the stableman. + +And as soon as Bartley was out of sight, that worthy called up the city +marshal and told him that a stranger had ridden in and stabled a horse +bearing the Box-S brand. A big reward had been offered for the stolen +horses. + +At the hotel Bartley learned that Senator Brown had gone out for the +evening. Tired from his long ride, Bartley went to his room. Senator +Steve and Cheyenne were in town. Bartley recalled the blacksmith's talk +about the stolen horses. No doubt that accounted for Senator Steve's +presence in Phoenix. As for Cheyenne--Bartley decided to hunt him up in +the morning. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL + + +Panhandle Sears, in a back room in the Hole-in-the-Wall, was ugly drunk. +The Hole-in-the-Wall had the reputation of running a straight game. +Whether or not the game was straight, Panhandle had managed to drop his +share of the money from the sale of the Box-S horses. He had had nothing +to do with the actual stealing of them, but he had, with the assistance +of his Mexican companion Posmo, engineered the sale to a rancher living +out of Tucson. It was understood that the horses would find their way +across the border. + +Now Panhandle was broke again. He stated that unpleasant fact to his +companions, Posmo and Shorty,--the latter a town loafer he had picked up +in Antelope. Shorty had nothing to say. Panhandle's drunken aggressive +cowed him. But Posmo, who had really found the market for the stolen +stock, felt that he had been cheated. Panhandle had promised him a third +of his share of the money. Panhandle had kept on promising from day to +day, liquidating his promises with whiskey. And now there was no money. + +Posmo knew Panhandle well enough not to press the matter, just then. But +Panhandle, because neither of his companions had said anything when told +that he was broke, turned on Posmo. + +"What you got to say about it, anyway?" he asked with that curious +stubbornness born in liquor. + +"I say that you owe me a hundred dollar," declared Posmo. + +"Well, go ahead and collect!" + +"Yes, go ahead and collect," said Shorty, suddenly siding with +Panhandle. "We blowed her in. We're broke, but we ain't cryin' about +it." + +"That is all right," said Posmo quietly. "If the money is gone, she is +gone; yes?" + +"That's the way to say it!" asserted Panhandle, changing front and +slapping Posmo on the shoulder. "We're broke, and who the hell cares?" + +"Let's have a drink," suggested Shorty. "I got a couple of beans left." + +They slouched out from the back room and stood at the bar. Panhandle +immediately became engaged in noisy argument with one of the frequenters +of the place. Senator Brown's name was mentioned by the other, but +mentioned casually, with no reference whatever to stolen horses. + +Panhandle laughed. "So old Steve is down here lookin' for his hosses, +eh?" + +"What horses?" + +The question, spoken by no one knew whom, chilled the group to silence. + +Panhandle saw that he had made a blunder. "Who wants to know?" he +queried, gazing round the barroom. + +"Why, it's in all the papers," declared the bartender conciliatingly. +"The Box-S horses was run off a couple of weeks ago." + +Panhandle turned his back on the group and called for a drink. + +Shorty was tugging gently at his sleeve. "Posmo's beat it, Pan." + +"To hell with him! Beat it yourself if you feel like it." + +"I'll stick Pan," declared Shorty, yet his furtive eyes belied his +assertion. + + * * * * * + +For three days Bartley had tried to find where Cheyenne was staying, but +without success, chiefly because Cheyenne kept close to his room during +the daytime, watching the entrance to the Hole-in-the-Wall, waiting for +Panhandle to step out into the daylight, when there would be folk on the +street who could witness that Panhandle had drawn his gun first. +Cheyenne determined to give his enemy that chance, and then kill him. +But thus far Panhandle had not appeared on the street in the daytime, so +far as Cheyenne knew. + +Incidentally, Senator Steve had warned Bartley to keep away from the +Hole-in-the-Wall district after dark, intimating that there was more in +the wind than Cheyenne's feud with Panhandle Sears. So Bartley contented +himself with acting as a sort of private secretary for the Senator, a +duty that was a pleasure. The hardest thing Bartley did was to refuse +bottled entertainment, at least once out of every three times it was +offered. + +On the evening of the fourth day after Pelly had wired the Senator that +Sneed and his men had ridden north from Tucson, Posmo, hanging about the +eastern outskirts of Phoenix, saw a small band of horsemen against the +southern sky-line. Knowing the trail they would take, north, Posmo had +timed their arrival almost to the hour. They would pass to the east of +Phoenix, and take the old Apache Trail, North. Posmo had his horse +saddled and hidden in a draw. He mounted and rode directly toward the +oncoming horsemen. + +He sang as he rode. It was safer to do that, when it was growing dark. +The riders would know he was a Mexican, and that he did not wish to +conceal his identity on the road. He did not care to be mistaken for an +enemy, especially so near Phoenix. + +Sneed, a giant in the dusk, reined in as Posmo hailed the group. Sneed +asked his name. Posmo replied, and was told to ride up. Sneed, +separating himself from his men, rode a little ahead and met Posmo. + +"Panhandle is give the deal away," stated Posmo. + +"How?" + +"He drunk and spend all the money. He do not give me anything for that I +make the deal--over there," and Posmo gestured toward the south. + +"Double-crossed you, eh? And now you're sore and want his scalp." + +"He talk too much of the Box-S horses in that cantina," stated Posmo +deliberately. "He say that you owe him money." This was an afterthought, +and an invention. + +"Who did he say that to?" queried Sneed. + +"He tell everybody in that place that you turn the good trick and then +throw him hard." + +"Either you're lyin', or Panhandle's crazy." Sneed turned and called to +his men, a few paces off. They rode up on tired horses. "What do you +say, boys? Panhandle is talkin', over there in Phoenix. Posmo, here, +says Panhandle is talkin' about us. Now nobody's got a thing on us. We +been south lookin' at some stock we're thinkin' of buyin'. Want to ride +over with me and have a little talk with Panhandle?" + +"Ain't that kind of risky, Cap?" + +"Every time! But it ain't necessary to ride right into the marshal's +office. We put our little deal through clean. The horses we're ridin' +belong to us. And who's goin' to stop us from ridin' in, or out, of +town? I aim to talk to Panhandle into ridin' north with us. It's safer +to have him along. If you all don't want to ride with me, I'll go in +alone." + +"We're with you, Cap," said one of the men. + +"Mebby it's safer to ride through the towns from now on than to keep +dodgin' 'em," suggested Lawson. + +"Come on, then," and Sneed indicated Posmo. + +"And don't make any mistakes," threatened Lawson, riding close to the +Mexican. "If you do--you won't last." + +Posmo had not counted on this turn of affairs. He had supposed that his +news would send Sneed and his men in to have it out with Panhandle, or +that one of them would ride in and persuade Panhandle to join them. But +he now knew that he would have to ride with Sneed, or he would be +suspected of double-dealing. + +At the fork of the road leading into Phoenix, Sneed reined in. "We're +ridin' tired horses, boys. And we ain't lookin' for trouble. All we want +is Panhandle. We'll get him." + +Sitting his big horse like a statue, his club foot concealed by the long +_tapadero_, his physical being dominating his followers, Sneed headed +the group that rode slowly down the long open stretch bordering on the +east of the town. They entered town quietly and stopped a few doors +below the lighted front of the Hole-in-the-Wall. + +"Just step in and tell Panhandle I want to see him," and Sneed indicated +one of his riders. + +The man went in and came out again with the information that Panhandle +had left the saloon about an hour ago; that he had told the bartender he +was going out to get some money and come back and play the wheel. + +"Get on your horse," said Sneed, who had been gazing up the street while +listening to the other. "Here comes Panhandle now. I'll do the talking." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +CHEYENNE PLAYS BIG + + +Watching from his darkened window, Cheyenne had seen Panhandle leave the +Hole-in-the-Wall, and stride up the street alone. It was the first time +Cheyenne had seen Sears since he had taken the single room opposite the +gambling-house. Cheyenne stepped back, drew down the curtain, and turned +on the light. The bare board floor was littered with cigarette stubs. A +pair of saddle-bags hung on the iron bedstead. Other furniture was a +chair, a scratched and battered washstand, a cracked mirror. Standing by +the washstand Cheyenne took his gun from its holster, half-cocked it, +and punched out the loaded cartridges. He pulled the pin, pushed the +cylinder out with his thumb, and examined it against the light. +Carefully he cleaned and replaced the cylinder, reloaded it, held the +hammer back, and spun the cylinder with his hand. Finally he thrust the +gun in the holster and, striding to the bed, sat down, his chin in his +hands. + +Somewhere out there on the street, or in the Hole-in-the-Wall, he would +meet his enemy--in a few minutes, perhaps. There would be no wordy +argument. They understood each other, and had understood each other, +since that morning, long ago when they had passed each other on the +road--Panhandle riding in to Laramie and Cheyenne and Little Jim riding +from the abandoned home. Cheyenne thought of Little Jim, of his wife, +and, by some queer trick of mind, of Bartley. He knew that the Easterner +was in town. The stableman at the Top-Notch had told him. Well, he had +seen Panhandle. Now he would go out and meet him, or overtake him. + +Some one turned from the street into the hall below and rapidly climbed +the stairs. Cheyenne heard a knock at the door opposite his. That room +was unoccupied. Then came a brisk knock at his own door. + +"What do you want?" + +"Is that you, Cheyenne?" + +"Who wants to know?" + +"Bartley. I just found out from Colonel Stevenson where you were +camping." + +Cheyenne stepped to the door and unlocked it. + +Bartley entered, glanced round the room, and then shook hands with +Cheyenne. "Been a week trying to find you. How are you and how are the +horses? Man, but it was a long, lonesome ride from San Andreas! If it +hadn't been for that dog that adopted me--by the way, Colonel Stevenson +was telling Senator Brown that Panhandle is in town. I suppose you know +it." + +"I seen him, this evenin'." + +"So did I. Just passed him as I came down here. The Colonel said you +were camping somewhere opposite the Hole-in-the-Wall. How is +everything?" + +"Quiet." + +"Were you going anywhere?" + +"No place in particular." + +Bartley sat down on the edge of the bed and lighted a cigarette. +Cheyenne stood as though waiting for him to leave. There was something +queer about Cheyenne. His eyes were somber, his manner stiff and +unnatural. His greeting had been cool. + +"About that man Panhandle--" Bartley began, but Cheyenne interrupted +with a gesture. + +"You say you saw him, on your way down here?" + +"Yes. He didn't seem to recognize me. He was walking fast." + +"How was Little Jim when you left?" + +"Just fine!" + +"And the folks?" + +"Same as ever. Miss Gray--" + +"Well, I reckon I'll be steppin' along. Glad I saw you again." + +"Going to leave town to-night?" + +"I aim to." + +Bartley could no longer ignore Cheyenne's attitude. He knew that +something had happened or was about to happen. Cheyenne's manner did not +invite question or suggestion. Yet Bartley had promised Dorothy that he +would exert what influence he had--and it seemed a critical time, just +at that moment. + +"I'd like to talk with you a minute, if you have time," said Bartley. + +"Won't do no good, pardner." And without waiting for Bartley to say +anything more, Cheyenne stepped up to him and held out his hand. "So +long," he said. + +"Well, good luck!" replied Bartley, and shook hands with him heartily. +"I hope you win." + +Cheyenne gestured toward the door. Bartley stepped out into the hallway. +The light in the room flickered out. + +"I reckon you'll be goin' back to your hotel," said Cheyenne. "Wait. +I'll just step down first." + +At the foot of the stairs Cheyenne paused and glanced up and down the +street. Directly across the way the Hole-in-the-Wall was ablaze with +light. A few doors east of the gambling-hall an indistinct group of +riders sat their horses as though waiting for some one. Cheyenne drew +back into the shadows of the hallway. + +Bartley peered out over Cheyenne's shoulder. From up the street in the +opposite direction came the distant click of boot-heels. A figure strode +swiftly toward the patch of white light in front of the gambling-hall. + +"Just stand back a little, pardner," said Cheyenne. + +Bartley felt his heart begin to thump as Cheyenne gently loosened his +gun in the holster. + +"It's Panhandle!" whispered Bartley, as the figure of Sears was +silhouetted against the lighted windows of the place opposite. + +Out of the shadows where the riders waited came a single, abrupt word, +peremptory, incisive: "Panhandle!" + +Panhandle, about to turn into the lighted doorway, stopped short. + +Sneed had called to Panhandle; but it was Posmo the Mexican who rode +forward to meet him. Sneed, close behind Posmo, watched to see that the +Mexican carried out his instructions, which were simply to tell +Panhandle to get his horse and leave town with them. Seeing the group +behind the Mexican, Panhandle's first thought was that Posmo had +betrayed him to the authorities. It _was_ Posmo. Panhandle recognized +the Mexican's pinto horse. + +Enraged by what he thought was a trap, and with drunken contempt for the +man he had cheated, Panhandle jerked out his gun and fired at the +Mexican; fired again at the bulky figure behind Posmo, and staggered +back as a slug shattered his shoulder. Cursing, he swung round and +emptied his gun into the blur of riders that separated and spread across +the street, returning his fire from the vantage of the shadows. Flinging +his empty gun at the nearest rider, Panhandle lurched toward the doorway +where Cheyenne and Bartley stood watching. He had almost made the curb +when he lunged and fell. He rose and tried to crawl to the shelter of +the doorway. One of Sneed's men spurred forward and shot Panhandle in +the back. He sank down, his body twitching. + +Bartley gasped as he saw the rider deliberately throw another shot into +the dying man. Then Cheyenne's arm jerked up. The rider swerved and +pitched from the saddle. Another of Sneed's men crossed the patch of +light, and a splinter ripped from the door-casing where Cheyenne stood. +Cheyenne's gun came down again and the rider pitched forward and fell. +His horse galloped down the street. Again Cheyenne fired, and again. +Then, in the sudden stillness that followed, Cheyenne stepped out and +dragged Panhandle into the hallway. Some one shouted. A window above the +saloon opposite was raised. Doors opened and men came out, questioning +each other, gathering in a group in front of the Hole-in-the-Wall. + +Stunned by the sudden shock of events, the snakelike flash of guns in +the semi-darkness, and the realization that several men had been gravely +wounded, perhaps killed, Bartley heard Cheyenne's voice as though from a +distance. + +Cheyenne's hand was on Bartley's arm. "Come on. The game is closed for +the night." + +As they stepped from the doorway a man stopped them and asked what had +happened. + +"We're goin' for a doctor," said Cheyenne. "Somebody got hurt." + +Hastening along the shadowy wall of the building, they turned a corner +and by a roundabout way reached the city marshal's office. + +The marshal, who had been summoned in haste, was at his desk. "Sneed and +his bunch got Panhandle," stated Cheyenne quietly. "Mr. Bartley, here, +saw the row. Four of Sneed's men are down. One got away." + +"Sure it was Sneed?" + +"I reckon your men will fetch him in, right soon. Panhandle got Sneed +and a Mexican, before they stopped him." + +Colonel Stevenson glanced at Cheyenne's belt and holster. Cheyenne drew +his gun and handed it to the marshal. "She's fresh loaded," he said. + +"Cheyenne emptied his gun trying to fight off the men who killed +Panhandle," said Bartley, stepping forward. + +"And you're sure they were Sneed's men?" queried the marshal. + +Cheyenne nodded. + +"I am obliged to you," said the marshal. "But I'll have to detain you +both until after the inquest." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +TWO TRAILS HOME + + +Bartley was the chief witness at the inquest. He told his story in a +manner that impressed the coroner's jury. Senator Brown was present, and +identified one of the dead outlaws as Sneed. Posmo, killed by +Panhandle's first shot, was known in Phoenix. Panhandle, riddled with +bullets, was also identified by the Senator, Cheyenne, and several +habitués of the gambling-hall. Bartley himself identified the body of +one man as that of Hull. + +Cheyenne was the last witness called. He admitted that he had had +trouble with Panhandle Sears, and that he was looking for him when the +fight started; that Sneed and his men had unexpectedly taken the quarrel +out of his hands, and that he had fired exactly five shots at the men +who had killed Panhandle and it had been close work, and easy. Panhandle +had put up a game fight. The odds had been heavily against him. He had +been standing in the light of the gambling-hall doorway while the men +who had killed him had been in the shadow. "He didn't have a chance," +concluded Cheyenne. + +"You say you were looking for this man Sears, and yet you took his part +against Sneed's outfit?" queried the coroner. + +"I didn't just say so. Mr. Bartley said that." + +"Mr. Bartley seems to be the only disinterested witness of the +shooting," observed the coroner. + +"If there is any further evidence needed to convince the jury that Mr. +Bartley's statements are impartial and correct, you might read this," +declared the city marshal. "It is the antemortem statement of one of +Sneed's men, taken at the hospital at three-fifteen this morning. He +died at four o'clock." + +The coroner read the statement aloud. Ten minutes later the verdict was +given. The deceased, named severally, had met death by gunshot wounds, +_at the hands of parties unknown_. + +It was a caustic verdict, intended for the benefit of the cattle-and +horse-thieves of the Southwest. It conveyed the hint that the city of +Phoenix was prompt to resent the presence of such gentry within its +boundaries. One of the daily papers commented upon the fact that "the +parties unknown" must have been fast and efficient gunmen. Cheyenne's +name was not mentioned, and that was due to the influence of the +marshal, Senator Brown, and the mayor, which left readers of the papers +to infer that the police of Phoenix had handled the matter themselves. + +Through the evidence of the outlaw who had survived long enough to make +a statement, the Box-S horses were traced to a ranch in the neighborhood +of Tucson, identified, and finally returned to their owner. + +The day following the inquest, Bartley and Cheyenne left Phoenix, with +Fort Apache as their first tentative destination, and with the promise +of much rugged and wonderful country in between as an incentive to +journey again with his companion, although Bartley needed no special +incentive. At close range Bartley had beheld the killing of several men. +And he could not free himself from the vision of Panhandle crawling +toward him in the patch of white light, the flitting of horsemen back +and forth, and the red flash of six-guns. Bartley was only too anxious +to leave the place. + +It was not until they were two days out of Phoenix that Cheyenne +mentioned the fight--and then he did so casually, as though seeking an +opinion from his comrade. + +Bartley merely said he was glad Cheyenne had not killed Panhandle. +Cheyenne pondered a while, riding loosely, and gazing down at the trail. + +"I reckon I would 'a' killed him--if I'd 'a' got the chance," he said. +"I meant to. No, it wasn't me or Panhandle that settled that argument: +it was somethin' bigger than us. Folks that reads about the fight, +knowin' I was in Phoenix, will most like say that I got him. Let 'em say +so. I know I didn't; and you know I didn't--and that's good enough for +me." + +"And Dorothy and Aunt Jane and Little Jim," said Bartley. + +"Meanin' Little Jim won't have to grow up knowin' that his father was a +killer." + +"I was thinking of that." + +"Well, right here is where I quit thinkin' about it and talkin' about +it. If that dog of yours there was to kill a coyote, in a fair fight, I +reckon he wouldn't think about it long." + +A few minutes later Cheyenne spoke of the country they were in. + +"She's rough and unfriendly, right here," he said. "But north a ways she +sure makes up for it. There's big spruce and high mesas and grass to +your pony's knees and water 'most anywhere you look for it. I ain't much +on huntin'. But there's plenty deer and wild turkey up that way, and +some bear. And with a bent pin and a piece of string a fella can catch +all the trout he wants. Arizona is a mighty surprisin' State, in spots. +Most folks from the East think she's sagebrush and sand, except the +Grand Cañon; but that's kind of rented out to tourists, most of the +time. I like the Painted Desert better." + +"Where haven't you been?" said Bartley, laughing. + +"Well, I ain't been North for quite a spell." + +And Cheyenne fell silent, thinking of Laramie, of the broad prairies of +Wyoming, of his old homestead, and the days when he was happy with his +wife and Little Jim. But he was not silent long. He visioned a plan that +he might work out, after he had seen Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank again. +Meanwhile, the sun was shining, the road wound among the ragged hills, +and Filaree and Joshua stepped along briskly, their hoof-beats +suggesting the rhythm of a song. + +That night they camped in the hill country not far from a crossroads +store. In the morning they bought a few provisions and an extra canteen. + +"There's a piece of country between here and the real hills that is like +to be dry," explained Cheyenne. "We're leavin' the road, this mornin', +and cuttin' north. She's some rough, the way we're headed, but you'll +like it." + +From the sagebrush of the southern slopes they climbed slowly up to a +country of scattered juniper. By noon they were among the piñons, +following a dim bridle trail that Cheyenne's horses seemed to know. + +"In a couple of days, I aim to spring a surprise on you," said Cheyenne +as they turned in that night. "I figure to show you somethin' you been +wantin' to see." + +"Bring on your bears," said Bartley, laughing. + +Cheyenne's moodiness had vanished. Frequently he hummed his old trail +song as they rode. Next day, as they nooned among the spruce of the high +country, Cheyenne suddenly drew the dice from his pocket and, turning +them in his hands, finally tossed them over the rim-rock of the cañon +edging their camp. "It's a fool game," he said. And Bartley knew, by the +otter's tone, that he did not alone refer to the game of dice. + +The air was thin, clear, and vital with a quality that the air of the +lower country lacked. Bartley felt an ambition to settle down and go to +writing. He thought that he now had material enough and to spare. They +were in a country, vast, fenceless, verdant--almost awesome in its +timbered silences. His imagination was stirred. + +From their noon camp they rode into the timber and from the timber into +a mountain meadow, knee-deep with lush grass. There was no visible trail +across the meadow but the horses seemed to know which way to go. After +crossing the meadow, Filaree, leading the cavalcade, turned and took a +steep trail down the side of a hidden cañon, a mighty chasm, rock-walled +and somber. At the bottom the horses drank, and, crossing the stream, +climbed the farther side. In an hour they were again on the rim, +plodding noiselessly through the sun-flecked shadows of the giant +spruce. + +"How about that surprise?" queried Bartley. + +"Ain't this good enough?" said Cheyenne, gesturing roundabout. + +"Gosh, yes! Lead on, Macduff." + +About four that afternoon the horses pricked their ears and quickened +their pace. Filaree and Joshua especially seemed interested in getting +along the silent trail; and presently the trail merged with another +trail, more defined. A few hundred yards down this trail, and Bartley +saw a big log cabin; to the left and beyond it a corral, empty, and with +the bars down. Bartley had never seen the place before, and did not +realize where he was, yet he had noticed that the horses seemed to know +the place. + +"We won't stop by," said Cheyenne. + +"Any one live there?" + +"Sneed used to," stated Cheyenne. + +Then Bartley knew that they were not far from the San Andreas Valley +and--well, the Lawrence ranch. + +They dropped down a long trail into another cañon which finally spread +to a green valley dotted with ranches. The horses stepped briskly. +Presently, rounding a bend, they saw a ranch-house, far below, and +sharply defined squares of alfalfa. + +"That house with the red roof--" said Bartley. + +"That's her," asserted Cheyenne, a trifle ambiguously. + +"Then we've swung round in a circle." + +"We done crossed the res'avation, pardner. And we didn't see a dog-gone +Injun." + +Little Jim was the first to catch sight of them as they jogged down the +last stretch of trail leaving the foothills. He recognized the horses +long before their riders were near enough to be identified as his father +and Bartley. + +Little Jim did not rush to Aunt Jane and tell her excitedly that they +were coming. Instead, he quietly saddled up his pony and rode out to +meet them. Part-way up the slope he waited. + +His greeting was not effusive. "I just thought I'd ride up and tell you +folks that--'that I seen you comin'." + +"How goes the hunting?" queried Bartley. + +"Fine! I got six rabbits yesterday. Dorry is gittin' so she can shoot +pretty good, too. How you makin' it, dad?" + +Cheyenne pushed back his hat and gazed at his young son. "Pretty fair, +for an old man," said Cheyenne presently. "You been behavin' yourself?" + +"Sure." + +"How would you like to ride a real hoss, once?" + +"You mean _your_ hoss?" + +"Uh-huh." + +"I'll trade you, even." + +"No, you won't, son. But you can ride him down to the ranch, if you +like." + +Little Jim almost tumbled from his pony in his eagerness to ride Joshua, +his father's horse, with the big saddle and rope and the carbine under +the stirrup leather. + +"You musta made a long ride," declared Jimmy, as he scrambled up on +Joshua. "Josh's shoes is worn thin. He'll be throwin' one, next." + +Jimmy called attention to the horse's shoes, that his father and Bartley +might not see how really pleased he was to ride a "real horse." + +"Yes, a long ride. How is Aunt Jane and Dorry?" + +"Oh, they're all right. Uncle Frank he cut twenty-two tons of alfalfa +off the lower field last week." + +Cheyenne sat sideways on Jimmy's pony as they rode down the last easy +slope and turned into the ranch gate. Aunt Jane, who was busy +cooking,--it seemed that Aunt Jane was always busy cooking something or +other, when she wasn't dressmaking or mending clothing or +ironing,--greeted them warmly. Frank was working down at the lower end. +Dorry had gone to San Andreas. She would be back 'most any time, now. +And weren't they hungry? + +They were. And there was fresh milk and pie. But they put up the horses +first. + +Later, Cheyenne and Little Jim decided to walk down to the lower end of +the ranch and see Uncle Frank. Cheyenne had washed his hands and face +before eating, as had Bartley. But Bartley did not let it go at that. He +begged some hot water and again washed and shaved, brushed his clothes, +and changed his flannel shirt for a clean one. Then he strolled to the +kitchen and chatted with Aunt Jane, who had read of the killing of the +outlaws in Phoenix, and had many questions to ask. It had been a +terrible tragedy. And Mr. Bartley had actually seen the shooting? + +Aunt Jane was glad that Cheyenne had not been mixed up in it, especially +as that man Sears had been killed. But now that he had been killed, +people would talk less about her brother. It really had seemed an act of +Providence that Cheyenne had had nothing to do with the shooting. Of +course, Mr. Bartley knew about the trouble that her brother had had--and +why he had never settled down-- + +"His name was not mentioned in the papers," said Bartley, thinking that +he must say something. + +"There's Dorry, now," said Aunt Jane, glancing through the kitchen +window. + +Bartley promptly excused himself and stepped out to the gate, which he +vaulted and opened as Dorothy waved a greeting. Bartley carried the +groceries in, and later helped unhitch the team. They chatted casually +neither referring to the subject uppermost in their minds. + +When Cheyenne returned, riding on a load of alfalfa with Uncle Frank and +Little Jim, Bartley managed to let Uncle Frank know that he was not +supposed to have had a hand in the Phoenix affair. Cheyenne thanked him. + +"But you ain't talked with Dorry, yet, have you?" queried Cheyenne. + +Bartley shook his head. + +"She'll find out," stated Cheyenne. "You can't fool Dorry." + +That evening, while Uncle Frank and Cheyenne were discussing a matter +which seemed confidential to themselves, and while Aunt Jane was quietly +keeping an eye on Jimmy, who could hardly keep from interrupting his +seniors--Bartley and Dorry didn't count, just then, for _they_ were +also talking together--Dorothy intimated to Bartley that she would like +to talk with him alone. She did not say so, nor make any gesture to +indicate her wish, yet Bartley interpreted her expression correctly. + +He suggested that they step out to the veranda, where it was cooler. +From the veranda they strolled to the big gate, and there she asked him, +point-blank, to tell her just what had happened in Phoenix. She had read +the papers, and she surmised that there was more to the affair than the +papers printed. For instance, Senator Brown, upon his return to the +Box-S, had kindly sent word to Aunt Jane that Cheyenne was all right. +Bartley thought that the thoughtful Senator had rather spilled the +beans. + +"Did Cheyenne--" and Dorothy hesitated. + +"Cheyenne didn't kill Sears," stated Bartley. + +"You talked with Cheyenne, and got him to keep out of it?" + +"I tried to. He wouldn't listen. Then I wished him good luck and told +him I hoped he'd win." + +Dorothy was puzzled. "How do you know he didn't?" + +"Because I was standing beside him when it happened. I don't see why you +shouldn't know about it. Cheyenne and I were just about to cross the +street, that night, when we saw Panhandle coming down the opposite side. +Sneed and his men, who were evidently waiting for him, called to +Panhandle. Panhandle must have thought it was the sheriff, or the city +marshal. It happened suddenly. Panhandle began firing at Sneed and his +riders. They shot him down just as he reached the curb in front of us. +They kept on shooting at him as he lay in the street. Cheyenne couldn't +stand that. He emptied his gun, trying to keep them off--and he emptied +some saddles." + +"Thank you for trying to--to give Cheyenne my message," said Dorothy. +And she shook hands with him. + +"Do you know this is the loveliest vista I have seen since leaving +Phoenix--this San Andreas Valley," said Bartley. + +"But you came through the Apache Forest," said Dorothy, not for the sake +of argument, but because Bartley was still holding her hand. + +"Yes. But you don't happen to live in the Apache Forest." + +"But, Mr. Bartley--" + +"John, please." + +"Cheyenne calls you Jack." + +"Better still. Do you think Aunt Jane would mind if we walked up the +road as far as--well, as far as the spring?" + +"Hadn't you better ask her?" + +"No. But she wouldn't object. Would you?" + +Slowly Dorothy withdrew her hand and Bartley opened the big gate. As +they walked down the dim, starlit road they were startled by the advent +of a yellow dog that bounded from the brush and whined joyously. + +"And I had forgotten him," said Bartley. "Oh, he's mine! I can't get +away from the fact. He adopted me, and has followed me clear through. I +had forgotten that he is afraid to come into a ranch. And I am ashamed +to say that I forgot to feed him, to-night. He isn't at all beautiful, +but he's tremendously loyal." + +"And he shall have a good supper when we get back," declared Dorothy. + +The yellow dog padded along behind them in the dusk, content to be with +his master again. Bartley talked with Dorothy about his plans, his +hopes, and her promise to become the heroine of his new story. Then he +surprised her by stating that he had decided to make a home in the San +Andreas Valley. + +"You really don't know anything about me, or my people," he said. "And I +want you to know. My only living relative is my sister, and she is +scandalously well-to-do. Her husband makes money manufacturing hooks and +eyes. He's not romantic, but he's solid. As for me--" + +And Bartley spoke of his own income, just what he could afford to spend +each month, and just how much he managed to save, and his ambition to +earn more. Dorothy realized that he was talking to her just as he would +have talked to a chum--a man friend, without reserve, and she liked him +for it. She had been curious about him, his vocation, and even about his +plans; and she felt a glow of affection because he had seemed so loyal +to his friendship with Cheyenne, and because he had been kind to Little +Jim Hastings. While doing so with no other thought than to please the +boy, Bartley had made no mistake in buying him that new rifle. + +As they came to the big rock by the roadside--a spot which Bartley had +good reason to remember--he paused and glanced at Dorothy. She was +laughing. + +"You looked so funny that day. You were the most dilapidated-looking +person--for a writer--" + +"I imagine I was, after Hull got through with me. Let's sit down awhile. +I want to tell you what I should like to do. Are you comfortable?" + +Dorothy nodded. + +"Well," said Bartley, seating himself beside her, "I should like to rent +a small place in the valley, a place just big enough for two, and then +settle down and write this story. Then, if I sold it, I think I should +lock up, get a pack-horse and another saddle-horse, outfit for a long +trip, and then take the trail north and travel for, say, six months, +seeing the country, camping along the way, visiting with folks, and +incidentally gathering material for another story. It could be done." + +"But why rent a place, if you plan to leave it right away?" + +"Because I should want a home to come to, a place to think of when I was +on the trails. You know a fellow can't wander up and down the world +forever. I like to travel, but I think a chap ought to spend at least +half a year under a roof. Don't you?" + +"I was thinking of Cheyenne," said Dorothy musingly. + +"I think of him a great deal," declared Bartley. + +Dorothy glanced up at him from her pondering. + +Bartley leaned toward her. "Dorothy, will you help me make that home, +here in the valley, and be my comrade on the trails?" + +"Hadn't you better ask Aunt Jane?" said Dorothy softly, yet with a touch +of humor. + +"Do you mean it?" Bartley's voice was boyishly enthusiastic, like the +voice of a chum, a hearty comrade. "But how about your own folks?" + +Dorothy's answer was not given then and there, in words. Nor yet by +gesture, nor in any visible way--there being no moon that early in the +evening. After a brief interval--or, at least, it seemed brief--they +rose and strolled back down the road, the yellow dog padding faithfully +at their heels. Presently-- + +"Hey, Dorry!" came in a shrill voice. + +"It's the scout!" exclaimed Bartley, laughing. + +"We're coming, Jimmy," called Dorothy. + +"But before we're taken into custody--" said Bartley; and as mentioned +before, the moon had not appeared. + +Little Jim, astride of the ranch gate, querulously demanded where they +had been and why they had not told him they were going somewhere. + +"And you left the gate open, and--everything!" concluded Jimmy. + +"We just went for a walk," said Dorothy. + +"What's the use of walkin' up the old road in the dark?" queried Jimmy. +"You can't see anything." + +"What do you say to a rabbit hunt to-morrow morning early?" asked +Bartley. + +"Nope!" declared Little Jim decisively. "'Cause my dad was talkin' with +Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank, and dad says me and him are goin' back to +Laramie where ma is. And we're goin' on the _train_. Aunt Jane she +cried. But shucks! We ain't goin' to stay in Laramie all the time. Dad +says if things rib up right, me and ma and him are comin' back to live +in the valley. Don't you wish you was goin', Dorry?" + +"You run along and tell Aunt Jane we're coming," said Bartley. + +Little Jim hesitated. But then, Mr. Bartley had bought him that new +rifle. Jimmy pattered down the path to the lighted doorway, delivered +his message, and pattered back again toward the gate, wasting no time +_en route_. Halfway to the gate he stopped. Mr. Bartley was standing +very close to Dorry--in fact, Jimmy was amazed to see him kiss her. +Jimmy turned and trotted back to the house. + +"Shucks!" he exclaimed. "I thought he liked guns and things more'n +girls!" + +But Jimmy was too loyal to tell what he had seen. After all, Dorry was +mighty fine, for a girl. She could ride and shoot, and she never told on +him when he had done wrong. + +With a skip and a hop Jimmy burst into the room. "We're goin' on the +_train_," he declared. "Ain't we, dad?" + +Dorothy and Bartley came in. Bartley glanced at Cheyenne, hesitated, and +then thrust out his hand. + +"Good luck to your new venture," he said heartily. + +"Same to you, pardner!" And Cheyenne included Dorry in his glance. + +"I want to ask Aunt Jane's advice," stated Bartley. + +"Then," said Cheyenne, "I reckon me and Frank and Jimmy'll step out and +take a look at the stars. She's a wonderful night." + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14085 *** diff --git a/14085-h/14085-h.htm b/14085-h/14085-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9fb7e2d --- /dev/null +++ b/14085-h/14085-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7363 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Partners of Chance, by Henry Herbert Knibbs</title> + <style type="text/css"> + + body + {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + + p + {text-align: justify;} + + blockquote + {text-align: justify;} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 + {text-align: center;} + + hr + {text-align: center; width: 50%;} + + html>body hr + {margin-right: 25%; margin-left: 25%; width: 50%;} + + hr.full + {width: 100%;} + html>body hr.full + {margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 0%; width: 100%;} + + pre + {font-size: 0.7em; color: #000; background-color: #FFF;} + + .poetry + {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 0%; + text-align: left;} + + .footnote + {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; + font-size: 0.9em;} + + .index + {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; + text-align: center;} + + .figure + {margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; + text-align: center; font-size: 0.8em;} + .figure img + {border: none;} + + .lfigure + {float:left; width: 25%; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; + text-align: center; font-size: 0.8em;} + .lfigure img + {border: none;} + + .rfigure + {float:right; width: 25%; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; + text-align: center; font-size: 0.8em;} + .rfigure img + {border: none;} + + .date + {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; + text-align: right;} + + span.rightnote + {position: absolute; left: 92%; right: 1%; + font-size: 0.7em; border-bottom: solid 1px;} + + span.leftnote + {position: absolute; left: 1%; right: 92%; + font-size: 0.7em; border-bottom: solid 1px;} + + span.linenum + {float:right; + text-align: right; font-size: 0.7em;} + + span.pagenum + {position: absolute; left: 1%; right: 91%; font-size: 8pt;} + a:link {color:#0000ff; + text-decoration:none} + link {color:#0000ff; + text-decoration:none} + a:visited {color:#0000ff; + text-decoration:none} + a:hover {color:#ff0000} + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14085 ***</div> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, Partners of Chance, by Henry Herbert Knibbs</h1> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> +<h1>PARTNERS OF CHANCE</h1> +<br /> +<h3>BY</h3> +<h2>HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS</h2> +<br /> +<h3>AUTHOR OF</h3> +<h3><i>THE RIDIN' KID FROM POWDER RIVER</i>,</h3> +<h3><i>SUNDOWN SLIM</i>, <i>OVERLAND RED</i>, ETC.</h3> +<br /> +<h6>GROSSET & DUNLAP<br /> +PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK</h6> +<br /> +<h4>1921</h4> + +<hr /> + + + + +<h2><a name='CONTENTS'></a>CONTENTS</h2> + +<a href='#LITTLE_JIM'>I. LITTLE JIM</a><br /> +<a href='#PANHANDLE'>II. PANHANDLE</a><br /> +<a href='#A_MINUTE_TOO_LATE'>III. A MINUTE TOO LATE</a><br /> +<a href='#A_LITTLE_GREEN_RIVER'>IV. "A LITTLE GREEN RIVER"</a><br /> +<a href='#TOP_HAND_ONCE'>V. "TOP HAND ONCE"</a><br /> +<a href='#A_HORSE_TRADE'>VI. A HORSE-TRADE</a><br /> +<a href='#AT_THE_WATER_HOLE'>VII. AT THE WATER-HOLE</a><br /> +<a href='#HIGH_HEELS_AND_MOCCASINS'>VIII. HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS</a><br +/> +<a href='#AT_THE_BOX_S'>IX. AT THE BOX-S</a><br /> +<a href='#TO_TRY_HIM_OUT'>X. TO TRY HIM OUT</a><br /> +<a href='#PONY_TRACKS'>XI. PONY TRACKS</a><br /> +<a href='#JIMMY_AND_THE_LUGER_GUN'>XII. JIMMY AND THE LUGER GUN</a><br /> +<a href='#AT_AUNT_JANES'>XIII. AT AUNT JANE'S</a><br /> +<a href='#ANOTHER_GAME'>XIV. ANOTHER GAME</a><br /> +<a href='#MORE_PONY_TRACKS'>XV. MORE PONY TRACKS</a><br /> +<a href='#SAN_ANDREAS_TOWN'>XVI. SAN ANDREAS TOWN</a><br /> +<a href='#THAT_MESCAL'>XVII. THAT MESCAL</a><br /> +<a href='#JOE_SCOTT'>XVIII. JOE SCOTT</a><br /> +<a href='#DORRY_COMES_TO_TOWN'>XIX. DORRY COMES TO TOWN</a><br /> +<a href='#ALONG_THE_FOOTHILLS'>XX. ALONG THE FOOTHILLS</a><br /> +<a href='#GIT_ALONG_CAYUSE'>XXI. "GIT ALONG CAYUSE"</a><br /> +<a href='#BOX_S_BUSINESS'>XXII. BOX-S BUSINESS</a><br /> +<a href='#THE_HOLE_IN_THE_WALL'>XXIII. THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL</a><br /> +<a href='#CHEYENNE_PLAYS_BIG'>XXIV. CHEYENNE PLAYS BIG</a><br /> +<a href='#TWO_TRAILS_HOME'>XXV. TWO TRAILS HOME</a><br /> +<p> </p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1"></a>[pg 1]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<h3><a name='LITTLE_JIM'></a>LITTLE JIM</h3> + + +<p>Little Jim knew that something strange had happened, because Big Jim, +his father, had sold their few head of cattle, the work team, and the farm +implements, keeping only the two saddle-horses and the pack-horse, Filaree. +When Little Jim asked where his mother had gone, Big Jim told him that she +had gone on a visit, and would be away a long time. Little Jim wanted to +know if his mother would ever come back. When Big Jim said that she would +not, Little Jim manfully suppressed his tears, and, being of that frontier +stock that always has an eye to the main chance, he thrust out his hand. +"Well, I'll stick with you, dad. I reckon we can make the grade."</p> + +<p>Big Jim turned away and stood for a long time gazing out of the cabin +window toward town. Presently he felt a tug at his coat-sleeve.</p> + +<p>"Is ma gone to live in town?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2"></a>[pg +2]</span>"Then why don't you go get her?"</p> + +<p>"She don't want to come back, Jimmy."</p> + +<p>Little Jim could not understand this. Yet he had often heard his mother +complain of their life on the homestead, and as often he had watched his +father sitting grimly at table, saying nothing in reply to his wife's +querulous complainings. The boy knew that his father had worked hard to +make a home. They had all worked hard. But, then, that had seemed the only +thing to do.</p> + +<p>Presently Big Jim swung round as though he had made a decision. He +lighted the lamp in the kitchen and made a fire. Little Jim scurried out to +the well with a bucket. Little Jim was a hustler, never waiting to be told +what to do. His mother was gone. He did not know why. But he knew that +folks had to eat and sleep and work. While his father prepared supper, +Little Jim rolled up his own shirt-sleeves and washed vigorously. Then he +filled the two glasses on the table, laid the plates and knives and forks, +and finding nothing else to do in the house, just then, he scurried out +again and returned with his small arms filled with firewood.</p> + +<p>Big Jim glanced at him. "I guess we don't <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_3" id="Page_3"></a>[pg 3]</span>need any more wood, Jimmy. We'll +be leaving in the morning."</p> + +<p>"What? Leavin' here?"</p> + +<p>His father nodded.</p> + +<p>"Goin' to town, dad?"</p> + +<p>"No. South."</p> + +<p>"Just us two, all alone?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Don't you want to go?"</p> + +<p>"Sure! But I wish ma was comin', too."</p> + +<p>Big Jim winced. "So do I, Jimmy. But I guess we can get along all right. +How would you like to visit Aunt Jane, down in Arizona?"</p> + +<p>"Where them horn toads and stingin' lizards are?"</p> + +<p>"Yes--and Gila monsters and all kinds of critters."</p> + +<p>"Gee! Has Aunt Jane got any of 'em on her ranch?"</p> + +<p>Big Jim forced a smile. "I reckon so."</p> + +<p>Little Jim's face was eager. "Then I say, let's go. Mebby I can get to +shoot one. Huntin' is more fun than workin' all the time. I guess ma got +tired of workin', too. She said that was all she ever expected to do, 'long +as we lived out here on the ranch. But she never told <i>me</i> she was +goin' to quit."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4"></a>[pg 4]</span>"She +didn't tell me, either, Jimmy. But you wouldn't understand."</p> + +<p>Jimmy puckered his forehead. "I guess ma kind of throwed us down, didn't +she, dad?"</p> + +<p>"We'll have to forget about it," said Big Jim slowly. "Down at Aunt +Jane's place in--"</p> + +<p>"Somethin' 's burnin', dad!"</p> + +<p>Big Jim turned to the stove. Little Jim gazed at his father's back +critically. There was something in the stoop of the broad shoulders that +was unnatural, strange--something that caused Little Jim to hesitate in his +questioning. Little Jim idolized his father, and, with unfailing intuition, +believed in him to the last word. As for his mother, who had left without +explanation and would never return--Little Jim missed her, but more through +habit of association than with actual grief.</p> + +<p>He knew that his mother and father had not gotten along very well for +some time. And now Little Jim recalled something that his mother had said: +"He's as much your boy as he is mine, Jim Hastings, and, if you are set on +sending him to school, for goodness' sake get him some decent clothes, +which is more than I have had for many a year."</p> + +<p>Until then Jimmy had not realized that his <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_5" id="Page_5"></a>[pg 5]</span>clothing or his mother's was +other than it should be. Moreover, he did not want to go to school. He +preferred to work on the ranch with his father. But it was chiefly the tone +of his mother's voice that had impressed him. For the first time in his +young life, Little Jim felt that he was to blame for something which he +could not understand. He was accustomed to his mother's sudden fits of +unreasonable anger, often followed by a cuff, or sharp reprimand. But she +had never mentioned his need of better clothing before, nor her own +need.</p> + +<p>As for being as much his father's boy as his mother's--Little Jim felt +that he quite agreed to that, and, if anything, that he belonged more to +his father, who was kind to him, than to any one else in the world. Little +Jim, trying to reason it out, now thought that he knew why his mother had +left home. She had gone to live in town that she might have better clothes +and be with folks and not wear her fingers to the bone simply for a bed and +three meals a day, as Little Jim had heard her say more than once.</p> + +<p>But the trip to Aunt Jane's, down in Arizona, was too vivid in his +imagination to allow room for pondering. Big Jim had said they were to +leave <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6"></a>[pg +6]</span>in the morning. So, while supper was cooking, Little Jim slipped +into his bedroom and busied himself packing his own scant belongings. +Presently his father called him. Little Jim plodded out bearing his few +spare clothes corded in a neat bundle, with an old piece of canvas for the +covering. His father had taught him to pack.</p> + +<p>Big Jim stared. Then a peculiar expression flitted across his face. +Little Jim was always for the main chance.</p> + +<p>"I'm all hooked up to hit the trail, dad."</p> + +<p>In his small blue overalls and jumper, in his alert and manful attitude, +Little Jim was a pocket edition of his father.</p> + +<p>"Where's your shootin'-iron?" queried Big Jim jokingly.</p> + +<p>"Why, she's standin' in the corner, aside of yours. A man don't pack his +shootin'-iron in his bed-roll when he hits the trail. He keeps her +handy."</p> + +<p>"For stingin' lizards, eh?"</p> + +<p>"For 'most anything. Stingin' lizards, Injuns, or hoss-thieves, or +anything that we kin shoot. We ain't takin' no chances on this here +trip."</p> + +<p>Big Jim gestured toward the table and pulled up his chair. Little Jim +was too heartily interested <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" +id="Page_7"></a>[pg 7]</span>in the meal to notice that his father gazed +curiously at him from time to time. Until then, Big Jim had thought of his +small son as a chipper, sturdy, willing boy--his boy. But now, Little Jim +seemed suddenly to have become an actual companion, a partner, a sharer in +things as they were and were to be.</p> + +<p>Hard work and inherent industry had developed in Little Jim an +independence that would have been considered precocious in the East. Big +Jim was glad that the mother's absence did not seem to affect the boy much. +Little Jim seemed quite philosophical about it. Yet, deep in his heart, +Little Jim missed his mother, more than his father realized. The house +seemed strangely empty and quiet. And it had seemed queer that Big Jim +should cook the supper, and, later, wash the dishes.</p> + +<p>That evening, just before they went to bed, Big Jim ransacked the +bureau, sorting out his own things, and laying aside a few things that his +wife had left: a faded pink ribbon, an old pair of high-heeled slippers, a +torn and unmended apron, and an old gingham dress. Gathering these things +together, Big Jim stuffed them in the kitchen stove. Little Jim watched him +silently.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8"></a>[pg 8]</span>But +when his father came from the stove and sat down, Little Jim slipped over +to him. "Dad, are you mad at ma for leavin' us?" he queried.</p> + +<p>Big Jim shook his head. "No, Jimmy. Just didn't want to leave her things +around, after we had gone. Benson'll be movin' in sometime this week. I +sold our place to him."</p> + +<p>"The stove and beds and everything?"</p> + +<p>"Everything."</p> + +<p>Little Jim wrinkled his nose and sniffed. "Them things you put in the +stove smell just like brandin' a critter," he said, gesturing toward the +kitchen.</p> + +<p>Big Jim gazed hard at his young son. Then he smiled to himself, and +shook his head. "Just like brandin' a critter," he repeated, half to +himself. "Just like brandin' a critter."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9"></a>[pg 9]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<h3><a name='PANHANDLE'></a>PANHANDLE</h3> + + +<p>While his friends and neighbors called Jim Hastings "Big Jim," he was no +more than average size--compact, vigorous, reared in the Wyoming cattle +lands, and typical of the country. He was called Big Jim simply to +distinguish him from Little Jim, who was as well known in Laramie as his +father. Little Jim, when but five years of age, rode his own pony, jogging +alongside his father when they went to town, where he was decidedly popular +with the townsfolk because of his sturdy independence and humorous +grin.</p> + +<p>Little Jim talked horses and cattle and ranching with the grown-ups and +took their good-natured joshing philosophically. He seldom retorted +hastily, but, rather, blinked his eyes and wrinkled his forehead as he +digested this or that pleasantry, and either gave it the indifferent +acknowledgment of "Shucks! Think you can josh <i>me</i>?" or, if the +occasion and the remark seemed to call for more serious consideration, he +rose to it manfully, and often to the embarrassment of the initial +speaker.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10"></a>[pg +10]</span>Little Jim liked to go to town with his father, yet he considered +town really a sort of suburb to his real world, the homestead, which he had +seen change from a prairie level of unfenced space to a small--and to +him--complete kingdom of pasture lot, hayfield, garden, corrals, stable, +and house. Town was simply a place to which you went to buy things, get the +mail, exchange views on the weather and grazing, and occasionally help the +hands load a shipment of cattle. Little Jim helped by sitting on the top +rail of the pens and commenting on the individual characteristics of the +cattle, and, sometimes, of the men loading them. In such instances he found +opportunity to pay off old scores. Incidentally he kept the men in good +humor by his lively comment.</p> + +<p>Little Jim was six years of age when his mother left to resume her +former occupation of waitress in the station restaurant of Laramie, where +she had been popular because of her golden hair, her blue eyes, and her +ability to "talk back" to the regular customers in a manner which they +seemed to enjoy. Big Jim married her when he was not much more than a +boy--twenty, in fact; and during the first few years they were happy +together. But homesteading <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" +id="Page_11"></a>[pg 11]</span>failed to supply more than their immediate +needs.</p> + +<p>Occasional trips to town at first satisfied the wife's craving for the +attention and admiration that most men paid to her rather superficial good +looks. But as the years slipped by, with no promise of easier conditions, +she became dissatisfied, shrewish, and ashamed of her lack of pretty things +to wear. Little Jim was, of course, as blind to all this as he was to his +need for anything other than his overalls, shoes, and jumper. He thought +his mother was pretty and he often told her so.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Big Jim tried to blind himself to his wife's growing +dissatisfaction. He was too much of a man to argue her own short-comings as +against his inability to do more for her than he was doing. But when she +did leave, with simply a brief note saying that she was tired of it all, +and would take care of herself, what hit Big Jim the hardest was the fact +that she could give up Little Jim without so much as a word about him. +Every one liked Little Jim, and the mother's going proved something that +Big Jim had tried to ignore for several years--that his wife cared actually +nothing for the boy. When Big Jim finally realized this, his indecision +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12"></a>[pg +12]</span>evaporated. He would sell out and try his fortunes in Arizona, +where his sister Jane lived, the sister who had never seen Little Jim, but +who had often written to Big Jim, inviting him to come and bring his family +for a visit.</p> + +<p>Big Jim had enough money from the sale of his effects to make the +journey by train, even after he had deposited half of the proceeds at the +local bank, in his wife's name. But being a true son of the open, he wanted +to see the country; so he decided to travel horseback, with a pack-animal. +Little Jim, used to the saddle, would find the journey a real adventure. +They would take it easy. There was no reason for haste.</p> + +<p>It had seemed the simplest thing to do, to sell out, leave that part of +the country, and forget what had happened. There was nothing to be gained +by staying where they were. Big Jim had lost his interest in the ranch. +Moreover, there had been some talk of another man, in Laramie, a man who +had "kept company" with Jenny Simpson, before she became Mrs. Jim Hastings. +Mrs. Hastings was still young and quite good-looking.</p> + +<p>It had seemed a simple thing to do--to leave and begin life over again +in another land. But Big Jim had forgotten Smiler. Smiler was <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13"></a>[pg 13]</span>a dog of +vague ancestry, a rough-coated, yellow dog that belonged solely to Little +Jim. Smiler stuck so closely to Little Jim that their shadows were +veritably one. Smiler was a sort of chuckle-headed, good-natured animal, +meek, so long as Little Jim's prerogatives were not infringed upon, but a +cyclone of yellow wrath if Little Jim were approached by any one in other +than a friendly spirit. Even when Big Jim "roughed" his small son, in fun, +Smiler grew nervous and bristled, and once, when the mother had smacked +Little Jim for some offense or other, Smiler had taken sides to the extent +of jumping between the mother and the boy, ready to do instant battle if +his young partner were struck again.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid we can't take Smiler with us," said Big Jim, as Little Jim +scurried about next morning, getting ready for the great adventure.</p> + +<p>Little Jim stopped as though he had run against a rope. He had not even +dreamed but that Smiler would go with them.</p> + +<p>Now, Little Jim had not forgathered with punchers and townsfolk for +nothing. He was naturally shrewd, and he did not offer or controvert +opinions hastily. He stood holding a bit of old tie-rope in his hand, +pondering this last unthinkable <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" +id="Page_14"></a>[pg 14]</span>development of the situation. Smiler was to +be left behind. Jimmy wanted to ask why Smiler could not go. He wanted to +assure his father that Smiler would be a help rather than a hindrance to +the expedition.</p> + +<p>Little Jim knew that if he wept, his father might pay some attention to +that sort of plea. But Little Jim did not intend to weep, nor ask +questions, nor argue. Smiler stood expectantly watching the preparations. +He knew that something important was about to happen, and, with the loyalty +of his kind, he was ready to follow, no matter where. Smiler had sniffed +the floor of the empty house, the empty stables, the corral. His folks were +going somewhere. Well, he was ready.</p> + +<p>Little Jim, who had been gazing wistfully at Smiler, suddenly strode to +his pack and sat down. He bit his lips. Tears welled to his eyes and +drifted slowly down his cheeks. He had not intended to let himself +weep--but there was Smiler, wagging his thick tail, waiting to go.</p> + +<p>"I g-g-guess you better go ahead and hit the trail, dad."</p> + +<p>"Why, that's what we're going to do. What--" Big Jim glanced at his boy. +"What's the matter?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15"></a>[pg +15]</span>Little Jim did not answer, but his attitude spoke for itself. He +had decided to stay with Smiler.</p> + +<p>Big Jim frowned. It was the first time that the boy had ever openly +rebelled. And because it was the first time, Big Jim realized its +significance. Yet, such loyalty, even to a dog, was worth while.</p> + +<p>Big Jim put his hand on Little Jim's shoulder. "Smiler'll get sore feet +on the trails, Jimmy. And there won't be a whole lot to eat."</p> + +<p>Little Jim blinked up at his father. "Well, he can have half of my grub, +and I reckon I can pack him on the saddle with me if his feet get +tender."</p> + +<p>"All right. But don't blame me if Smiler peters out on the trip."</p> + +<p>"Smiler's tough, he is!" stated Little Jim. "He's so tough he bites barb +wire. Anyhow, you said we was goin' to take it easy. And he can catch +rabbits, I guess."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps he won't want to come along," suggested Big Jim as he pulled up +a cincha and slipped the end through the ring.</p> + +<p>Little Jim beckoned to Smiler who had stood solemnly listening to the +controversy about himself <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" +id="Page_16"></a>[pg 16]</span>as though he understood. Smiler trotted over +to Jimmy.</p> + +<p>"You want to take it plumb easy on this trip," said Little Jim, "and not +go to chasin' around and runnin' yourself ragged gettin' nowhere. If you +get sore feet, we'll just have to beef you and hang your hide on the +fence."</p> + +<p>Smiler grinned and wagged his tail. He pushed up and suddenly licked +Little Jim's face. Little Jim promptly cuffed him. Smiler came back for +more.</p> + +<p>Big Jim turned and watched the boy and the dog in their rough-and-tumble +about the yard. He blinked and turned back to the horses. "Come on, Jimmy. +We're all set."</p> + +<p>"Got to throw my pack on ole Lazy, dad. Gimme a hand, will you?"</p> + +<p>Little Jim never would admit that he could not do anything there was to +be done. When he was stuck he simply asked his father to help him.</p> + +<p>Big Jim slung up the small pack and drew down the hitch. Little Jim +ducked under Lazy and took the rope on the other side, passing the end to +his father.</p> + +<p>"Reckon that pack'll ride all right," said the <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_17" id="Page_17"></a>[pg 17]</span>boy, surveying the outfit. +"Got the <i>morrals</i> and everything, dad?"</p> + +<p>"All set, Jimmy."</p> + +<p>"Then let's go. I got my ole twenty-two loaded. If we run on to one of +them stingin' lizards, he's sure a sconer. Does dogs eat lizards?"</p> + +<p>Big Jim swung to the saddle and hazed the old pack-horse ahead. "Don't +know, Jimmy. Sometimes the Indians eat them."</p> + +<p>"Eat stingin' lizards?"</p> + +<p>"Yep."</p> + +<p>"Well, I guess Smiler can, then. Come on, ole-timer!"</p> + +<p>Suddenly Little Jim thought of his mother. It seemed that she ought to +be with them. Little Jim had wept when Smiler was in question. Now he gazed +with clear-eyed faith at his father.</p> + +<p>"It ain't our fault ma ain't goin' with us, is it?" he queried +timidly.</p> + +<p>Big Jim shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"Say, dad, we're headed west. Thought you said we was goin' to +Arizona?"</p> + +<p>"We'll turn south, after a while."</p> + +<p>Little Jim asked no more questions. His father knew everything--why they +were going and where. Little Jim glanced back to where <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18"></a>[pg 18]</span>Smiler +padded along, his tongue out and his eyes already rimmed with dust, for he +would insist upon traveling tight to Lazy's heels.</p> + +<p>Little Jim leaned back. "Stick it out, ole-timer! But don't you go to +cuttin' dad's trail till he gets kind of used to seein' you around. +Sabe?"</p> + +<p>Smiler grinned through a dust-begrimed countenance. He wagged his +tail.</p> + +<p>Little Jim plunked his horse in the ribs and drew up beside his father. +Little Jim felt big and important riding beside his dad. There had been +some kind of trouble at home--and they were leaving it behind. It would be +a long trail, and his father sure would need help.</p> + +<p>Little Jim drew a deep breath. He wanted to express his unwavering +loyalty to his father. He wanted to talk of his willingness to go anywhere +and share any kind of luck. But his resolve to speak evaporated in a sigh +of satisfaction. This was a real holiday, an adventure. "Smiler's makin' it +fine, dad."</p> + +<p>But Big Jim did not seem to hear. He was gazing ahead, where in the +distance loomed an approaching figure on horseback. Little Jim knew who it +was, and was about to say so when his father checked him with a gesture. +Little <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19"></a>[pg +19]</span>Jim saw his father shift his belt round so that his gun hung +handy. He said nothing and showed by no other sign that he had recognized +the approaching rider, who came on swiftly, his high-headed pinto fighting +the bit.</p> + +<p>Within twenty yards of them, the rider reined his horse to a walk. +Little Jim saw the two men eye each other closely. The man on the pinto +rode past. Little Jim turned to his father.</p> + +<p>"I guess Panhandle is goin' to town," said the boy, not knowing just +what to say, yet feeling that the occasion called for some remark.</p> + +<p>"Panhandle" Sears and his father knew each other. They had passed on the +road, neither speaking to the other. And Little Jim was not blind to the +significant movement of shifting a belt that a gun might hang ready to +hand.</p> + +<p>Yet he soon forgot the incident in visioning the future. Arizona, Aunt +Jane, and stingin' lizards!</p> + +<p>Big Jim rode with head bowed. He was thinking of the man who had just +passed them. If it had not been for the boy, Big Jim and that man would +have had it out, there on the road. And Jenny Hastings would have been the +cause of their quarrel. "Panhandle" Sears <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_20" id="Page_20"></a>[pg 20]</span>had "kept company" with Jenny +before she became Big Jim's wife. Now that she had left him--</p> + +<p>Big Jim turned and gazed back along the road. A far-away cloud of dust +rolled toward the distant town of Laramie.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21"></a>[pg 21]</span><hr +/> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<h3><a name='A_MINUTE_TOO_LATE'></a>A MINUTE TOO LATE</h3> + + +<p>The Overland, westbound, was late. Nevertheless, it had to stop at +Antelope, but it did so grudgingly and left with a snort of disdain for the +cow-town of the high mesa. Curious-eyed tourists had a brief glimpse of a +loading-chute, cattle-pens, a puncher or two, and an Indian freighter's +wagon just pulling in from the spaces, and accompanied by a plodding +cavalcade of outriders on paint ponies.</p> + +<p>Incidentally the westbound left one of those momentarily interested +Easterners on the station platform, without baggage, sense of direction, or +companion. He had stepped off the train to send a telegram to a friend in +California. He discovered that he had left his address book in his grip. +Meanwhile the train had moved forward some sixty yards, to take water. +Returning for his address book, he boarded the wrong Pullman, realized his +mistake, and hastened on through to his car. Out to the station +again--delay in getting the attention of the telegraph operator, the wire +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22"></a>[pg +22]</span>finally written--and the Easterner heard the rumble of the train +as it pulled out.</p> + +<p>Even then he would have made it had it not been for a portly individual +in shirt-sleeves who inadvertently blocked the doorway of the telegraph +office. Bartley bumped into this portly person, tried to squeeze past, did +so, and promptly caromed off the station agent whom he met head on, halfway +across the platform. Gazing at the departing train, Bartley reached in his +pocket for a cigar which he lighted casually.</p> + +<p>The portly individual touched him on the shoulder. "'Nother one, this +afternoon."</p> + +<p>"Thanks. But my baggage is on that one."</p> + +<p>"You're lucky it ain't two sections behind, this time of year. Travel is +heavy."</p> + +<p>Bartley's quick glance took in the big man from his high-heeled boots to +his black Stetson. A cattleman, evidently well to do, and quite evidently +not flustered by the mishaps of other folks.</p> + +<p>"There's a right comfortable little hotel, just over there," stated the +cattleman. "Wishful runs her. It ain't a bad place to wait for your +train."</p> + +<p>Bartley smiled in spite of his irritation.</p> + +<p>The cattleman's eyes twinkled. "You'll be <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_23" id="Page_23"></a>[pg 23]</span>sending a wire to have 'em +take care of your war bag. Well, come on in and send her. You can catch +Number Eight about Winslow."</p> + +<p>The cattleman forged ahead, and in the telegraph office, got the +immediate attention of the operator, who took Bartley's message.</p> + +<p>The cattleman paid for it. "'Tain't the first time my size has cost me +money," he said, as Bartley protested. "Now, let's go over and get another +cigar. Then we can mill around and see Wishful. You'll like Wishful. He's +different."</p> + +<p>They strode down the street and stopped in at a saloon where the +cattleman called for cigars. Bartley noticed that the proprietor of the +place addressed the big cattleman as "Senator."</p> + +<p>"This here is a dry climate, and a cigar burns up right quick, if you +don't moisten it a little," said the cattleman. "I 'most always moisten +mine."</p> + +<p>Bartley grinned. "I think the occasion calls for it, Senator."</p> + +<p>"Oh, shucks! Just call me Steve--Steve Brown. And just give us a little +Green River Tom."</p> + +<p>A few minutes later Bartley and his stout companion were seated on the +veranda of the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24"></a>[pg +24]</span>hotel, gazing out across the mesas. They were both comfortable, +and quite content to watch the folk go past, out there in the heat. Bartley +wondered if the title "Senator" were a nickname, or if the portly gentleman +placidly smoking his cigar and gazing into space was really a +politician.</p> + +<p>A dusty cow-puncher drifted past the hotel, waving his hand to the +Senator, who replied genially. A little later a Navajo buck rode up on a +quick-stepping pony. He grunted a salutation and said something in his +native tongue. The Senator replied in kind. Bartley was interested. +Presently the Navajo dug his heels into his pony's ribs, and clattered up +the road.</p> + +<p>The Senator turned to Bartley. "Politics and cattle," he said, +smiling.</p> + +<p>Having learned the Senator's vocation, Bartley gave his own as briefly. +The Senator nodded.</p> + +<p>"It is as obvious as all that, then?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't say that," stated the Senator carefully. "But after you +bumped into me, and then stepped into the agent, and then turned around and +took in my scenery, noticin' the set of my legs, I says to myself, +'painter-man or writer.' It was kind of in your eye. <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25"></a>[pg 25]</span>I figured +you wa'n't no painter-man when you looked at the oil paintin' over the +bar.</p> + +<p>"A painter-man would 'a' looked sad or said somethin', for that there +paintin' is the most gosh-awful picture of what a puncher might look like +after a cyclone had hit him. I took a painter-man in there once, to get a +drink. He took one look at that picture, and then he says, kind of +sorrowful: 'Is this the only place in town where they serve liquor?' I told +him it was. 'Let's go over and tackle the pump,' he says. But we had our +drink. I told him just to turn his back on that picture when he took +his."</p> + +<p>"I might be anything but a writer," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"That's correct. But you ain't."</p> + +<p>"You hit the nail on the head. However, I can't just follow your line of +reasoning it out."</p> + +<p>"Easy. Elimination. Now a tourist, regular, stares at folks and things. +But a painter or writer he takes things in without starin'. There's some +difference. I knew you were a man who did things. It's in your eye."</p> + +<p>"Well," laughed Bartley, "I took you for a cattleman the minute I saw +you."</p> + +<p>"Which was a minute too late, eh?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26"></a>[pg +26]</span>"I don't know about that. Since I've been sitting here looking at +the mesa and those wonderful buttes over there, and watching the natives +come and go, I have begun to feel that I don't care so much about that +train, after all. I like this sort of thing. You see, I planned to visit +California, but there was nothing definite about the plan. I chose +California because I had heard so much about it. It doesn't matter much +where I go. By the way, my name is Bartley."</p> + +<p>"I'm Steve Brown--cattle and politics. I tell you, Mr. Bartley--"</p> + +<p>"Suppose you say just Bartley?"</p> + +<p>The Senator chuckled. "Suppose I said 'Green River'?"</p> + +<p>"I haven't an objection in the world," laughed Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Wishful, here, don't keep liquor," explained the Senator. "And he's +right about that. Folks that stay at this hotel want to sleep nights."</p> + +<p>The Senator heaved himself out of his chair, stood up, and +stretched.</p> + +<p>"I reckon you'll be wantin' to see all you can of this country. My ranch +lays just fifty miles south of the railroad, and not a fence from here +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27"></a>[pg 27]</span>to +there. Then, there's them Indians, up north a piece. And over yonder is +where they dig up them prehistoric villages. And those buttes over there +used to be volcanoes, before they laid off the job. To the west is the +petrified forest. I made a motion once, when the Legislature was in +session, to have that forest set aside as a buryin'-ground for +politicians,--State Senators and the like,--but they voted me down. They +said I didn't specify <i>dead</i> politicians.</p> + +<p>"South of my place is the Apache reservation. There's good huntin' in +that country. 'Course, Arizona ain't no Garden of Eden to some folks. Two +kinds of folks don't love this State a little bit'--homesteaders and +tourists. But when it comes to cattle and sheep and mines, you can't beat +her. She sure is the Tiger Lily of the West. But let's step over and see +Tom. Excuse me a minute. There's a constituent who has somethin' on his +chest. I'll meet you at the station."</p> + +<p>The Senator stepped out and talked with his constituent. Meanwhile, +Bartley turned to gaze down the street. A string of empty freight wagons, +followed by a lazy cloud of dust, rolled slowly toward town. Here and there +a bit of red showed in the dun mass of riders that accompanied the wagons. +A gay-colored blanket <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" +id="Page_28"></a>[pg 28]</span>flickered in the sun. The mesas radiated +keen dry heat.</p> + +<p>Bartley turned and crossed over to the station. He blinked the effects +of the white light from his eyes as he entered the telegraph office. The +operator, in shirt-sleeves, and smoking a brown-paper cigarette, nodded and +handed Bartley a service message stating that his effects would be carried +to Los Angeles and held for further orders.</p> + +<p>"It's sure hot," said the operator. "Did you want to send another +wire?"</p> + +<p>Bartley shook his head. "Who is that stout man I bumped into trying to +catch my train?"</p> + +<p>"That's Senator Steve Brown--State Senator. Thought you knew him."</p> + +<p>"No. I just met him to-day."</p> + +<p>The operator slumped down in his chair.</p> + +<p>Bartley strode to the door and blinked in the Arizona sunshine. "By +George!" he murmured, "I always thought they wore those big Stetsons for +show. But all day in this sun--guess I'll have to have one."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29"></a>[pg 29]</span><hr +/> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<h3><a name='A_LITTLE_GREEN_RIVER'></a>"A LITTLE GREEN RIVER"</h3> + + +<p>To suddenly stop off at a cow-town station, without baggage or definite +itinerary, was unconventional, to say the least. Bartley was amused and +interested. Hitherto he had written more or less conventional +stuff--acceptable stories of the subway, the slums, the docks, and the +streets of Eastern cities. But now, as he strode over to the saloon, he +forgot that he was a writer of stories. A boyish longing possessed him to +see much of the life roundabout, even to the farthest, faint range of +hills--and beyond.</p> + +<p>He felt that while he still owed something to his original plan of +visiting California, he could do worse than stay right where he was. He had +thought of wiring to have his baggage sent back. Then it occurred to him +that, aside from his shaving-kit and a few essentials, his baggage +comprised but little that he could use out here in the mesa country. And he +felt a certain relief in not having trunks to look after. Outing flannels +and evening clothes would <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" +id="Page_30"></a>[pg 30]</span>hardly fit into the present scheme of +things. The local store would furnish him all that he needed. In this frame +of mind he entered the Blue Front Saloon where he found Senator Steve and +his foreman seated at a side table discussing the merits of "Green +River."</p> + +<p>"Hello!" called the Senator. "Mr. Bartley, meet my foreman, Lon +Pelly."</p> + +<p>They shook hands.</p> + +<p>"Lon says the source of Green River is Joy in the Hills," asserted the +Senator, smiling.</p> + +<p>The long, lean cow-puncher grinned. "Steve, here, says the source of +Green River is trouble."</p> + +<p>"Now, as a writin' man, what would you say?" queried the Senator.</p> + +<p>Bartley gazed at the label on the bottle under discussion. "Well, as a +writer, I might say that it depends how far you travel up or down Green +River. But as a mere individual enjoying the blessings of companionship, I +should say, let's experiment, judiciously."</p> + +<p>"Fetch a couple more glasses, Tom," called the Senator.</p> + +<p>After the essential formalities, Bartley pushed back his chair, crossed +one leg over the other, and lighted a cigar. "I'm rather inclined toward +that Joy in the Hills theory, just now," he asserted.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31"></a>[pg +31]</span>"That's all right," said Lon Pelly. "Bein' a little inclined +don't hurt any. But if you keep on reachin' for Joy, your foot is like to +slip. Then comes Trouble."</p> + +<p>"Lon's qualified for the finals once or twice," said the Senator. "Now, +take <i>me</i>, for a horrible example. I been navigatin' Green River, off +and on, for quite a spell, and I never got hung up bad."</p> + +<p>"Speaking of rivers, they're rather scarce in this country, I believe," +said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Yes. But some of 'em are noticeable in the rainy season," stated +Senator Steve. "But you ain't seen Arizona. You've only been peekin' +through your fingers at her. Wait till you get on a cayuse and hit the +trail for a few hundred miles--that's the only way to see the country. Now, +take 'Cheyenne.' He rides this here country from Utah to the border, and he +can tell you somethin' about Arizona.</p> + +<p>"Cheyenne is a kind of hobo puncher that rides the country with his +little old pack-horse, stoppin' by to work for a grubstake when he has to, +but ramblin' most of the time. He used to be a top-hand once. Worked for me +a spell. But he can't stay in one place long. Wish you could meet him +sometime. He can tell you <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" +id="Page_32"></a>[pg 32]</span>more about this State than any man I know. +He's what you might call a character for a story. He stops by regular, at +the ranch, mebby for a day or two, and then takes the trail, singin' his +little old song. He's kind of a outdoor poet. Makes up his own songs."</p> + +<p>"What was that one about Arizona that you gave 'em over to the State +House onct?" queried Lon Pelly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, that wa'n't Cheyenne's own po'try. It was one he read in a magazine +that he gave me. Let's see--</p> + +<blockquote> +"Arizona! The tramp of cattle,<br /> + The biting dust and the raw, red brand:<br /> +Shuffling sheep and the smoke of battle:<br /> + The upturned face--and the empty hand.<br /> +<br /> +"Dawn and dusk, and the wide world singing,<br /> + Songs that thrilled with the pulse of life,<br /> +As we clattered down with our rein chains ringing<br /> + To woo you--but never to make you wife."<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p>The Senator smiled a trifle apologetically. "There's more of it. But +po'try ain't just in my line. Once in a while I bust loose on po'try--that +is, my kind of po'try. And I want to say that we sure clattered down from +the Butte and the Blue in the old days, with our rein chains <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33"></a>[pg 33]</span>jinglin', +thinkin'--some of us--that Arizona was ours to fare-ye-well.</p> + +<p>"But we old-timers lived to find out that Arizona was too young to get +married yet; so we just had to set back and kind of admire her, after +havin' courted her an amazin' lot, in our young days." The Senator +chuckled. "Now, Lon, here, he'll tell you that there ain't no po'try in +this here country. And I never knew they was till I got time to set back +and think over what we unbranded yearlin's used to do."</p> + +<p>"For instance?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>Senator Steve waved his pudgy hand as though shooing a flock of chickens +off a front lawn. "If I was to tell you some of the things that happened, +you would think I was a heap sight bigger liar than I am. Seein' some of +them yarns in print, folks around this country would say: 'Steve Brown's +corralled some tenderfoot and loaded him to the muzzle with shin tangle and +ancient history!' Things that would seem amazin' to you would never ruffle +the hair of the mavericks that helped make this country."</p> + +<p>"This country ain't all settled yet," said the foreman, rising. "Reckon +I'll step along, Steve."</p> + +<p>After the foreman had departed, Bartley <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_34" id="Page_34"></a>[pg 34]</span>turned to the Senator. "Are +there many more like him, out here?"</p> + +<p>"Who, Lon? Well, a few. He's been foreman for me quite a spell. Lon he +thinks. And that's more than I ever did till after I was thirty. And Lon +ain't twenty-six, yet."</p> + +<p>"I think I'll step over to the drug-store and get a few things," said +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"So you figure to bed down at the hotel, eh?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. For a few days, at least. I want to get over the idea that I have +to take the next train West before I make any further plans."</p> + +<p>The Senator accompanied Bartley to the drug-store. The Easterner bought +what he needed in the way of shaving-kit and brush and comb. The Senator +excused himself and crossed the street to talk to a friend. The afternoon +sun slanted across the hot roofs, painting black shadows on the dusty +street. Bartley found Wishful, the proprietor, and told him that he would +like to engage a room with a bath.</p> + +<p>Wishful smiled never a smile as he escorted Bartley to a room.</p> + +<p>"I'll fetch your bath up, right soon," he said solemnly.</p> + +<p>Presently Wishful appeared with a galvanized <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_35" id="Page_35"></a>[pg 35]</span>iron washtub and a kettle of +boiling water. Bartley thanked him.</p> + +<p>"You can leave 'em out in the hall when you're through," said +Wishful.</p> + +<p>Bartley enjoyed a refreshing bath and rub-down. Later he set the kettle +and tub out in the dim hallway. Then he sat down and wrote a letter to his +friend in California, explaining his change of plan. The afternoon sunlight +waned. Bartley gazed out across the vast mesas, lavender-hued and +wonderful, as they darkened to blue, then to purple that was shot with +strange half-lights from the descending sun.</p> + +<p>Suddenly a giant hand seemed to drop a canopy over the vista, and it was +night. Bartley lighted the oil lamp and sat staring out into the darkness. +From below came the rattle of dishes. Presently Bartley heard heavy, +deliberate footsteps ascending the stairway. Then a clanging crash and a +thud, right outside his door. He flung the door open. Senator Steve was +rising from the flattened semblance of a washtub and feeling of himself +tenderly. The Senator blinked, surveyed the wrecked tub and the kettle +silently, and then without comment he stepped back and kicked the kettle. +It soared and dropped clanging into the hall below.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36"></a>[pg +36]</span>Wishful appeared at the foot of the stairs. "Did you ring, +Senator?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I did! And I'm goin' to ring again."</p> + +<p>"Hold on!" said Wishful, "I'll come up and get the tub. I got the +kettle."</p> + +<p>The Senator puffed into Bartley's room and sat on the edge of the bed. +He wiped his bald head, smiling cherubically. "Did you hear him, askin' me, +a member of the Society for the Prevention of Progress, if I rang for him! +That's about all the respect I command in this community. I sure want to +apologize for not stoppin' to knock," added the Senator.</p> + +<p>Bartley grinned. "It was hardly necessary. I heard you."</p> + +<p>"I just came up to see if you would take dinner with me and my missus. +We're goin' to eat right soon. You see, my missus never met up with a real, +live author."</p> + +<p>"Thanks, Senator. I'll be glad to meet your family. But suppose you +forget that author stuff and just take me as a tenderfoot out to see the +sights. I'll like it better."</p> + +<p>"Why, sure! And while the House is in session, I might rise to remark +that I can't help bein' called 'Senator,' because I'm guilty. But, <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37"></a>[pg 37]</span>honest, I +always feel kinder toward my fellow-bein's who call me just plain +'Steve.'"</p> + +<p>"All right. I'll take your word for it."</p> + +<p>"Don't you take my word for anything. How do you know but I might be +tryin' to sell you a gold mine?"</p> + +<p>"I think the risk would be about even," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>The Senator chuckled. "I just heard Wishful lopin' down the hall with +his bathin' outfit, so I guess the right of way is clear again. And there +goes the triangle--sounds like the old ranch, that triangle. You see, +Wishful used to be a cow-hand, and lots of cow-hands stop at this hotel +when they're in town. That triangle sounds like home to 'em. I'm stoppin' +here myself. But I got a real bathroom out to the ranch. Let's go down and +look at some beef on the plate."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38"></a>[pg 38]</span><hr +/> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<h3><a name='TOP_HAND_ONCE'></a>"TOP HAND ONCE"</h3> + + +<p>Bartley happened to be alone on the veranda of the Antelope House that +evening. Senator Brown and his "missus" had departed for their ranch. Mrs. +Senator Brown had been a bit diffident when first meeting Bartley, but he +soon put her at her ease with some amusing stories of Eastern experiences. +The dinner concluded with an invitation from Mrs. Brown that anticipated +Bartley visiting the ranch and staying as long as he wished. The day +following the Senator's departure Bartley received a telegram from his +friend in California, wishing him good luck and a pleasant journey in the +Arizona country. The friend would see to Bartley's baggage, as Bartley had +forwarded the claim checks in his letter.</p> + +<p>The town was quiet and the stars were serenely brilliant. The dusty, +rutted road past the hotel, dim gray in the starlight, muffled the tread of +an occasional Navajo pony passing in the faint glow of light from the +doorway. Bartley was content with things as he found them, <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39"></a>[pg 39]</span>just then. +But he knew that he would eventually go away from there--from the untidy +town, the railroad, the string of box-cars on the siding, and seek the new, +the unexpected, an experience to be had only by kicking loose from +convention and stepping out for himself. He thought of writing a Western +story. He realized that all he knew of the West was from hearsay, and a +brief contact with actual Westerners. He would do better to go out in the +fenceless land and live a story, and then write it. And better still, he +would let chance decide where and when he would go.</p> + +<p>His first intimation that chance was in his vicinity was the distant, +faint cadence of a song that floated over the night-black mesa from the +north. Presently he heard the soft, muffled tread of horses and a distinct +word or two of the song. He leaned forward, interested, amused, alert. The +voice was a big voice, mellowed by distance. There was a +take-it-or-leave-it swing to the melody that suggested the singer's +absolute oblivion to anything but the joy of singing. Again the plod, plod +of the horses, and then:</p> + +<blockquote> +I was top-hand once for the T-Bar-T,<br /> + In the days of long ago,<br /> +But I took to seein' the scenery<br /> + Where the barbed-wire fence don't grow.<br /> +<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40"></a>[pg 40]</span>I +was top-hand once--but the trail for mine,<br /> + And plenty of room to roam;<br /> +So now I'm ridin' the old chuck line,<br /> + And any old place is home ... for me ...<br /> +And any old place is home.<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p>Bartley grinned. Whoever he was, drifting in from the northern spaces, +he had evidently lost the pack-horse that bore his troubles. Suddenly, out +of the wall of dusk that edged the strip of road loomed a horse's head, and +then another. The lead horse bore a pack. The second horse was ridden by an +individual who leaned slightly forward, his hands clasped comfortably over +the saddle horn. The horses stopped in the light of the doorway.</p> + +<p>"Well, I reckon we're here," said a voice. "But hotels and us ain't in +the same class. I stop at the Antelope House, take a look at her, and then +spread my roll in the brush, same as always. Nobody to home? They don't +know what they're missin'."</p> + +<p>Bartley struck a match and lighted his cigar. The pack-horse jerked its +head up.</p> + +<p>"Hello, stranger! Now I didn't see you settin' there."</p> + +<p>"Good-evening! But why 'stranger' when you say you can't see me?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41"></a>[pg +41]</span>"Why? 'Cause everybody knows <i>me</i>, and you didn't whoop when +I rode up. Me, I'm Cheyenne, from no place, and likewise that's where I'm +goin'. This here town of Antelope got in the way--towns is always gittin' +in my way--but nobody can help that. Is Wishful bedded down for the night +or is he over to the Blue Front shootin' craps?"</p> + +<p>"I couldn't say. I seem to be the only one around here, just now."</p> + +<p>"That sure excuses me and the hosses. Wishful is down to the Blue Front, +all right. It's the only exercise he gets, regular." Cheyenne pushed back +the brim of his faded black Stetson and sighed heavily. Bartley caught a +glimpse of a face as care-free as that of a happy child--the twinkle of +humorous eyes and a flash of white teeth as the other grinned. "Reckon you +never heard tell of me," said the rider, hooking his leg over the horn.</p> + +<p>I just arrived yesterday. I have not heard of you--but I heard you down +the road, singing. I like that song."</p> + +<p>"One of my own. Yes, I come into town singin' and I go out singin'. +'Course, we eat, when it's handy. Singin' sure keeps a fellow's appetite +from goin' to sleep. Guess I'll turn the <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_42" id="Page_42"></a>[pg 42]</span>hosses into Wishful's corral +and go find him. Reckon you had your dinner."</p> + +<p>"Several hours ago."</p> + +<p>"Well, I had mine this mornin'. The dinner I had this mornin' was the +one I ought to had day before yesterday. But I aim to catch up--and mebby +get ahead a couple of eats, some day. But the hosses get theirs, regular. +Come on, Filaree, we'll go prospect the sleepin'-quarters."</p> + +<p>Bartley sat back and smiled to himself as Cheyenne departed for the +corral. This wayfarer, breezing in from the spaces, suggested possibilities +as a character for a story No doubt the song was more or less +autobiographical. "A top-hand once, but the trail for mine," seemed to +explain the singer's somewhat erratic dinner schedule. Bartley thought that +he would like to see more of this strange itinerant, who sang both coming +into and going out of town.</p> + +<p>Presently Cheyenne was back, singing something about a Joshua tree as he +came.</p> + +<p>He stopped at the veranda rail. His smile was affable. "Guess I'll go +over and hunt up Wishful. I reckon you'll have to excuse me for not +refusin' to accompany you to the Blue Front to get a drink."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43"></a>[pg +43]</span>Bartley was puzzled. "Would you mind saying that again?"</p> + +<p>"Sure I don't mind. I thought, mebby, you bein' a stranger, settin' +there alone and lookin' at the dark, that you was kind of lonesome. I said +I reckoned you'd have to excuse me for not refusin' to go over to the Blue +Front and take a drink."</p> + +<p>"I think I get you. I'll buy. I'll try anything, once."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne grinned. "I kind of hate to drink alone, 'specially when I'm +broke."</p> + +<p>Bartley grinned in turn. "So do I. I suppose it is all right to leave. +The door is wide open and there doesn't seem to be any one in charge.</p> + +<p>"She sure is an orphan, to-night. But, honest, Mr.--"</p> + +<p>"Bartley."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Bartley, nobody'd ever think of stealin' anything from Wishful. +Everybody likes Wishful 'round here. And strangers wouldn't last long that +tried to lift anything from his tepee. That is, not any longer than it +would take Wishful to pull a gun--and that ain't long."</p> + +<p>"If he caught them."</p> + +<p>"Caught 'em? Say, stranger, how far do you <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_44" id="Page_44"></a>[pg 44]</span>think a man could travel out +of here, before somebody'd get him? Anyhow, Wishful ain't got nothin' in +his place worth stealin'."</p> + +<p>"Wishful doesn't look very warlike," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Nope. That's right. He looks kind of like he'd been hit on the roof and +hadn't come to, yet. But did you ever see him shoot craps?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Then you've got somethin' comin', besides buyin' me a drink."</p> + +<p>Bartley laughed as he stepped down to the road. Bartley, a fair-sized +man, was surprised to realize that the other was all of a head taller than +himself. Cheyenne had not looked it in the saddle.</p> + +<p>"Are you acquainted with Senator Brown?" queried Bartley as he strode +along beside the stiff-gaited outlander.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne stopped and pushed back his hat. "Senator Steve Brown? Say, +pardner, me and Steve put this here country on the map. If kings was in +style, Steve would be wearin' a crown. Why, last election I wore out a pair +of jeans lopin' around this here country campaignin' for Steve. See this +hat? Steve give me this hat--a genuwine J.B., the best they make. Inside +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45"></a>[pg 45]</span>he +had printed on the band, in gold, 'From Steve to Cheyenne, hoping it will +always fit.' Do I know Steve Brown? Next time you see him just ask him +about Cheyenne Hastings."</p> + +<p>"I met the Senator, yesterday. Come to think of it, he did mention your +name--'Cheyenne--and said you knew the country."</p> + +<p>"Was you lookin' for a guide, mebby?"</p> + +<p>"Well, not exactly. But I hope to see something of Arizona."</p> + +<p>"Uh-huh. Well, I travel alone, mostly. But right now I'm flat broke. If +you was headin' south--"</p> + +<p>"I expect to visit Mr. and Mrs. Brown some day. Their ranch is south of +here, I believe."</p> + +<p>"Yep. Plumb south, on the Concho road. I'm ridin' down that way."</p> + +<p>"Well, we will talk about it later," said Bartley as they entered the +saloon.</p> + +<p>With a few exceptions, the men in the place were grouped round a long +table, in the far end of the room, at the head of which stood Wishful +evidently about to make a throw with the dice. No one paid the slightest +attention to the arrival of Bartley and his companion, with the exception +of the proprietor, who nodded to Bartley and spoke a word of greeting to +Cheyenne.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46"></a>[pg +46]</span>Bartley did the honors which included a sandwich and a glass of +beer for Cheyenne, who leaned with his elbow on the bar gazing at the men +around the table. Out of the corner of his eye Bartley saw the proprietor +touch Cheyenne's arm and, leaning across the bar, whisper something to him. +Cheyenne straightened up and seemed to be adjusting his belt. Bartley +caught a name: "Panhandle." He turned and glanced at Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>The humorous expression had faded from Cheyenne's face and in its stead +there was a sort of grim, speculative line to the mouth, and no twinkle in +the blue eyes. Bartley stepped over to the long table and watched the game. +Craps, played by these free-handed sons of the open, had more of a punch +than he had imagined possible. A pile of silver and bills lay on the +table--a tidy sum--no less than two hundred dollars.</p> + +<p>Wishful, the sad-faced, seemed to be importuning some one by the name of +"Jimmy Hicks" to make himself known, as the dice rattled across the board. +The players laughed as Wishful relinquished the dice. A lean outlander, +with a scarred face, took up the dice and made a throw. He evidently did +not want to locate an individual <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" +id="Page_47"></a>[pg 47]</span>called "Little Joe," whom he importuned +incessantly to stay away.</p> + +<p>Side bets were made and bills and silver withdrawn or added to the pile +with a rapidity which amazed Bartley. Hitherto craps had meant to him three +or four newsboys in an alley and a little pile of nickels and pennies. But +this game was of robust proportions. It had pep and speed.</p> + +<p>Bartley became interested. His fingers itched to grasp the dice and try +his luck. But he realized that his amateurish knowledge of the game would +be an affront to those free-moving sons of the mesa. So he contented +himself with watching the game and the faces of the men as they won or +lost. Bartley felt that some one was close behind him looking over his +shoulder. Cheyenne's eyes were fixed on the player known as "Panhandle," +and on no other person at that table. Bartley turned back to the game.</p> + +<p>Just then some one recognized Cheyenne and spoke his name. The game +stopped and Bartley saw several of the men glance curiously from Cheyenne +to the man known as "Panhandle." Then the game was resumed, but it was a +quieter game. One or two of the players withdrew.</p> + +<p>"Play a five for me," said Bartley, turning to Cheyenne.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48"></a>[pg +48]</span>"I'll do that--fifty-fifty," said Cheyenne as Bartley stepped +back and handed him a bill.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne straightway elbowed deeper into the group and finally secured +the dice. Wishful, for some unknown reason, remarked that he would back +Cheyenne to win--"shootin' with either hand," Wishful concluded. Bartley +noticed that again one or two players withdrew and strolled to the bar. +Meanwhile, Cheyenne threw and sang a little song to himself.</p> + +<p>His throws were wild, careless, and lucky. Slowly he accumulated easy +wealth. His forehead was beaded with sweat. His eyes glistened. He forgot +his song. Bartley stepped over to the bar and chatted for a few minutes +with the proprietor, mentioning Senator Steve and his wife.</p> + +<p>When Bartley returned to the game the players had dwindled to a small +group--'Wishful, the man called "Panhandle," a fat Mexican, a railroad +engineer, and Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Bartley turned to a bystander.</p> + +<p>"Cheyenne seems to be having all the luck," he said.</p> + +<p>"Is he a friend of yours?"</p> + +<p>"Never saw him until to-night."</p> + +<p>"He ain't as lucky as you think," stated the other significantly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49"></a>[pg +49]</span>"How is that?"</p> + +<p>"Panhandle, the man with the scar on his face, ain't no friend of +Cheyenne's."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I see."</p> + +<p>Bartley turned from the man, and watched the players. Wishful had +withdrawn from the game, but he stood near the table, watching closely. +Presently the fat Mexican quit playing and left. Cheyenne threw and won. He +played as though the dice were his and he was giving an exhibition for the +benefit of the other players. Finally the engineer quit, and counted his +winnings. Cheyenne and the man, Panhandle, faced each other, with Bartley +standing close to Cheyenne and Wishful, who had moved around the table, +standing close to Panhandle.</p> + +<p>Panhandle took up the dice. There was no joy in his play. He shot the +dice across the table viciously. Every throw was a, sort of insidious +insult to his competitor, Cheyenne. Bartley was more interested in the +performance than the actual winning or losing, although he realized that +Cheyenne was still a heavy winner.</p> + +<p>Presently Wishful stepped over to Bartley and touched his arm. Panhandle +and Cheyenne were intent upon their game.</p> + +<p>"You kin see better from that side of the <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_50" id="Page_50"></a>[pg 50]</span>table," said Wishful mildly, +yet with a peculiar significance.</p> + +<p>Bartley glanced up, his face expressing bewilderment.</p> + +<p>"I seen you slip Cheyenne a bill," murmured Wishful. "Accordin' to that, +you're backin' him. Thought I'd just mention it."</p> + +<p>"I don't understand what you're driving at," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"That's just why I spoke to you." And Wishful's face expressed a sort of +sad wonder. But then, the Easterner had not been in town long and he did +not know Panhandle.</p> + +<p>Wishful turned away casually. Bartley noticed that he again took up his +position near Panhandle.</p> + +<p>This time Panhandle glanced up and asked Wishful if he didn't want to +come into the game.</p> + +<p>Wishful shook his head. "No use tryin' to bust his luck," he said, +indicating Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't know," said Panhandle.</p> + +<p>"And he's got good backin'," continued Wishful.</p> + +<p>Panhandle slanted a narrow glance toward Bartley, and Bartley felt that +the other had somehow or other managed to convey an insult and a challenge +in that glance, which suggested <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" +id="Page_51"></a>[pg 51]</span>the contempt of the tough Westerner for the +supposedly tender Easterner.</p> + +<p>Bartley did not know just what was on the boards, aside from dice and +money, but he took Wishful's hint and moved around to Panhandle's side of +the table, leaving Cheyenne facing his competitor alone. Bartley happened +to catch Cheyenne's eye. The happy-go-lucky expression was gone. Cheyenne's +face seemed troubled, yet he played with his former vigor and luck.</p> + +<p>Panhandle posed insolently, his thumb in his belt, watching the dice. He +was all but broke. Cheyenne kept rolling the bones, but now he evoked no +aid from the gods of African golf. His lips were set in a thin line.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he tossed up the dice, caught them and transferred them to his +right hand. Hitherto he had been shooting with his left. "I'll shoot you, +either hand," he said.</p> + +<p>"And win," murmured Wishful.</p> + +<p>Panhandle whirled and confronted Wishful. "I don't see any of your money +on the table," he snarled.</p> + +<p>"I'll come in--on the next game," stated Wishful mildly.</p> + +<p>Panhandle's last dollar was on the table. He reached forward and drew a +handful of bills <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" +id="Page_52"></a>[pg 52]</span>from the pile and counted them. "Fifty," he +said; "fifty against the pot that you don't make your next throw."</p> + +<p>"Suits me," said Cheyenne, picking up the dice and shaking them.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne threw and won on the third try. Panhandle reached toward the +pile of money again.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne, who had not picked up the dice, stopped him. "You can't play +on that money," he stated tensely. "Half of it belongs to Mr. Bartley, +there."</p> + +<p>"What have you got to say about it," challenged Panhandle, turning to +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Half of the money on the table is mine, according to agreement. I +backed Cheyenne to win."</p> + +<p>"No dam' tenderfoot can tell me where to head in!" exclaimed Panhandle. +"Go on and shoot, you yella-bellied waddie!" And Panhandle reached toward +the money.</p> + +<p>"Just a minute," said Bartley quietly. "The game is finished."</p> + +<p>"Take your mouth out of this, you dam' dude!"</p> + +<p>"Put your gun on the table--and then tell me that," said Bartley.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53"></a>[pg +53]</span>Panhandle lowered his hand to his gun, hesitated, and then +whirling, slapped Bartley's face.</p> + +<p>Wishful, the silent, jerked out his own gun and rapped Panhandle on the +head. Panhandle dropped in a heap.</p> + +<p>It had happened so quickly that Bartley hardly realized what had +happened. Panhandle was on the floor, literally down and out. Bartley was +surprised that such an apparently light tap on the head should put a man +out.</p> + +<p>"Get him out of here," said Tom, the proprietor. "I don't want any rough +stuff in here. And if I were in your boots, Cheyenne, I'd leave town for a +while."</p> + +<p>"I'm leavin' to-morrow mornin'." Cheyenne was coolly counting his +winnings.</p> + +<p>Wishful, the silent, doused a glass of water in Panhandle's face. +Presently Panhandle was revived and helped from the saloon. His former +attitude of belligerency had entirely evaporated. Wishful followed him to +the hitch-rail and saw him mount his horse.</p> + +<p>"Your best bet is to fan it back where you come from, and stay there," +said Wishful softly. "You don't belong in this town, and <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54"></a>[pg 54]</span>you can't +go slappin' any of my guests in the face and get away with it. And when you +git so you can think it over, just figure that if I hadn't 'a' slowed you +down, Cheyenne would 'a' killed you."</p> + +<p>Panhandle did not feel like discussing the question just then. He left +without even turning to glance back. If he had glanced back, he would have +seen that Wishful had disappeared. Wishful, familiar with the ways of +Panhandle and his kind, immediately sought the shadows, leaving the lighted +doorway a blank. He entered the saloon from the rear.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne was endeavoring to make Bartley take half of the winnings. "You +staked me--and it's fifty-fifty, pardner," insisted Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Finally Bartley accepted his share of the money and stuffed it into his +pocket.</p> + +<p>"Now I can get back at you," stated Cheyenne, gesturing toward the +bar.</p> + +<p>His gesture included both Wishful and Bartley. Bartley, a bit shaken, +accepted the invitation. Wishful, not at all shaken, but rather a bit more +silent and melancholy than heretofore, also accepted.</p> + +<p>Alone in his room at the hotel, Bartley wondered what would have +happened if Wishful <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" +id="Page_55"></a>[pg 55]</span>had not rapped Panhandle on the head. +Bartley recalled the fact that he had drawn back his arm, intending to take +one good punch at Panhandle, even if it were his last. But Panhandle had +crumpled down suddenly, silently, and Wishful had stood over him, gazing +down speculatively and swinging his gun back and forth before he returned +it to the holster. "They move quick, in this country," thought Bartley. +"And speaking of material for a story--" Then he smiled.</p> + +<p>Somewhere out on the mesa Cheyenne had spread his bed-roll and was no +doubt sleeping peacefully. Bartley shook his head. He had been in Antelope +but two days and yet it seemed that months had passed since he had stepped +from the westbound train to telegraph to his friend in California. +Incidentally, he decided to purchase an automatic pistol.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56"></a>[pg 56]</span><hr +/> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<h3><a name='A_HORSE_TRADE'></a>A HORSE-TRADE</h3> + + +<p>When Bartley came down to breakfast next morning he noticed two horses +tied at the hitch-rail in front of the hotel. One of the horses, a rather +stocky gray, bore a pack. The other, a short-coupled, sturdy buckskin, was +saddled. Evidently Cheyenne was trying to catch up with his dinner +schedule, for as Bartley entered the dining-room he saw him, sitting face +to face with a high stack of flapjacks, at the base of which reposed two +fried eggs among some curled slivers of bacon.</p> + +<p>Two railroad men, a red-eyed Eastern tourist who looked as though he had +not slept for a week, a saturnine cattleman in from the mesas, and two +visiting ladies from an adjacent town comprised the tale of guests that +morning. As Bartley came in the guests glanced at him curiously. They had +heard of the misunderstanding at the Blue Front.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne immediately rose and offered Bartley a chair at his table. The +two women, alone at their table, immediately became subdued <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57"></a>[pg 57]</span>and +watchful. They were gazing their first upon an author. Wishful had made the +fact known, with some pride. The ladies, whom Cheyenne designated as +"cow-bunnies,"---or wives of ranchers,--were dressed in their "best +clothes," and were trying to live up to them. They had about finished +breakfast, and shortly after Bartley was seated they rose. On their way out +they stopped at Cheyenne's table.</p> + +<p>"Don't forget to stop by when you ride our way," said one of the +women.</p> + +<p>Bartley noticed the toil-worn hands, and the lines that hard work and +worry had graven in her face. Her "best clothes" rather accentuated these +details. But back of it all he sensed the resolute spirit of the West, +resourceful, progressive, large-visioned.</p> + +<p>"Meet Mr. Bartley," said Cheyenne unexpectedly.</p> + +<p>Which was just what the two women had been itching to do. Bartley rose +and shook hands with them.</p> + +<p>"A couple of lady friends of mine," said Cheyenne when they had +gone.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne made no mention of the previous evening's game, or its climax. +Yet Bartley had gathered from Wishful that Panhandle Sears <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58"></a>[pg 58]</span>and +Cheyenne had an unsettled quarrel between them.</p> + +<p>In the hotel office Cheyenne purchased cigars and proffered Bartley a +half-dozen. Bartley took one. Cheyenne seemed disappointed. When cigars +were going round, it seemed strange not to take full advantage of the +circumstance. As they stepped out to the veranda, the horses recognized +Cheyenne and nickered gently.</p> + +<p>"Going south?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"That's me. I got the silver changed to bills and some of the bills +changed to grub. I reckon I'll head south. Kind of wish you was headed that +way."</p> + +<p>Bartley bit the end from his cigar and lighted it, as he gazed out +across the morning mesa. A Navajo buck loped past and jerked his little +paint horse to a stop at the drug-store.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne, pulling up a cinch, smiled at Bartley.</p> + +<p>"That Injun was in a hurry till he got here. And he'll be in a hurry, +leavin'. But you notice how easy he takes it right now. Injuns has got that +dignity idea down fine."</p> + +<p>"Did he come in for medicine, perhaps?"</p> + +<p>"Mebby. But most like he's after chewin'-gum for his squaw, and +cigarettes for himself, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" +id="Page_59"></a>[pg 59]</span>with a bottle of red pop on the side. Injuns +always buy red pop."</p> + +<p>"Cigarettes and chewing-gum?"</p> + +<p>"Sure thing! Didn't you ever see a squaw chew gum and smoke a +tailor-made cigarette at the same time? You didn't, eh? Well, then, you got +somethin' comin'."</p> + +<p>"Romance!" laughed Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Ever sleep in a Injun hogan?" queried Cheyenne as he busied himself +adjusting the pack.</p> + +<p>"No. This is my first trip West."</p> + +<p>"I was forgettin'. Well, I ain't what you'd call a dude, but, honest, if +I was prospectin' round lookin' for Injun romance I'd use a pair of +field-glasses. Injuns is all right if you're far enough up wind from +'em."</p> + +<p>"When do you start?" asked Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Oh, 'most any time. And that's when I'll get there."</p> + +<p>"Well, give my regards to Senator Brown and his wife, if you happen to +see them."</p> + +<p>"Sure thing! I'm on my way. You know--</p> + +<blockquote> +"I was top-hand once--but the trail for mine:<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along!<br /> +But now I'm ridin' the old chuck line,<br /> + Feedin' good and a-feelin' fine:<br /> +Oh, some folks eat and some folks dine,<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along!"<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60"></a>[pg +60]</span>Bartley smiled. Here was the real hobo, the irrepressible +absolute. Cheyenne stepped up and swung to the saddle with the effortless +ease of the old hand. Bartley noticed that the pack-horse had no lead-rope, +nor had he been tied. Bartley did not know that Filaree, the pack-horse, +would never let Joshua, the saddle-horse, out of his sight. They had +traveled the Arizona trails together for years.</p> + +<p>In spite of his happy-go-lucky indifference to persons and events, +Cheyenne had a sort of intuitive shrewdness in reading humans. And he read +in Bartley's glance a half-awakened desire to outfit and hit the trail +himself. But Cheyenne departed without suggesting any such idea. Every man +for himself was his motto. "And as for me," he added, aloud:</p> + +<blockquote> +Seems like I don't git anywhere,<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along;<br /> +But we're leavin' here and we're goin' there:<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along!<br /> +<br /> +With little ole Josh that steps right free,<br /> + And my ole gray pack-hoss, Filaree,<br /> +The world ain't got no rope on me:<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along!<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p>Bartley watched him as he crossed the railroad tracks and turned down a +side street.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61"></a>[pg +61]</span>Back in his room Bartley paced up and down, keeping time to the +tune of Cheyenne's trail song. The morning sun poured down upon the station +roof opposite, and danced flickering across the polished tracks of the +railroad. Presently Bartley stopped pacing his room and stood at the +window. Far out across the mesa he saw a rider, drifting along in the +sunshine, followed by a gray pack-horse.</p> + +<p>"By George!" exclaimed Bartley. "He may be a sort of wandering joke to +the citizens of this State, but he's doing what he wants to do, and that's +more than I'm doing. Just fifty miles to Senator Brown's ranch. Drop in and +see us. As the chap in Denver said when he wrote to his friend in El Paso: +'Drop into Denver some evening and I'll show you the sights.' Distance? +Negligible. Time? An inconsequent factor. Big stuff! As for me, I think +I'll go downstairs and interview the pensive Wishful."</p> + +<p>Wishful had the Navajo blankets and chairs piled up in the middle of the +hotel office and was thoughtfully sweeping out cigar ashes, cigarette +stubs, and burned matches. Wishful, besides being proprietor of the +Antelope House, was chambermaid, baggage-wrangler, clerk, advertising <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62"></a>[pg 62]</span>manager, +and, upon occasion, waiter in his own establishment. And he kept a neat +place.</p> + +<p>Bartley walked over to the desk. Wishful kept on sweeping. Bartley +glanced at the signatures on the register. Near the bottom of the page he +found Cheyenne's name, and opposite it "Arizona."</p> + +<p>"Where does Cheyenne belong, anyway?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>Wishful stopped sweeping and leaned on his broom. "Wherever he happens +to be." And Wishful sighed and began sweeping again.</p> + +<p>"What sort of traveling companion would he make?"</p> + +<p>Wishful stopped sweeping. His melancholy gaze was fixed on a defunct +cigar. "Never heard either of his hosses object to his company," he +replied.</p> + +<p>Bartley grinned and glanced up and down the register. Wishful dug into a +corner with his broom. Something shot rattling across the floor. Wishful +laid down the broom and upon hands and knees began a search. Presently he +rose. A slow smile illumined his face. He had found a pair of dice in the +litter on the floor. He made a throw, shook his head, and <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63"></a>[pg 63]</span>picked up +the dice. His sweeping became more sprightly. Amused by the preoccupation +of the lank and cautiously humorous Wishful, Bartley touched the bell on +the desk. Wishful promptly stood his broom against the wall, rolled down +his sleeves, and stepped behind the counter.</p> + +<p>"I think I'll pay my bill," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>Wishful promptly named the amount. Bartley proffered a ten-dollar +bill.</p> + +<p>Wishful searched in the till for change. He shook his head. "You got two +dollars comin'," he stated.</p> + +<p>"I'll shake you for that two dollars," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>Wishful's tired eyes lighted up. "You said somethin'." And he produced +the dice.</p> + +<p>Just then the distant "Zoom" of the westbound Overland shook the +silence. Wishful hesitated, then gestured magnificently toward space. What +was the arrival of a mere train, with possibly a guest or so for the hotel, +compared with a game of craps?</p> + +<p>While they played, the train steamed in and was gone. Wishful won the +two dollars.</p> + +<p>Bartley escaped to the veranda and his reflections. Presently he rose +and strolled round to the corral. Wishful's three saddle-animals <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64"></a>[pg 64]</span>were +lazying in the heat. Bartley was not unfamiliar with the good points of a +horse. He rejected the sorrel with the Roman nose, as stubborn and foolish. +The flea-bitten gray was all horse, but he had a white-rimmed eye. The +chestnut bay was a big, hardy animal, but he appeared rather slow and +deliberate. Yet he had good, solid feet, plenty of bone, deep withers, and +powerful hindquarters.</p> + +<p>Bartley stepped round to the hotel. "Have you a minute to spare?" he +queried as Wishful finished rearranging the furniture of the lobby.</p> + +<p>Wishful had. He followed Bartley round to the corral.</p> + +<p>"I'm thinking of buying a saddle-horse," stated Bartley.</p> + +<p>Wishful leaned his elbows on the corral bar. "Why don't you rent +one--and turn him in when you're through with him."</p> + +<p>"I'd rather own one, and I may use him a long time."</p> + +<p>"I ain't sufferin' to sell any of my hosses, Mr. Bartley. But I wouldn't +turn down a fair offer."</p> + +<p>"Set a price on that sorrel," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>Now, Wishful was willing to part with the sorrel, which was showy and +looked fast. Bartley <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" +id="Page_65"></a>[pg 65]</span>did not want the animal. He merely wanted to +arrive at a basis from which to work.</p> + +<p>"Well," drawled Wishful, "I'd let him go for a hundred."</p> + +<p>"What will you take for the gray?"</p> + +<p>"Him? Well, he's the best hoss I got. I don't think he's your kind of a +hoss."</p> + +<p>"The best, eh? And a hundred for the sorrel." Bartley appeared to +reflect.</p> + +<p>Wishful really wanted to sell the gray, describing him as the best horse +he owned to awaken Bartley's interest. The best horse in the corral was the +big bay cow-horse; but Wishful had no idea that Bartley knew that.</p> + +<p>"Would you put a price on the gray?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Why, sure! You can have him, for a hundred and twenty-five."</p> + +<p>"A hundred for the sorrel--and a hundred and twenty-five for the gray; +is that correct?"</p> + +<p>"Yep."</p> + +<p>"And you say the gray is the best horse in the corral?"</p> + +<p>"He sure is!"</p> + +<p>"All right. I'll give you a hundred for that big bay, there. I don't +want to rob you of your best horse, Wishful."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66"></a>[pg +66]</span>Wishful saw that he was cornered. He had cornered himself, +premising that the Easterner didn't know horses. "That bay ain't much +account, Mr. Bartley. He's slow--nothin' but a ole cow-hoss I kind of keep +around for odd jobs of ropin' and such."</p> + +<p>"Well, he's good enough for me. I'll give you a hundred for him."</p> + +<p>Wishful scratched his head. He did not want to sell the bay for that +sum, yet he was too good a sport to go back on his word.</p> + +<p>"Say, where was you raised?" he queried abruptly.</p> + +<p>"In Kentucky."</p> + +<p>"Hell, I thought you was from New York?"</p> + +<p>"I lived in Kentucky until I was twenty-five."</p> + +<p>"Was your folks hoss-traders?"</p> + +<p>"Not exactly," laughed Bartley. "My father always kept a few good +saddle-horses, however."</p> + +<p>"Uh-huh? I reckon he did. And you ain't forgot what a real hoss looks +like, either." Wishful's pensive countenance lighted suddenly. "You'll be +wantin' a rig--saddle and bridle and slicker and saddle-bags. Now I got +just what you want."</p> + +<p>Bartley stepped to the stable and inspected <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_67" id="Page_67"></a>[pg 67]</span>the outfit. It was old and +worn, and worth, Bartley estimated, about thirty dollars, all told.</p> + +<p>"I'll let you have the whole outfit--hoss and rig and all, for two +hundred," stated Wishful unblushingly.</p> + +<p>"I priced a saddle, over in the shop across from the station, this +morning," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"With bridle and blanket and saddle-pockets it would only stand me +ninety dollars. If the bay is the poorest horse you own, then at your +figure this outfit would come rather high."</p> + +<p>"I might 'a' knowed it!" stated Wishful. "Say, Mr. Bartley, give me a +hundred and fifty for the hoss and I'll throw in the rig."</p> + +<p>"No. I know friendship ceases when a horse-trade begins; but I am only +taking you at your word."</p> + +<p>"I sure done overlooked a bet, this trip," said Wishful. "Say, I reckon +you must 'a' cut your first tooth on a cinch-ring. I done learnt somethin' +this mornin'. Private eddication comes high, but I'm game. Write your check +for a hundred--and take the bay. By rights I ought to give him to you, +seein as how you done roped and branded me for a blattin' yearlin' the +first throw; and you been out West just three days! You'll git along in +this country."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68"></a>[pg +68]</span>"I hope so," laughed Bartley. "Speaking of getting along, I plan +to visit Senator Brown. How long will it take me to get there, riding the +bay?"</p> + +<p>"He's got a runnin' walk that is good for six miles an hour. He's a +walkin' fool. And anything you git your rope on, he'll hold it till you're +gray-headed and got whiskers. That ole hoss is the best cow-hoss in +Antelope County--and I'm referrin' you to Steve Brown to back me up. I +bought that hoss from Steve. Any time you see the Box-S brand on a hoss, +you can figure he's a good one."</p> + +<p>"I suppose I'd have to camp on the mesa two or three nights," said +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Nope! Ole Dobe'll make it in two days. He don't look fast, but the +trail sure fades behind him when he's travelin'. I'm kind of glad you +didn't try to buy the Antelope House. You'd started in pricin' the stable, +and kind of milled around and ast me what I'd sell the kitchen for, and +afore I knowed it, you'd 'a' had me selling the hotel for less than the +stable. I figure you'd made a amazin' hand at shootin' craps."</p> + +<p>"Let's step over and buy that saddle, and the rest of it. Will you +engineer the deal? I don't know much about Western saddlery."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69"></a>[pg +69]</span>"Shucks! You can take that ole rig I was showin' you. She ain't +much on looks, but she's all there."</p> + +<p>"Thanks. But I'd rather buy a new outfit."</p> + +<p>"When do you aim to start?"</p> + +<p>"Right away. I suppose I'll need a blanket and some provisions."</p> + +<p>"Yes. But you'll catch up with Cheyenne, if you keep movin'. He won't +travel fast with a pack-hoss along. He'll most like camp at the first +water, about twenty-five miles south. But you can pack some grub in your +saddle-bags, and play safe. And take a canteen along."</p> + +<p>Wishful superintended the purchasing of the new outfit, and seemed +unusually keen about seeing Bartley well provided for at the minimum cost. +Wishful's respect for the Easterner had been greatly enhanced by the recent +horse-deal. When it came to the question of clothing, Wishful wisely +suggested overalls and a rowdy, as being weather and brush proof. +Incidentally Wishful asked Bartley why he had paid his bill before he had +actually prepared to start on the journey. Bartley told Wishful that he +would not have prepared to start had he not paid the bill on impulse.</p> + +<p>"Well, some folks git started on impulse, <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_70" id="Page_70"></a>[pg 70]</span>afore they pay their bills, +and keep right on fannin' it," asserted Wishful.</p> + +<p>An hour later Bartley was ready for the trail. With some food in the +saddle-pockets, a blanket tied behind the cantle, and a small canteen hung +on the horn, he felt equipped to make the journey. Wishful suggested that +he stay until after the noon hour, but Bartley declined. He would eat a +sandwich or two on the way.</p> + +<p>"And ole Dobe knows the trail to Steve's ranch," said Wishful, as he +walked around horse and rider, giving them a final inspection. "And you +don't have to cinch ole Dobe extra tight," he advised. "He carries a saddle +good. 'Course that new leather will stretch some."</p> + +<p>"How old <i>is</i> Dobe?" queried Bartley. "You keep calling him +'old.'"</p> + +<p>"I seen you mouthin' him, after you had saddled him. How old would +<i>you</i> say?"</p> + +<p>"Seven, going on eight."</p> + +<p>"Git along! And if anybody gits the best of you in a hoss-trade, wire me +collect. It'll sure be news!"</p> + +<p>Bartley settled himself in the saddle and touched Dobe with the +spurs.</p> + +<p>"Give my regards to Senator Steve--and Cheyenne," called Wishful.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71"></a>[pg +71]</span>Wishful stood gazing after his recent guest until he had +disappeared around a corner.</p> + +<p>Then Wishful strode into the hotel office and marked a blue cross on the +big wall calendar. A humorous smile played about his mouth. It was a mark +to indicate the day and date that an Eastern tenderfoot had got the best of +him in a horse-deal.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72"></a>[pg 72]</span><hr +/> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> + +<h3><a name='AT_THE_WATER_HOLE'></a>AT THE WATER-HOLE</h3> + + +<p>Before Bartley had been riding an hour he knew that he had a good horse +under him. Dobe "followed his head" and did not flirt with his shadow, +although he was grain-fed and ready to go. When Dobe trotted--an easy, +swinging trot that ate into the miles--Bartley tried to post, English +style. But Dobe did not understand that style of riding a trot. Each time +Bartley raised in the stirrups, Dobe took it for a signal to lope. Finally +Bartley caught the knack of leaning forward and riding a trot with a +straight leg, and to his surprise he found it was a mighty satisfactory +method and much easier than posting.</p> + +<p>The mesa trail was wide--in reality a cross-country road, so Bartley had +opportunity to try Dobe's different gaits. The running walk was a joy to +experience, the trot was easy, and the lope as regular and smooth as the +swing of a pendulum. Finally Bartley settled to the best long-distance gait +of all, the running walk, and began to enjoy the vista; the wide-sweeping, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73"></a>[pg +73]</span>southern reaches dotted with buttes, the line of the far hills +crowded against the sky, and the intense light in which there was no +faintest trace of blur or moisture. Everything within normal range of +vision stood out clean-edged and definite.</p> + +<p>Unaccustomed to riding a horse that neck-reined at the merest touch, and +one that stopped at the slightest tightening of the rein, Bartley had to +learn through experience that a spade bit requires delicate handling. He +was jogging along easily when he turned to glance back at the town--now a +far, huddled group of tiny buildings. Inadvertently he tightened rein. Dobe +stopped short. Bartley promptly went over the fork and slid to the +ground.</p> + +<p>Dobe gazed down at his rider curiously, ears cocked forward, as though +trying to understand just what his rider meant to do next. Bartley expected +to see the horse whirl and leave for home. But Dobe stood patiently until +his rider had mounted. Bartley glanced round covertly, wondering if any one +had witnessed his impromptu descent. Then he laughed, realizing that it was +a long way to Central Park, flat saddles and snaffles.</p> + +<p>A little later he ate two of the sandwiches <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_74" id="Page_74"></a>[pg 74]</span>Wishful had thoughtfully +provided, and drank from the canteen. Gradually the shadows of the buttes +lengthened. The afternoon heat ebbed away in little, infrequent puffs of +wind. The western reaches of the great mesa seemed to expand, while the +southern horizon drew nearer.</p> + +<p>Presently Bartley noticed pony tracks on the road, and either side of +the tracks the mark of wheels. Here the wagon had swung aside to avoid a +bit of bad going, yet the tracks of two horses still kept the middle of the +road. "Senator Brown--and Cheyenne," thought Bartley, studying the tracks. +He became interested in them. Here, again, Cheyenne had dismounted, +possibly to tighten a cinch. There was the stub of a cigarette. Farther +along the tracks were lost in the rocky ground of the petrified forest. He +had made twenty miles without realizing it.</p> + +<p>Winding in and out among the shattered and fallen trunks of those +prehistoric trees, Bartley forgot where he was until he passed the +bluish-gray sweep of burned earth edging the forest. Presently a few dwarf +junipers appeared. He was getting higher, although the mesa seemed level. +Again he discovered the tracks of the horses in the powdered red clay of +the road.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75"></a>[pg +75]</span>He crossed a shallow arroyo, sandy and wide. Later he came +suddenly upon a red clay cutbank, and a hint of water where the bank +shadowed the mud-smeared rocks. He rode slowly, preoccupied in studying the +country. The sun showed close to the rim of the world when he finally +realized that, if he meant to get anywhere, he had better be about it. Dobe +promptly caught the change of his rider's mental attitude and stepped out +briskly. Bartley patted the horse's neck.</p> + +<p>It was a pleasure to ride an animal that seemed to want to work with a +man and not against him. The horse had cost one hundred dollars--a fair +price for such a horse in those days. Yet Bartley thought it a very +reasonable price. And he knew he had a bargain. He felt clearly confident +that the big cow-pony would serve him in any circumstance or hazard.</p> + +<p>As a long, undulating stretch of road appeared, softly brown in the +shadows, Bartley began to look about for the water-hole which Wishful had +spoken about. The sun slipped from sight. The dim, gray road reached on and +on, shortening in perspective as the quick night swept down.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76"></a>[pg +76]</span>Beyond and about was a dusky wall through which loomed queer +shapes that seemed to move and change until, approached, they became +junipers. Bartley's gaze became fixed upon the road. That, at least, was a +reality. He reached back and untied his coat and swung into it. An early +star flared over the southern hills. He wondered if he had passed the +water-hole. He had a canteen, but Dobe would need water. But Dobe was +thoroughly familiar with the trail from Antelope to the White Hills. And +Dobe smelled the presence of his kind, even while Bartley, peering ahead in +the dusk, rode on, not aware that some one was camped within calling +distance of the trail. A cluster of junipers hid the faint glow of the +camp-fire.</p> + +<p>Dobe stopped suddenly. Bartley urged him on. For the first time the big +horse showed an inclination to ignore the rein. Bartley gazed round, saw +nothing in particular, and spoke to the horse, urging him forward. Dobe +turned and marched deliberately away from the road, heading toward the +west, and nickered. From behind the screen of junipers came an answering +nicker. Bartley hallooed. No one answered him. Yet Dobe seemed to know what +he was about. He plodded on, down a slight grade. <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_77" id="Page_77"></a>[pg 77]</span>Suddenly the soft glow of a +camp-fire illumined the hollow.</p> + +<p>A blanket-roll, a saddle, a coil of rope, and a battered canteen and the +fire--but no habitant of the camp.</p> + +<p>"Hello!" shouted Bartley.</p> + +<p>Dobe shied and snorted as a figure loomed in the dusk, and Cheyenne was +peering up at him.</p> + +<p>"Is this the water-hole?" Bartley asked inanely.</p> + +<p>"This is her. I'm sure glad to see you! I feel like a plumb fool for +standin' you up that way--but I didn't quite get you till I seen your face. +I thought I knowed your voice, but I never did see you in jeans, and ridin' +a hoss before. And that hat ain't like the one you wore in Antelope."</p> + +<p>"Then you didn't know just what to expect?"</p> + +<p>"I wa'n't sure. But say, I got some coffee goin'--and some bacon. Light +down and give your saddle a rest."</p> + +<p>"I'll just water my horse and stake him out and--"</p> + +<p>"I'll show you where. I see you're ridin' Dobe. Wishful rent him to +you?"</p> + +<p>"No. I bought him."</p> + +<p>"If you don't mind tellin' me--how much?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78"></a>[pg +78]</span>"A hundred."</p> + +<p>"Was Wishful drunk?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Well, you got a real hoss, there. The water is right close. Old Dobe +knows where it is. Just lift off your saddle and turn him loose--or mebby +you better hobble him the first night. He ain't used to travelin' with you, +yet."</p> + +<p>"I have a stake-rope," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"A hoss would starve on a stake-rope out here. I'll make you a pair of +hobbles, pronto. Then he'll stick with my hosses."</p> + +<p>"Where are they?"</p> + +<p>"Runnin' around out there somewhere. They never stray far from +camp."</p> + +<p>Bartley watched Cheyenne untwist a piece of soft rope and make a pair of +serviceable hobbles.</p> + +<p>"Now he'll travel easy and git enough grass to keep him in shape. And +them hobbles won't burn him. Any time you're shy of hobbles, that's how to +make 'em."</p> + +<p>Later, as Bartley sat by the fire and ate, Cheyenne asked him if +Panhandle had been seen in town since the night of the crap game. Bartley +told him that he had seen nothing of Panhandle.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79"></a>[pg +79]</span>"He's ridin' this country, somewhere," said Cheyenne. "You're +headed for Steve's ranch?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Well, Steve'll sure give you the time of your life."</p> + +<p>"I think I'll stay there a few days, if the Senator can make room for +me."</p> + +<p>"Room! Wait till you see Steve's place. And say, if you want to get wise +to how they run a cattle outfit, just throw in with the boys, tell 'em +you're a plumb tenderfoot and can't ride a bronc, nohow, and that you never +took down a rope in your life, and that all you know about cattle is what +you've et, and then the boys will use you white. There's nothin' puts a +fella in wrong with the boys quicker than for him to let on he is a hand +when he ain't. 'Course the boys won't mind seem' you top a bronc and get +throwed, just to see if you got sand."</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Cheyenne manipulated the coffee-pot and skillet most +effectively. And while Bartley ate his supper, Cheyenne talked, seemingly +glad to have a companion to talk to.</p> + +<p>"You see," he began, apropos of nothing in particular, "entertainin' +folks with the latest news is my long suit. I'm kind of a travelin' show, +singin' and packin' the news around to <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_80" id="Page_80"></a>[pg 80]</span>everybody. 'Course folks read +the paper and hear about somebody gettin' married, or gettin' shot or +leavin' the country, and then they ask me the how of it. I been ramblin' so +long that I know the pedigrees of 'most everybody down this way.</p> + +<p>"Newspapers is all right, but folks get plumb hungry to git their news +with human trimmin's. I recollec' I come mighty near gettin' in trouble, +onct. Steve had some folks visitin' down to his ranch. They was new to the +country, and seems they locked horns with a outfit runnin' sheep just south +of Springerville. Now, I hadn't been down that way for about six months, +but I had heard of that ruckus. So after Steve lets me sing a couple of +songs, and I got to feelin' comfortable with them new folks, I set to and +tells 'em about the ruckus down near Springerville. I guess the fella that +told me must 'a' got his reins crossed, for pretty soon Steve starts to +laugh and turns to them visitors and says: 'How about it, Mr. Smith?'</p> + +<p>"Now, Smith was the fella that had the ruckus, and I'd been tellin' how +that sheep outfit had run <i>him</i> out of the country. He was a young, +long, spindlin' hombre from Texas--a reg'lar Whicker-bill, with that +drawlin' kind of a voice <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" +id="Page_81"></a>[pg 81]</span>that hosses and folks listen to. I knowed he +was from Texas the minute I seen him, but I sure didn't know he was the man +I was talkin' about.</p> + +<p>"Everybody laughed but him and his wife. I reckon she was feelin' her +oats, visitin' at the Senator's house. I don't know what she said to her +husband, but, anyhow, afore I left for the bunk-house that evenin', he +says, slow and easy, that if I was around there next mornin', he would +explain all about that ruckus to me, when the ladies weren't present, so I +wouldn't get it wrong, next time. I seen I had made a mistake for myself, +and I didn't aim to make another, so I just kind of eased off and faded +away, bushin' down that night a far piece from Senator Steve's ranch. I +know them Whicker-bills and I didn't want to tangle with any of 'em."</p> + +<p>"Afraid you'd get shot?" queried Bartley, laughing.</p> + +<p>"Shot? Me? No, pardner. I was afraid that Texas gent would get shot. You +see, he was married--and I--ain't."</p> + +<p>Bartley lay back on his saddle and gazed up at the stars. The little +fire had died down to a dot of red. A coyote yelped in the far dusk. +Another coyote replied. Cheyenne rose and threw some wood on the fire. Then +he stepped <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82"></a>[pg +82]</span>down to the water-hole and washed the plates and cups. Bartley +could hear the peculiar thumping sound of hobbled horses moving about on +the mesa. Cheyenne returned to the fire, picked up his bed-roll, and +marched off into the bushes. Bartley wondered why he should take the +trouble to move his bed-roll such a distance from the water-hole.</p> + +<p>"Pack your saddle and blanket over, when you feel like turnin' in," said +Cheyenne. "And you might throw some dirt on that fire. I ain't lookin' for +visitors down this way, but you can't tell."</p> + +<p>Bartley carried his saddle out to the distant clump of junipers.</p> + +<p>"Just shed your coat and boots and turn in," invited Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Bartley was not sleepy, and for a long time he lay gazing up at the +stars. Presently he heard Cheyenne snore. The Big Dipper grew dim. Then a +coyote yelped--a shrill cadence of mocking laughter. "I wonder what the +joke is?" Bartley thought drowsily.</p> + +<p>Sometime during the night he was awakened by the tramping of horses, a +sound that ran along the ground and diminished in the distance.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne was sitting up. He touched Bartley. "Five or six of 'em," +whispered Cheyenne.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83"></a>[pg +83]</span>"Our horses?"</p> + +<p>"Too many. Mebby some strays."</p> + +<p>"Or cowboys," suggested Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Night-ridin' ain't so popular out here."</p> + +<p>Bartley turned over and fell asleep. It seemed but a moment later that +he was wide awake and Cheyenne was standing over him. It was daylight.</p> + +<p>"They got our hosses," said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Who?"</p> + +<p>"I dunno."</p> + +<p>"What? <i>Our</i> horses? Great Scott, how far is it to Senator Brown's +ranch?"</p> + +<p>"About twenty-five miles, by road. I know a short cut."</p> + +<p>Bartley jumped up and pulled on his boots. From the far hills came the +faint yelp of a coyote, shrill and derisive.</p> + +<p>"The joke is on us," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"This here ain't no joke," stated Cheyenne.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84"></a>[pg 84]</span><hr +/> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + +<h3><a name='HIGH_HEELS_AND_MOCCASINS'></a>HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS</h3> + + +<p>Bartley suggested that, perhaps, the horses had strayed.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne shook his head. "My hosses ain't leavin' good feed, or leavin' +me. They know this here country."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps Dobe left for home and the rest followed him," said +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Nope. Our hosses was roped and led south."</p> + +<p>Bartley stared at Cheyenne, whose usually placid countenance expressed +indecision and worry. Cheyenne seemed positive about the missing horses. +Then Bartley saw an expression in Cheyenne's eyes that indicated more +sternness of spirit than he had given Cheyenne credit for.</p> + +<p>"Roped and led south," reiterated Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"How do you know it?"</p> + +<p>"I been scoutin' around. The bunch that rode by last night was leadin' +hosses. I could tell by the way the hosses was travelin'. They was goin' +steady. If they'd been drivin' our hosses ahead, they would 'a' gone +faster, tryin' <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85"></a>[pg +85]</span>to keep 'em from turnin' back. I don't see nothin' around camp to +show who's been here."</p> + +<p>"I'll make a fire," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"You got the right idea. We can eat. Then I aim to look around."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne was over in the bushes rolling his bed when Bartley called to +him, and he found Bartley pointing at a pair of dice on a flat rock beside +the fire.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne stooped and picked up the dice. "Was you rattlin' the bones to +see if you could beat yourself?"</p> + +<p>"I found them here. Are they yours?"</p> + +<p>"Nope. And they weren't here last evenin'."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne turned and strode out to the road while Bartley made breakfast. +Cheyenne was gone a long time, examining the tracks of horses. When he +returned he squatted down and ate.</p> + +<p>Presently he rose. "First off, I thought they might 'a' been some stray +Apaches or Cholas. But they don't pack dice. And the bunch that rode by +last night was ridin' shod bosses."</p> + +<p>Bartley turned slowly toward his companion. "Panhandle?" he queried.</p> + +<p>"And these here dice? Looks like it. It's like him to leave them dice +for us to play with while he trails south with our stack. I reckon <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86"></a>[pg 86]</span>it was +that Dobe hoss he was after. But he must 'a' knowed who was campin' around +here. You see, when Wishful kind of hinted to Panhandle to leave town, +Panhandle figured that meant to stay out of Antelope quite a spell. First +off he steals some hosses. Next thing, he'll sell 'em or trade 'em, down +south of here. He'll travel nights, mostly."</p> + +<p>"I can't see why he should especially pick us out as his victims," said +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"I don't say he did. But it would make no difference to him. He'd steal +any man's stock. Only, I figure some of his friends must 'a' told him about +you--that seen you ridin' down this way. He would know our camp would be +somewhere near this water-hole. What kind of matches you got with you?"</p> + +<p>"Why--this kind." And Bartley produced a few blue-top matches.</p> + +<p>"This here is a old-timer sulphur match, cut square. It was right here, +by the rock. Somebody lit a match and laid them dice there--sixes up. No +reg'lar hoss-thief would take that much trouble to advertise himself. +Panhandle done it--and he wanted me to know he done it."</p> + +<p>"You've had trouble with him before, haven't you?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87"></a>[pg +87]</span>"Yes--and no man can say I ever trailed him. But I never stepped +out of his way."</p> + +<p>"Then that crap game in Antelope meant more than an ordinary crap game?" +said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"He had his chance," stated Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Well, we're in a fix," asserted Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Yes; we're afoot. But we'll make it. And right here I'm tellin' you +that I aim to shoot a game of craps with Panhandle, usin' these here dice, +that'll be fast and won't last long."</p> + +<p>"How about the law?"</p> + +<p>"The law is all right, in spots. But they's a whole lot of country +between them spots."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne cached the bed-roll, saddles, and cooking-outfit back in the +brush, taking only a canteen and a little food. He proffered a pair of +moccasins, parfleche-soled and comfortable, to Bartley.</p> + +<p>"You wear these. Them new ridin'-boots'll sure kill you dead, walkin'. +You can pack 'em along with you."</p> + +<p>"How about your feet?"</p> + +<p>"Say, you wouldn't call me a tenderfoot, would you?"</p> + +<p>"Not exactly."</p> + +<p>"Then slip on them moccasins. But first I <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_88" id="Page_88"></a>[pg 88]</span>aim to make a circle and see +just where they caught up our stock."</p> + +<p>Bartley drew on the moccasins and, tying his boots together, rolled them +in his blanket. Meanwhile, Cheyenne circled the camp far out, examining the +scattered tracks of horses. When he returned the morning sun was beginning +to make itself felt.</p> + +<p>"I'll toss up to see who wears the moccasins," said Bartley. "I'm more +used to hiking than you are."</p> + +<p>"Spin her!"</p> + +<p>As Bartley tossed the coin, Cheyenne called. The half-dollar dropped and +stuck edge-up in the sand.</p> + +<p>"You wear 'em the first fifteen miles and then we'll swap," said +Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Bartley filled the canteen and scraped dirt over the fire. Cheyenne took +a last look around, and turned toward the south.</p> + +<p>"You didn't say nothin' about headin' back to Antelope," said +Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Why, no. I started out to visit Senator Brown's ranch."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne laughed. "Well, you're out to see the country, anyhow. We'll +see lots, to-day."</p> + +<p>Once more upon the road Cheyenne's manner <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_89" id="Page_89"></a>[pg 89]</span>changed. He seemed to ignore +the fact that he was afoot, in country where there was little prospect of +getting a lift from a passing rancher or freighter. And he said nothing +about his horses, Filaree and Joshua, although Bartley knew that their loss +must have hit him hard.</p> + +<p>A mile down the road, and Cheyenne was singing his trail song, +bow-legging ahead as though he were entirely alone and indifferent to the +journey:</p> + +<blockquote> +Seems like I don't git anywhere:<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along!<br /> +But I'm leavin' here and I'm goin' there,<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along--<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p>He stopped suddenly, pulled his faded black Stetson over one eye, and +then stepped out again, singing on:</p> + +<blockquote> +They ain't no water and they ain't no shade:<br /> +They ain't no beer or lemonade,<br /> +But I reckon most like we'll make the grade<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along.<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p>"That's the stuff!" laughed Bartley. "A stanza or two of that every few +miles, and we'll make the grade all right. That last was improvised, wasn't +it?"</p> + +<p>"Nope. Just naturalized. I make 'em up <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_90" id="Page_90"></a>[pg 90]</span>when I'm ridin' along, to +kind of fit into the scenery. Impervisin' gets my wind."</p> + +<p>"Well, if you are singing when we finish, you're a wonder," stated +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm a wonder, all right! And mebby I don't feel like a plumb fool, +footin' it into Steve's ranch with no hosses and no bed-roll and no +reputation. And I sure lose mine this trip. Why, folks all over the country +will josh me to death when they hear Panhandle Sears set me afoot on the +big mesa. I reckon I'll have to kind of change my route till somethin' +happens to make folks forget this here bobble."</p> + +<p>Another five miles of hot and monotonous plodding, and Cheyenne stopped +and sat down. He pulled off his boots.</p> + +<p>Bartley offered the moccasins, but Cheyenne waved the offer aside.</p> + +<p>"Just coolin' my feet," he explained. "It ain't so much the kind of +boots, because these fit. It's scaldin' your feet that throws you."</p> + +<p>They smoked and drank from the canteen. Five minutes' rest, and they +were on the road again. The big mesa reached on and on toward the south, +seemingly limitless, without sign of fence or civilization save for the +narrow road that swung over each slight, rounded rise and <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91"></a>[pg 91]</span>ran away +into the distance, narrowing to a gray line that disappeared in space.</p> + +<p>Occasionally singing, Cheyenne strode along, Bartley striding beside +him.</p> + +<p>"You got a stride like a unbroke yearlin'," said; Cheyenne, as Bartley +unconsciously drew ahead.</p> + +<p>Bartley stopped and turned into step as Cheyenne caught up. He held +himself to a slower pace, realizing that, while his companion could have +outridden him by days and miles, the other was not used to walking.</p> + +<p>As they topped a low rise a coyote sprang up and floated away. Bartley +flinched as Cheyenne whipped up his gun and fired. The coyote jack-knifed +and lay still. Cheyenne punched the empty shell from his gun, slipped in a +cartridge, and strode on.</p> + +<p>"Pretty fast work," remarked Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Huh! I just throwed down on him to see if I was gettin' slow."</p> + +<p>"It seems to me that if I could shoot like that, I wouldn't let any man +back me down," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Mebby so. But you're wrong, old-timer. Bein' fast with a gun is just +like advertisin' for the coroner. Me, I'm plumb peaceful."</p> + +<p>A few miles farther along they nooned in <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_92" id="Page_92"></a>[pg 92]</span>the shade of a piñion. +When they started down the road again, Bartley noticed that Cheyenne limped +slightly. But Cheyenne still refused to put on the moccasins. Bartley +argued that his own feet were getting tender. He was unaccustomed to +moccasins. Cheyenne turned this argument aside by singing a stanza of his +trail song.</p> + +<p>Also, incidentally, Cheyenne had been keeping his eye on the +horse-tracks; and just before they left the main road taking a short cut, +he pointed to them. "There's Filaree's tracks, and there's Joshua's. Your +hoss has been travelin' over here, on the edge. Them hoss-thieves figure to +hit into the White Hills and cut down through the Apache forest, most +like."</p> + +<p>"Will they sell the horses?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Or trade 'em for whiskey. Panhandle's got friends up in them +hills."</p> + +<p>"How far is it to the ranch?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"We done reached her. We're on Steve's ranch, right now. It's about five +miles from that first fence over there to his house, by trail. It's fifteen +by road."</p> + +<p>"Then here is where you take the moccasins."</p> + +<p>"Nope. My feet are so swelled you couldn't start my boots with a fence +stretcher. They's no use both of us gettin' cripped up."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93"></a>[pg +93]</span>Bartley's own feet ached from the constant bruising of +pebbles.</p> + +<p>Presently Cheyenne dropped back and asked Bartley to set the pace.</p> + +<p>"I'll just tie to your shadow," said Cheyenne. "Keeps me interested. +When I'm drillin' along ahead I can't think of nothin' but my feet."</p> + +<p>Because there was now no road and scarcely a trail, Bartley began to +choose his footing, dodging the rougher places. The muscles of his calves +ached under the unaccustomed strain of walking without heels. Cheyenne +dogged along behind, suffering keenly from blistered feet, but centering +his attention on Bartley's bobbing shadow. They had made about two miles +across country when the faint trail ran round a butte and dipped into a +shallow arroyo.</p> + +<p>The arroyo deepened to a gulch, narrow and rocky. Up the gulch a few +hundred yards they came suddenly upon a bunch of Hereford cattle headed by +a magnificent bull. The trail ran in the bottom of the gulch. On either +side the walls were steep and rocky. Angling junipers stuck out from the +walls in occasional dots of green.</p> + +<p>"That ole white-face sure looks hostile," <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_94" id="Page_94"></a>[pg 94]</span>Cheyenne remarked. "Git +along, you ole Mormon; curl your tail and drift."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne heaved a stone which took the bull fairly between the eyes. The +bull shook his head and snapped his tail, but did not move. The cattle +behind the bull stared blandly at the invaders of their domain. The bull, +being an aristocrat, gave warning of his intent to charge by shaking his +head and bellowing. Then he charged.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne stooped for another stone, but Bartley had no intention of +playing ping-pong with a roaring red avalanche. Bartley made for the side +of the gulch and, catching hold of the bole of a juniper, drew himself up. +Cheyenne stood to his guns, shied a third stone, scored a bull's-eye, and +then decided to evacuate in favor of the enemy. His feet were sore, but he +managed to keep a good three jumps ahead of the bull, up the precipitous +bank of the gulch. There was no time to swing into the tree where Bartley +had taken refuge, so Cheyenne backed into a shallow depression beneath the +roots of the juniper.</p> + +<p>The bull shook his head and butted at Cheyenne. Cheyenne slapped the +bull's nose with his hat. The bull backed part-way down the grade, <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95"></a>[pg 95]</span>snapped +his tail, and bellowed. Up the grade he charged again. He could not quite +reach Cheyenne, who slapped at the bull with his hat and spake +eloquently.</p> + +<p>Bartley, clinging to his precarious perch, gazed down upon the scene, +wondering if he had not better take a shot at the bull. "Shall I let him +have it?" he queried.</p> + +<p>"Have what?" came the muffled voice of Cheyenne. "He's 'most got what +he's after, right now."</p> + +<p>"Shall I shoot him?"</p> + +<p>"Hell, no! No use beefin' twelve hundred dollars' worth of meat. We +don't need that much."</p> + +<p>"Look out! He's coming again!" called Bartley.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne had suddenly poked his head out of the shallow cave. The bull +charged, backed down, and amused himself by tossing dirt over his shoulders +and grumbling like distant thunder.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps if you stay in that cave and don't show yourself, he'll leave," +suggested Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Stay nothin'!" answered Cheyenne. "There's a rattler in this here cave. +I can hear him singin'. I'm comin' out, right now!"</p> + +<p>Bartley leaned forward and glanced down. <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_96" id="Page_96"></a>[pg 96]</span>The branch on which he was +straddled snapped.</p> + +<p>"Look out below!" he shouted as he felt himself going.</p> + +<p>Bartley's surprising evolution was too much for his majesty the bull, +who whirled and galloped clumsily down the slope. Bartley rolled to the +bottom, still holding to a broken branch of the tree. Cheyenne was also at +the bottom of the gulch. The bull was trotting heavily toward his herd.</p> + +<p>"Is there anything hooked to the back of my jeans?" queried +Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"No. They're torn; that's all."</p> + +<p>"Huh! I thought mebby that ole snake had hooked on to my jeans. He +sounded right mad, singin' lively, back in there. My laigs feel kind of +limp, right now."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne felt of his torn overalls, shook his head, and then a slow +smile illumined his face. "How do you like this here country, anyhow?"</p> + +<p>"Great!" said Bartley.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97"></a>[pg 97]</span><hr +/> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> + +<h3><a name='AT_THE_BOX_S'></a>AT THE BOX-S</h3> + + +<p>When they emerged from the western end of the gulch, they paused to +rest. Not over a half-mile south stood the ranch-house, just back of a row +of giant cottonwoods.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne pointed out the stables, corrals, and bunk-house. "A mighty +neat little outfit," he remarked, as they started on again.</p> + +<p>"Little?"</p> + +<p>"Senator Steve's only got about sixty thousand acres under fence."</p> + +<p>"Then I'd like to see a big ranch," laughed Bartley.</p> + +<p>"You can't. They ain't nothin' to see more'n you see right now. Why, I +know a outfit down in Texas that would call this here ranch their north +pasture--and they got three more about the same size, besides the regular +range. But standin' in any one place you can't see any more than you do +right now. Steve just keeps up this here ranch so he can have elbow-room. +Yonder comes one of his boys. Reckon he seen us."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98"></a>[pg 98]</span>A +rider had just reined his horse round and was loping toward them.</p> + +<p>"He seen we was afoot," said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Mighty decent of him--" began Bartley, but Cheyenne waved the +suggestion aside. "Decent nothin'! A man afoot looks as queer to a waddie +as we did to that ole bull."</p> + +<p>The puncher loped up, recognized Cheyenne, nodded to Bartley, and seemed +to hesitate. Cheyenne made no explanation of their plight, so the puncher +simply turned back and loped toward the ranch-house.</p> + +<p>"Just steppin' over to tell Steve we're here," said Cheyenne, as +Bartley's face expressed astonishment.</p> + +<p>They plodded on, came to a gate, limped down a long lane, came to +another gate, and there Senator Steve met them.</p> + +<p>"I'd 'a' sent a man with a buckboard if I had known you planned to walk +over from Antelope," he asserted, and his eyes twinkled.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne frowned prodigiously. "Steve," he said slowly, "you can +lovin'ly and trustfully go plumb to hell!"</p> + +<p>Cheyenne turned and limped slowly toward the bunk-house.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Brown welcomed Bartley as the Senator <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_99" id="Page_99"></a>[pg 99]</span>ushered him into the +living-room. The Senator half-filled a tumbler from a cold, dark bottle and +handed it to Bartley.</p> + +<p>"'Green River,'" he said.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Brown," said Bartley as he bowed.</p> + +<p>Then the Senator escorted Bartley to the bathroom. The tub was already +filled with steaming water. A row of snow-white towels hung on the rack. +The Senator waved his hand and, stepping out, closed the door.</p> + +<p>A few minutes later he knocked at the bathroom door. "There's a spare +razor in the cabinet, and all the fixings. And when you're ready there's a +pair of clean socks on the doorknob."</p> + +<p>Bartley heard the Senator's heavy, deliberate step as he passed down the +hallway.</p> + +<p>"A little 'Green River,' a hot bath, and clean socks," murmured Bartley. +"Things might be worse."</p> + +<p>His tired muscles relaxed under the beneficent warmth of the bath. He +shaved, dressed, and stepped out into the hall. He sniffed. "Chicken!" he +murmured soulfully.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Senator Brown was supervising the cooking of a dinner that Bartley +never forgot. Boiled chicken, dumplings, rich gravy, mashed <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100"></a>[pg +100]</span>potatoes, creamed carrots, sliced tomatoes--to begin with. And +then the pie! Bartley furnished the appetite.</p> + +<p>But that was not until after the Senator had returned from the +bunk-house. He had seen to it that Cheyenne had had a bucket of hot water, +soap, and towels and grease for his sore feet. In direct and effectual +kindliness, without obviously expressed sympathy, the Westerner is +peculiarly supreme.</p> + +<p>Back in the living-room Bartley made himself comfortable, admiring the +generous proportions of the house, the choice Indian blankets, the wide +fireplace, and the general solidity of everything, which reflected the +personality of his hosts.</p> + +<p>Presently the Senator came in. "Cheyenne tells me that somebody set you +afoot, down at the water-hole."</p> + +<p>"Did he also tell you about your bull?"</p> + +<p>"No! Is that how he came to tear his jeans?"</p> + +<p>Bartley nodded. And he told the Senator of their recent experience in +the gulch.</p> + +<p>The Senator chuckled. "Don't say a word to Mrs. Brown about it. I'll +have Cheyenne in, after dinner, and sweat it out of him. <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101"></a>[pg 101]</span>You +see, Cheyenne won't eat with us. He always eats with the boys. No use +asking him to eat in here. And, say, Bartley, we've got a little surprise +for you. One of my boys caught up your horse, old Dobe. Dobe was dragging a +rope. Looks like he broke away from some one. I had him turned into the +corral. Dobe was raised on this range."</p> + +<p>"Broke loose and came back!" exclaimed Bartley. "That's good news, +Senator. I like that horse."</p> + +<p>"But Cheyenne is out of luck," said the Senator. "He thought more of +those horses, Filaree and Joshua, than he did of anything on earth. I'll +send one of the boys back to the water-hole to-morrow, for your saddles and +outfit. But now you're here, how do you like the country?"</p> + +<p>"Almost as much as I like some of the people living in it," stated +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Not including Panhandle Sears, eh?"</p> + +<p>"I'm pretty well fed up on walking," and Bartley smiled.</p> + +<p>"Sears is a worthless hombre," stated the Senator. "He's one of a gang +that steal stock, and generally live by their wits and never seem <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102"></a>[pg 102]</span>to get +caught. But he made a big mistake when he lifted Cheyenne's horses. +Cheyenne already has a grievance against Sears. Some day Cheyenne will open +up--and that will be the last of Mr. Sears."</p> + +<p>"I had an idea there was something like that in the wind," said Bartley. +"Cheyenne hasn't said much about Sears, but I was present at that crap +game."</p> + +<p>The Senator chuckled. "I heard about it. Heard you offered to take on +Sears if he would put his gun on the table."</p> + +<p>Bartley flushed. "I must have been excited."</p> + +<p>The Senator leaned forward in his big, easy-chair. "Cheyenne wants me to +let him take a couple of horses to trail Panhandle. And, judging from what +Cheyenne said, he thinks you are going along with him. There's lots of +country right round here to see, without taking any unnecessary risks."</p> + +<p>"I understand," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"And this is your headquarters, as long as you want to stay," continued +the Senator.</p> + +<p>"Thank you. It's a big temptation to stay, Senator."</p> + +<p>"How?"</p> + +<p>"Well, it was rather understood, without anything <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103"></a>[pg 103]</span>being +said, that I would help Cheyenne find his horses and mine. Dobe came back; +but that hardly excuses me from going with Cheyenne."</p> + +<p>"But your horse is here; and you seem to be in pretty fair health, right +now."</p> + +<p>"I appreciate the hint, Senator."</p> + +<p>"But you don't agree with me a whole lot."</p> + +<p>"Well, not quite. Chance rather chucked us together, Cheyenne and me, +and I think I'll travel with him for a while. I like to hear him sing."</p> + +<p>"He likes to hear him sing!" scoffed the Senator, frowning. He sat back +in his chair, blew smoke-rings, puffed out his cheeks, and presently rose. +"Bartley, I see that you're set on chousin' around the country with that +warbling waddie--just to hear him sing, as you say. I say you're a dam' +fool.</p> + +<p>"But you're the kind of a dam' fool I want to shake hands with. You +aren't excited and you don't play to the gallery; so if there's anything +you want on this ranch, from a posse to a pack-outfit, it's yours. And if +either of you get Sears, I'll sure chip in my share to buy his +headstone."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104"></a>[pg +104]</span>"I wouldn't have it inscribed until we get back," laughed +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"No; I don't think I will. Trailin' horse-thieves on their own stamping +ground ain't what an insurance company would call a good risk."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105"></a>[pg +105]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> + +<h3><a name='TO_TRY_HIM_OUT'></a>TO TRY HIM OUT</h3> + + +<p>Two days later Cheyenne was able to get his feet into his boots, but +even then he walked as though he did not care to let his left foot know +what his right foot was doing. Lon Pelly, just in from a ride out to the +line shack, remarked to the boys in the bunk-house that Cheyenne walked as +though his brains were in his feet and he didn't want to get stone bruises +stepping on them.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne made no immediate retort, but later he delivered himself of a +new stanza of his trail song, wherein the first line ended with "Pelly" +followed by the rhymed assertion that the gentleman who bore that peculiar +name had slivers in his anatomy due to a fondness for leaning against the +bar of the Blue Front Saloon.</p> + +<p>The boys were mightily pleased with the stanza, and they also improvised +until, according to their versions, Long Lon bore a marked resemblance to a +porcupine. Lon, being a real person, felt that Cheyenne's retaliation was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106"></a>[pg +106]</span>just. Moreover, Lon, who never did anything hastily, let it be +known casually that he had seen three riders west of the line shack some +two days past, and that the riders were leading two horses, a buckskin and +a gray. They were too far away to be distinguished absolutely, but he could +tell the color of the horses.</p> + +<p>"Panhandle?" queried a puncher.</p> + +<p>"And two riders with him," said Long Lon.</p> + +<p>"Goin' to trail him, Cheyenne?" came presently.</p> + +<p>"That's me."</p> + +<p>"Then let's pass the hat," suggested the first speaker.</p> + +<p>"Wait!" said Cheyenne, drawing a pair of dice from his pocket. "Somehow, +and sometime, I aim to shoot Panhandle a little game. Then you guys can +pass the hat for the loser. Panhandle left them dice on the flat rock, by +the water-hole. My pardner, Bartley, found them."</p> + +<p>"Kind of sign talk that Pan pulled one on you," said Lon Pelly.</p> + +<p>"He sure left his brains behind him when he left them dice," asserted +Cheyenne. "I suspicioned that it was him--but the dice told me, plain."</p> + +<p>"So you figure to walk up to Pan and invite <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_107" id="Page_107"></a>[pg 107]</span>him to shoot a little +game, when you meet up with him?" queried a puncher.</p> + +<p>"That's me."</p> + +<p>"The tenderfoot"--he referred to Bartley--"is he goin' along with +you?"</p> + +<p>"He ain't so tender as you might think," said Cheyenne. "He's green, but +not so dam' tender."</p> + +<p>"Well, it's right sad. He looks like a pretty decent hombre."</p> + +<p>"What's sad?" queried Cheyenne belligerently.</p> + +<p>"Why, gettin' that tenderfoot all shot up, trailin' a couple of +twenty-dollar cayuses. They ain't worth it."</p> + +<p>"They ain't, eh?"</p> + +<p>"Course, they make a right good audience, when you're singin'. They do +all the listenin'," said another puncher.</p> + +<p>"Huh! They ain't one of you got a hoss that can listen to you, without +blushin'. You fellas think you're a hard-ridin'--"</p> + +<p>"Ridin' beats walkin'," suggested Long Lon.</p> + +<p>"Keep a-joshin'. I like it. Shows how much you don't know. I--hello, Mr. +Bartley! Shake hands with Lon Pelly--but I guess you met <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108"></a>[pg 108]</span>him, +over to Antelope. You needn't to mind the rest of these guys. They're +harmless."</p> + +<p>"I don't want to interrupt--" began Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Set right in!" they invited in chorus. "We're just listenin' to +Cheyenne preachin' his own funeral sermon."</p> + +<p>Bartley seated himself in the doorway of the bunk-house. The joshing +ceased. Cheyenne, who could never keep his hands still, toyed with the +dice. Presently one of the boys suggested that Cheyenne show them some +fancy work with a six-gun--"just to keep your wrist limber," he +concluded.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne shook his head. But, when Bartley intimated that he would like +to see Cheyenne shoot, Cheyenne rose.</p> + +<p>"All right. I'll shoot any fella here for ten bucks--him to name the +target."</p> + +<p>"No, you don't," said a puncher. "We ain't givin' our dough away, just +to git rid of it."</p> + +<p>"And right recent they was talkin' big," said Cheyenne. "I'll shoot the +spot of a playin'-card, if you'll hold it," he asserted, indicating +Bartley.</p> + +<p>The boys glanced at Bartley and then lowered their eyes, wondering what +the Easterner would do. Bartley felt that this was a test of his nerve, +and, while he didn't like the idea of <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_109" id="Page_109"></a>[pg 109]</span>engaging in a William Tell +performance he realized that Cheyenne must have had a reason for choosing +him, out of the men present, and that Cheyenne knew his business.</p> + +<p>"Cheyenne wants to git out of shootin'," suggested a puncher.</p> + +<p>That settled it with Bartley. "He won't disappoint you," he stated +quietly. "Give me the card."</p> + +<p>One of the boys got up and fetched an old deck of cards. Bartley chose +the ace of spades. Back of the corrals, with nothing but mesa in sight, he +took up his position, while Cheyenne stepped off fifteen paces. Bartley's +hand trembled a little. Cheyenne noticed it and turned to the group, saying +something that made them laugh. Bartley's fingers tensed. He forgot his +nervousness. Cheyenne whirled and shot, apparently without aim. Bartley +drew a deep breath, and glanced at the card. The black pip was cut clean +from the center.</p> + +<p>"That's easy," asserted Cheyenne. Then he took a silver dollar from his +pocket, laid it in the palm of his right hand, hung the gun, by its trigger +guard on his right forefinger, lowered his hand and tossed the coin up. As +the coin <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110"></a>[pg +110]</span>went up the gun whirled over. Then came the whiz of the coin as +it cut through space.</p> + +<p>"About seventy-five shots like that and I'm broke," laughed Cheyenne. +"Anybody's hat need ventilatin'?"</p> + +<p>"Not this child's," asserted Lon Pelly. "I sailed my hat for him onct. +It was a twenty-dollar J.B., when I sailed it. When it hit it sure wouldn't +hold water. Six holes in her--and three shots."</p> + +<p>"Six?" exclaimed Bartley.</p> + +<p>"The three shots went clean through both sides," said Lon.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne reloaded his gun and dropped it into the holster.</p> + +<p>Later, Bartley had a talk with Cheyenne about the proposed trailing of +the stolen horses. Panhandle's name was mentioned. And the name of another +man--Sneed. Cheyenne seemed to know just where he would look, and whom he +might expect to meet.</p> + +<p>Bartley and Cheyenne were in the living-room that evening talking with +the Senator and his wife. Out in the bunk-house those of the boys who had +not left for the line shack were discussing horse-thieves in general and +Panhandle and Sneed in particular. Bill <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_111" id="Page_111"></a>[pg 111]</span>Smalley, a saturnine +member of the outfit, who seldom said anything, and who was a good hand but +a surly one, made a remark.</p> + +<p>"That there Cheyenne is the fastest gun artist--and the biggest coward +that ever come out of Wyoming. Ain't that right, Lon?"</p> + +<p>"I never worked in Wyoming," said Long Lon.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112"></a>[pg +112]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> + +<h3><a name='PONY_TRACKS'></a>PONY TRACKS</h3> + + +<p>Mrs. Senator Brown did not at all approve of Bartley's determination to +accompany Cheyenne in search of the stolen horses. Late that night, long +after Cheyenne had ceased to sing for the boys in the bunk-house, and while +Bartley was peacefully slumbering in a comfortable bed, Mrs. Brown took the +Senator to task for not having discouraged the young Easterner from +attempting such a wild-goose chase. The Senator, whose diameter made the +task of removing his boots rather difficult, puffed, and tugged at a tight +riding-boot, but said nothing.</p> + +<p>"Steve!"</p> + +<p>"Yes'm. I 'most got it off. Wild-goose chase? Madam, the wild goose is a +child that shuns this element. You mean wild-horse chase."</p> + +<p>"That sort of talk may amuse your constituents, but you are talking to +me."</p> + +<p>Off came the stubborn boot. The Senator puffed, and tugged at the other +boot.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113"></a>[pg +113]</span>"No, ma'am. You're talking to me. There! Now go ahead and I'll +listen."</p> + +<p>"Why didn't you discourage Mr. Bartley's idea of making such a +journey?'</p> + +<p>"I did, Nelly. I told him he was a dam' fool."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Senator Brown, who knew her husband's capabilities in dodging +issues when he was cornered,--both at home and abroad,--peered at him over +her glasses. "What else did you tell him?"</p> + +<p>"Well, your honor," chuckled the Senator, "I also told him he was the +kind of dam' fool I liked to shake hands with."</p> + +<p>"I knew it! And what else?"</p> + +<p>"I challenge the right of the attorney for the plaintiff to introduce +any evidence that may--"</p> + +<p>"The attorney for the defense may proceed," said Mrs. Brown, +smiling.</p> + +<p>"Why, shucks, Nelly! When you smile like that--why, I told Bartley he +could have anything on this ranch that would help him get a rope on +Sears."</p> + +<p>"I knew it!"</p> + +<p>"Then why did you ask me?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Brown ignored the question. "Very <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_114" id="Page_114"></a>[pg 114]</span>well, Stephen. Mr. Bartley +gave me his sister's address, in case anything happened. She is his only +living relative and I'm going to write to her at once and tell her what her +brother is up to."</p> + +<p>"And most like she'll head right for this ranch."</p> + +<p>"Well, suppose she does? If she is anything like her brother she will be +welcome."</p> + +<p>"You bet! Just leave that to me!"</p> + +<p>"It's a shame!" asserted Mrs. Brown.</p> + +<p>"It is! With her good looks and inexperience she'll sure need somebody +to look after her."</p> + +<p>"How do you know she is good-looking?"</p> + +<p>"I don't. I was just hoping."</p> + +<p>"I shall write, just the same."</p> + +<p>"I reckon you will. I'm going to bed."</p> + +<p>Just as the sun rounded above the mesa next morning, Bartley stepped out +to the veranda. He was surprised to find the Senator up and about, +inspecting the details of Cheyenne's outfit, for Cheyenne had the horses +saddled and packed. Bartley was still more surprised to find that Mrs. +Brown had breakfast ready. Evidently the good Senator and his wife had a +decided interest in the welfare of the expedition.</p> + +<p>After breakfast the Senator's wife came out to <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_115" id="Page_115"></a>[pg 115]</span>the bunk-house with a +mysterious parcel which she gave to Bartley. He sniffed at it.</p> + +<p>"Cold chicken sandwiches!" he said, smiling broadly.</p> + +<p>"And some doughnuts. It will save you boys fussing with a lunch."</p> + +<p>Long Lon Pelly was also up and ready to start. The air was still cool +and the horses were a bit snuffy. Lon mounted and rode toward the west gate +where he waited for Cheyenne and Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Now don't forget where you live," said the Senator as Bartley +mounted.</p> + +<p>With a cheery farewell to their hosts, Cheyenne and Bartley rode away. +The first warmth of the sun touched them as they headed into the western +spaces. Long Lon closed the big gate, stepped up on his horse, and jogged +along beside them.</p> + +<p>Bartley felt as though he had suddenly left the world of reality and was +riding in a sort of morning dream. He could feel the pleasant warmth of the +sun on his back. He sniffed the thin dust cast up by the horses. On either +side of him the big mesa spread to the sky-line. Cattle were scattered in +the brush, some of them lying down, some of them grazing indolently.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116"></a>[pg +116]</span>Presently Cheyenne began to sing, and his singing seemed to fit +into the mood of the morning. He ceased, and nothing but the faint jingle +of rein chains and the steady plod of hoofs disturbed the vast silence. A +flicker of smoke drifted back as Cheyenne lighted a cigarette. Long Lon +drilled on, wrapped in his reflections. Their moving shadows shortened. +Occasionally a staring-eyed cow strayed directly in their way and stood +until Long Lon struck his chaps with his quirt, when the cow, swinging its +head, would whirl and bounce off to one side, stiff-legged and +ridiculous.</p> + +<p>Bartley unbuttoned his shirt-collar and pushed back his hat. Far across +the mesa a dust devil spun up and writhed away toward the distant hills. As +the horses slowed to cross a sandy draw, Bartley turned and glanced back. +The ranch buildings--a dot of white in a clump of green--shimmered vaguely +in the morning sunlight.</p> + +<p>Thus far, Bartley felt that he had been leaving the ranch and the +cheerful companionship of the Senator and his wife. But as Lon Pelly reined +up--it was something like two hours since they had started--and pointed to +a cross-trail leading south, Bartley's mental attitude changed instantly. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117"></a>[pg +117]</span>Hitherto he had been leaving a pleasant habitation. Now he was +going somewhere. He felt the distinction keenly. Cheyenne's verse came back +to him.</p> + +<blockquote> +Seems like I don't git anywhere,<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along;<br /> +But we're leavin' here and we're goin' there,<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along--<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p>"Just drop a line when you get there," said Long Lon as he reined round +and set off toward the far western sky-line. That was his casual +farewell.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne now turned directly toward the south and a range of hills that +marked the boundary of the mesa level. Occasionally he got off his horse +and stooped to examine tracks. Once he made a wide circle, leaving Bartley +to haze the pack-horse along. Slowly they drew nearer to the hills. During +the remainder of that forenoon, Cheyenne said nothing, but rode, slouched +forward, his hand on the horn, his gaze on the ground.</p> + +<p>They nooned in the foothills. The horses grazed along the edge of a tiny +stream while Cheyenne and Bartley ate the cold chicken sandwiches. In half +an hour they were riding again, skirting the foothills, and, it seemed to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118"></a>[pg +118]</span>Bartley, simply meandering about the country, for now they were +headed west again.</p> + +<p>Presently Cheyenne spoke. "I been makin' a plan."</p> + +<p>"I didn't say a word," laughed Bartley.</p> + +<p>"You didn't need to. I kind of got what you were thinkin'. This here is +big country. When you're ridin' this kind of country with some fella, you +can read his mind almost as good as a horse can. You was thinkin' I was +kind of twisted and didn't know which way to head. Now take that there +hoss, Joshua. Plenty times I've rode him up to a fork in the trail, and +kep' sayin' to myself, 'We'll take the right-hand fork.' And Joshua always +took the fork I was thinkin' about. You try it with Dobe, sometime."</p> + +<p>"I have read of such things," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Well, I <i>know</i> 'em. What would you say if I was to tell you that +Joshua knowed once they was a fella ridin' behind me, five miles back, and +out of sight--and told me, plain?"</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't say anything."</p> + +<p>"There's where you're wise. I can talk to you about such things. But +when I try to talk to the boys like that, they just josh, till I git mad +and quit. They ain't takin' me serious."</p> + +<p>"What is your plan?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119"></a>[pg +119]</span>Cheyenne reined up and dismounted. "Step down, and take a look," +he suggested.</p> + +<p>Bartley dismounted. Cheyenne pointed out horse-tracks on the trail along +the edge of the hills.</p> + +<p>"Five hosses," he asserted. "Two of 'em is mine. That leaves three that +are carryin' weight. But we're makin' a mistake for ourselves, trailin' +Panhandle direct. He figures mebby I'd do that. I got to outfigure him. I +don't want to git blowed out of my saddle by somebody in the brush, just +waitin' for me to ride up and git shot. I got the way he's headed, and by +to-morrow mornin' I'll know for sure.</p> + +<p>"If he'd been goin' to swing back, to fool me, he'd 'a' done it before +he hit the timber, up yonder. Once he gits in them hills he'll head +straight south, for they ain't no other trail to ride on them ridges. But +mebby he cut along the foothills, first. I got to make sure."</p> + +<p>Late that afternoon and close to the edge of the foothills, Cheyenne +lost the tracks. He spent over an hour finding them again. Bartley could +discern nothing definite, even when Cheyenne pointed to a queer, blurred +patch in some loose earth.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120"></a>[pg +120]</span>"It looks like the imprint of some coarse cloth," said +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Gunnysack. They pulled the shoes off my hosses and sacked their +feet."</p> + +<p>"How about their own horses?"</p> + +<p>"They been ridin' hard ground, and the tracks don't show, plain. +Panhandle figured, when I seen that only the tracks of three horses showed, +I'd think he had turned my hosses loose on the big mesa. He stops, pulls +their shoes, sacks their feet, and leads 'em over there. Whoever done it +was afoot, and steppin' careful. Hell, I could learn that yella-bellied +hoss-thief how to steal hosses right, if I was in the business."</p> + +<p>"Looks like a pretty stiff drill up those hills," remarked Bartley.</p> + +<p>"That's why he turned, right here. 'Tain't just the stealin' of my +hosses that's interestin' him. He's takin' trouble to run a whizzer on +me--get me guessin'. Here is where we quit trailin' him. I got my plan +workin' like a hen draggin' fence rails. We ain't goin' to trail Panhandle. +We're goin' to ride 'round and meet him."</p> + +<p>"Not a bad idea," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"It won't be--if I see him first."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121"></a>[pg +121]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> + +<h3><a name='JIMMY_AND_THE_LUGER_GUN'></a>JIMMY AND THE LUGER GUN</h3> + + +<p>Two days of riding toward the west, along the edge of the hills, and +Bartley and Cheyenne found themselves approaching the high country. The +trail ran up a wide valley, on either side of which were occasional ranches +reaching back toward the slopes. In reality they were gradually climbing +the range on an easy grade and making good time.</p> + +<p>Their course now paralleled the theoretical course of Panhandle and his +fellows. Dodging the rugged land to the south, Cheyenne had swung round in +a half-circle, hoping to head off Panhandle on the desert side of the +range. Since abandoning the tracks of the stolen horses, Cheyenne had +resumed his old habit of singing as he rode. He seemed to know the name of +every ranch, and of every person they met.</p> + +<p>Once or twice some acquaintance expressed surprise that Cheyenne did not +stop and spend the night with him. But Cheyenne jokingly declined all +invitations, explaining to Bartley <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" +id="Page_122"></a>[pg 122]</span>that in stopping to visit they would +necessarily waste hours in observing the formalities of arrival and +departure, although Cheyenne did not put it just that way.</p> + +<p>They found water and plenty of feed, made their camps early, broke camp +early, and rode steadily. With no visible incentive to keep going, Bartley +lost his first keen interest in the hunt, and contented himself with +listening to Cheyenne's yarns about the country and its folk, or +occasionally chatting with some wayfarer. But never once did Cheyenne hint, +to those they met, just why he was riding south.</p> + +<p>There were hours at a stretch, when the going was level, when Cheyenne +did nothing but roll his gun, throw down on different objects, toss up his +gun, and catch it by the handle; and once he startled Bartley by making a +quick fall from the saddle and shooting from the ground. Cheyenne explained +to Bartley that often, when riding alone, he had spent hour after hour +figuring out the possibilities of gun-play, till it became evident to the +Easterner that, aside from being naturally quick, there was a very good +reason for Cheyenne's proficiency with the six-gun. He practiced +continually. And yet, thought Bartley, one of the Box-S punchers had <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123"></a>[pg 123]</span>said +that Cheyenne had never killed anything bigger than a coyote, and never +would--intimating that he was too good-natured ever to take advantage of +his own proficiency with a gun.</p> + +<p>Bartley wondered just how things would break if they did happen to meet +Panhandle unexpectedly. Panhandle would no doubt dispose of the stolen +horses as soon as he could. What excuse would Cheyenne have to call +Panhandle to account? And when it came to a show-down, <i>would</i> +Cheyenne call him to account?</p> + +<p>Bartley was thinking of this when they made an early camp, the afternoon +of the third day out. After the horses were hobbled and the packs arranged, +Bartley decided to experiment a little with his new Luger automatic. +Cheyenne declined to experiment with the gun.</p> + +<p>"It's a mean gat," he asserted, "and it's fast. But I'll bet you a new +hat I can empty my old smoke-wagon quicker than you can that pocket machine +gun."</p> + +<p>For the fun of the thing, Bartley took him up. He selected as target a +juniper stump, and blazed away.</p> + +<p>"I'm leavin' the decision to you," said Cheyenne, as he braced his right +arm against his <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" +id="Page_124"></a>[pg 124]</span>body and fanned the Colt, emptying it +before Bartley could realize that he had fired three shots--and Cheyenne +had fired five.</p> + +<p>"I'll buy you that hat when we get to town," laughed Bartley. "You beat +me, hands down."</p> + +<p>"Hands down is right, old-timer. Fannin' a gun is show stuff, but it's +wicked, at close range."</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Bartley had been experimenting further with the Luger. When +he got through he had a hat full of pieces and Cheyenne was staring at what +seemed to be the wreck of a once potent weapon.</p> + +<p>"Why, you done pulled that little lead sprinkler all to bits!" exclaimed +Cheyenne, "and you didn't have no tools to do it with."</p> + +<p>"You can take down and assemble this gun without tools," stated Bartley. +"All you need is your fingers."</p> + +<p>"But what in Sam Hill did you pull her apart for?"</p> + +<p>"Just to see if I could put her together again."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne scratched his head, and stepped over to inspect the juniper +stump. He stooped, whistled, and turned to Bartley. "Man, you like to sawed +that stub in two. Why didn't you say you could shoot?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125"></a>[pg +125]</span>"I can't, in your class. But tell me why you Westerners always +seem to think it strange that an Easterner can sit a horse or shoot fairly +well? Is it because you consider that the average tourist represents the +entire East?"</p> + +<p>"I dunno. But, then, I've met up with Easterners that weren't just like +you."</p> + +<p>Bartley was busy, assembling the Luger, and Cheyenne was watching him, +when they glanced up simultaneously. A shadow drifted between them.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne hesitated and then stepped forward. "I'll be dinged if it ain't +Jimmy! What you doin' up here in the brush, anyhow?"</p> + +<p>The boy, who rode a well-mannered gray pony, kicked one foot out of the +stirrup and hooked his small leg over the horn. He nodded to Cheyenne, but +his interest was centered on Bartley and the Luger.</p> + +<p>"It's Jimmy--my boy," said Cheyenne. "His Aunt Jane lives over yonder, a +piece."</p> + +<p>"Why, hello!" exclaimed Bartley, laying the pistol aside. And he stepped +up and shook hands with the boy, who grinned.</p> + +<p>"How's the folks?" queried Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"All right. That there is a Luger gun, ain't it?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126"></a>[pg +126]</span>"Yes," said Bartley. "Would you like to try it?"</p> + +<p>The boy scrambled down from the saddle. "Honest?"</p> + +<p>"Ain't you goin' to say hello to your dad?" queried Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Sure! Only I was lookin' at that Luger gun--"</p> + +<p>Jimmy shook hands perfunctorily with his father and turned to Bartley, +expectancy in his gaze.</p> + +<p>Bartley reloaded the gun and handed it to the boy, who straightaway +selected the juniper stump and blazed away. Bartley watched him, a sturdy +youngster, brown-fisted, blue-eyed, with sandy hair, and dressed in jeans +and a rowdy--a miniature cow-puncher, even to his walk.</p> + +<p>"Ever shoot one before?" queried Bartley as the boy gave back the +pistol.</p> + +<p>"Nope. There's one like it, over to the store in San Andreas. It's in +the window. I never got to look at it right close."</p> + +<p>"Try it again," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>The boy grinned. "I reckon you're rich?"</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"'Cause you got a heap of ca'tridges. They cost money."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127"></a>[pg +127]</span>"Never mind. Go ahead and shoot."</p> + +<p>Jimmy blazed away again and ran to see where his bullets had hit the +stump. "She's a pretty fair gun," he said as he handed it back. "But I +reckon I'll have to stick to my ole twenty-two rifle. She's gettin' wore +out, but I can hit things with her, yet. I git rabbits."</p> + +<p>"Now, mebby you got time to tell us something about Aunt Jane and Uncle +Frank and Dorry," suggested Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Why, they're all right," said the boy. "Why didn't you stop by to our +place instead of bushin' way up here?"</p> + +<p>Cheyenne hesitated. "I reckon I'll be comin' over," he said finally.</p> + +<p>Bartley put the Luger away. The boy turned to his father. Cheyenne's +face expressed happiness, yet Bartley was puzzled. The boy was not what +could be termed indifferent in any sense, yet he had taken his father's +presence casually, showing no special interest in their meeting. And why +had Cheyenne never mentioned the boy? Bartley surmised that there was some +good reason for Cheyenne's silence on that subject--and because it was +obvious that there was a good reason, Bartley accepted the youngster's +presence in a matter-of-fact manner, <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_128" id="Page_128"></a>[pg 128]</span>as though he had known all +along that Cheyenne had a son. In fact, Cheyenne had not stopped to think +about it at all. If he had, he would have reasoned that Bartley had heard +about it. Almost every one in Arizona knew that Cheyenne had been married +and had separated from his wife.</p> + +<p>"That would be a pretty good gun to git hoss-thieves with," asserted the +boy, still thinking of the Luger.</p> + +<p>"What do you know about hoss-thieves?" queried Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"You think I didn't see you was ridin' different hosses!" said Jimmy. +"Mebby you think I don't know where Josh and Filaree are."</p> + +<p>"You quit joshin' your dad," said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"I ain't joshin' <i>nobody</i>. Ole 'Clubfoot' Sneed, over by the +re'savation's got Josh and Filaree. I seen 'em in his corral, yesterday. I +was up there, huntin'."</p> + +<p>"Did you talk to him?" queried Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Nope. He just come out of his cabin an' told me to fan it. I wasn't +doin' nothin'. He said it was against the law to be huntin' up there. Mebby +he don't hunt when he feels like it!"</p> + +<p>"Did you tell Uncle Frank?"</p> + +<p>"Yep. Wish I hadn't. He says for me to <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_129" id="Page_129"></a>[pg 129]</span>stay away from the high +country--and not to ride by Sneed's place any more."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne turned to Bartley. "I done made one guess right," he said.</p> + +<p>"You goin' to kill Sneed?" queried young Jim enthusiastically.</p> + +<p>"Nobody's goin' to get killed. But I aim to git my hosses."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne turned to Jimmy. "You ride over and tell Uncle Frank and Aunt +Jane that me and Mr. Bartley'll be over after we eat."</p> + +<p>"Will you sing that 'Git Along' song for me, dad?"</p> + +<p>"You bet!"</p> + +<p>"But why don't you come over and eat to our place? You always stop by, +every time you ride down this way," said Jimmy.</p> + +<p>"You ride right along, like I told you, or you'll be late for your +supper."</p> + +<p>Little Jim climbed into the saddle, and, turning to cast a lingering and +hopeful glance at Bartley,--a glance which suggested the possibilities of +further practice with the Luger gun,--he rode away, a manful figure, +despite his size.</p> + +<p>"They're bringin' my kid up right," said Cheyenne, as though in +explanation of something about which he did not care to talk.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130"></a>[pg +130]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> + +<h3><a name='AT_AUNT_JANES'></a>AT AUNT JANE'S</h3> + + +<p>Aunt Jane Lawrence was popular with the young folks of the district, not +alone because she was a good cook, but because she was a sort of foster +mother to the entire community. The young ladies of the community brought +to Aunt Jane their old hats and dresses, along with their love affairs, +petty quarrels, and youthful longings. A clever woman at needlework, she +was often able to remodel the hats and "turn" the dresses so that they +would serve a second season or maybe a third.</p> + +<p>The love affairs, petty quarrels, and youthful longings were not always +so easy to remodel, even when they needed it: but Aunt Jane managed well. +She had much patience and sympathy. She knew the community, and so was +often able to help her young friends without conflicting with paternal or +maternal views. Hat-trimming and dressmaking were really only incidental to +her real purpose in life, which was to help young folks realize their +ideals, when such <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" +id="Page_131"></a>[pg 131]</span>ideals did not lead too far from everyday +responsibilities.</p> + +<p>Yet, with all her capabilities, her gentle wisdom, and her unobtrusive +sympathy, she was unable to influence her Brother Jim--known by every one +as "Cheyenne"--toward a settled habit of life. So it became her fondest +desire to see that Cheyenne's boy, Little Jim, should be brought up in a +home that he would always cherish and respect. Aunt Jane's husband Frank +Lawrence, had no patience with Cheyenne's aimless meanderings. Frank +Lawrence was a hard-working, silent nonentity. Aunt Jane was the real +manager of the ranch, and incidentally of Little Jim, and her husband was +more than content that it should be so.</p> + +<p>Occasionally Aunt Jane gave a dance at her home. The young folks of the +valley came, had a jolly time, and departed, some of them on horseback, +some in buckboards, and one or two of the more well-to-do in that small but +aggressive vehicle which has since become a universal odor in the nostrils +of the world.</p> + +<p>Little Jim detested these functions which entailed his best clothes and +his best behavior. He did not like girls, and looked down with scorn upon +young men who showed any preference for <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_132" id="Page_132"></a>[pg 132]</span>the sex feminine. He made +but two exceptions to this hard-baked rule: his Aunt Jane, and her young +friend who lived on the neighboring ranch, Dorothy. Little Jim called her +Dorry because it sounded like a boy's name. And he liked Dorry because she +could ride, and shoot with a twenty-two rifle almost as well as he could. +Then, she didn't have a beau, which was the main thing. Once he told her +frankly that if she ever got a beau, he--Jimmy--was going to quit.</p> + +<p>"Quit what?" asked Dorothy, smiling.</p> + +<p>Little Jim did not know just what he was going to quit, but he had +imagination.</p> + +<p>"Why, quit takin' you out huntin' and campin' and showin' you how to +tell deer tracks from goat's tracks--and everything."</p> + +<p>"But I have a beau," said Dorothy teasingly.</p> + +<p>"Who is he?" demanded Little Jim.</p> + +<p>"Promise you won't tell?"</p> + +<p>Little Jim hesitated. He did not consider it quite the thing to promise +a girl anything. But he was curious. "Uh-huh," he said.</p> + +<p>"Jimmy Hastings!" said Dorothy, laughing at his expression.</p> + +<p>"That ain't fair!" blurted Little Jim. "I <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_133" id="Page_133"></a>[pg 133]</span>ain't nobody's beau. +Shucks! Now you gone and spoiled all the fun."</p> + +<p>"I was only teasing you, Jimmy." And she patted Little Jim's tousled +head. He wriggled away and smoothed down his hair.</p> + +<p>"I can beat you shootin' at tin cans," he said suddenly, to change the +subject.</p> + +<p>Shooting at tin cans was much more interesting than talking about +beaux.</p> + +<p>"I have to help Aunt Jane get supper," said Dorothy, who had been +invited to stay for supper that evening. In fact, she was often at the +Hastings ranch, a more than welcome guest.</p> + +<p>Jimmy scowled. Dorry was always helping Aunt Jane make dresses or trim +hats, or get supper. A few minutes later Little Jim was out back of the +barn, scowling over the sights of his twenty-two at a tomato can a few +yards away. He fired and punctured the can.</p> + +<p>"Plumb center!" he exclaimed. "You think you're her beau, do you? Well, +that's what you get. And if I see you around this here ranch, just even +<i>lookin'</i> at her, I'll plug you again." Jimmy was romancing, with the +recently discussed subject of beaux in mind.</p> + +<p>When Little Jim informed the household that his father and another man +were coming over, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" +id="Page_134"></a>[pg 134]</span>that evening, Uncle Frank asked who the +other man was. Little Jim described Bartley and told about the wonderful +Luger gun.</p> + +<p>"My dad is huntin' his hosses," he said. "And I know who's got 'em!"</p> + +<p>"Was the other man a deputy?" queried Uncle Frank.</p> + +<p>"He didn't have a badge on him. He kind of acted like everything was a +joke--shootin' at that stump, and everything. He wasn't mad at nobody. And +he looked kind of like a dude."</p> + +<p>Little Jim meanwhile amused himself by trying to rope the family cat +with a piece of clothesline. Uncle Frank, who took everything seriously, +asked Little Jim if he had told his father where the horses were.</p> + +<p>"Sure I told him. Wouldn't you? They're dad's hosses, Filaree and Josh. +I guess he'll make ole Clubfoot Sneed give 'em back!"</p> + +<p>"You want to be careful what you say about Mr. Sneed, Jimmy. And don't +you go to ridin' over that way again. We aim to keep out of trouble."</p> + +<p>Little Jim had succeeded in noosing the cat's neck. That sadly molested +animal jumped, rolled over, and clawed at the rope, and left <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135"></a>[pg +135]</span>hurriedly with the bit of clothesline trailing in its wake.</p> + +<p>"I got to git that cat afore he hangs himself," stated Little Jim, +diving out of the house and heading for the barn. Thus he avoided +acknowledging his uncle's command to stay away from Sneed's place.</p> + +<p>Supper was over and the dishes were washed and put away when Cheyenne +and Bartley appeared. Clean-shaven, his dark hair brushed smoothly, a +small, dark-blue, silk muffler knotted loosely about his throat, and in a +new flannel shirt and whipcord riding-breeches--which he wore under his +jeans when on the trail--Bartley pretty well approximated Little Jim's +description of him as a dude. And the word "dude" was commonly used rather +to differentiate an outlander from a native than in an exactly scornful +sense. Without a vestige of self-consciousness, Bartley made himself felt +as a distinct entity, physically fit and mentally alert. Cheyenne, with his +cow-puncher gait and his general happy-go-lucky attitude, furnished a +strong contrast to the trim and well-poised Easterner. Dorothy was quick to +appreciate this. She thought that she rather liked Bartley. He was +different from the young men <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" +id="Page_136"></a>[pg 136]</span>whom she knew. Bartley was pleased with +her direct and natural manner of answering his many questions about Western +life.</p> + +<p>Presently he found himself talking about his old home in Kentucky, and +the thorough-bred horses of the Blue Grass. The conversation drifted to +books and plays, but never once did it approach the subject of guns--and +Little Jim, who had hoped that the subject of horse-thieves might be +broached, felt altogether out of the running.</p> + +<p>He waited patiently, for a while. Then during a lull in the talk he +mentioned Sneed's name.</p> + +<p>"Jimmy!" reprimanded his Uncle Frank.</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir?"</p> + +<p>Uncle Frank merely gestured, significantly.</p> + +<p>Little Jim subsided, frowning, and making a face at Dorothy, who was +smiling at him. It seemed mighty queer that, when <i>he</i> "horned in," +his Aunt Jane or his uncle always said "Jimmy!" in that particular tone. +But when any of the grown-ups interrupted, no one said a word. However, +Bartley was not blind to Little Jim's attitude of forced silence, and +presently Bartley mentioned the subject of guns, much to Little Jim's joy. +Little Jim worked <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" +id="Page_137"></a>[pg 137]</span>round to the subject of twenty-two rifles, +intimating that his own single-shot rifle was about worn out.</p> + +<p>Uncle Frank heard and promptly changed the subject. Little Jim was +disgusted. A boy just wouldn't talk when other folks were talking, and he +couldn't talk when they were not. What was the use of living, anyhow, if +you had to go around without talking at all, except when somebody asked you +if you had forgotten to close the lane gate and had let the stock get into +the alfalfa--and you had to say that you had?</p> + +<p>However, Little Jim had his revenge. When Aunt Jane proffered apple pie, +later in the evening, Jimmy prefixed his demand for a second piece with the +statement that he knew there was another uncut pie in the kitchen, because +Aunt Jane had said maybe his dad would eat half a one, and then ask for +more.</p> + +<p>This gentle insinuation brought forth a sharp reprimand from Uncle +Frank. But Jimmy had looked before he leaped.</p> + +<p>"Well, Aunt Jane said so. Didn't you, Aunt Jane?"</p> + +<p>Whereat every one laughed, including the gentle Aunt Jane. And Jimmy got +his second piece of pie.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138"></a>[pg +138]</span>After the company had found itself, Uncle Frank, Cheyenne, and +Bartley forgathered out on the veranda and talked about the missing horses. +Little Jim sat silently on the steps, hoping that the talk would swing +round to where he could have his say. If he had not discovered the missing +horses, how would his father know where they were? It did not seem exactly +fair to Little Jim that he should be ignored in the matter.</p> + +<p>"I'd just ride over and talk with Sneed," suggested Uncle Frank.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'll do that, all right," asserted Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"But I'd go slow. You might talk like your stock had strayed and you +were looking for them. Sneed and Panhandle Sears are pretty thick. I'd +start easy, if I was in your boots."</p> + +<p>This from the cautious Uncle Frank.</p> + +<p>"But you'd go get 'em, if they happened to be your hosses," said +Cheyenne. "You're always tellin' me to step light and go slow. I reckon you +expect me to sing and laugh and josh and take all the grief that's comin' +and forget it."</p> + +<p>"No," said Uncle Frank deliberately. "If they was my hosses, I'd ride +over and get 'em. But I can't step into your tangle. If I did, <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139"></a>[pg 139]</span>Sneed +would just nacherally burn us out, some night. There's only two ways to +handle a man like Clubfoot Sneed: one is to kill him, and the other is to +leave him alone. And it's got to be one or the other when you live as close +to the hills as we do. I aim to leave him alone, unless he tries to ride +me."</p> + +<p>"Which means that you kind of think I ought to let the hosses go, for +fear of gettin' you in bad."</p> + +<p>Uncle Frank shook his head, but said nothing. Bartley smoked a cigar and +listened to the conversation that followed. Called upon by Uncle Frank for +his opinion, Bartley hesitated, and then said that, if the horses were his, +he would be tempted to go and get them, regardless of consequences. +Bartley's stock went up, with Little Jim, right there.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne turned to Uncle Frank. "I'm ridin' over to Clubfoot's wikiup +to-morrow mornin'. I'll git my hosses, or git him. And I'm ridin' +alone."</p> + +<p>Little Jim, meanwhile, had been raking his mind for an idea as to how he +might attract attention. He disappeared. Presently he appeared in front of +the veranda with the end of a long rope in his fist. He blinked and +grinned.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140"></a>[pg +140]</span>"What's on the other end of that rope?" queried Uncle Frank, +immediately suspicious.</p> + +<p>"Nothin' but High-Tail."</p> + +<p>"I thought I told you not to rope that calf," said Uncle Frank, +rising.</p> + +<p>"I didn't. I jest held my loop in front of some carrots and High-Tail +shoves his head into it. Then I says, 'Whoosh!' and he jumps back--and I +hung on."</p> + +<p>"How in Sam Hill did you get him here?" queried Uncle Frank.</p> + +<p>"Jest held a carrot to his nose--and he walked along tryin' to get +it."</p> + +<p>"Well you shake off that loop and haze him back into the corral."</p> + +<p>High-Tail, having eaten the carrot, decided to go elsewhere. He backed +away and blatted. Little Jim took a quick dally round a veranda post. +High-Tail plunged and fought the rope.</p> + +<p>"Turn him loose!" cried Uncle Frank.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter?" said Aunt Jane, appearing in the doorway.</p> + +<p>Little Jim eased off the dally, but clung to the rope. High-Tail whirled +and started for the corral. Little Jim set back on his heels, but Little +Jim was a mere item in High-Tail's wild career toward freedom. A patter of +hoofs <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141"></a>[pg +141]</span>in the dark, and Little Jim and the calf disappeared around the +corner of the barn.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne laughed and rose, following Uncle Frank to the corral. When +they arrived, High-Tail had made his third round of the corral, with Jimmy +still attached to the rope. Cheyenne managed to stop the calf and throw off +the noose.</p> + +<p>Little Jim rose and gazed wildly around. He was one color, from head to +foot--and it was a decidedly local color. His jeans were torn and his +cotton shirt was in rags, but his grit was unsifted.</p> + +<p>"D-didn't I hang to him, dad?" he inquired enthusiastically.</p> + +<p>"You sure did!" said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>With a pail of hot water, soap, and fresh raiment, Aunt Jane undertook +to make Little Jim's return to the heart of the family as agreeable as +possible to all concerned.</p> + +<p>"Isn't he hurt?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Not if he doesn't know it," stated Cheyenne.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142"></a>[pg +142]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> + +<h3><a name='ANOTHER_GAME'></a>ANOTHER GAME</h3> + + +<p>Cheyenne knew enough about Sneed, by reputation, to make him cautious. +He decided to play ace for ace--and, if possible, steal the stolen horses +from Sneed. The difficulty was to locate them without being seen. Little +Jim had said the horses were in Sneed's corral, somewhere up in the +mountain meadows. And because Cheyenne knew little about that particular +section of the mountains, he rolled a blanket and packed some provisions to +see him through. Bartley and he had returned to their camp after their +visit to the ranch, and next morning, as Cheyenne made preparation to ride, +Bartley offered to go with him.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne dissuaded Bartley from accompanying him, arguing that he could +travel faster and more cautiously alone. "One man ridin' in to Sneed's camp +wouldn't look as suspicious as two," said Cheyenne. "And if I thought you +could help any, I'd say to come along. That's on the square. Me and my +little old carbine will make out, I guess."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143"></a>[pg +143]</span>So Bartley, somewhat against his inclination, stayed in camp, +with the understanding that, if Cheyenne did not return in two days, he was +to report the circumstance to the authorities in San Andreas, the principal +town of the valley.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, the regular routine prevailed at the Lawrence ranch. Uncle +Frank had the irrigation plant to look after; and Aunt Jane was immersed in +the endless occupation of housekeeping. Little Jim had his regular light +tasks to attend to, and that morning he made short work of them. It was not +until noon that Aunt Jane missed him. He had disappeared completely, as had +his saddle-pony.</p> + +<p>At first, Jimmy had thought of riding over to his father's camp, but he +was afraid his father would guess his intent and send him back home. So he +tied his pony to a clump of junipers some distance from the camp, and, +crawling to a rise, he lay and watched Cheyenne saddle up and take the +trail that led into the high country. A half-hour later, Jimmy mounted his +pony and, riding wide of the camp, he cut into the hill trail and followed +it on up through the brush to the hillside timber. He planned to ride until +he got so far into the mountains that when he did overtake his father and +offer his assistance <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" +id="Page_144"></a>[pg 144]</span>in locating the stolen horses, it would +hardly seem worth while to send him back. Jimmy expected to be ordered +back, but he had his own argument ready in that event.</p> + +<p>Little Jim's pony carried him swiftly up the grade. Meanwhile, Cheyenne +had traveled rather slowly, saving his horse. At a bend in the trail he +drew rein to breathe the animal. On the lookout for any moving thing, he +glanced back and down--and saw an old black hat bobbing along through the +brush below. He leaned forward and peered down. "The little cuss!" he +exclaimed, grinning. Then his expression changed. "Won't do, a-tall! His +aunt will be havin' fits--and Miss Dorry'll be helpin' her to have 'em, if +she hears of it. Dog-gone that boy!"</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, Cheyenne was pleased. His boy had sand, and liked +adventure. Little Jim might have stayed in camp, with Bartley, and spent a +joyous day shooting at a mark, incidentally hinting to the Easterner that +"his ole twenty-two was about worn out." But Little Jim had chosen to +follow his father into the hills.</p> + +<p>"Reckon he figures to see what'll happen," <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_145" id="Page_145"></a>[pg 145]</span>muttered Cheyenne as he +led his horse off the trail and waited for Jimmy to come up.</p> + +<p>Little Jim's black hat bobbed steadily up the switchbacks. Presently he +was on the stretch of trail at the end of which his father waited, +concealed in the brush.</p> + +<p>As Little Jim's pony approached the bend it pricked its ears and +snorted. "Git along, you!" said Jimmy.</p> + +<p>"Where you goin'?" queried Cheyenne, stepping out on the trail.</p> + +<p>Little Jim gazed blankly at his father. "I'm just a-ridin'. I wa'n't +goin' no place."</p> + +<p>"Well, you took the wrong trail to get there. You fan it back to the +folks."</p> + +<p>"Aunt Jane is my boss!" said Jimmy defiantly. "'Course she is," agreed +Cheyenne. "You and me, we're just pardners. But, honest, Jimmy, you can't +do no good, doggin' along after me. Your Aunt Jane would sure stretch my +hide if she knowed I let you come along."</p> + +<p>"I won't tell her."</p> + +<p>"But she'd find out. You just ride back and wait down at my camp. I'll +find them hosses, all right."</p> + +<p>Little Jim hesitated, twisting his fingers in his pony's mane. +"Suppose," he ventured, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" +id="Page_146"></a>[pg 146]</span>"that a bunch of Sneed's riders was to run +on to you? You'd sure need help."</p> + +<p>"That's just it! Supposin' they did? And supposin' they took a crack at +us, they might git you--for you sure look man-size, a little piece +off."</p> + +<p>Jimmy grinned at the compliment, but compliments could not alter his +purpose. "I got my ole twenty-two loaded," he asserted hopefully.</p> + +<p>"Then you just ride back and help Mr. Bartley take care of the hosses. +He ain't much of a hand with stock."</p> + +<p>"Can't I go with you?"</p> + +<p>"Not this trip, son. But I'll tell you somethin'. Mr. Bartley, down +there, said to me this mornin' that he was goin' to buy you a brand-new +twenty-two rifle, one of these days: mebby after we locate the hosses. You +better have a talk with him about it."</p> + +<p>This <i>was</i> a temptation to ride back: yet Jimmy had set his heart +on going with his father. And his father had said that he was simply going +to ride up to Sneed's place and have a talk with him. Jimmy wanted to hear +that talk. He knew that his father meant business when he had told him to +go back.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147"></a>[pg +147]</span>"All right for you!" said Jimmy finally. And he reined his pony +round and rode back down the trail sullenly, his black hat pulled over his +eyes, and his small back very straight and stiff.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne watched him until the brush of the lower levels intervened. +Then Cheyenne began the ascent, his eye alert, his mind upon the task +ahead. When Little Jim realized that his father was so far into the timber +that the trail below was shut from view, he reined his pony round again and +began to climb the grade, slowly, this time, for fear that he might +overtake his father too soon.</p> + +<p>Riding the soundless upland trail that meandered among the spruce and +pine, skirting the edges of the mountain meadows and keeping within the +timber, Cheyenne finally reached the main ridge of the range. Occasionally +he dismounted and examined the tracks of horses.</p> + +<p>It was evident that Sneed had quite a bunch of horses running in the +meadows. Presently Cheyenne came to a narrow trail which crossed a meadow. +At the far end of the trail, close to the timber, was a spring, fenced with +poles. The spring itself was boxed, and roundabout were the marks of +high-heeled boots. Cheyenne realized <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_148" id="Page_148"></a>[pg 148]</span>that he must be close to +Sneed's cabin. He wondered if he had been seen.</p> + +<p>If he had, the only thing to do was to act natural. He was now too close +to a habitation--although he could see none--to do otherwise. So he +dismounted and, tying his horse to the spring fence, he stepped through the +gate and picked up the rusted tin cup and dipped it in the cold mountain +water. He had the cup halfway to his lips when his horse nickered. From +somewhere in the brush came an answering nicker. Cheyenne, kneeling, threw +the water from the cup as though he had discovered dirt in it, and dipped +the cup again.</p> + +<p>Behind him he heard his horse moving restlessly. As Cheyenne raised the +cup to drink, he half closed his eyes, and glancing sideways, caught a +glimpse of a figure standing near the upper end of the spring fence. +Cheyenne drank, set down the cup, and, rising, turned his back on the +figure, and, stretching his arms, yawned heartily. He strode to his horse, +untied the reins, mounted, and began to sing:</p> + +<blockquote> +Seems like I don't get anywhere<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along!<br /> +But we're leavin' here and--<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149"></a>[pg +149]</span>"What's your hurry?" came from behind him.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne turned and glanced back. "Hello, neighbor! Now, if I'd 'a' +knowed you was around, I'd 'a' asked you to have a drink with me."</p> + +<p>A tall, heavy-set mountain man, bearded, and limping noticeably, stepped +round the end of the spring fence and strode toward him. From Uncle Frank's +description, Cheyenne at once recognized the stranger as Sneed. Across +Sneed's left arm lay a rifle. Cheyenne saw him let down the hammer as he +drew near.</p> + +<p>"Where you headed?" queried Sneed.</p> + +<p>"Me, I'm lookin' for Bill Sneed's cabin. You ain't Sneed, are you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I'm Sneed."</p> + +<p>"Well, I'm in luck. I'm Cheyenne Hastings."</p> + +<p>"That don't buy you nothin' around here. What do you want to see me +about?"</p> + +<p>"Why, I done lost a couple of hosses the other night. I reckon somethin' +stampeded 'em, for they never strayed far from camp before. I trailed 'em +up to the hills and then lost their tracks on the rocks. Thought I'd ride +up and see if you had seen 'em--a little ole buckskin and a gray."</p> + +<p>Sneed waved his hand toward the east. "My <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_150" id="Page_150"></a>[pg 150]</span>corrals are over there. +You're welcome to look my stock over."</p> + +<p>"Thanks. This way, you said?"</p> + +<p>"Straight ahead."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne hesitated, hoping that Sneed would take the lead. But the +mountain man merely gestured again and followed Cheyenne through a patch of +timber, and across another meadow--and Cheyenne caught a glimpse of the +ridge of a cabin roof, and smoke above it. Close to the cabin was a large +pole corral. Cheyenne saw the backs of Filaree and Joshua, among the other +horses, long before he came to the corral. Yet, not wishing to appear too +eager, he said nothing until he arrived at the corner of the fence.</p> + +<p>Then he turned and pointed. "Them's my hosses--the gray and the +buckskin. I'm mighty glad you caught 'em up."</p> + +<p>Sneed nodded. "One of my boys found them in with a bunch of my stock and +run them in here."</p> + +<p>A few rods from the corral stood the cabin, larger than Cheyenne had +imagined, and built of heavy logs, with a wide-roofed porch running across +the entire front. On the veranda lay several saddles. Tied to the hitch +rail stood <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151"></a>[pg +151]</span>two chunky mountain ponies that showed signs of recent hard +use.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne smiled as he turned toward Sneed. "You got a mighty snug +homestead up here, neighbor."</p> + +<p>"Tie your horse and step in," invited Sneed.</p> + +<p>"He'll stand," said Cheyenne, dismounting and dropping the reins.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne was in the enemy's country. But he trusted to his ability to +play up to his reputation for an easy-going hobo to get him out again, +without trouble. He appeared unaware of the covert suspicion with which +Sneed watched his every movement.</p> + +<p>"Meet the boys," said Sneed as they entered the cabin.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne nodded to the four men who sat playing cards at a long table in +the main room. They returned his nod indifferently and went on with their +game. Cheyenne pretended an interest in the game, meanwhile studying the +visible characteristics of the players. One and all they were hard-boiled, +used to the open, rough-spoken, and indifferent to Cheyenne's presence.</p> + +<p>Sneed stepped to the kitchen and pulled the coffee-pot to the front of +the stove. Finally Cheyenne strolled out to the veranda and seated <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152"></a>[pg 152]</span>himself +on the long bench near the doorway. He picked up a stick and began to +whittle, and as he whittled his gaze traveled from the log stable to the +corral, and from there to the edge of the clearing. He heard Sneed speak to +one of the men in a low voice. Cheyenne slipped his knife into his pocket +and his fingers touched the pair of dice.</p> + +<p>He drew out the dice and rattled them. "Go 'way, you snake eyes!" he +chanted as he threw the dice along the bench. "Little Jo, where you bushin' +out? You sure are bashful!" He threw again. "Roll on, you box-car! I don't +like you, nohow! Nine? Nine? Five and a four! Six and a three! Just as +easy!"</p> + +<p>Sneed came to the doorway and glanced at Cheyenne, who continued +shooting craps with himself, oblivious to Sneed's muttered comment. Sneed +turned and stepped in. "Crazy as a hoot owl," he said as one of the +card-players glanced up.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne picked up the dice and listened. He heard Sneed stepping +heavily about the kitchen, and he heard an occasional and vivid exclamation +from one of the card-players. He glanced at the distant edge of timber. He +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153"></a>[pg +153]</span>shook his head. "Can't make it!" he declared, and again he threw +the dice.</p> + +<p>One of the cubes rolled off the bench. He stooped and picked it up. As +he straightened, he stared. Just at the edge of the timber he saw Little +Jim's pony, and Little Jim's black hat. Some one in the cabin pushed back a +chair. Evidently the card game was finished.</p> + +<p>Then Cheyenne heard Sneed's voice: "Just lay off that game, if you want +to eat. Come and get it."</p> + +<p>Wondering what Little Jim was up to, Cheyenne turned and walked into the +cabin. "Guess I'll wash up, first," he said, gazing about as though looking +for the wherewithal to wash. He knew well enough where the basin was. He +had noticed it out by the kitchen door, when he rode up to the cabin. Sneed +told him where to find the basin. Cheyenne stepped round the cabin. +Covertly he glanced toward the edge of the timber. Little Jim had +disappeared.</p> + +<p>Entering the cabin briskly, Cheyenne took his place at the table and ate +heartily.</p> + +<p>Lawson, who seemed to be Sneed's right-hand man, was the first to speak +to him. "Bill tells me you are huntin' hosses."</p> + +<p>"Yep! That little gray and the buckskin, <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_154" id="Page_154"></a>[pg 154]</span>out in your corral, are my +hosses. They strayed--"</p> + +<p>"Didn't see no brand on 'em," declared Lawson.</p> + +<p>"Nope. They never was branded. I raised 'em both, when I was workin' for +Senator Steve, over to the Box-S."</p> + +<p>"That sounds all right. But you got to show me. I bought them cayuses +from a Chola, down in the valley."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne suspected that Lawson was trying to create argument and, in so +doing, open up a way to make him back down and leave or take the +consequences of his act in demanding the horses.</p> + +<p>"Honest, they're my hosses," declared Cheyenne, turning to Sneed.</p> + +<p>"You'll have to talk to Lawson," said Sneed.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne frowned and scratched his head. Suddenly his face brightened. +"Tell you what I'll do! I'll shoot you craps for 'em."</p> + +<p>"That's all right, but what'll you put up against 'em?" asked +Lawson.</p> + +<p>"What did you pay for 'em?" queried Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Fifty bucks."</p> + +<p>"You got 'em cheap. They're worth that <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_155" id="Page_155"></a>[pg 155]</span>much to me." Cheyenne +pushed back his chair and, fishing in his jeans, dug up a purse. "Here's my +fifty. As soon as you get through eatin' we'll shoot for the ponies."</p> + +<p>Lawson, while finishing his meal, made up his mind that Cheyenne would +not get away with that fifty dollars, game or no game; and, also, that he +would not get the horses. Cheyenne knew this--knew the kind of man he was +dealing with. But he had a reason to keep the men in the cabin. Little Jim +was out there somewhere, and up to something. If any of the men happened to +catch sight of Little Jim, they would suspect Cheyenne of some trickery. +Moreover, if Little Jim were caught--but Cheyenne refused to let himself +think of what might happen in that event.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne threw the dice on the table as Lawson got up. "Go ahead and +shoot."</p> + +<p>"Show me what I got to beat," said Lawson.</p> + +<p>"All right. Watch 'em close."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne gathered up the dice and threw. Calling his point, he snapped +his fingers and threw again. The men crowded round, momentarily interested +in Cheyenne's sprightly monologue. Happening to glance through the doorway +as he gathered up the dice for another <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_156" id="Page_156"></a>[pg 156]</span>throw, Cheyenne noticed +that his horse had turned and was standing, with ears and eyes alert, +looking toward the corral.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne tossed up the dice, caught them and purposely made a wild +throw. One of the little cubes shot across the table and clattered on the +floor. Cheyenne barely had time to glance through the kitchen doorway and +the window beyond as he recovered the cube. But he had seen that the corral +bars were down and that the corral was empty. Quickly he resumed his place +at the table and threw again, meanwhile talking steadily. He had not made +his point nor had he thrown a seven. Sweat prickled on his forehead. Little +Jim had seen his father's horses and knew that the men were in the cabin. +With the rashness of boyhood he had sneaked up to the corral, dropped the +bars, and had then flung pine cones at the horses, starting them to milling +and finally to a dash through the gateway and out into the meadow.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne brushed his arm across his face. "Come on you, Filaree!" he +chanted.</p> + +<p>Somebody would be mightily surprised when the ownership of Filaree and +Joshua was finally decided. Unwittingly, Little Jim had placed his father +in a still more precarious position. <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_157" id="Page_157"></a>[pg 157]</span>Sneed and his men, finding +the corral empty, would naturally conclude that Cheyenne had kept them busy +while some friend had run off the horses. Cheyenne knew the risks he ran; +but, above all, he wanted to prolong the game until Little Jim got safely +beyond reach of Sneed's men. As for himself--</p> + +<p>Again Cheyenne threw, but he did not make his point, nor throw a seven. +He threw several times; and still he did not make his point. Finally he +made his point. Smiling, he gathered up his money and tucked it in his +pocket.</p> + +<p>"I reckon that settles it," he said cheerfully.</p> + +<p>Sneed and Lawson exchanged glances. Cheyenne, rolling a cigarette, drew +a chair toward them and sat down. He seemed at home, and altogether +friendly. One of the men picked up a deck of cards and suggested a game. +Sneed lighted his pipe and stepped to the kitchen to get a drink of water. +Cheyenne glanced casually round the cabin, drew his feet under himself, and +jumped for the doorway. He heard Sneed drop the dipper and knew that Sneed +would pick up something else, and quickly.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne made the saddle on the run, reined toward the corral, and, +passing it on the run, turned in the saddle to glance back. Sneed was <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158"></a>[pg 158]</span>in the +doorway. Cheyenne jerked his horse to one side and dug in the spurs. +Sneed's rifle barked and a bullet whined past Cheyenne's head. He crouched +in the saddle. Again a bullet whistled across the sunlit clearing. The +cow-horse was going strong. A tree flicked past, then another and +another.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne straightened in the saddle and glanced back through the timber. +He saw a jumble of men and horses in front of the cabin. "They got just two +hosses handy, and they're rode down," he muttered as he sped through the +shadows of the forest.</p> + +<p>Across another sun-swept meadow he rode, and into the timber again--and +before he realized it he was back on the mountain trail that led to the +valley. He took the first long, easy grade on the run, checked at the +switchback, and pounded down the succeeding grade, still under cover of the +hillside timber, but rapidly nearing the more open country of brush and +rock.</p> + +<p>As he reined in at the second switchback he saw, far below, and going at +a lively trot, seven or eight horses, and behind them, hazing them along as +fast as the trail would permit, Little Jim.</p> + +<p>"If Sneed's outfit gets to the rim before he <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_159" id="Page_159"></a>[pg 159]</span>makes the next turn, +they'll get him sure," reasoned Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>He thought of turning back and trying to stop Sneed's men. He thought of +turning his horse loose and ambushing the mountainmen, afoot. But Cheyenne +did not want to kill. His greatest fear was that Little Jim might get hurt. +As he hesitated, a rifle snarled from the rim above, and he saw Little +Jim's horse flinch and jump forward.</p> + +<p>"I reckon it's up to us, old Steel Dust," he said to his horse.</p> + +<p>Hoping to draw the fire of the men above, he eased his horse round the +next bend and then spurred him to a run. Below, Little Jim was jogging +along, within a hundred yards or so of the bend that would screen him from +sight. Realizing that he could never make the next turn on the run, +Cheyenne gripped with his knees, and leaned back to meet the shock as Steel +Dust plunged over the end of the turn and crashed through the brush below. +A slug whipped through the brush and clipped a twig in front of the +horse.</p> + +<p>Steel Dust swerved and lunged on down through the heavy brush. A naked +creek-bed showed white and shimmering at the bottom of <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160"></a>[pg 160]</span>the +slope. Again a slug whined through the sunlight and Cheyenne's hat spun +from his head and settled squarely on a low bush. It was characteristic of +Cheyenne that he grabbed for his hat--and got it as he dashed past.</p> + +<p>"Keep the change," said Cheyenne as he ducked beneath a branch and +straightened up again. He was almost to the creek-bed, naked to the +sunlight, and a bad place to cross with guns going from above. He pulled +up, slipped from his horse, and slapped him on the flank.</p> + +<p>The pony leaped forward, dashed across the creek-bed, and cut into the +trail beyond. A bullet flattened to a silver splash on a boulder. Another +bullet shot a spurt of sand into the air. Cheyenne crouched tense, and then +made a rush. A slug sang past his head. Heat palpitated in the narrow draw. +He gained the opposite bank, dropped, and crawled through the brush and lay +panting, close to the trail. From above him somewhere came the note of a +bird: <i>Chirr-up! Chirr-up!</i> Again a slug tore through the brush +scattering twigs and tiny leaves on Cheyenne's hat.</p> + +<p>"That one didn't say, 'Cheer up!'" murmured Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>When he had caught his breath he crawled out <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_161" id="Page_161"></a>[pg 161]</span>and into the narrow trail. +The shooting had ceased. Evidently the men were riding. Stepping round the +shoulder of the next bend, he peered up toward the rim of the range. A tiny +figure appeared riding down the first long grade, and then another figure. +Turning, he saw his own horse quietly nipping at the grass in the crevices +of the rocks along the trail.</p> + +<p>He walked down to the horse slowly and caught him up. Loosening his +carbine from the scabbard, and deeming himself lucky to have it, after that +wild ride down the mountain, he stepped back to the angle of the bend, +rested the carbine against a rocky shoulder and dropped a shot in front of +the first rider, who stopped suddenly and took to cover.</p> + +<p>"That'll hold 'em for a spell," said Cheyenne, stepping back. He mounted +and rode on down the trail, eyeing the tracks of the horses that Little Jim +was hazing toward the valley below. Cheyenne shook his head. "He's done run +off the whole dog-gone outfit! There's nothin' stingy about that kid."</p> + +<p>Striking to the lower level, Cheyenne cut across country to his camp. He +found Bartley leaning comfortably back against a saddle, reading aloud, and +opposite him sat Dorry, so <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" +id="Page_162"></a>[pg 162]</span>intent upon the reading that she did not +hear Cheyenne until he spoke.</p> + +<p>"Evenin', folks! Seen anything of Jimmy?"</p> + +<p>"Oh--Cheyenne! No, have you?" It was Dorothy who spoke, as Bartley +closed the book and got to his feet.</p> + +<p>"Was you lookin' for Jimmy's address in that there book?" queried +Cheyenne, grinning broadly.</p> + +<p>Dorothy flushed and glanced at Bartley, who immediately changed the +subject by calling attention to Cheyenne's hat. Cheyenne also changed the +subject by stating that Jimmy had recently ridden down the trail toward the +ranch--with some horses.</p> + +<p>"Then you got your horses?" said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"I reckon they're over to the ranch about now."</p> + +<p>"Jimmy has been gone all day," said Dorothy. "Aunt Jane is terribly +worried about him."</p> + +<p>"Jimmy and me took a little ride in the hills," said Cheyenne casually. +"But you needn't to tell Aunt Jane that Jimmy was with me. It turned out +all right."</p> + +<p>"I rode over to your camp to look for Jimmy," said Dorothy, "but Mr. +Bartley had not seen him."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne nodded and reined his horse round.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163"></a>[pg +163]</span>"Why, your shirt is almost ripped from your back!" said +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"My hoss shied, back yonder, and stepped off into the brush. We kept on +through the brush. It was shorter."</p> + +<p>Dorothy mounted her horse, and, nodding farewell to Bartley, accompanied +Cheyenne to the ranch. When they were halfway there, Dorothy, who had been +riding thoughtfully along, saying nothing, turned to her companion: +"Cheyenne, you had trouble up there. You might at least tell <i>me</i> +about it."</p> + +<p>"Well, Miss Dorry--" And Cheyenne told her how Jimmy had followed him, +how he had sent Jimmy back, and the unexpected appearance of that young +hopeful in the timber near Sneed's cabin. "I was in there, figurin' hard +how to get my hosses and get away, when, somehow, Jimmy got to the corral +and turned Sneed's stock loose and hazed 'em down the trail. But where he +run 'em to is the joke. I figured he would show up at our camp. It would be +just like him to run the whole bunch into the ranch corral. And I reckon he +done it."</p> + +<p>"But, Mr. Sneed!" exclaimed Dorothy. "If he finds out we had anything to +do with running off his horses--"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164"></a>[pg +164]</span>"He never saw Jimmy clost enough to tell who he was. 'Course, +Sneed knows Aunt Jane is my sister, and most he'll suspicion is that I got +help from <i>some</i> of my folks. But so far he don't know <i>who</i> +helped me turn the trick."</p> + +<p>"You don't seem to be very serious about it," declared Dorothy.</p> + +<p>"Serious? Me? Why, ain't most folks serious enough without everybody +bein' took that way?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps. But I knew something had happened the minute you rode into +camp."</p> + +<p>"So did I," asserted Cheyenne, and he spoke sharply to his horse.</p> + +<p>Dorothy flushed. "Cheyenne, I rode over to find Jimmy. You needn't--Oh, +there's Aunt Jane now! And there's Jimmy, and the corral is full of +horses!"</p> + +<p>"Reckon we better step along," and Cheyenne put Steel Dust to a +lope.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165"></a>[pg +165]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> + +<h3><a name='MORE_PONY_TRACKS'></a>MORE PONY TRACKS</h3> + + +<p>Summoned from the west end of the ranch, where he had been irrigating +the alfalfa, Uncle Frank arrived at the house just as Cheyenne and Dorothy +rode up. Little Jim was excitedly endeavoring to explain to Aunt Jane how +the corral came to be filled with strange horses.</p> + +<p>Uncle Frank nodded to Cheyenne and turned to Jimmy. "Where you +been?"</p> + +<p>"I was over on the mountain."</p> + +<p>"How did these horses get here?"</p> + +<p>Uncle Frank's eye was stern. Jimmy hesitated. He had been forbidden to +go near Sneed's place; and he knew that all that stood between a harness +strap and his small jeans was the presence of Dorothy and Cheyenne. It was +pretty tough to have recovered the stolen horses single-handed, and then to +take a licking for it.</p> + +<p>Little Jim gazed hopefully at his father.</p> + +<p>"Why, I was chousin' around up there," he explained, "and I seen dad's +hosses, and--and I started 'em down the trail and the whole blame <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166"></a>[pg 166]</span>bunch +followed 'em. They was travelin' so fast I couldn't cut 'em out, so I just +let 'em drift. Filaree and Josh just nacherally headed for the corral and +the rest followed 'em in."</p> + +<p>Uncle Frank gazed sternly at Jimmy. "Who told you to help your father +get his horses?"</p> + +<p>"Nobody."</p> + +<p>"Did your Aunt Jane tell you you could go over to the mountain?"</p> + +<p>"I never asked her."</p> + +<p>"You trot right into the house and stay there," said Uncle Frank.</p> + +<p>Little Jim cast an appealing glance at Cheyenne and walked slowly toward +the house, incidentally and unconsciously rubbing his hand across his jeans +with a sort of anticipatory movement. He bit his lip, and the tears started +to his eyes. But he shook them away, wondering what he might do to avert +the coming storm. Perhaps his father would interpose between him and the +dreaded harness strap. Yet Jimmy knew that his father had never interfered +when a question of discipline arose.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Little Jim's face brightened. He marched through the house to +the wash bench, and, unsolicited, washed his hands and face and soaped his +hair, after which he slicked it <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" +id="Page_167"></a>[pg 167]</span>down carefully, so that there might be no +mistake about his having brushed and combed it. He rather hoped that Uncle +Frank or Aunt Jane would come in just then and find him at this +unaccustomed task. It might help.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Cheyenne and his brother-in-law had a talk, outside. Dorothy +and Aunt Jane retired to the veranda, talking in low tones. Presently +Little Jim, who could stand the strain no longer,--the jury seemed a long +time at arriving at a verdict,--appeared on the front veranda, hatless, +washed, and his hair fearfully and wonderfully brushed and combed.</p> + +<p>"Why, Jimmy!" exclaimed Dorothy.</p> + +<p>Jimmy fidgeted and glanced away bashfully. Presently he stole to his +Aunt Jane's side.</p> + +<p>"Am I goin' to get a lickin'?" he queried.</p> + +<p>Aunt Jane shook her head, and patted his hand. Entrenched beside Aunt +Jane, Jimmy watched his father and Uncle Frank as they talked by the big +corral. Uncle Frank was gesturing toward the mountains. Cheyenne was +arguing quietly.</p> + +<p>"It ain't just the runnin' off of Sneed's hosses," said Uncle Frank. +"That's bad enough. But I told Jimmy to keep away from Sneed's."</p> + +<p>"So did I," declared Cheyenne. "And seein' <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_168" id="Page_168"></a>[pg 168]</span>as I'm his dad, it's up to +me to lick him if he's goin' to get licked."</p> + +<p>"Sneed is like to ride down some night and set fire to the barns," +asserted Uncle Frank.</p> + +<p>"Sneed don't know yet who run off his stock. And he can't say that I +did, and prove it. Now, Frank, you just hold your hosses. I'll ride over to +camp and get my outfit together and come over here. Then we'll throw Steve +Brown's hosses into your pasture, and I'll see that Sneed's stock is out of +here, pronto."</p> + +<p>"That's all right. But Sneed will trail his stock down here."</p> + +<p>"But he won't find 'em here. And he'll never know they was in your +corral."</p> + +<p>Uncle Frank shook his head doubtfully. He was a pessimist and always +argued the worst of a possible situation.</p> + +<p>"And before I'll see Jimmy take a lickin'--this trip--I'll ride back and +shoot it out with Sneed and his outfit," stated Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"I reckon you're fool enough to do it," said Uncle Frank.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>An hour later Bartley and Cheyenne were at the Lawrence ranch, where +they changed packs, saddled Filaree and Joshua, and turned the <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169"></a>[pg 169]</span>horses +borrowed from Steve Brown into Uncle Frank's back pasture.</p> + +<p>Little Jim watched these operations with keen interest. He wanted to +help, but refrained for fear that he would muss up his hair--and he wanted +Uncle Frank to notice his hair as it was.</p> + +<p>Aunt Jane hastily prepared a meal and Dorothy helped.</p> + +<p>In a few minutes Cheyenne and Bartley had eaten, and were ready for the +road. Cheyenne stepped up and shook hands with Jimmy, as though Jimmy were +a grown-up. Jimmy felt elated. There was no one just like his father, even +if folks did say that Cheyenne Hastings could do better than ride around +the country singing and joking with everybody.</p> + +<p>"And don't forget to stop by when you come back," said Aunt Jane, +bidding farewell to Bartley.</p> + +<p>Dorothy shook hands with the Easterner and wished him a pleasant +journey, rather coolly, Bartley thought. She was much more animated when +bidding farewell to Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"And I won't forget to send you that rifle," said Bartley as he nodded +to Little Jim.</p> + +<p>Uncle Frank helped them haze Sneed's horses <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_170" id="Page_170"></a>[pg 170]</span>out of the yard on to the +road, where Cheyenne waited to head them from taking the hill trail, +again.</p> + +<p>Just as he left, Bartley turned to Dorothy who stood twisting a +pomegranate bud in her fingers. "May I have it?" he asked, half in +jest.</p> + +<p>She tossed the bud to him and he caught it. Then he spurred out after +Cheyenne who was already hazing the horses down the road. Occasionally one +of the horses tried to break out and take to the hills, but Cheyenne always +headed it back to the bunch, determined, for some reason unknown to +Bartley, to keep the horses together and going south.</p> + +<p>The road climbed gradually, winding in and out among the foothills. As +the going became stiffer, the rock outcropped and the dust settled.</p> + +<p>The horses slowed to a walk. Bartley wondered why his companion seemed +determined to drive Sneed's stock south. He thought it would be just as +well to let them break for the hills, and not bother with them. But +Cheyenne offered no explanation. He evidently knew what he was about.</p> + +<p>To their right lay the San Andreas Valley across which the long, +slanting shadows of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" +id="Page_171"></a>[pg 171]</span>sunset crept slowly. Still Cheyenne kept +the bunch of horses going briskly, when the going permitted speed. Just +over a rise they came suddenly upon an Apache, riding a lean, active paint +horse. Cheyenne pulled up and talked with the Indian. The latter grinned, +nodded, and, jerking his pony round, rode after the horses as they drifted +ahead. Bartley saw the Apache bunch the animals again, and turn them off +the road toward the hills.</p> + +<p>"Didn't expect to meet up with luck, so soon," declared Cheyenne. "I +figured to turn Sneed's hosses loose when I'd got 'em far enough from the +ranch. But that Injun'll take care of 'em. Sneed ain't popular with the +Apaches. Sneed's cabin is right clost to the res'avation line."</p> + +<p>"What will the Indian do with the horses?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Most like trade 'em to his friends."</p> + +<p>Bartley gestured toward a spot of green far across the valley. "Looks +like a town," he said.</p> + +<p>"San Andreas--and that's where we stop, to-night. No campin' in the +brush for me while Sneed is ridin' the country lookin' for his stock. It +wouldn't be healthy."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172"></a>[pg +172]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> + +<h3><a name='SAN_ANDREAS_TOWN'></a>SAN ANDREAS TOWN</h3> + + +<p>A sleepy town, that paid little attention to the arrival or departure of +strangers, San Andreas in the valley merely rubbed its eyes and dozed again +as Cheyenne and Bartley rode in, put up their horses at the livery, and +strolled over to the adobe hotel where they engaged rooms for the +night.</p> + +<p>Bartley was taken by the picturesque simplicity of the place, and next +morning he suggested that they stay a few days and enjoy the advantage of +having some one other than themselves cook their meals and make their beds. +The hotel, a relic of old times, with its patio and long portal, its rooms +whose lower floors were on the ground level, its unpretentious +spaciousness, appealed strongly to Bartley as something unusual in the way +of a hostelry. It seemed restful, romantic, inviting. It was a place where +a man might write, dream, loaf, and smoke. Then, incidentally, it was not +far from the Lawrence ranch, which was not far from the <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173"></a>[pg 173]</span>home of +a certain young woman whom Little Jim called "Dorry."</p> + +<p>Bartley thought that Dorothy was rather nice--in fact, singularly +interesting. He had not imagined that a Western girl could be so thoroughly +domestic, natural, charming, and at the same time manage a horse so well. +He had visioned Western girls as hard-voiced horse-women, masculine, bold, +and rather scornful of a man who did not wear chaps and ride broncos. True, +Dorothy was not like the girls in the East. She seemed less +sophisticated--less inclined to talk small talk just for its own sake; yet, +concluded Bartley, she was utterly feminine and quite worth while.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne smiled as Bartley suggested that they stay in San Andreas a few +days; and Cheyenne nodded in the direction from which they had come.</p> + +<p>"I kinda like this part of the country, myself," he said, "but I hate to +spend all my money in one place."</p> + +<p>Bartley suddenly realized that his companion, was nothing more than a +riding hobo, a vagrant, without definite means of support, and disinclined +to stay in any one place long.</p> + +<p>"I'll take care of the expenses," said Bartley.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174"></a>[pg +174]</span>Cheyenne smiled, but shook his head. "It ain't that, right now. +Me, I got to shoot that there game of craps with Panhandle, and I figure he +won't ride this way."</p> + +<p>"But you have recovered your horses," argued Bartley.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne gestured toward the south. "I reckon I'll keep movin', pardner. +And that game of craps is as good a excuse as I want."</p> + +<p>"I had hoped that it would be plain sailing, from now on," declared +Bartley. "I thought of stopping here only three or four days. This sort of +town is new to me."</p> + +<p>"They's lots like it, between here and the border," said Cheyenne. "But +I don't want no 'dobe walls between me and the sky-line, reg'lar. I can +stand it for a day, mebby."</p> + +<p>"Well, perhaps we may agree to dissolve partnership temporarily," +suggested Bartley. "I think I'll stay here a few days, at least."</p> + +<p>"That's all right, pardner. I don't aim to tell no man how to live. But +me, I aim to live in the open."</p> + +<p>"Do you think that man Sneed will ride down this way?" queried Bartley, +struck by a sudden idea.</p> + +<p>"That ain't why I figure to keep movin'," <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_175" id="Page_175"></a>[pg 175]</span>said Cheyenne. "But seein' +as you figure to stay, I'll stick around to-day, and light out to-morrow +mornin'. Mebby you'll change your mind, and come along."</p> + +<p>Bartley spent the forenoon with Cheyenne, prowling about the old town, +interested in its quaint unusualness. The afternoon heat drove him to the +shade of the hotel veranda, and, feeling unaccountably drowsy, he finally +went to his room, and, stretching out on the bed, fell asleep. He was +awakened by Cheyenne's knock at the door. Supper was ready.</p> + +<p>After supper they strolled out to the street and watched the town wake +up. From down the street a ways came the sound of a guitar and singing. A +dog began to howl. Then came a startled yelp, and the howl died away in the +dusk. The singing continued. A young Mexican in a blue serge suit, tan +shoes, and with a black sombrero set aslant on his head, walked down the +street beside a Mexican girl, young, fat, and giggling. They passed the +hotel with all the self-consciousness of being attired in their holiday +raiment.</p> + +<p>A wagon rattled past and stopped at the saloon a few doors down the +street. Then a ragged Mexican, hazing two tired burros, appeared in <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176"></a>[pg 176]</span>the dim +light cast from a window--a quaint silhouette that merged in the farther +shadows. Cheyenne moved his feet restlessly.</p> + +<p>Bartley smiled. "The road for mine," he quoted.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne nodded. "Reckon I'll go see how the hosses are makin' it."</p> + +<p>"I'll walk over with you," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>As they came out of the livery barn again, Bartley happened to glance at +the lighted doorway of the cantina opposite. From within the saloon came +the sound of glasses clinking occasionally, and voices engaged in lazy +conversation. Cheyenne fingered the dice in his pocket and hummed a tune. +Slowly he moved toward the lighted doorway, and Bartley walked beside +him.</p> + +<p>"I got a thirst," stated Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Bartley laughed. "Well, as we are about to dissolve partnership, I don't +mind taking one myself."</p> + +<p>"Tough joint," declared Cheyenne as he stepped up to the doorway.</p> + +<p>"All the better," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>A young rancher, whose team stood at the hitch-rail, nodded pleasantly +as they entered.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177"></a>[pg +177]</span>"Mescal," said Cheyenne, and he laid a silver dollar on the +bar.</p> + +<p>Bartley glanced about the low-ceilinged room. The place, poorly lighted +with oil lamps, looked sinister enough to satisfy the most hardy +adventurer, although it was supposed to be a sort of social center for the +enjoyment of vino and talk. The bar was narrow, made of some kind of soft +wood, and painted blue. The top of it was almost paintless in patches.</p> + +<p>Back of the bar a narrow shelf, also painted blue, offered a lean choice +of liquors. Several Mexicans lounged at the side tables along the wall. The +young American rancher stood at the bar, drinking. The proprietor, a fat, +one-eyed Mexican whose face was deeply pitted from smallpox, served Bartley +and Cheyenne grudgingly. The mescal was fiery stuff. Bartley coughed as he +swallowed it.</p> + +<p>"Why not just whiskey, and have it over with?" he queried, grinning at +Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Whiskey ain't whiskey, here," Cheyenne replied. "But mescal is just +what she says she is. I like to know the kind of poison I'm drinkin'."</p> + +<p>Bartley began to experience an inner glow that was not unpleasant. Once +down, this <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178"></a>[pg +178]</span>native Mexican drink was not so bad. He laid a coin on the bar +and the glasses were filled again.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne nodded and drank Bartley's health. Bartley suggested that they +sit at one of the side tables and study the effects of mescal on the +natives present.</p> + +<p>"Let joy be unconfined," said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Where in the world did you get that?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I can read," declared Cheyenne. "Before I took to ramblin', I used +to read some, nights. I reckon that's where I got the idea of makin' up +po'try, later."</p> + +<p>"I really beg your pardon," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"The mescal must of told you."</p> + +<p>"I don't quite get that," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"No? Well, you ain't the first. Josh and Filaree is the only ones that +sabes me. Let's sit in this corner and watch the mescal work for a +livin'."</p> + +<p>It was a hot night. Sweat prickled on Bartley's forehead. His nose +itched. He lit a cigar. It tasted bitter, so he asked Cheyenne for tobacco +and papers, and rolled a cigarette. He inhaled a whiff, and felt more +comfortable. The Mexicans, who had ceased to talk when Bartley and Cheyenne +entered, were now at it again, making plenty of noise.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179"></a>[pg +179]</span>Cheyenne hummed to himself and tapped the floor with his +boot-heel. "She's a funny old world," he declared.</p> + +<p>Bartley nodded and blew a smoke-ring.</p> + +<p>"Miss Dorry's sure a interestin' girl," asserted Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Bartley nodded again.</p> + +<p>"Kind of young and innocent-like."</p> + +<p>Again Bartley nodded.</p> + +<p>"It ain't a bad country to settle down in, for folks that likes to +settle," said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Bartley glanced sharply at his companion. Cheyenne was gazing straight +ahead. His face was unreadable.</p> + +<p>"Now if I was the settlin' kind--" He paused and slowly turned toward +Bartley. "A man could raise alfalfa and chickens and kids."</p> + +<p>"Go ahead," laughed Bartley.</p> + +<p>"I'm goin'--to-morrow mornin'. And you say you figure to stay here a +spell?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, just a few days. I imagine I shall grow tired of it. But to-night, +I feel pretty well satisfied to stay right where I am."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne rose and strode to the bar. After a short argument with the +proprietor, he returned with a bottle and glasses. Bartley raised his +eyebrows questioningly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180"></a>[pg +180]</span>"Once in a while--" And Cheyenne gestured toward the bottle.</p> + +<p>"It's powerful stuff," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"We ain't far from the hotel," declared Cheyenne. And he filled their +glasses.</p> + +<p>"This ought to be the last, for me," said Bartley, drinking. "But don't +let that make any difference to you."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne drank and shrugged his shoulders. He leaned back and gazed at +the opposite wall. Bartley vaguely realized that the Mexicans were +chattering, that two or three persons had come in, and that the atmosphere +was heavy with tobacco smoke. He unbuttoned his shirt-collar.</p> + +<p>Presently Cheyenne twisted round in his chair. "Remember Little Jim, +back at the Hastings ranch?"</p> + +<p>"I should say so! It would be difficult to forget him."</p> + +<p>"Miss Dorry thinks a heap of that kid."</p> + +<p>"She seems to."</p> + +<p>"Now, I ain't drunk," Cheyenne declared solemnly. "I sure wish I was. +You know Little Jim is my boy. Well, his ma is livin' over to Laramie. She +writ to me to come back to her, onct. I reckon Sears got tired of <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181"></a>[pg 181]</span>her. +She lived with him a spell after she quit me. Folks say Sears treated her +like a dog. I guess I wasn't man enough, when I heard that--"</p> + +<p>"You mean Panhandle Sears--at Antelope?"</p> + +<p>"Him."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I see!" said Bartley slowly. "And that crap game, at Antelope--I +see!"</p> + +<p>"If Panhandle had a-jumped me, instead of you, that night, I'd 'a' +killed him. Do you know why Wishful stepped in and put Sears down? Wishful +did that so that there wouldn't be a killin'. That's the second time Sears +has had his chance to git me, but he won't take that chance. That's the +second time we met up since--since my wife left me. The third time it'll be +lights out for somebody. I ain't drunk."</p> + +<p>"Then Sears has got a yellow streak?"</p> + +<p>"Any man that uses a woman rough has. When Jimmy's ma left us, I reckon +I went loco. It wa'n't just her <i>leavin'</i> us. But when I heard she had +took up with Sears, and knowin' what he was--I just quit. I was workin' +down here at the ranch, then. I went up North, figurin' to kill him. Folks +thought I was yellow, for not killin' him. They think so right now. Mebby I +am.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182"></a>[pg +182]</span>"I worked up North a spell, but I couldn't stay. So I lit out +and come down South again. First time I met up with Sears was over on the +Tonto. He stepped up and slapped my face, in front of a crowd, in the Lone +Star. And I took it. But I told him I'd sure see him again, and give him +another chance to slap my face.</p> + +<p>"You see, Panhandle Sears is that kind--he's got to work himself up to +kill a man. And over there at Antelope, that night, he just about knowed +that if he lifted a finger, I'd git him. He figured to start a ruckus, and +then git me in the mix-up. Wishful was on, and he stopped that chance. +Folks think that because I come ridin' and singin' and joshin' that I ain't +no account. Mebby I ain't."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne poured another drink for himself. Bartley declined to drink +again. He was thinking of this squalid tragedy and of its possible outcome. +The erstwhile sprightly Cheyenne held a new significance for the Easterner. +That a man could ride up and down the trails singing, and yet carry beneath +it all the grim intent some day to kill a man--</p> + +<p>Bartley felt that Cheyenne had suddenly become a stranger, an unknown +quantity, a sinister <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" +id="Page_183"></a>[pg 183]</span>jester, in fact, a dangerous man. He +leaned forward and touched Cheyenne's arm.</p> + +<p>"Why not give up the idea of--er--getting Sears; and settle down, and +make a home for Little Jim?"</p> + +<p>"When Aunt Jane took him, the understandin' was that Jimmy was to be +raised respectable, which is the same as tellin' me that I don't have +nothin' to do with raisin' him. Me, I got to keep movin'."</p> + +<p>Bartley turned toward the doorway as a tall figure loomed through the +haze of tobacco smoke: a gaunt, heavy-boned man, bearded and limping +slightly. With him were several companions, booted and spurred; evidently +just in from a hard ride.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne turned to Bartley. "That's Bill Sneed--and his crowd. I ain't +popular with 'em--right now."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184"></a>[pg +184]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XVII</h2> + +<h3><a name='THAT_MESCAL'></a>THAT MESCAL</h3> + + +<p>"The man who had your horses?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne nodded. "The one at the end of the bar. The hombre next to him +is Lawson, who claims he bought my hosses from a Mexican, down here. Lawson +is the one that is huntin' trouble. Sneed don't care nothin' about a couple +of cayuses. He won't start anything. He's here just to back up Lawson if +things git interestin'."</p> + +<p>"But what can they do? We're here, in town, minding our own business. +They know well enough that Panhandle stole your horses. And you said the +people in San Andreas don't like Sneed a whole lot."</p> + +<p>"Because they're scared of him and his crowd. And we're strangers here. +It's just me and Lawson, this deal. Sneed is sizin' you up, back of his +whiskers, right now. He's tryin' to figure out who you are. Sneed ain't one +to run into the law when they's anybody lookin' on. He works different.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185"></a>[pg +185]</span>"Now, while he is figurin', you just git up easy and step out +and slip over to the barn and saddle up Joshua. I'm goin' to need him. Take +the tie-rope off Filaree and leave him loose in his stall. Just say 'Adios' +to me when you git up, like you was goin' back to the hotel. And if you'll +settle what we owe--"</p> + +<p>"That's all right. But my feet aren't cold, yet."</p> + +<p>"You figure to stay in town a spell, don't you? Well, I figure to leave, +right soon. I'm tryin' to dodge trouble. It's your chanct to help out."</p> + +<p>"Why can't we both walk out?"</p> + +<p>"'Cause they'd follow us. They won't follow you."</p> + +<p>Bartley glanced at the men ranged along the bar, rose, and, shaking +hands with Cheyenne, strode out, nodding pleasantly to the one-eyed +proprietor as he went.</p> + +<p>Sneed eyed the Easterner sharply, and nudged one of his men as Bartley +passed through the doorway.</p> + +<p>"Just step out and see where he goes, Hull," he ordered in an undertone. +"Keep him in sight."</p> + +<p>The man spoken to hitched up his chaps, <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_186" id="Page_186"></a>[pg 186]</span>and, turning to finish his +drink, strolled out casually.</p> + +<p>Bartley saw a row of saddle-horses tied at the rail. He noticed the +slickers on the saddles and the carbines under the stirrup leathers. It was +evident that the riders were not entirely on pleasure bent. He crossed the +street, wakened the stableman, paid the bill, and saddled Joshua. Then he +took the tie-rope off Filaree, as Cheyenne had directed. Bartley led Joshua +through the barn to the back, where he was tying him to a wagon wheel when +a figure loomed up in the semi-darkness.</p> + +<p>"Ridin', stranger?"</p> + +<p>The figure struck a match and lighted a cigarette. Bartley at once +recognized him as one of Sneed's men. Resenting the other's question and +his attitude of easy familiarity, Bartley ignored his presence.</p> + +<p>"Hard of hearin'?" queried Hull.</p> + +<p>"Rather."</p> + +<p>"I said: Was you ridin'?"</p> + +<p>"Yesterday," replied Bartley.</p> + +<p>Hull blew a whiff of smoke in Bartley's face. It seemed casual, but was +intended as an insult. Bartley flushed, and realizing that the other was +there to intercept any action on his part to <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_187" id="Page_187"></a>[pg 187]</span>aid Cheyenne, he dropped +Joshua's reins, and without the slightest warning of his intent--in fact, +Hull thought the Easterner was stooping to pick up the reins--Bartley +launched a haymaker that landed with a loud crack on Hull's unguarded chin, +and Hull's head snapped back. Bartley jumped forward and shot another one +to the same spot. Hull's head hit the edge of the doorway as he went +down.</p> + +<p>He lay there, inert, a queer blur in the half-light. Bartley licked his +skinned knuckles.</p> + +<p>"He may resent this, when he wakes up," he murmured. "I believe I'll tie +him."</p> + +<p>Bartley took Joshua's tie-rope and bound Mr. Hull's arms and legs, +amateurishly, but securely.</p> + +<p>Then he strode through to the front of the barn. He could hear loud +talking in the saloon opposite and thought he could distinguish Cheyenne's +voice. Bartley wondered what would happen in there, and when things would +begin to pop, if there was to be any popping. He felt foolishly helpless +and inefficient--rather a poor excuse for a partner, just then. Yet there +was that husky rider, back there in the straw. He was even more helpless +and inefficient. Bartley licked his knuckles, and grinned.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188"></a>[pg +188]</span>"There must have been a little mescal in that second punch," he +thought. "I never hit so hard in my life."</p> + +<p>The stableman had retired to his bunk--a habit of night stablemen. The +stable was dark and still, save for the munching of the horses. In the +saloon across the way Cheyenne was facing Sneed and his men, alone. Bartley +felt like a quitter. Indecision irritated him, and curiosity urged him to +do something other than to stand staring at the saloon front. He recalled +his plan to sojourn in San Andreas a few days, and incidently to ride over +to the Lawrence ranch--frankly, to have another visit with Dorothy. He +shrugged his shoulders. That idea now seemed insignificant, compared with +the present possibilities.</p> + +<p>"I'm a free agent," he soliloquized. "I think I'll take a hand in this, +myself."</p> + +<p>He snapped his fingers as he turned and hastened to Dobe's stall. He led +Dobe out to the stable floor, got his saddle from the office, told the +sleepy stableman that he was going to take a little ride, and saddled Dobe. +And he led Dobe back to where Joshua was tied. He had forgotten his victim +on the floor, for a moment, but was aware of him when he <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189"></a>[pg +189]</span>stumbled over him in the dark. The other mumbled and struggled +faintly.</p> + +<p>"I left your gun in the wagon-box," said Bartley. "I wouldn't move +around much, if I were you. One of the horses might step on your face and +hurt his foot."</p> + +<p>Mr. Hull was not pleased at this, and he said as much. Bartley tied Dobe +to the back of the wagon.</p> + +<p>"Just keep your eye on the horses a minute," he told Hull. "I'll be back +soon."</p> + +<p>Bartley felt unusually and inexplicably elated. He had not realized the +extreme potency of mescal. The proprietor of the hotel was mildly surprised +when Bartley, remarking that he had been called away unexpectedly, paid the +hotel bill. Bartley hastened back to the stable. Across the way the horses +of the mountain men drowsed in the faint lamplight. Turning, Bartley saw +Joshua and Dobe dimly silhouetted in the opening at the far end of the +stable. Cheyenne was still in the saloon.</p> + +<p>Bartley grinned. "It might help," he said as he stepped across the +street. Taking down the rope from the nearest horse, he tied the end of the +rope in the horse's bridle and threaded the end through the bridles of all +five horses, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190"></a>[pg +190]</span>tying the loose end to the last horse's bridle. "Just like +stringing fish!" he murmured soulfully. "When those gentlemen from the +interior try to mount, there'll be something doing."</p> + +<p>He had just turned to walk back to the stable when he heard a shot, and +the lighted doorway of the saloon became suddenly dark. Without waiting to +see what would happen next, Bartley ran to the rear of the stable and +untied the horses. Behind him he heard the quick trample of feet. He +turned. A figure appeared in the front doorway of the stable, a figure that +dashed toward him, and, with a leap and a swing, mounted Joshua and spurred +out and down the alley back of the building.</p> + +<p>Bartley grabbed for his own stirrup, missed it, grabbed again and swung +up. Dobe leaped after the other horse, turned at the end of the alley, and, +reaching into a long, swinging gallop, pounded across the night-black open. +San Andreas had but one street. The backs of its buildings opened to +space.</p> + +<p>Ahead, Cheyenne thundered across a narrow bridge over an arroyo. Dobe +lifted and leaped forward, as though in a race. From behind came the quick +patter of hoofs. One of Sneed's men had evidently managed to get his horse +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191"></a>[pg +191]</span>loose from the reata. A solitary house, far out on the level, +flickered past. Bartley glanced back. The house door opened. A ray of +yellow light shot across the road.</p> + +<p>"Hey, Cheyenne!" called Bartley.</p> + +<p>But Cheyenne's little buckskin was drumming down the night road at a +pace that astonished the Easterner. Dobe seemed to be doing his best, yet +he could not overtake the buckskin. Behind Bartley the patter of hoofs +sounded nearer. Bartley thought he heard Cheyenne call back to him. He +leaned forward, but the drumming of hoofs deadened all other sound.</p> + +<p>They were on a road, now--a road that ran south across the spaces, +unwinding itself like a tape flung from a reel. Suddenly Cheyenne pulled to +a stop. Bartley raced up, bracing himself as the big cow-horse set up in +two jumps.</p> + +<p>"I thought you was abidin' in San Andreas," said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"There's some one coming!" warned Bartley, breathing heavily.</p> + +<p>"And his name is Filaree," declared Cheyenne. "You sure done a good job. +Let's keep movin'." And Cheyenne let Joshua out as Filaree drew alongside +and nickered shrilly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192"></a>[pg +192]</span>"Now I reckon we better hold 'em in a little," said Cheyenne +after they had gone, perhaps, a half-mile. "We got a good start."</p> + +<p>They slowed the horses to a trot. Filaree kept close to Joshua's flank. +A gust of warm air struck their faces.</p> + +<p>"Ain't got time to shake hands, pardner," said Cheyenne. "Know where +you're goin'?"</p> + +<p>"South," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Correc'. And I don't hear no hosses behind us."</p> + +<p>"I strung them together on a rope," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"How's that?"</p> + +<p>"I tied Sneed's horses together, with a rope. Ran it through the +bridles--like stringing fish. Not according to Hoyle, but it seems to have +worked."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne shook his head. He did not quite get the significance of +Bartley's statement.</p> + +<p>"Any one get hurt?" queried Bartley presently.</p> + +<p>"Nope. I spoiled a lamp, and I reckon I hit somebody on the head, in the +dark, comin' through. Seems like I stepped on somethin' soft, out there +back of the barn. It grunted like a human. But I didn't stop to look."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193"></a>[pg +193]</span>"I had to do it," declared Bartley ambiguously.</p> + +<p>"Had to do what?"</p> + +<p>"Punch a fellow that wanted to know what I was doing with your horse. I +let him have it twice."</p> + +<p>"Then you didn't hit him with your gun?"</p> + +<p>"No. I wish I had. I've got a fist like a boiled ham. I can feel it +swell, right now."</p> + +<p>"That there mescal is sure pow'ful stuff."</p> + +<p>"Thanks!" said Bartley succinctly.</p> + +<p>"Got a kick like white lightin'," said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"And I paid our hotel bill," continued Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Well, that was mighty thoughtful. I plumb forgot it."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194"></a>[pg +194]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> + +<h3><a name='JOE_SCOTT'></a>JOE SCOTT</h3> + + +<p>Just before daybreak Cheyenne turned from the road and picked his way +through the scattered brush to a gulch in the western foothills. Cheyenne's +horses seemed to know the place, when they stopped at a narrow, pole gate +across the upper end of the gulch, for on beyond the gate the horses again +stopped of their own accord. Bartley could barely discern the outlines of a +cabin. Cheyenne hallooed.</p> + +<p>A muffled answer from the cabin, then a twinkle of light, then the open +doorway framing a gigantic figure.</p> + +<p>"That you, Shy?" queried the figure.</p> + +<p>"Me and a friend."</p> + +<p>"You're kind of early," rumbled the figure as the riders dismounted.</p> + +<p>"Shucks! You'd be gettin' up, anyway, right soon. We come early so as +not to delay your breakfast."</p> + +<p>In the cabin, Cheyenne and the big man shook hands. Bartley was +introduced. The man was a miner, named Joe Scott.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195"></a>[pg +195]</span>"Joe, here, is a minin' man--when he ain't runnin' a all-night +lunch-stand," explained Cheyenne. "He can't work his placer when it's dark, +but he sure can work a skillet and a coffee-mill."</p> + +<p>"What you been up to?" queried the giant slowly, as he made a fire in +the stove, and set about getting breakfast.</p> + +<p>"Up to Clubfoot Sneed's place, to get a couple of hosses that belonged +to me. He was kind of hostile. Followed us down to San Andreas and done +spoiled our night's rest. But I got the hosses."</p> + +<p>"Hosses seems to be his failin'," said the big man.</p> + +<p>"So some folks say. I'm one of 'em."</p> + +<p>"How are the folks up Antelope way?"</p> + +<p>"Kinda permanent, as usual. I hear Panhandle's drifted south again. +Wishful, he shoots craps, reg'lar."</p> + +<p>Scott nodded, shifted the coffee-pot and sat down on the edge of his +bunk. "Got any smokin'?" he queried presently.</p> + +<p>Bartley offered the miner a cigar. "I'm afraid it's broken," apologized +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"That's all right. I was goin' to town this mornin', to get some tobacco +and grub. But this will help." And doubling the cigar Scott <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196"></a>[pg 196]</span>thrust +it in his mouth and chewed it with evident satisfaction.</p> + +<p>The gray edge of dawn crept into the room. Scott blew out the light and +opened the door.</p> + +<p>Bartley felt suddenly sleepy and he drowsed and nodded, realizing that +Scott and Cheyenne were talking, and that the faint aroma of coffee drifted +toward him, mingling with the chill, fresh air of morning. He pulled +himself together and drank the coffee and ate some bacon. From time to time +he glanced at Scott, fascinated by the miner's tremendous forearms, his +mighty chest and shoulders. Even Cheyenne, who was a fair-sized man, +appeared like a boy beside the miner. Bartley wondered that such tremendous +strength should be isolated, hidden back there behind the foothills. Yet +Scott himself, easy-going and dryly humorous, was evidently content right +where he was.</p> + +<p>Later the miner showed Bartley about the diggings, quietly proud of his +establishment, and enthusiastic about the unfailing supply of water--in +fact, Scott talked more about water than he did about gold. Bartley +realized that the big miner would have been a misfit in town, that he +belonged in the rugged hills from which he <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_197" id="Page_197"></a>[pg 197]</span>wrested a scant six +dollars a day by herculean toil.</p> + +<p>In a past age, Scott would have been a master builder of castles or of +triremes or a maker of armor, but never a fighting man. It was evident that +the miner was, despite his great strength, a man of peace. Bartley rather +regretted, for some romantic reason or other, that the big miner was not a +fighting man.</p> + +<p>Yet when they returned to the shack, where Cheyenne sat smoking, Bartley +learned that Big Joe Scott had a reputation in his own country. That was +when Scott suggested that they needed sleep. He spread a blanket-roll on +the cabin floor for Cheyenne and offered Bartley his bunk. Then Scott +picked up his rifle and strode across to a shed. Cheyenne pulled off his +boots, stretched out on the blanket-roll, and sighed comfortably. Bartley +could see the big miner busily twisting something in his hands, something +that looked like a leather bag from which occasional tiny spurts of silver +gleamed and trickled. Bartley wondered what Scott was doing. He asked +Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"He's squeezin' 'quick.'" And Cheyenne explained the process of +squeezing quicksilver through a chamois skin. "And I'm glad it ain't <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198"></a>[pg 198]</span>my +neck," added Cheyenne. "Joe killed a man, with his bare hands, onct. That's +why he never gets in a fight, nowadays. He dassn't. 'Course, he had to kill +that man, or get killed."</p> + +<p>"I noticed he picked up his rifle," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Nobody'll disturb our sleep," said Cheyenne drowsily.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>The afternoon shadows were long when Bartley awakened. Through the +doorway he could see Cheyenne out in the shed, talking with Joe Scott.</p> + +<p>"Hello!" called Bartley, sitting up. "Lost any horses, Cheyenne?"</p> + +<p>Presently Scott and Cheyenne came over to the cabin.</p> + +<p>"I'm cook, this trip," stated Cheyenne as he bustled about the kitchen. +"I reckon Joe needs a rest. He ain't lookin' right strong."</p> + +<p>An early supper, and the three men forgathered outside the cabin and +smoked and talked until long after dark. Cheyenne had told Scott of the +happenings since leaving Antelope, and jokingly he referred to San Andreas +and Bartley's original plan of staying there awhile.</p> + +<p>Bartley nodded. "And now that the smoke <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_199" id="Page_199"></a>[pg 199]</span>has blown away, I think +I'll go back and finish my visit," he said.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne's face expressed surprise and disappointment. "Honest?" he +queried.</p> + +<p>"Why not?" asked Bartley, and it was a hard question to answer.</p> + +<p>After all, Bartley had stuck to him when trouble seemed inevitable, +reasoned Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Now the Easterner felt free to do as he pleased. And why shouldn't he? +There had been no definite or even tentative agreement as to when they +would dissolve partnership. And Bartley's evident determination to carry +out his original plan struck Cheyenne as indicative of considerable spirit. +It was plain that Sneed's unexpected presence in San Andreas had not +affected Bartley very much. With a tinge of malice, born of disappointment, +Cheyenne suggested to Bartley that the man he had knocked out, back of the +livery barn, would no doubt be glad to see him again.</p> + +<p>Bartley turned to Joe Scott. "He's trying to 'Out-West' me a bit, isn't +he?"</p> + +<p>Scott laughed heartily. "Cheyenne is getting tired of rambling up and +down the country alone. He wants a pardner. Seems he likes your <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200"></a>[pg +200]</span>company, from what he says. But you can't take him serious. +He'll be singin' that everlastin' trail song of his next."</p> + +<p>"He hasn't sung much, recently."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne bridled and snorted like a colt. "Huh! Just try this on your +piano." And seemingly improvising, he waved his arm toward the burro +corral.</p> + +<blockquote> +One time I had a right good pal,<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along;<br /> +But he quit me cold for a little ranch gal,<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along.<br /> +<br /> +And now he's took to pitchin' hay<br /> + On a rancho down San Andreas way;<br /> +He's done tied up and he's got to stay;<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along.<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p>"I was just learnin' him the ropes, and he quit me cold," complained +Cheyenne, appealing to Scott.</p> + +<p>"He aims to keep out of trouble," suggested Scott.</p> + +<p>"I ain't got no friends," said Cheyenne, grinning.</p> + +<p>"Thanks for that," said Scott.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201"></a>[pg +201]</span>Cheyenne reached in his pocket and drew out the dice. His eyes +brightened. He rattled the dice and shot them across the hardpacked ground +near the doorstep. Then he struck a match to see what he had thrown. "I'm +hittin' the road five minutes after six, to-morrow mornin'," he declared, +as he picked up the dice.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202"></a>[pg +202]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2> + +<h3><a name='DORRY_COMES_TO_TOWN'></a>DORRY COMES TO TOWN</h3> + + +<p>At six, next morning, Bartley and Scott were on their way to San +Andreas, Bartley riding Dobe and Scott hazing two pack-burros. They took a +hill trail, which, Scott explained, was shorter by miles than the valley +road which Cheyenne and Bartley had taken to the gulch. Cheyenne was forced +to stay at the miner's cabin until Scott returned with the pack-saddle and +outfit left in the livery. Scott was after supplies and tobacco.</p> + +<p>At first Cheyenne had thought of going along with them. But he +reconsidered. He did not care to risk being arrested in San Andreas for +having disturbed the peace. If the authorities should happen to detain him, +there would be one broken head, one broken lamp, and possibly five or six +witnesses as evidence that he had been the aggressor in the saloon. Sneed +and his men would swear to anything, and the owner of the saloon would add +his bit of evidence. Bartley himself was liable to arrest for assault and +battery <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203"></a>[pg +203]</span>should Hull lodge a complaint against him. Incidentally, Hull +had been found by the stableman, curiously roped and tied and his lower jaw +somewhat out of plumb.</p> + +<p>Bartley and Scott arrived in San Andreas about noon, saw to their stock +and had dinner together. Bartley engaged a room at the hotel. Scott bought +supplies. Then, unknown to Bartley, Scott hunted up the town marshal and +told him that the Easterner was a friend of his. The town marshal took the +hint. Scott assured the marshal that, if Sneed or his men made any trouble +in San Andreas, he would gladly come over and help the marshal establish +peace. Cheyenne's name was not mentioned.</p> + +<p>An hour later Scott appeared in front of the hotel with his burros +packed. Bartley, loafing on the veranda, rose and stepped out.</p> + +<p>"If you got time," said Scott, "you might walk along with me, out to the +edge of town."</p> + +<p>Bartley wondered what Scott had in mind, but he agreed to the suggestion +at once.</p> + +<p>Together they trudged through the sleepy town until they reached the +open.</p> + +<p>"I guess you can find your way back," said Scott, his eyes twinkling. +"And, say, it's a good <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" +id="Page_204"></a>[pg 204]</span>idea not to pack a shootin'-iron--and let +folks know you don't pack one."</p> + +<p>"I think I understand," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Ride over to my camp, any time, and if I'm not there, just make +yourself to home." And the big miner turned and started his burros toward +the hills.</p> + +<p>"Give my regards to Cheyenne," called Bartley.</p> + +<p>The miner nodded.</p> + +<p>On his way back through town, Bartley wondered why the miner had asked +him to take that walk. Then suddenly he thought of a reason. They had been +seen in San Andreas, walking and talking together. That would intimate that +they were friends. And a man would have to be blind, not to realize that it +would be a mistake to pick a quarrel with Scott, or one of his friends. Joe +Scott never quarreled; but he had the reputation of being a man of whom it +was safe to step around.</p> + +<p>With his sleeves rolled up, sitting in the quiet of his room, Bartley +spent the afternoon jotting down notes for a story. He thought he had +experienced enough adventure to make a good beginning. Of course, the love +element was lacking, yet he thought that might be supplied, <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205"></a>[pg 205]</span>later. +He had a heroine in mind. Bartley laid down his pencil, and sat back, +shaping daydreams. It was hot in the room. It would be cooler down on the +veranda. Well, he would finish his rough sketch of Cheyenne, and then step +down to the veranda. He caught himself drowsing over his work. He sat up, +scribbled a while, nodded sleepily, and, finally, with his head on his +arms, he fell asleep.</p> + +<p>The rattle of wagon wheels wakened him. A ranch team had just pulled up +to the hitch-rail in front of the hotel and a small boy was tying the +horses. The boy's hat seemed familiar to Bartley. Then Bartley heard a +voice. Suddenly he was wide awake. Little Jim was down there, talking to +some one. Bartley rose and peered down. Little Jim's companion was Dorothy. +Bartley could not see her face, because of her wide hat-brim. Stepping back +into the room, Bartley picked up his pencil and, leaning out of the window, +started it rolling down the gentle slope of the veranda roof. It dropped at +Dorothy's feet. She started and glanced up. Bartley waved a greeting and +disappeared from the window.</p> + +<p>Decently clothed, and, imagining that he was in his right mind, he +hastened downstairs.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206"></a>[pg +206]</span>Little Jim expressed no surprise at seeing Bartley, but the +youngster's eyes were eager.</p> + +<p>He shook hands, like a grown-up. "Got that twenty-two, yet?"</p> + +<p>"Haven't seen one, Jimmy. But I won't forget."</p> + +<p>"There's a brand-new twenty-two over to Hodges' store, in the window," +declared Little Jim.</p> + +<p>"That so? Then we'll have to walk over and look at it."</p> + +<p>"I done <i>looked</i> at it already," said Little Jim.</p> + +<p>"Well, then, let's go and price it."</p> + +<p>"I done priced it. It's twelve-fifty."</p> + +<p>"Well, what do you say to going over and buying it?"</p> + +<p>"Sure! Is dad gone?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. He left here last night. I thought Miss Gray was with you," said +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Sure! She had to come to town to buy some things. She's over to Hodges' +now."</p> + +<p>Dorothy had not waited for him to appear. Bartley was a bit piqued. But +he asked himself why should he be? They were the merest acquaintances. +True, they had spent several hours together, reading and discussing verse. +But no doubt that had been purely impersonal, <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_207" id="Page_207"></a>[pg 207]</span>on her part. With Little +Jim as his guide, Bartley entered Hodges' general store. Dorothy was at the +back of the store making purchases. Bartley watched her a moment. He felt a +tug at his sleeve.</p> + +<p>"The guns is over on this side," declared Little Jim.</p> + +<p>"We'll have to wait until Mr. Hodges gets through waiting on Miss Gray," +said Bartley.</p> + +<p>Little Jim scampered across the aisle and stood on tiptoe peering into a +showcase. There were pistols, cheap watches, and a pair of spurs.</p> + +<p>Little Jim gazed a moment and then shot over to Dorothy. "Say, Dorry, +can't you hurry up? Me and Mr. Bartley are waitin' to look at that +twenty-two in the window."</p> + +<p>"Now, Jimmy! Oh, how do you do!" And Dorothy greeted Bartley with +considerable poise for a young woman who was as interested in the Easterner +as she was.</p> + +<p>"Don't let us interrupt you," said Bartley. "Our business can wait."</p> + +<p>Little Jim scowled, and grimaced at Dorothy, who excused herself to +Bartley and went on making her purchases. They were really insignificant +purchases--some pins, some thread, and a roll of binding tape. +Insignificant as they <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" +id="Page_208"></a>[pg 208]</span>were, Bartley offered to carry them to the +wagon for her. Dorothy declined his offer and took them to the wagon +herself.</p> + +<p>"Now for that rifle," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>Little Jim, itching all over to get hold of that new and shining weapon, +squirmed as Hodges took it from the window and handed it to Bartley. +Bartley examined it and passed it over to Little Jim.</p> + +<p>"Is that the kind you wanted?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"This is her! Twenty-two, long or short, genuwine repeater." Jimmy +pretended to read the tags tied to the trigger guard. "Yep! This is +her."</p> + +<p>"And some cartridges," suggested Bartley.</p> + +<p>"How many?" queried the storekeeper.</p> + +<p>"All you got," said Little Jim.</p> + +<p>But Bartley's good nature was not to be imposed upon to that extent. +"Give us five boxes, Mr. Hodges."</p> + +<p>"That cleans me out of twenty-twos," declared Hodges.</p> + +<p>Jimmy grinned triumphantly. Dorothy had come in and was viewing the +purchase with some apprehension. She knew Little Jim.</p> + +<p>Bearing the rifle proudly, Jimmy marched from the store. Dorothy and +Bartley followed <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" +id="Page_209"></a>[pg 209]</span>him, and Bartley briefly outlined +Cheyenne's recent sprightly exodus from San Andreas.</p> + +<p>"I heard about it, from Mr. Hodges," said Dorothy. "And I also noticed +that you have hurt your hand."</p> + +<p>Bartley glanced at his right hand--and then at Dorothy, who was gazing +at him curiously. It had become common news in town that Cheyenne Hastings +and the Easterner had engaged in a free-for-all fight with the Sneed +outfit, and that two of the Sneed boys were laid up for repairs. That was +Mr. Hodges' version.</p> + +<p>"I also heard that you had left town," said Dorothy.</p> + +<p>Bartley's egoism was slightly deflated. Then Dorothy had come to town to +buy a few trinkets, and not to find out how it fared with him.</p> + +<p>"We have to get back before dark," she declared.</p> + +<p>"And you got to drive," said Little Jim. "I want to try my new gun!"</p> + +<p>"Did you thank Mr. Bartley for the gun?"</p> + +<p>Little Jim admitted that he had forgotten to do so. He stuck out his +small hand. "Thanks, pardner," he said heartily.</p> + +<p>Bartley laughed and patted Jimmy's shoulder--something <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210"></a>[pg 210]</span>that +Jimmy utterly detested, but suffered nobly, under the circumstances.</p> + +<p>"You earned that gun--and thank you for fetching Miss Dorry to +town."</p> + +<p>"Huh! I didn't fetch <i>her</i>. She fetched me. Uncle Frank was comin', +but Dorry said she just had to get some things--"</p> + +<p>"Jimmy, please don't point that gun at the horses."</p> + +<p>Bartley felt better. He didn't know just why he felt better. Yet he felt +more than grateful to Little Jim.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, Dorothy met Bartley's eyes frankly as he said farewell. "I +hope you will find time to ride over to the ranch," she said. "I'm sure +Aunt Jane would be glad to see you."</p> + +<p>"Thanks. Say, day after to-morrow?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, it doesn't matter. Aunt Jane is nearly always at home."</p> + +<p>"And I got lots of ca'tridges," chirruped Little Jim. "We can shoot all +day."</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't miss such an opportunity for anything," declared Bartley, +yet he was looking at Dorothy when he spoke.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211"></a>[pg +211]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XX</h2> + +<h3><a name='ALONG_THE_FOOTHILLS'></a>ALONG THE FOOTHILLS</h3> + + +<p>Bartley, enjoying his after-dinner smoke, felt that he wanted to know +more about the girl who had invited him to call at the Lawrence ranch +again. He told himself that he wanted to study her; to find out her +preferences, her ideals, her attitude toward life, and how the thought of +always living in the San Andreas Valley, shut away from the world, appealed +to her.</p> + +<p>With the unconscious intolerance of the city-bred man, he did not +realize that her world was quite as interesting to her as his world was to +him. Manlike, he also failed to realize that Dorothy was studying him quite +as much as he was studying her. While he did not feel in the least +superior, he did feel that he was more worldly-wise than this young woman +whose horizon was bounded by the hills edging the San Andreas Valley.</p> + +<p>True, she seemed to have read much, for one as isolated as she, and she +had evidently appreciated what she had read. And then there was something +about her that interested him, aside <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_212" id="Page_212"></a>[pg 212]</span>from her good looks. He +had known many girls far more beautiful. It was not her manner, which was a +bit constrained, at times. Her charm for him was indefinable. Somehow, she +seemed different from other girls he had met. Bartley was himself +responsible for this romantic hallucination. He saw her with eyes hungry +for the sympathetic companionship of youth, especially feminine youth, for +he could talk with her seriously about things which the genial Cheyenne +could hardly appreciate.</p> + +<p>In other words, Bartley, whose aim was to isolate himself from +convention, was unconsciously hungry for the very conventions he thought he +was fleeing from. And in a measure, Dorothy Gray represented the life he +had left behind. Had she been a boy, Bartley would have enjoyed talking +with her--or him; but she was a girl, and, concluded Bartley, just the type +of girl for the heroine of a Western romance. Bartley's egoism would not +allow him to admit that their tentative friendship could become anything +more than friendship. And it was upon that understanding with himself that +he saddled up, next morning,--why the hurry, with a week to spend in San +Andreas,--and set out for the Lawrence ranch, to call on Aunt Jane.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213"></a>[pg +213]</span>Purposely he timed his arrival to follow the dinner hour--dinner +was at noon in the ranch country--and was mildly lectured by Aunt Jane for +not arriving earlier. Uncle Frank was at the lower end of the ranch, +superintending the irrigating. Little Jim was on the veranda, needlessly +cleaning his new rifle, preparatory to a rabbit hunt that afternoon. +Bartley was at once invited to participate in the hunt, and he could think +of no reason to decline. Dorothy, however, was not at the ranch.</p> + +<p>Little Jim scrubbed his rifle with an oily rag, and scowled. "Got both +hosses saddled, and lots of ca'tridges--and Dorry ain't here yet! She +promised to be here right after dinner."</p> + +<p>"Was Miss Dorry going with you?"</p> + +<p>Jimmy nodded. "You bet! She's goin' to take my old twenty-two. It's only +a single-shot," added Jimmy scornfully. "But it's good enough for a +girl."</p> + +<p>"Isn't it early to hunt rabbits?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Sure! But we got to get there, clear over to the flats. If Dorry don't +come as soon as I get this gun cleaned, I'm goin' anyhow."</p> + +<p>But Dorothy appeared before Jimmy could carry out his threat of leaving +without her. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214"></a>[pg +214]</span>Jimmy, mounted on his pony, fretted to be gone, while Dorothy +chatted a minute or so with Aunt Jane and Bartley. Finally they rode off, +with Jimmy in the lead, explaining that there would be no rabbits on the +flat until at least five o'clock, and in the meantime they would ride over +to the spring and pretend they were starving. That is, Dorothy and Bartley +were to pretend they were starving, while Jimmy scouted for meat and +incidentally shot a couple of Indians and returned with a noble buck deer +hanging across the saddle.</p> + +<p>It was hot and they rode slowly. Far ahead, in the dim southern +distances, lay the hills that walled the San Andreas Valley from the +desert.</p> + +<p>Dorothy noticed that Bartley gazed intently at those hills. "Cheyenne?" +she queried, smiling.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon. I was dreaming. Yes, I was thinking of him, and--" +Bartley gestured toward Little Jim.</p> + +<p>"Then you know?"</p> + +<p>"Cheyenne told me, night before last, in San Andreas."</p> + +<p>"Of course, Jimmy is far better off right where he is," asserted +Dorothy, although Bartley had said nothing. "I don't think Cheyenne will +ever settle down. At least, not so long as that <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_215" id="Page_215"></a>[pg 215]</span>man Sears is alive. Of +course, if anything happens to Sears--"</p> + +<p>Dorothy was interrupted by Little Jim, who turned in the saddle to +address her. "Say, Dorry, if you keep on talkin' out loud, the Injuns is +like to jump us! Scoutin' parties don't keep talkin' when they're on the +trail."</p> + +<p>"Don't be silly, Jimmy," laughed Dorothy.</p> + +<p>"Well, they <i>used</i> to be Injuns in these hills, once."</p> + +<p>"We'll behave," said Bartley. "But can't we ride toward the foothills +and get in the shade?"</p> + +<p>"You just follow me," said Little Jim. "I know this country."</p> + +<p>It was Little Jim's day. It was his hunt. Dorothy and Bartley were +merely his guests. He had allowed them to come with him--possibly because +he wanted an audience. Presently Little Jim reined his horse to the left +and rode up a dim trail among the boulders. By an exceedingly devious route +he led the way to the spring, meanwhile playing the scout with intense +concentration on some cattle tracks which were at least a month old. +Bartley recognized the spot. Cheyenne and he had camped there upon their +quest for the stolen horses. Little Jim assured his charges that all was +safe, and he <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216"></a>[pg +216]</span>suggested that they "light down and rest a spell."</p> + +<p>The contrasting coolness of the shade was inviting. Jimmy explained that +there would be no rabbits visible until toward evening. Below and beyond +them stretched the valley floor, shimmering in the sun. Behind them the +hills rose and dipped, rose and dipped again, finally reaching up to the +long slope of the mother range. Far above a thin, dark line of timber +showed against the eastern sky.</p> + +<p>"Ole Clubfoot Sneed lives up there," asserted Jimmy, pointing toward the +distant ridge. "I been up there."</p> + +<p>"Yes. And your father saved you from a whipping. Uncle Frank was very +angry."</p> + +<p>"I got that new rifle, anyhow," declared Little Jim.</p> + +<p>"And they lived happily ever afterward," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Huh! That's just like them fairy stories that Dorry reads to me +sometimes. I like stories about Buffalo Bill and Injuns and fights. Fairy +stories make me tired."</p> + +<p>"Jimmy thinks he is quite grown up," teased Dorothy.</p> + +<p>"You ain't growed up yourself, anyhow," retorted <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217"></a>[pg 217]</span>Jimmy. +"Girls ain't growed up till they git married."</p> + +<p>Dorothy turned to Bartley and began to talk about books and writers. +Little Jim frowned. Why couldn't they talk about something worth listening +to? Jimmy examined his new rifle, sighting it at different objects, and +opening and closing the empty magazine. Finally he loaded it. His +companions of the hunt were deep in a discussion having to do with Western +stories. Jimmy fidgeted under the constant stress of keeping silent. He +would have interrupted Dorothy, willingly enough, but Bartley's presence +rather awed him.</p> + +<p>Jimmy felt that his afternoon was being wasted. However, there was the +solace of the new rifle, and plenty of ammunition. While he knew there was +no big game in those hills, he could pretend that there was. He debated +with himself as to whether he would hunt deer, bear, or mountain lion. +Finally he decided he would hunt bear. He waited for an opportunity to +leave without being noticed, and, carrying his trusty rifle at the ready, +he stealthily disappeared in the brush south of the spring. A young boy, +with a new gun and lots of brush to prowl through! Under such circumstances +the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218"></a>[pg +218]</span>optimist can imagine anything from rabbits to elephants.</p> + +<p>Some time passed before Dorothy missed him. She called. There was no +reply. "He won't go far," she assured Bartley who rose to go and look for +Jimmy.</p> + +<p>Bartley sat down by the spring again. He questioned Dorothy in regard to +ranch life, social conditions, local ambitions, and the like. Quite +impersonally she answered him, explaining that the folk in the valley were +quite content, so long as they were moderately successful. Of course, the +advent of that funny little machine, the automobile, would revolutionize +ranch life, eventually. Why, a wealthy rancher of San Andreas had actually +driven to Los Angeles and back in one of those little machines!</p> + +<p>Bartley smiled. "They've come to stay, no doubt. But I can't reconcile +automobiles with saddle-horses and buckboards. I shan't have an automobile +snorting and snuffing through my story."</p> + +<p>"Your story!"</p> + +<p>"I really didn't mean to speak about it. But the cat is out of the bag. +I'm making notes for a Western novel, Miss Gray. I confess it."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219"></a>[pg +219]</span>"Confession usually implies having done something wrong, doesn't +it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. But with you as the heroine of my story, I couldn't go very far +wrong."</p> + +<p>Dorothy flushed and bit her lip. So that was why Bartley had been so +attentive and polite? He had been studying her, questioning her, mentally +jotting down what she had said--and he had not told her, until that moment, +that he was writing a story. She had not known that he was a writer of +stories.</p> + +<p>"You might, at least, have asked me if I cared to be a Western heroine +in your story."</p> + +<p>"Oh, that would have spoiled it all! Can't you see? You would not have +been yourself, if you had known. And our visits--"</p> + +<p>"I don't think I care to be the heroine of your story, Mr. Bartley."</p> + +<p>"You really mean it?"</p> + +<p>Dorothy nodded thoughtfully. Bartley knew, intuitively, that she was +sincere--that she was not angling for flattery. He had thought that he was +rather paying her a compliment in making her the heroine of his first +Western book; or, at least, that she would take it as a compliment. He +frowned, twisting a spear of dry grass in his fingers.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220"></a>[pg +220]</span>"Of course--that needn't make any difference about your +calling--on Aunt Jane."</p> + +<p>"Thank you," laughed Bartley. "And because of the privilege which I +really appreciate, I'll agree to look for another heroine."</p> + +<p>Dorothy had not expected just such an answer. "In San Andreas?" she +queried.</p> + +<p>"I can't say. I'll be lucky if I find another, anywhere, to +compare--"</p> + +<p>"If you had asked me, first," interrupted Dorothy, "I might have said +'yes.'"</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry I didn't. Won't you reconsider?"</p> + +<p>Dorothy shook her head. Then she looked up at him frankly, steadily. "I +think you took me for granted. That is what I didn't like."</p> + +<p>"But--I didn't! It didn't occur to me to really begin my story until +after I had seen you. Of course I knew I would write a new story sooner or +later. I hope you will believe that."</p> + +<p>"Yes. But I think I know why you decided to stay in San Andreas, instead +of riding south, with Cheyenne. Aunt Jane and Little Jim and your heroine +were within easy riding distance."</p> + +<p>"I'll admit I intended to write about Aunt Jane and Jimmy. I actually +adore Aunt Jane. And Little Jim, he's what one might call an unknown +quantity--"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221"></a>[pg +221]</span>"He seems to be, just now."</p> + +<p>"Oh, he won't go far," said Bartley, smiling.</p> + +<p>Dorothy tossed her head. "And Cheyenne--"</p> + +<p>"Oh, he is the moving figure in the story. That is not a pun, if you +please. I had no idea that Cheyenne could actually hate any one, until the +other night when he told me about--Laramie, and that man Sears."</p> + +<p>"Did he talk much about Sears?"</p> + +<p>"Not much--but enough. Frankly, I think Cheyenne will kill Sears if he +happens to meet him again."</p> + +<p>"And that will furnish the climax for your story!" said Dorothy +scornfully.</p> + +<p>"Well, if it has to happen--" Bartley paused.</p> + +<p>Dorothy's face was troubled. Finally she rose and picked up her gloves +and hat.</p> + +<p>"I wish some one or something would stop him," she said slowly. "He +liked you. All the years he has been riding up and down the country he has +ridden alone, until he met you. I'm sorry you didn't go with him."</p> + +<p>"He did pretend that he was disappointed when I told him I was going to +stay in San Andreas for a while."</p> + +<p>"You thought he was joking, but he wasn't. <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_222" id="Page_222"></a>[pg 222]</span>We have all tried to get +him to settle down; but he would not listen. If I were a man--"</p> + +<p>"Then you think I could have influenced him?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"You might have tried, at least."</p> + +<p>"Well, he's gone. And I'll have to make the best of it--and also find +another heroine," said Bartley lightly, trying to make her smile.</p> + +<p>"I'll be the heroine of your story, upon one condition," Dorothy said, +finally.</p> + +<p>"And that is--"</p> + +<p>"If you will try and find Cheyenne and--and just be a friend to him. I +suppose it sounds silly, and I would not think of asking you to try and +keep him from doing anything he decided to do. But you might happen to be +able to say the right word at the right time."</p> + +<p>"I hardly took myself as seriously as that, in connection with +Cheyenne," declared Bartley. "I suppose, if I should saddle up and ride +south to-morrow, I might overtake him along the road, somewhere. He travels +slowly."</p> + +<p>"But you won't go, just because I spoke as I did?"</p> + +<p>"Not altogether because of that. I like Cheyenne."</p> + +<p>Impetuously Dorothy stepped close to Bartley <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_223" id="Page_223"></a>[pg 223]</span>and laid her hand on his +arm. "I knew you were like that! And what does writing about people amount +to, when you can really do something for them? It isn't just Cheyenne. +There's Little Jim--"</p> + +<p>"Yes. But where <i>is</i> Little Jim?"</p> + +<p>Dorothy called in her high, clear voice. There was no answering halloo. +"His horse is there. I can't understand--"</p> + +<p>"I'll look around a bit," said Bartley. "He's probably ambushing us, +somewhere, and expects us to be tremendously surprised."</p> + +<p>"I'll catch up my horse," said Dorothy. "No, you had better let me catch +him. He knows me."</p> + +<p>And Dorothy stepped from the clearing round the spring and walked toward +the horses. They were grazing quite a ways off, up the hillside.</p> + +<p>Bartley recalled having glimpsed Little Jim crawling through the brush +on the south side of the spring. No doubt Jimmy had grown tired of waiting, +and had dropped down to the mesa on foot to hunt rabbits. Once clear of the +hillside brush, Bartley was able to overlook the mesa below. Presently he +discerned a black hat moving along slowly. Evidently the young hunter was +stalking game.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224"></a>[pg +224]</span>Bartley hesitated to call out. He doubted that Jimmy could hear +him at that distance. Stepping down the gentle slope of the hillside to the +road, Bartley watched Jimmy for a while, hoping that he would turn and see +him. But Jimmy was busy. "Might as well go back and get the horses and ride +over to him," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>He had turned to cross the road, when he heard the sound of quick +hoof-beats. Surely Dorothy had not caught up the horses so soon? Bartley +turned toward the bend of the road. Presently a rider, his worn chaps +flapping, his shapeless hat pulled low, and his quirt swinging at every +jump of the horse, pounded up and had almost passed Bartley, when he set up +his horse and dismounted. Bartley did not recognize him until he spoke.</p> + +<p>"My name's Hull. I was lookin' for you."</p> + +<p>"All right, Mr. Hull. What do you want?"</p> + +<p>Hull's gaze traveled up and down the Easterner. Hull was looking to see +if the other carried a gun. Bartley expected argument and inwardly braced +himself. Meanwhile he wondered if he could find Hull's chin again, and as +easily as he had found it that night back of the livery barn. Hull loomed +big and heavy, and it <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" +id="Page_225"></a>[pg 225]</span>was evident from the minute he dismounted +that he meant business.</p> + +<p>Without a word, Hull swung at Bartley, smashing in with right and left, +fighting like a wild-cat, forcing his weight into the fight, and kicking +wickedly when he got a chance. Finally, after taking a straight blow in the +face, Hull clinched--and the minute Bartley felt those tough-sinewed arms +around him he knew that he was in for a licking.</p> + +<p>Bartley's only chance, and that a pretty slim one, lay in getting free +from the grip of those arms. He used his knee effectively. Hull grunted and +staggered back. Bartley jumped forward and bored in, knocking Hull off his +feet. The cow-puncher struck the ground, rolled over, and was up and coming +like a cyclone. It flashed through Bartley's mind that the only thing to do +was to stay with it till the finish. Hull was beating him down slowly, but +surely.</p> + +<p>Dully conscious that some one was calling, behind him, Bartley struck +out, straight and clean, but he might as well have tried to stop a runaway +freight with a whisk-broom. He felt the smashing impact of a blow--then +suddenly he was on his back in the road--and he had no desire to get up. +Free from the hammering of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" +id="Page_226"></a>[pg 226]</span>those heavy fists, he felt comparatively +comfortable.</p> + +<p>"You brute!" It was Dorothy's voice, tense with anger.</p> + +<p>Bartley heard another voice, thick with heavy breathing. "That's all +right, Miss Gray. But the dude had it comin'."</p> + +<p>Then Bartley heard the sound of hoof-beats--and somehow or other, +Dorothy was helping him to his feet. He tried to grin--but his lips would +not obey his will.</p> + +<p>"I'm all right," he mumbled.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps," said Dorothy, steady and cool. "But you'll want to wash your +face at the spring. I fetched your horse."</p> + +<p>"Lord, Miss Gray, let's walk. I'm more used to it."</p> + +<p>"It was that man Hull, from the mountain, wasn't it?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know his name. I <i>did</i> meet him once, in San Andreas, +after dark."</p> + +<p>"I'll just tie the horses, here. It's not far to the spring. Feel +dizzy?"</p> + +<p>"A little. But I can walk without help, thank you. Little Jim is down +there, stalking rabbits."</p> + +<p>At the spring Bartley knelt and washed the blood from his face and felt +tenderly of his half <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" +id="Page_227"></a>[pg 227]</span>closed eye, twisted his neck round and +felt a sharp click--and then his head became clearer. His light shirt was +half-torn from his shoulders, and he was scandalously mussed up, to put it +mildly. He got to his feet and faced Dorothy.</p> + +<p>"There's a formula for this sort of thing, in books," he said. "Just now +I can't recall it. First, however, you say you're 'all right,' if you are +alive. If you are not, it doesn't matter. Then you say, 'a mere scratch!' +But I'm certain of one thing. I never needed a heroine more than I did when +you arrived."</p> + +<p>Dorothy smiled in spite of herself. "You aren't pretending, are you? I +mean--about your condition?"</p> + +<p>"I should say not. My eye is closed. My right arm won't work, and my +head feels queer--and I am <i>not</i> hungry. But my soul goes marching +on."</p> + +<p>"Then we'll have to find Jimmy. It's getting late."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228"></a>[pg +228]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XXI</h2> + +<h3><a name='GIT_ALONG_CAYUSE'></a>"GIT ALONG CAYUSE"</h3> + + +<p>It was dark when Bartley arrived at his hotel in San Andreas. Not caring +to parade his black eye and his swollen mouth, he took his evening meal at +a little Mexican restaurant, and then went back to his room, where he spent +the evening adding a few more pertinent notes to his story; notes that were +fresh in his mind. He knew what it felt like to take a good licking. In +fact, the man is unfortunate who does not. Bartley thought he could write +effectively upon the subject.</p> + +<p>He had found Dorothy's quiet sympathy rather soothing. She had made no +fuss whatever about the matter. And she had not insisted that he stop at +the ranch and get doctored up. Little Jim had promptly asked Bartley, "Who +done it?" and Bartley had told him. Little Jim asked more questions and was +silenced only by a promise from Dorothy to buy him more cartridges. "That +is, if you promise not to say anything about it to Aunt Jane or Uncle <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229"></a>[pg 229]</span>Frank," +she stipulated. Little Jim gravely shook hands upon the agreement. Dorothy +knew that he would keep his word.</p> + +<p>This agreement had been made after Bartley had left them. Dorothy had +sworn Little Jim to silence, not so much on Bartley's account as on her +own. Should the news of the fight become public, there would be much +bucolic comment, wherein her name would be mentioned and the whole affair +interpreted to suit the crude imaginings of the community. Bartley also +realized this and, because of it, stuck close to his room for two days, +meanwhile making copious notes for the new story.</p> + +<p>But the making of notes for the story was a rather tame occupation +compared with the possibilities of actual adventure on the road. He had a +good saddle-horse, plenty of optimism, and enough money to pay his way +wherever he chose to go. Incidentally he had a notebook and pencil. What +more did a man need to make life worth while?</p> + +<p>And then, somewhere along the southern highway Cheyenne was jogging with +Filaree and Joshua:</p> + +<blockquote> +Seems like I don't git anywhere:<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along.<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230"></a>[pg +230]</span>Bartley rose and stepped to the window. San Andreas drowsed in +the noon sun. Far to the north he could see a dot of fresh green--the +cottonwoods of the Lawrence rancho. Again he found himself in the grip of +indecision. After all, a fellow didn't have to journey up and down the land +to find material for a story. There was plenty of material right where he +was. All he had to do was to stop, look, and listen. "Hang the story!" he +exclaimed peevishly. "I'll just go out and <i>live</i>--and then write the +story."</p> + +<p>It did not take him long to pack his saddle-bags, nor to get together +the few articles of clothing he had had washed by a Mexican woman in town. +He wrote a brief note to Dorothy, stating that he was on his way. He paid +his hotel bill, stepped round to the livery and paid for Dobe's +entertainment, saddled up, and, literally shaking the dust of San Andreas +from his feet, rode down the long trail south, headed for Joe Scott's +placer, as his first stop.</p> + +<p>He would spend the night there and then head south again. The only +living thing that seemed interested in Bartley's exodus was a stray dog +that seemed determined to follow him. Turning from the road, Bartley took +the short cut to Scott's placer. Glancing back he saw that the <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231"></a>[pg 231]</span>dog was +still following. Bartley told him to go home. The dog, a very ordinary +yellow dog, didn't happen to have a home--and he was hungry. So he ignored +Bartley's command.</p> + +<p>Whether or not he imagined that Bartley was different from the run of +townsfolk is a question. Possibly he imagined Bartley might give him +something to eat. In any event, the dog stuck to the trail clear up to +Scott's placer.</p> + +<p>Scott was not at the cabin. Bartley hallooed, glanced round, and +dismounted. On the cabin door was a note: "Gone to Phoenix. J. Scott."</p> + +<p>Bartley turned from the cabin to find the dog gazing up at him +mournfully; his expression seemed to convey the idea that they were both in +hard luck. Nobody home and nothing to eat.</p> + +<p>"What, you here!" exclaimed Bartley.</p> + +<p>The yellow dog wagged his tail. He was young and as yet had some faith +in mankind.</p> + +<p>Bartley tied his horse and strode up the trail to the workings. +Everything had been put in order. The dog helped investigate, sniffing at +the wheelbarrow, the buckets, the empty sacks weighted down with rock to +keep them from blowing away, the row of tools, picks and shovels and bars. +Evidently the owner of the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" +id="Page_232"></a>[pg 232]</span>place was not concealed beneath any of +these things.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile the afternoon shadows warned Bartley that a camp with water +and feed was the next thing in order. He strode back to the cabin. There +was no problem to solve, although he thought there was. The yellow dog, an +old campaigner in the open, though young in years, solved his problem by a +suggestion. He was tired. There seemed to be no food in sight. He +philosophically trotted to the open shed opposite the cabin and made a bed +for himself in a pile of gunny-sacks. Bartley grinned. Why not?</p> + +<p>Experience had taught Bartley to carry something else, besides a +notebook and pencil, in his saddle-bags. Hence the crackers and can of +corned beef came in handy. The mountain water was cold and refreshing. +There was hay in the burro stable. Moreover, Bartley now had a happy +companion who licked his chops, wagged his tail, and grinned as he finished +a bit of corned beef. Bartley tossed him a cracker. The dog caught it and +it disappeared. This was something like it! Here was a man who rode a big +horse, didn't kick stray dogs, and even shared a meal with a fellow! Such a +man was worth following forever.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233"></a>[pg +233]</span>"It would seem that you have adopted me," declared Bartley. The +dog had shown no inclination to leave since being fed. There might possibly +be another meal coming, later.</p> + +<p>"But what am I going to do with you?" queried Bartley, as the dog curled +up on the pile of gunny-sacks. "You don't look as though you habitually +stopped at hotels, and I'll have to, until I catch up with Cheyenne. What's +the answer?"</p> + +<p>The yellow dog, all snuggled down in the sacks, peered at Bartley with +unblinking eyes. Bartley laughed. Then he made his own bed with +gunny-sacks, and after smoking a cigarette, turned in and slept well.</p> + +<p>He did not expect to find the dog there in the morning. But the dog was +there, most evidently waiting for breakfast, grinning his delight at not +being cursed or kicked at, and frisking round the cabin yard in a mad race +after nothing in particular, and indicating in every way possible that he +was the happiest dog that ever wagged a tail.</p> + +<p>Crackers and corned beef again, and spring water for breakfast. And +while Dobe munched his hay, Bartley smoked and roughly planned his +itinerary. He would travel south as far as <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_234" id="Page_234"></a>[pg 234]</span>Phoenix and then swing +back again, over the old Apache Trail--if he did not overtake Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>If he did overtake him, the plan might be changed. It did not matter. He +had set out to find his erstwhile traveling companion. If he found him, +they could just as well travel together. If he did not, Bartley determined +to see much of the country. In so far as influencing Cheyenne in any +way--that would have to be determined by chance. Bartley felt that his +influence with the sprightly Cheyenne weighed very little against +Cheyenne's hatred for Panhandle Sears.</p> + +<p>Once more upon the road, with the early morning shadows slanting across +the valley, Bartley felt that it was his own fault if he did not enjoy +himself. Swinging into an easy trot he turned to see if the yellow dog were +following him. At first Bartley thought the dog had shown wisdom and had +departed for San Andreas, but, happening to glance down on the other side +of his horse, he saw the dog trotting along, close to Dobe's heels.</p> + +<p>Bartley felt a pity for the dog's dumb, insistent attachment. Reining +in, Bartley told the dog he had better go home. For answer the dog lay down +in the horse's shadow, his head on <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" +id="Page_235"></a>[pg 235]</span>his paws, and his eyes fixed on Bartley's +face. He did not seem to know what the words meant. But he did know--only +pretended he did not. His rooftree was the Arizona sky, and his home the +place where his adopted master camped at night.</p> + +<p>"Oh, very well," said Bartley, smiling in spite of himself.</p> + +<p>That noon they stopped at a ranch where Bartley had dinner and fed his +horse. Cheyenne had passed that way several days ago, the ranch folk told +him. It was about twenty miles to the next town. Bartley was invited to +stop by and spend the night, but he declined the invitation, even as they +had declined to accept money for their hospitality. Meanwhile the dog had +disappeared. He had not followed Bartley into the ranch. And it was some +twenty minutes or so after Bartley was on the road again that he discovered +the dog, coming round a bend on the run. There was no getting rid of +him.</p> + +<p>The dog, who had often been chased from ranches by other dogs, had at +first waited patiently for Bartley to appear. Then, as Bartley did not +appear, the dog made a short scout through the near-by brush. Finally he +stirred up a rabbit. It was a long, hard chase, but the <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236"></a>[pg 236]</span>dog got +his dinner. Then, circling, he took up Bartley's trail from the ranch, +overtaking him with grim determination not to lose sight of him again.</p> + +<p>Arriving at the town of Stacey early that afternoon, Bartley arranged +with the local liveryman for the dog's keep that night. From that night on, +the dog never let Dobe out of his sight. It was evidently intended that he +should sleep in stalls and guard Dobe against the approach of any one save +his master.</p> + +<p>Bartley learned that Cheyenne had passed through Stacey headed south. He +had stopped at the local store to purchase provisions. Estimating roughly, +Bartley was making better time than had Cheyenne, yet it would be several +days before he could possibly overtake him.</p> + +<p>Next day Bartley had ridden better than forty miles, and that night he +stayed at a ranch, where he was made welcome. In fact, any one who rode a +good horse and appeared to be even halfway civil never suffered for want of +a meal or a bed in those days. Gasoline has somewhat diluted such +hospitality, yet there are sections of Arizona still unspoiled, where the +stranger is made to feel that the word "home" has retained its ancient and +honorable significance.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237"></a>[pg +237]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XXII</h2> + +<h3><a name='BOX_S_BUSINESS'></a>BOX-S BUSINESS</h3> + + +<p>A few days later, Bartley stopped at a small town to have his horse +shod. The blacksmith seemed unusually interested in the horse and +complimented Bartley upon owning such a good mount.</p> + +<p>"Comes from up San Andreas way," said the smith, noticing the brand on +Dobe's flank.</p> + +<p>"Yes. I picked him up at Antelope. I understand he was raised on Senator +Brown's ranch."</p> + +<p>"That's Steve Brown's brand, all right. Heard the news from up that +way?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing special."</p> + +<p>"Seems somebody run off a bunch of Senator Steve's horses, last week. +Thought mebby you'd heard."</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Well, thought I'd just tell you. I seen one posse ride through +yesterday. They'll be lookin' for strangers along the road."</p> + +<p>"Thanks. I bought this horse--and I happen to know Senator Brown."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238"></a>[pg +238]</span>"No offense, stranger. If I'd 'a' suspicioned you'd stole that +horse, you wouldn't take him out of here. Like I said to Cheyenne, last +week; he could fetch a whole carload of stock in here and take 'em out +again without trouble. He was tellin' me how he lost his horses, and we got +to talkin' about some folks bein' blind when they're facin' a brand on a +critter. Mebby you heard tell of Cheyenne Hastings?"</p> + +<p>"I have traveled with him. You say he stopped here a few days ago?"</p> + +<p>"Well, not just stopped; he kind of looked in to see how I was gettin' +along. He acted queerlike, for him. I've knowed Cheyenne for years. Said he +was feelin' all right. He ast me if I'd seen Panhandle Sears down this way, +recent. Seemed kind of disappointed when I told him no. Cheyenne used to be +a right-smart man, before he had trouble with that woman of his."</p> + +<p>"Yes? He told me about it," said Bartley, not caring to hear any more of +the details of Cheyenne's trouble.</p> + +<p>"'Most everybody knows it," stated the smith. "And if I was Sears I'd +sure leave this country."</p> + +<p>"So should I. I've seen Cheyenne handle a gun."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239"></a>[pg +239]</span>"You got the right idea!" exclaimed the blacksmith, evidently +pleased. "All Cheyenne's friends have been waitin' for years for him to +clean that slate and start fresh again. He used to be a right-smart hand, +before he had trouble."</p> + +<p>The blacksmith accompanied his conversation with considerable elbow +motion and the rattle and clang of shaping horseshoes. Presently Dobe was +new shod and ready for the road. Bartley paid the smith, thanked him for a +good job, and rode south. Evidently Cheyenne's open quarrel with Sears was +the talk of the countryside. It was expected of Cheyenne that he would +"clean the slate and start fresh" some day. And cleaning the slate meant +killing Sears. To Bartley it seemed strange that any one should be pleased +with the idea of one man killing another deliberately.</p> + +<p>In speaking of the recent horse-stealings, the blacksmith had mentioned +no names. But Bartley at once drew the conclusion that it had been Sneed's +men who had run off the Senator's horses. Sneed was known to be a +horse-thief. He had never been convicted, although he had been arrested and +tried several times. It was also known that Senator Steve had openly <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240"></a>[pg 240]</span>vowed +that he would rid the country of Sneed, sooner or later.</p> + +<p>Several times, during his journey south, Bartley was questioned, but +never interfered with. Thus far he heard of Cheyenne occasionally, but, +nearing Phoenix, he lost track of his erstwhile companion. However, he took +it for granted that Phoenix had been Cheyenne's destination. And Bartley +wanted to see the town for himself, in any event.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>Cheyenne, arriving in Phoenix, stabled his horses at the Top-Notch +livery, and took a room for himself directly opposite the Hole-in-the-Wall +gambling-house. He refused to drink with the occasional acquaintance he +met, not because he did not like liquor, but because Colonel Stevenson, the +city marshal, had told him that Panhandle Sears and his friends were in +town.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you tell me to go git him?" queried Cheyenne, looking the +marshal in the eye.</p> + +<p>"I didn't think it was necessary," said the marshal.</p> + +<p>"What? To git him?"</p> + +<p>The marshal smiled. Then casually: "I <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_241" id="Page_241"></a>[pg 241]</span>hear that Panhandle and +his friends are drinking heavy and spending considerable money. They must +have made a strike, somewhere."</p> + +<p>"I see by the paper somebody run off a bunch of the Box-S hosses," +remarked Cheyenne, also casually.</p> + +<p>Then, without further comment, he left the marshal wondering if +Panhandle's presence in town had any connection with the recent running-off +of the Box-S stock. The sheriff of Antelope had wired Colonel Stevenson to +be on the lookout for Bill Sneed and his gang, but had not mentioned +Panhandle's name in the telegram.</p> + +<p>The following day, Senator Brown and his foreman, Lon Pelly, arrived in +Phoenix and had a long talk with the marshal. That afternoon Lon Pelly took +the train south. Early in the evening Senator Brown received a telegram +from Pelly stating that Sneed and four men had left Tucson, headed north +and riding horses.</p> + +<p>The stolen horses had been trailed south as far as Phoenix. It was +evident that they had been driven to Tucson and disposed of somewhere in +that vicinity. Yet there was no conclusive proof that Sneed had stolen the +horses. As usual, he had managed to keep a few days <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242"></a>[pg 242]</span>ahead +of his pursuers. Sneed was known to have left his camp in the hills above +San Andreas. The first posse had found the camp abandoned. Sneed had not +been identified until Pelly got track of him in Tucson.</p> + +<p>During his talk with Senator Brown the marshal mentioned the fact that +Panhandle Sears was in Phoenix.</p> + +<p>"Did Panhandle come in from the south?" queried the Senator.</p> + +<p>"Nobody seems to know."</p> + +<p>"Well, if he did, we have got the link that's missing in this chain, +Colonel. Pelly is holdin' one end of the chain down in Tucson, and the +other end is layin' right here in Phoenix. If we can connect her up--"</p> + +<p>"But we haven't located the horses, Senator."</p> + +<p>"Colonel, I'll find those horses if I can. But I'm after Sneed, this +journey. He has been running things about ten years too long to suit me. +I've got a check-book with me. You have the men. I'm out to do a little +housecleanin' of my own. If we can get Panhandle to talk, we can find out +something."</p> + +<p>"He's been on a drunk for a week. I could run him in for disturbing the +peace and--"</p> + +<p>"And he'd suspect what we're after and <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_243" id="Page_243"></a>[pg 243]</span>freeze up, tight. No, let +him run loose, but keep your eye on him. He'll give the deal away, sooner +or later."</p> + +<p>"I hope it's sooner," said the Colonel. "Cheyenne is holed up down the +street, waiting for a chance to get Sears. Cheyenne didn't say so, but it +was in his eye. He's changed considerable since I saw him last."</p> + +<p>"Was there any one with him: a tall, dark-haired, kind of clean-cut boy, +for instance?"</p> + +<p>"No, not when I saw him. He rode in with his usual outfit."</p> + +<p>"Wonder where he lost young Bartley? Well, I'm glad the boy isn't here. +He might get hurt."</p> + +<p>"Wild?"</p> + +<p>"No. Quiet. Writes stories. He's out here to look at the West. Stayed at +the ranch a spell. Mrs. Brown likes him."</p> + +<p>Colonel Stevenson nodded and offered the Senator a cigar. "Let's step +over to the hotel, Steve. It's a long time since--"</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>That evening Bartley arrived in Phoenix, put up his horse, and, upon +inquiry, learned that the Grand Central was the best hotel in town. He was +registering when he noticed Senator <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_244" id="Page_244"></a>[pg 244]</span>Brown's name. He made +inquiry of the clerk. Yes, the Senator had arrived that morning. And would +Mr. Bartley prefer a front room? The front rooms on the north side were +cooler. No, the clerk knew nothing about a Mr. Cheyenne. There was no one +by that name registered at the hotel. It was past the regular dinner hour, +but the dining-room was not yet closed. There was a men's furnishings store +just across the street. They carried a complete stock. And did Mr. Bartley +wish to be called at any special hour in the morning? Breakfast was served +from six-thirty to nine-thirty.</p> + +<p>Bartley had dinner, and later strolled around to the Top-Notch livery to +see that Dobe was being well cared for. While talking with the stableman, +Bartley noticed a gray pony and in the next stall a buckskin--Cheyenne's +horses.</p> + +<p>"Those are Cheyenne's horses, aren't they?" he queried.</p> + +<p>"I dunno. Mebby that's his name. He left 'em here a few days ago. I only +seen him once, since then."</p> + +<p>"I'll be around in the morning. If a man called Cheyenne should happen +to come in, just tell him that Bartley is stopping at the Grand +Central."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245"></a>[pg +245]</span>"I'll tell him, all right," said the stableman.</p> + +<p>And as soon as Bartley was out of sight, that worthy called up the city +marshal and told him that a stranger had ridden in and stabled a horse +bearing the Box-S brand. A big reward had been offered for the stolen +horses.</p> + +<p>At the hotel Bartley learned that Senator Brown had gone out for the +evening. Tired from his long ride, Bartley went to his room. Senator Steve +and Cheyenne were in town. Bartley recalled the blacksmith's talk about the +stolen horses. No doubt that accounted for Senator Steve's presence in +Phoenix. As for Cheyenne--Bartley decided to hunt him up in the +morning.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246"></a>[pg +246]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XXIII</h2> + +<h3><a name='THE_HOLE_IN_THE_WALL'></a>THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL</h3> + + +<p>Panhandle Sears, in a back room in the Hole-in-the-Wall, was ugly drunk. +The Hole-in-the-Wall had the reputation of running a straight game. Whether +or not the game was straight, Panhandle had managed to drop his share of +the money from the sale of the Box-S horses. He had had nothing to do with +the actual stealing of them, but he had, with the assistance of his Mexican +companion Posmo, engineered the sale to a rancher living out of Tucson. It +was understood that the horses would find their way across the border.</p> + +<p>Now Panhandle was broke again. He stated that unpleasant fact to his +companions, Posmo and Shorty,--the latter a town loafer he had picked up in +Antelope. Shorty had nothing to say. Panhandle's drunken aggressive cowed +him. But Posmo, who had really found the market for the stolen stock, felt +that he had been cheated. Panhandle had promised him a third of his share +of the money. Panhandle <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" +id="Page_247"></a>[pg 247]</span>had kept on promising from day to day, +liquidating his promises with whiskey. And now there was no money.</p> + +<p>Posmo knew Panhandle well enough not to press the matter, just then. But +Panhandle, because neither of his companions had said anything when told +that he was broke, turned on Posmo.</p> + +<p>"What you got to say about it, anyway?" he asked with that curious +stubbornness born in liquor.</p> + +<p>"I say that you owe me a hundred dollar," declared Posmo.</p> + +<p>"Well, go ahead and collect!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, go ahead and collect," said Shorty, suddenly siding with +Panhandle. "We blowed her in. We're broke, but we ain't cryin' about +it."</p> + +<p>"That is all right," said Posmo quietly. "If the money is gone, she is +gone; yes?"</p> + +<p>"That's the way to say it!" asserted Panhandle, changing front and +slapping Posmo on the shoulder. "We're broke, and who the hell cares?"</p> + +<p>"Let's have a drink," suggested Shorty. "I got a couple of beans +left."</p> + +<p>They slouched out from the back room and <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_248" id="Page_248"></a>[pg 248]</span>stood at the bar. +Panhandle immediately became engaged in noisy argument with one of the +frequenters of the place. Senator Brown's name was mentioned by the other, +but mentioned casually, with no reference whatever to stolen horses.</p> + +<p>Panhandle laughed. "So old Steve is down here lookin' for his hosses, +eh?"</p> + +<p>"What horses?"</p> + +<p>The question, spoken by no one knew whom, chilled the group to +silence.</p> + +<p>Panhandle saw that he had made a blunder. "Who wants to know?" he +queried, gazing round the barroom.</p> + +<p>"Why, it's in all the papers," declared the bartender conciliatingly. +"The Box-S horses was run off a couple of weeks ago."</p> + +<p>Panhandle turned his back on the group and called for a drink.</p> + +<p>Shorty was tugging gently at his sleeve. "Posmo's beat it, Pan."</p> + +<p>"To hell with him! Beat it yourself if you feel like it."</p> + +<p>"I'll stick Pan," declared Shorty, yet his furtive eyes belied his +assertion.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>For three days Bartley had tried to find <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_249" id="Page_249"></a>[pg 249]</span>where Cheyenne was +staying, but without success, chiefly because Cheyenne kept close to his +room during the daytime, watching the entrance to the Hole-in-the-Wall, +waiting for Panhandle to step out into the daylight, when there would be +folk on the street who could witness that Panhandle had drawn his gun +first. Cheyenne determined to give his enemy that chance, and then kill +him. But thus far Panhandle had not appeared on the street in the daytime, +so far as Cheyenne knew.</p> + +<p>Incidentally, Senator Steve had warned Bartley to keep away from the +Hole-in-the-Wall district after dark, intimating that there was more in the +wind than Cheyenne's feud with Panhandle Sears. So Bartley contented +himself with acting as a sort of private secretary for the Senator, a duty +that was a pleasure. The hardest thing Bartley did was to refuse bottled +entertainment, at least once out of every three times it was offered.</p> + +<p>On the evening of the fourth day after Pelly had wired the Senator that +Sneed and his men had ridden north from Tucson, Posmo, hanging about the +eastern outskirts of Phoenix, saw a small band of horsemen against the +southern sky-line. Knowing the trail they would take, <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250"></a>[pg 250]</span>north, +Posmo had timed their arrival almost to the hour. They would pass to the +east of Phoenix, and take the old Apache Trail, North. Posmo had his horse +saddled and hidden in a draw. He mounted and rode directly toward the +oncoming horsemen.</p> + +<p>He sang as he rode. It was safer to do that, when it was growing dark. +The riders would know he was a Mexican, and that he did not wish to conceal +his identity on the road. He did not care to be mistaken for an enemy, +especially so near Phoenix.</p> + +<p>Sneed, a giant in the dusk, reined in as Posmo hailed the group. Sneed +asked his name. Posmo replied, and was told to ride up. Sneed, separating +himself from his men, rode a little ahead and met Posmo.</p> + +<p>"Panhandle is give the deal away," stated Posmo.</p> + +<p>"How?"</p> + +<p>"He drunk and spend all the money. He do not give me anything for that I +make the deal--over there," and Posmo gestured toward the south.</p> + +<p>"Double-crossed you, eh? And now you're sore and want his scalp."</p> + +<p>"He talk too much of the Box-S horses in <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_251" id="Page_251"></a>[pg 251]</span>that cantina," stated +Posmo deliberately. "He say that you owe him money." This was an +afterthought, and an invention.</p> + +<p>"Who did he say that to?" queried Sneed.</p> + +<p>"He tell everybody in that place that you turn the good trick and then +throw him hard."</p> + +<p>"Either you're lyin', or Panhandle's crazy." Sneed turned and called to +his men, a few paces off. They rode up on tired horses. "What do you say, +boys? Panhandle is talkin', over there in Phoenix. Posmo, here, says +Panhandle is talkin' about us. Now nobody's got a thing on us. We been +south lookin' at some stock we're thinkin' of buyin'. Want to ride over +with me and have a little talk with Panhandle?"</p> + +<p>"Ain't that kind of risky, Cap?"</p> + +<p>"Every time! But it ain't necessary to ride right into the marshal's +office. We put our little deal through clean. The horses we're ridin' +belong to us. And who's goin' to stop us from ridin' in, or out, of town? I +aim to talk to Panhandle into ridin' north with us. It's safer to have him +along. If you all don't want to ride with me, I'll go in alone."</p> + +<p>"We're with you, Cap," said one of the men.</p> + +<p>"Mebby it's safer to ride through the towns <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_252" id="Page_252"></a>[pg 252]</span>from now on than to keep +dodgin' 'em," suggested Lawson.</p> + +<p>"Come on, then," and Sneed indicated Posmo.</p> + +<p>"And don't make any mistakes," threatened Lawson, riding close to the +Mexican. "If you do--you won't last."</p> + +<p>Posmo had not counted on this turn of affairs. He had supposed that his +news would send Sneed and his men in to have it out with Panhandle, or that +one of them would ride in and persuade Panhandle to join them. But he now +knew that he would have to ride with Sneed, or he would be suspected of +double-dealing.</p> + +<p>At the fork of the road leading into Phoenix, Sneed reined in. "We're +ridin' tired horses, boys. And we ain't lookin' for trouble. All we want is +Panhandle. We'll get him."</p> + +<p>Sitting his big horse like a statue, his club foot concealed by the long +<i>tapadero</i>, his physical being dominating his followers, Sneed headed +the group that rode slowly down the long open stretch bordering on the east +of the town. They entered town quietly and stopped a few doors below the +lighted front of the Hole-in-the-Wall.</p> + +<p>"Just step in and tell Panhandle I want to see him," and Sneed indicated +one of his riders.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253"></a>[pg +253]</span>The man went in and came out again with the information that +Panhandle had left the saloon about an hour ago; that he had told the +bartender he was going out to get some money and come back and play the +wheel.</p> + +<p>"Get on your horse," said Sneed, who had been gazing up the street while +listening to the other. "Here comes Panhandle now. I'll do the +talking."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254"></a>[pg +254]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XXIV</h2> + +<h3><a name='CHEYENNE_PLAYS_BIG'></a>CHEYENNE PLAYS BIG</h3> + + +<p>Watching from his darkened window, Cheyenne had seen Panhandle leave the +Hole-in-the-Wall, and stride up the street alone. It was the first time +Cheyenne had seen Sears since he had taken the single room opposite the +gambling-house. Cheyenne stepped back, drew down the curtain, and turned on +the light. The bare board floor was littered with cigarette stubs. A pair +of saddle-bags hung on the iron bedstead. Other furniture was a chair, a +scratched and battered washstand, a cracked mirror. Standing by the +washstand Cheyenne took his gun from its holster, half-cocked it, and +punched out the loaded cartridges. He pulled the pin, pushed the cylinder +out with his thumb, and examined it against the light. Carefully he cleaned +and replaced the cylinder, reloaded it, held the hammer back, and spun the +cylinder with his hand. Finally he thrust the gun in the holster and, +striding to the bed, sat down, his chin in his hands.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255"></a>[pg +255]</span>Somewhere out there on the street, or in the Hole-in-the-Wall, +he would meet his enemy--in a few minutes, perhaps. There would be no wordy +argument. They understood each other, and had understood each other, since +that morning, long ago when they had passed each other on the +road--Panhandle riding in to Laramie and Cheyenne and Little Jim riding +from the abandoned home. Cheyenne thought of Little Jim, of his wife, and, +by some queer trick of mind, of Bartley. He knew that the Easterner was in +town. The stableman at the Top-Notch had told him. Well, he had seen +Panhandle. Now he would go out and meet him, or overtake him.</p> + +<p>Some one turned from the street into the hall below and rapidly climbed +the stairs. Cheyenne heard a knock at the door opposite his. That room was +unoccupied. Then came a brisk knock at his own door.</p> + +<p>"What do you want?"</p> + +<p>"Is that you, Cheyenne?"</p> + +<p>"Who wants to know?"</p> + +<p>"Bartley. I just found out from Colonel Stevenson where you were +camping."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne stepped to the door and unlocked it.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256"></a>[pg +256]</span>Bartley entered, glanced round the room, and then shook hands +with Cheyenne. "Been a week trying to find you. How are you and how are the +horses? Man, but it was a long, lonesome ride from San Andreas! If it +hadn't been for that dog that adopted me--by the way, Colonel Stevenson was +telling Senator Brown that Panhandle is in town. I suppose you know +it."</p> + +<p>"I seen him, this evenin'."</p> + +<p>"So did I. Just passed him as I came down here. The Colonel said you +were camping somewhere opposite the Hole-in-the-Wall. How is +everything?"</p> + +<p>"Quiet."</p> + +<p>"Were you going anywhere?"</p> + +<p>"No place in particular."</p> + +<p>Bartley sat down on the edge of the bed and lighted a cigarette. +Cheyenne stood as though waiting for him to leave. There was something +queer about Cheyenne. His eyes were somber, his manner stiff and unnatural. +His greeting had been cool.</p> + +<p>"About that man Panhandle--" Bartley began, but Cheyenne interrupted +with a gesture.</p> + +<p>"You say you saw him, on your way down here?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257"></a>[pg +257]</span>"Yes. He didn't seem to recognize me. He was walking fast."</p> + +<p>"How was Little Jim when you left?"</p> + +<p>"Just fine!"</p> + +<p>"And the folks?"</p> + +<p>"Same as ever. Miss Gray--"</p> + +<p>"Well, I reckon I'll be steppin' along. Glad I saw you again."</p> + +<p>"Going to leave town to-night?"</p> + +<p>"I aim to."</p> + +<p>Bartley could no longer ignore Cheyenne's attitude. He knew that +something had happened or was about to happen. Cheyenne's manner did not +invite question or suggestion. Yet Bartley had promised Dorothy that he +would exert what influence he had--and it seemed a critical time, just at +that moment.</p> + +<p>"I'd like to talk with you a minute, if you have time," said +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Won't do no good, pardner." And without waiting for Bartley to say +anything more, Cheyenne stepped up to him and held out his hand. "So long," +he said.</p> + +<p>"Well, good luck!" replied Bartley, and shook hands with him heartily. +"I hope you win."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne gestured toward the door. Bartley <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_258" id="Page_258"></a>[pg 258]</span>stepped out into the +hallway. The light in the room flickered out.</p> + +<p>"I reckon you'll be goin' back to your hotel," said Cheyenne. "Wait. +I'll just step down first."</p> + +<p>At the foot of the stairs Cheyenne paused and glanced up and down the +street. Directly across the way the Hole-in-the-Wall was ablaze with light. +A few doors east of the gambling-hall an indistinct group of riders sat +their horses as though waiting for some one. Cheyenne drew back into the +shadows of the hallway.</p> + +<p>Bartley peered out over Cheyenne's shoulder. From up the street in the +opposite direction came the distant click of boot-heels. A figure strode +swiftly toward the patch of white light in front of the gambling-hall.</p> + +<p>"Just stand back a little, pardner," said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Bartley felt his heart begin to thump as Cheyenne gently loosened his +gun in the holster.</p> + +<p>"It's Panhandle!" whispered Bartley, as the figure of Sears was +silhouetted against the lighted windows of the place opposite.</p> + +<p>Out of the shadows where the riders waited came a single, abrupt word, +peremptory, incisive: "Panhandle!"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259"></a>[pg +259]</span>Panhandle, about to turn into the lighted doorway, stopped +short.</p> + +<p>Sneed had called to Panhandle; but it was Posmo the Mexican who rode +forward to meet him. Sneed, close behind Posmo, watched to see that the +Mexican carried out his instructions, which were simply to tell Panhandle +to get his horse and leave town with them. Seeing the group behind the +Mexican, Panhandle's first thought was that Posmo had betrayed him to the +authorities. It <i>was</i> Posmo. Panhandle recognized the Mexican's pinto +horse.</p> + +<p>Enraged by what he thought was a trap, and with drunken contempt for the +man he had cheated, Panhandle jerked out his gun and fired at the Mexican; +fired again at the bulky figure behind Posmo, and staggered back as a slug +shattered his shoulder. Cursing, he swung round and emptied his gun into +the blur of riders that separated and spread across the street, returning +his fire from the vantage of the shadows. Flinging his empty gun at the +nearest rider, Panhandle lurched toward the doorway where Cheyenne and +Bartley stood watching. He had almost made the curb when he lunged and +fell. He rose and tried to crawl to the shelter of the doorway. One of +Sneed's <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260"></a>[pg +260]</span>men spurred forward and shot Panhandle in the back. He sank +down, his body twitching.</p> + +<p>Bartley gasped as he saw the rider deliberately throw another shot into +the dying man. Then Cheyenne's arm jerked up. The rider swerved and pitched +from the saddle. Another of Sneed's men crossed the patch of light, and a +splinter ripped from the door-casing where Cheyenne stood. Cheyenne's gun +came down again and the rider pitched forward and fell. His horse galloped +down the street. Again Cheyenne fired, and again. Then, in the sudden +stillness that followed, Cheyenne stepped out and dragged Panhandle into +the hallway. Some one shouted. A window above the saloon opposite was +raised. Doors opened and men came out, questioning each other, gathering in +a group in front of the Hole-in-the-Wall.</p> + +<p>Stunned by the sudden shock of events, the snakelike flash of guns in +the semi-darkness, and the realization that several men had been gravely +wounded, perhaps killed, Bartley heard Cheyenne's voice as though from a +distance.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne's hand was on Bartley's arm. "Come on. The game is closed for +the night."</p> + +<p>As they stepped from the doorway a man stopped them and asked what had +happened.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261"></a>[pg +261]</span>"We're goin' for a doctor," said Cheyenne. "Somebody got +hurt."</p> + +<p>Hastening along the shadowy wall of the building, they turned a corner +and by a roundabout way reached the city marshal's office.</p> + +<p>The marshal, who had been summoned in haste, was at his desk. "Sneed and +his bunch got Panhandle," stated Cheyenne quietly. "Mr. Bartley, here, saw +the row. Four of Sneed's men are down. One got away."</p> + +<p>"Sure it was Sneed?"</p> + +<p>"I reckon your men will fetch him in, right soon. Panhandle got Sneed +and a Mexican, before they stopped him."</p> + +<p>Colonel Stevenson glanced at Cheyenne's belt and holster. Cheyenne drew +his gun and handed it to the marshal. "She's fresh loaded," he said.</p> + +<p>"Cheyenne emptied his gun trying to fight off the men who killed +Panhandle," said Bartley, stepping forward.</p> + +<p>"And you're sure they were Sneed's men?" queried the marshal.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne nodded.</p> + +<p>"I am obliged to you," said the marshal. "But I'll have to detain you +both until after the inquest."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262"></a>[pg +262]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XXV</h2> + +<h3><a name='TWO_TRAILS_HOME'></a>TWO TRAILS HOME</h3> + + +<p>Bartley was the chief witness at the inquest. He told his story in a +manner that impressed the coroner's jury. Senator Brown was present, and +identified one of the dead outlaws as Sneed. Posmo, killed by Panhandle's +first shot, was known in Phoenix. Panhandle, riddled with bullets, was also +identified by the Senator, Cheyenne, and several habitués of the +gambling-hall. Bartley himself identified the body of one man as that of +Hull.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne was the last witness called. He admitted that he had had +trouble with Panhandle Sears, and that he was looking for him when the +fight started; that Sneed and his men had unexpectedly taken the quarrel +out of his hands, and that he had fired exactly five shots at the men who +had killed Panhandle and it had been close work, and easy. Panhandle had +put up a game fight. The odds had been heavily against him. He had been +standing in the light of the gambling-hall doorway <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_263" id="Page_263"></a>[pg 263]</span>while the men who had +killed him had been in the shadow. "He didn't have a chance," concluded +Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"You say you were looking for this man Sears, and yet you took his part +against Sneed's outfit?" queried the coroner.</p> + +<p>"I didn't just say so. Mr. Bartley said that."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Bartley seems to be the only disinterested witness of the +shooting," observed the coroner.</p> + +<p>"If there is any further evidence needed to convince the jury that Mr. +Bartley's statements are impartial and correct, you might read this," +declared the city marshal. "It is the antemortem statement of one of +Sneed's men, taken at the hospital at three-fifteen this morning. He died +at four o'clock."</p> + +<p>The coroner read the statement aloud. Ten minutes later the verdict was +given. The deceased, named severally, had met death by gunshot wounds, +<i>at the hands of parties unknown</i>.</p> + +<p>It was a caustic verdict, intended for the benefit of the cattle-and +horse-thieves of the Southwest. It conveyed the hint that the city of +Phoenix was prompt to resent the presence of such gentry within its +boundaries. One of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" +id="Page_264"></a>[pg 264]</span>the daily papers commented upon the fact +that "the parties unknown" must have been fast and efficient gunmen. +Cheyenne's name was not mentioned, and that was due to the influence of the +marshal, Senator Brown, and the mayor, which left readers of the papers to +infer that the police of Phoenix had handled the matter themselves.</p> + +<p>Through the evidence of the outlaw who had survived long enough to make +a statement, the Box-S horses were traced to a ranch in the neighborhood of +Tucson, identified, and finally returned to their owner.</p> + +<p>The day following the inquest, Bartley and Cheyenne left Phoenix, with +Fort Apache as their first tentative destination, and with the promise of +much rugged and wonderful country in between as an incentive to journey +again with his companion, although Bartley needed no special incentive. At +close range Bartley had beheld the killing of several men. And he could not +free himself from the vision of Panhandle crawling toward him in the patch +of white light, the flitting of horsemen back and forth, and the red flash +of six-guns. Bartley was only too anxious to leave the place.</p> + +<p>It was not until they were two days out of <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_265" id="Page_265"></a>[pg 265]</span>Phoenix that Cheyenne +mentioned the fight--and then he did so casually, as though seeking an +opinion from his comrade.</p> + +<p>Bartley merely said he was glad Cheyenne had not killed Panhandle. +Cheyenne pondered a while, riding loosely, and gazing down at the +trail.</p> + +<p>"I reckon I would 'a' killed him--if I'd 'a' got the chance," he said. +"I meant to. No, it wasn't me or Panhandle that settled that argument: it +was somethin' bigger than us. Folks that reads about the fight, knowin' I +was in Phoenix, will most like say that I got him. Let 'em say so. I know I +didn't; and you know I didn't--and that's good enough for me."</p> + +<p>"And Dorothy and Aunt Jane and Little Jim," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Meanin' Little Jim won't have to grow up knowin' that his father was a +killer."</p> + +<p>"I was thinking of that."</p> + +<p>"Well, right here is where I quit thinkin' about it and talkin' about +it. If that dog of yours there was to kill a coyote, in a fair fight, I +reckon he wouldn't think about it long."</p> + +<p>A few minutes later Cheyenne spoke of the country they were in.</p> + +<p>"She's rough and unfriendly, right here," <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_266" id="Page_266"></a>[pg 266]</span>he said. "But north a ways +she sure makes up for it. There's big spruce and high mesas and grass to +your pony's knees and water 'most anywhere you look for it. I ain't much on +huntin'. But there's plenty deer and wild turkey up that way, and some +bear. And with a bent pin and a piece of string a fella can catch all the +trout he wants. Arizona is a mighty surprisin' State, in spots. Most folks +from the East think she's sagebrush and sand, except the Grand +Cañon; but that's kind of rented out to tourists, most of the time. +I like the Painted Desert better."</p> + +<p>"Where haven't you been?" said Bartley, laughing.</p> + +<p>"Well, I ain't been North for quite a spell."</p> + +<p>And Cheyenne fell silent, thinking of Laramie, of the broad prairies of +Wyoming, of his old homestead, and the days when he was happy with his wife +and Little Jim. But he was not silent long. He visioned a plan that he +might work out, after he had seen Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank again. +Meanwhile, the sun was shining, the road wound among the ragged hills, and +Filaree and Joshua stepped along briskly, their hoof-beats suggesting the +rhythm of a song.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267"></a>[pg +267]</span>That night they camped in the hill country not far from a +crossroads store. In the morning they bought a few provisions and an extra +canteen.</p> + +<p>"There's a piece of country between here and the real hills that is like +to be dry," explained Cheyenne. "We're leavin' the road, this mornin', and +cuttin' north. She's some rough, the way we're headed, but you'll like +it."</p> + +<p>From the sagebrush of the southern slopes they climbed slowly up to a +country of scattered juniper. By noon they were among the piñons, +following a dim bridle trail that Cheyenne's horses seemed to know.</p> + +<p>"In a couple of days, I aim to spring a surprise on you," said Cheyenne +as they turned in that night. "I figure to show you somethin' you been +wantin' to see."</p> + +<p>"Bring on your bears," said Bartley, laughing.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne's moodiness had vanished. Frequently he hummed his old trail +song as they rode. Next day, as they nooned among the spruce of the high +country, Cheyenne suddenly drew the dice from his pocket and, turning them +in his hands, finally tossed them over the rim-rock of the cañon +edging their camp. "It's a fool game," he said. And Bartley knew, by <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268"></a>[pg 268]</span>the +otter's tone, that he did not alone refer to the game of dice.</p> + +<p>The air was thin, clear, and vital with a quality that the air of the +lower country lacked. Bartley felt an ambition to settle down and go to +writing. He thought that he now had material enough and to spare. They were +in a country, vast, fenceless, verdant--almost awesome in its timbered +silences. His imagination was stirred.</p> + +<p>From their noon camp they rode into the timber and from the timber into +a mountain meadow, knee-deep with lush grass. There was no visible trail +across the meadow but the horses seemed to know which way to go. After +crossing the meadow, Filaree, leading the cavalcade, turned and took a +steep trail down the side of a hidden cañon, a mighty chasm, +rock-walled and somber. At the bottom the horses drank, and, crossing the +stream, climbed the farther side. In an hour they were again on the rim, +plodding noiselessly through the sun-flecked shadows of the giant +spruce.</p> + +<p>"How about that surprise?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Ain't this good enough?" said Cheyenne, gesturing roundabout.</p> + +<p>"Gosh, yes! Lead on, Macduff."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269"></a>[pg +269]</span>About four that afternoon the horses pricked their ears and +quickened their pace. Filaree and Joshua especially seemed interested in +getting along the silent trail; and presently the trail merged with another +trail, more defined. A few hundred yards down this trail, and Bartley saw a +big log cabin; to the left and beyond it a corral, empty, and with the bars +down. Bartley had never seen the place before, and did not realize where he +was, yet he had noticed that the horses seemed to know the place.</p> + +<p>"We won't stop by," said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Any one live there?"</p> + +<p>"Sneed used to," stated Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Then Bartley knew that they were not far from the San Andreas Valley +and--well, the Lawrence ranch.</p> + +<p>They dropped down a long trail into another cañon which finally +spread to a green valley dotted with ranches. The horses stepped briskly. +Presently, rounding a bend, they saw a ranch-house, far below, and sharply +defined squares of alfalfa.</p> + +<p>"That house with the red roof--" said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"That's her," asserted Cheyenne, a trifle ambiguously.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270"></a>[pg +270]</span>"Then we've swung round in a circle."</p> + +<p>"We done crossed the res'avation, pardner. And we didn't see a dog-gone +Injun."</p> + +<p>Little Jim was the first to catch sight of them as they jogged down the +last stretch of trail leaving the foothills. He recognized the horses long +before their riders were near enough to be identified as his father and +Bartley.</p> + +<p>Little Jim did not rush to Aunt Jane and tell her excitedly that they +were coming. Instead, he quietly saddled up his pony and rode out to meet +them. Part-way up the slope he waited.</p> + +<p>His greeting was not effusive. "I just thought I'd ride up and tell you +folks that--'that I seen you comin'."</p> + +<p>"How goes the hunting?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Fine! I got six rabbits yesterday. Dorry is gittin' so she can shoot +pretty good, too. How you makin' it, dad?"</p> + +<p>Cheyenne pushed back his hat and gazed at his young son. "Pretty fair, +for an old man," said Cheyenne presently. "You been behavin' yourself?"</p> + +<p>"Sure."</p> + +<p>"How would you like to ride a real hoss, once?"</p> + +<p>"You mean <i>your</i> hoss?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271"></a>[pg +271]</span>"Uh-huh."</p> + +<p>"I'll trade you, even."</p> + +<p>"No, you won't, son. But you can ride him down to the ranch, if you +like."</p> + +<p>Little Jim almost tumbled from his pony in his eagerness to ride Joshua, +his father's horse, with the big saddle and rope and the carbine under the +stirrup leather.</p> + +<p>"You musta made a long ride," declared Jimmy, as he scrambled up on +Joshua. "Josh's shoes is worn thin. He'll be throwin' one, next."</p> + +<p>Jimmy called attention to the horse's shoes, that his father and Bartley +might not see how really pleased he was to ride a "real horse."</p> + +<p>"Yes, a long ride. How is Aunt Jane and Dorry?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, they're all right. Uncle Frank he cut twenty-two tons of alfalfa +off the lower field last week."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne sat sideways on Jimmy's pony as they rode down the last easy +slope and turned into the ranch gate. Aunt Jane, who was busy cooking,--it +seemed that Aunt Jane was always busy cooking something or other, when she +wasn't dressmaking or mending clothing or ironing,--greeted them warmly. +Frank was working down at the lower end. Dorry had <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_272" id="Page_272"></a>[pg 272]</span>gone to San Andreas. She +would be back 'most any time, now. And weren't they hungry?</p> + +<p>They were. And there was fresh milk and pie. But they put up the horses +first.</p> + +<p>Later, Cheyenne and Little Jim decided to walk down to the lower end of +the ranch and see Uncle Frank. Cheyenne had washed his hands and face +before eating, as had Bartley. But Bartley did not let it go at that. He +begged some hot water and again washed and shaved, brushed his clothes, and +changed his flannel shirt for a clean one. Then he strolled to the kitchen +and chatted with Aunt Jane, who had read of the killing of the outlaws in +Phoenix, and had many questions to ask. It had been a terrible tragedy. And +Mr. Bartley had actually seen the shooting?</p> + +<p>Aunt Jane was glad that Cheyenne had not been mixed up in it, especially +as that man Sears had been killed. But now that he had been killed, people +would talk less about her brother. It really had seemed an act of +Providence that Cheyenne had had nothing to do with the shooting. Of +course, Mr. Bartley knew about the trouble that her brother had had--and +why he had never settled down--</p> + +<p>"His name was not mentioned in the papers," <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_273" id="Page_273"></a>[pg 273]</span>said Bartley, thinking +that he must say something.</p> + +<p>"There's Dorry, now," said Aunt Jane, glancing through the kitchen +window.</p> + +<p>Bartley promptly excused himself and stepped out to the gate, which he +vaulted and opened as Dorothy waved a greeting. Bartley carried the +groceries in, and later helped unhitch the team. They chatted casually +neither referring to the subject uppermost in their minds.</p> + +<p>When Cheyenne returned, riding on a load of alfalfa with Uncle Frank and +Little Jim, Bartley managed to let Uncle Frank know that he was not +supposed to have had a hand in the Phoenix affair. Cheyenne thanked +him.</p> + +<p>"But you ain't talked with Dorry, yet, have you?" queried Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Bartley shook his head.</p> + +<p>"She'll find out," stated Cheyenne. "You can't fool Dorry."</p> + +<p>That evening, while Uncle Frank and Cheyenne were discussing a matter +which seemed confidential to themselves, and while Aunt Jane was quietly +keeping an eye on Jimmy, who could hardly keep from interrupting his +seniors--Bartley and Dorry didn't count, just then, for <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274"></a>[pg +274]</span><i>they</i> were also talking together--Dorothy intimated to +Bartley that she would like to talk with him alone. She did not say so, nor +make any gesture to indicate her wish, yet Bartley interpreted her +expression correctly.</p> + +<p>He suggested that they step out to the veranda, where it was cooler. +From the veranda they strolled to the big gate, and there she asked him, +point-blank, to tell her just what had happened in Phoenix. She had read +the papers, and she surmised that there was more to the affair than the +papers printed. For instance, Senator Brown, upon his return to the Box-S, +had kindly sent word to Aunt Jane that Cheyenne was all right. Bartley +thought that the thoughtful Senator had rather spilled the beans.</p> + +<p>"Did Cheyenne--" and Dorothy hesitated.</p> + +<p>"Cheyenne didn't kill Sears," stated Bartley.</p> + +<p>"You talked with Cheyenne, and got him to keep out of it?"</p> + +<p>"I tried to. He wouldn't listen. Then I wished him good luck and told +him I hoped he'd win."</p> + +<p>Dorothy was puzzled. "How do you know he didn't?"</p> + +<p>"Because I was standing beside him when it happened. I don't see why you +shouldn't know <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" +id="Page_275"></a>[pg 275]</span>about it. Cheyenne and I were just about +to cross the street, that night, when we saw Panhandle coming down the +opposite side. Sneed and his men, who were evidently waiting for him, +called to Panhandle. Panhandle must have thought it was the sheriff, or the +city marshal. It happened suddenly. Panhandle began firing at Sneed and his +riders. They shot him down just as he reached the curb in front of us. They +kept on shooting at him as he lay in the street. Cheyenne couldn't stand +that. He emptied his gun, trying to keep them off--and he emptied some +saddles."</p> + +<p>"Thank you for trying to--to give Cheyenne my message," said Dorothy. +And she shook hands with him.</p> + +<p>"Do you know this is the loveliest vista I have seen since leaving +Phoenix--this San Andreas Valley," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"But you came through the Apache Forest," said Dorothy, not for the sake +of argument, but because Bartley was still holding her hand.</p> + +<p>"Yes. But you don't happen to live in the Apache Forest."</p> + +<p>"But, Mr. Bartley--"</p> + +<p>"John, please."</p> + +<p>"Cheyenne calls you Jack."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276"></a>[pg +276]</span>"Better still. Do you think Aunt Jane would mind if we walked up +the road as far as--well, as far as the spring?"</p> + +<p>"Hadn't you better ask her?"</p> + +<p>"No. But she wouldn't object. Would you?"</p> + +<p>Slowly Dorothy withdrew her hand and Bartley opened the big gate. As +they walked down the dim, starlit road they were startled by the advent of +a yellow dog that bounded from the brush and whined joyously.</p> + +<p>"And I had forgotten him," said Bartley. "Oh, he's mine! I can't get +away from the fact. He adopted me, and has followed me clear through. I had +forgotten that he is afraid to come into a ranch. And I am ashamed to say +that I forgot to feed him, to-night. He isn't at all beautiful, but he's +tremendously loyal."</p> + +<p>"And he shall have a good supper when we get back," declared +Dorothy.</p> + +<p>The yellow dog padded along behind them in the dusk, content to be with +his master again. Bartley talked with Dorothy about his plans, his hopes, +and her promise to become the heroine of his new story. Then he surprised +her by stating that he had decided to make a home in the San Andreas +Valley.</p> + +<p>"You really don't know anything about me, <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_277" id="Page_277"></a>[pg 277]</span>or my people," he said. +"And I want you to know. My only living relative is my sister, and she is +scandalously well-to-do. Her husband makes money manufacturing hooks and +eyes. He's not romantic, but he's solid. As for me--"</p> + +<p>And Bartley spoke of his own income, just what he could afford to spend +each month, and just how much he managed to save, and his ambition to earn +more. Dorothy realized that he was talking to her just as he would have +talked to a chum--a man friend, without reserve, and she liked him for it. +She had been curious about him, his vocation, and even about his plans; and +she felt a glow of affection because he had seemed so loyal to his +friendship with Cheyenne, and because he had been kind to Little Jim +Hastings. While doing so with no other thought than to please the boy, +Bartley had made no mistake in buying him that new rifle.</p> + +<p>As they came to the big rock by the roadside--a spot which Bartley had +good reason to remember--he paused and glanced at Dorothy. She was +laughing.</p> + +<p>"You looked so funny that day. You were the most dilapidated-looking +person--for a writer--"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278"></a>[pg +278]</span>"I imagine I was, after Hull got through with me. Let's sit down +awhile. I want to tell you what I should like to do. Are you +comfortable?"</p> + +<p>Dorothy nodded.</p> + +<p>"Well," said Bartley, seating himself beside her, "I should like to rent +a small place in the valley, a place just big enough for two, and then +settle down and write this story. Then, if I sold it, I think I should lock +up, get a pack-horse and another saddle-horse, outfit for a long trip, and +then take the trail north and travel for, say, six months, seeing the +country, camping along the way, visiting with folks, and incidentally +gathering material for another story. It could be done."</p> + +<p>"But why rent a place, if you plan to leave it right away?"</p> + +<p>"Because I should want a home to come to, a place to think of when I was +on the trails. You know a fellow can't wander up and down the world +forever. I like to travel, but I think a chap ought to spend at least half +a year under a roof. Don't you?"</p> + +<p>"I was thinking of Cheyenne," said Dorothy musingly.</p> + +<p>"I think of him a great deal," declared Bartley.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279"></a>[pg +279]</span>Dorothy glanced up at him from her pondering.</p> + +<p>Bartley leaned toward her. "Dorothy, will you help me make that home, +here in the valley, and be my comrade on the trails?"</p> + +<p>"Hadn't you better ask Aunt Jane?" said Dorothy softly, yet with a touch +of humor.</p> + +<p>"Do you mean it?" Bartley's voice was boyishly enthusiastic, like the +voice of a chum, a hearty comrade. "But how about your own folks?"</p> + +<p>Dorothy's answer was not given then and there, in words. Nor yet by +gesture, nor in any visible way--there being no moon that early in the +evening. After a brief interval--or, at least, it seemed brief--they rose +and strolled back down the road, the yellow dog padding faithfully at their +heels. Presently--</p> + +<p>"Hey, Dorry!" came in a shrill voice.</p> + +<p>"It's the scout!" exclaimed Bartley, laughing.</p> + +<p>"We're coming, Jimmy," called Dorothy.</p> + +<p>"But before we're taken into custody--" said Bartley; and as mentioned +before, the moon had not appeared.</p> + +<p>Little Jim, astride of the ranch gate, querulously demanded where they +had been and why they had not told him they were going somewhere.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280"></a>[pg +280]</span>"And you left the gate open, and--everything!" concluded +Jimmy.</p> + +<p>"We just went for a walk," said Dorothy.</p> + +<p>"What's the use of walkin' up the old road in the dark?" queried Jimmy. +"You can't see anything."</p> + +<p>"What do you say to a rabbit hunt to-morrow morning early?" asked +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Nope!" declared Little Jim decisively. "'Cause my dad was talkin' with +Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank, and dad says me and him are goin' back to +Laramie where ma is. And we're goin' on the <i>train</i>. Aunt Jane she +cried. But shucks! We ain't goin' to stay in Laramie all the time. Dad says +if things rib up right, me and ma and him are comin' back to live in the +valley. Don't you wish you was goin', Dorry?"</p> + +<p>"You run along and tell Aunt Jane we're coming," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>Little Jim hesitated. But then, Mr. Bartley had bought him that new +rifle. Jimmy pattered down the path to the lighted doorway, delivered his +message, and pattered back again toward the gate, wasting no time <i>en +route</i>. Halfway to the gate he stopped. Mr. Bartley was standing very +close to Dorry--in fact, Jimmy was <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" +id="Page_281"></a>[pg 281]</span>amazed to see him kiss her. Jimmy turned +and trotted back to the house.</p> + +<p>"Shucks!" he exclaimed. "I thought he liked guns and things more'n +girls!"</p> + +<p>But Jimmy was too loyal to tell what he had seen. After all, Dorry was +mighty fine, for a girl. She could ride and shoot, and she never told on +him when he had done wrong.</p> + +<p>With a skip and a hop Jimmy burst into the room. "We're goin' on the +<i>train</i>," he declared. "Ain't we, dad?"</p> + +<p>Dorothy and Bartley came in. Bartley glanced at Cheyenne, hesitated, and +then thrust out his hand.</p> + +<p>"Good luck to your new venture," he said heartily.</p> + +<p>"Same to you, pardner!" And Cheyenne included Dorry in his glance.</p> + +<p>"I want to ask Aunt Jane's advice," stated Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Then," said Cheyenne, "I reckon me and Frank and Jimmy'll step out and +take a look at the stars. She's a wonderful night."</p> + +<p> </p> +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14085 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5b3a7a0 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #14085 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14085) diff --git a/old/14085-8.txt b/old/14085-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4f7c6be --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14085-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7355 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Partners of Chance, by Henry Herbert Knibbs + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Partners of Chance + +Author: Henry Herbert Knibbs + +Release Date: November 18, 2004 [eBook #14085] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARTNERS OF CHANCE*** + + +E-text prepared by Kevin Handy, John Hagerson, and the Project Gutenberg +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + +PARTNERS OF CHANCE + +by + +HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS + +Author of _The Ridin' Kid from Powder River_, _Sundown Slim_, +_Overland Red_, etc. + +Grosset & Dunlap +Publishers, New York + +1921 + + + + + + + +CONTENTS + + I. LITTLE JIM + II. PANHANDLE + III. A MINUTE TOO LATE + IV. "A LITTLE GREEN RIVER" + V. "TOP HAND ONCE" + VI. A HORSE-TRADE + VII. AT THE WATER-HOLE + VIII. HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS + IX. AT THE BOX-S + X. TO TRY HIM OUT + XI. PONY TRACKS + XII. JIMMY AND THE LUGER GUN + XIII. AT AUNT JANE'S + XIV. ANOTHER GAME + XV. MORE PONY TRACKS + XVI. SAN ANDREAS TOWN + XVII. THAT MESCAL + XVIII. JOE SCOTT + XIX. DORRY COMES TO TOWN + XX. ALONG THE FOOTHILLS + XXI. "GIT ALONG CAYUSE" + XXII. BOX-S BUSINESS + XXIII. THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL + XXIV. CHEYENNE PLAYS BIG + XXV. TWO TRAILS HOME + + + + + + +CHAPTER I + +LITTLE JIM + + +Little Jim knew that something strange had happened, because Big Jim, +his father, had sold their few head of cattle, the work team, and the +farm implements, keeping only the two saddle-horses and the pack-horse, +Filaree. When Little Jim asked where his mother had gone, Big Jim told +him that she had gone on a visit, and would be away a long time. Little +Jim wanted to know if his mother would ever come back. When Big Jim said +that she would not, Little Jim manfully suppressed his tears, and, being +of that frontier stock that always has an eye to the main chance, he +thrust out his hand. "Well, I'll stick with you, dad. I reckon we can +make the grade." + +Big Jim turned away and stood for a long time gazing out of the cabin +window toward town. Presently he felt a tug at his coat-sleeve. + +"Is ma gone to live in town?" + +"Yes." + +"Then why don't you go get her?" + +"She don't want to come back, Jimmy." + +Little Jim could not understand this. Yet he had often heard his mother +complain of their life on the homestead, and as often he had watched his +father sitting grimly at table, saying nothing in reply to his wife's +querulous complainings. The boy knew that his father had worked hard to +make a home. They had all worked hard. But, then, that had seemed the +only thing to do. + +Presently Big Jim swung round as though he had made a decision. He +lighted the lamp in the kitchen and made a fire. Little Jim scurried out +to the well with a bucket. Little Jim was a hustler, never waiting to be +told what to do. His mother was gone. He did not know why. But he knew +that folks had to eat and sleep and work. While his father prepared +supper, Little Jim rolled up his own shirt-sleeves and washed +vigorously. Then he filled the two glasses on the table, laid the plates +and knives and forks, and finding nothing else to do in the house, just +then, he scurried out again and returned with his small arms filled with +firewood. + +Big Jim glanced at him. "I guess we don't need any more wood, Jimmy. +We'll be leaving in the morning." + +"What? Leavin' here?" + +His father nodded. + +"Goin' to town, dad?" + +"No. South." + +"Just us two, all alone?" + +"Yes. Don't you want to go?" + +"Sure! But I wish ma was comin', too." + +Big Jim winced. "So do I, Jimmy. But I guess we can get along all right. +How would you like to visit Aunt Jane, down in Arizona?" + +"Where them horn toads and stingin' lizards are?" + +"Yes--and Gila monsters and all kinds of critters." + +"Gee! Has Aunt Jane got any of 'em on her ranch?" + +Big Jim forced a smile. "I reckon so." + +Little Jim's face was eager. "Then I say, let's go. Mebby I can get to +shoot one. Huntin' is more fun than workin' all the time. I guess ma got +tired of workin', too. She said that was all she ever expected to do, +'long as we lived out here on the ranch. But she never told _me_ she was +goin' to quit." + +"She didn't tell me, either, Jimmy. But you wouldn't understand." + +Jimmy puckered his forehead. "I guess ma kind of throwed us down, didn't +she, dad?" + +"We'll have to forget about it," said Big Jim slowly. "Down at Aunt +Jane's place in--" + +"Somethin' 's burnin', dad!" + +Big Jim turned to the stove. Little Jim gazed at his father's back +critically. There was something in the stoop of the broad shoulders that +was unnatural, strange--something that caused Little Jim to hesitate in +his questioning. Little Jim idolized his father, and, with unfailing +intuition, believed in him to the last word. As for his mother, who had +left without explanation and would never return--Little Jim missed her, +but more through habit of association than with actual grief. + +He knew that his mother and father had not gotten along very well for +some time. And now Little Jim recalled something that his mother had +said: "He's as much your boy as he is mine, Jim Hastings, and, if you +are set on sending him to school, for goodness' sake get him some decent +clothes, which is more than I have had for many a year." + +Until then Jimmy had not realized that his clothing or his mother's was +other than it should be. Moreover, he did not want to go to school. He +preferred to work on the ranch with his father. But it was chiefly the +tone of his mother's voice that had impressed him. For the first time in +his young life, Little Jim felt that he was to blame for something which +he could not understand. He was accustomed to his mother's sudden fits +of unreasonable anger, often followed by a cuff, or sharp reprimand. But +she had never mentioned his need of better clothing before, nor her own +need. + +As for being as much his father's boy as his mother's--Little Jim felt +that he quite agreed to that, and, if anything, that he belonged more to +his father, who was kind to him, than to any one else in the world. +Little Jim, trying to reason it out, now thought that he knew why his +mother had left home. She had gone to live in town that she might have +better clothes and be with folks and not wear her fingers to the bone +simply for a bed and three meals a day, as Little Jim had heard her say +more than once. + +But the trip to Aunt Jane's, down in Arizona, was too vivid in his +imagination to allow room for pondering. Big Jim had said they were to +leave in the morning. So, while supper was cooking, Little Jim slipped +into his bedroom and busied himself packing his own scant belongings. +Presently his father called him. Little Jim plodded out bearing his few +spare clothes corded in a neat bundle, with an old piece of canvas for +the covering. His father had taught him to pack. + +Big Jim stared. Then a peculiar expression flitted across his face. +Little Jim was always for the main chance. + +"I'm all hooked up to hit the trail, dad." + +In his small blue overalls and jumper, in his alert and manful attitude, +Little Jim was a pocket edition of his father. + +"Where's your shootin'-iron?" queried Big Jim jokingly. + +"Why, she's standin' in the corner, aside of yours. A man don't pack his +shootin'-iron in his bed-roll when he hits the trail. He keeps her +handy." + +"For stingin' lizards, eh?" + +"For 'most anything. Stingin' lizards, Injuns, or hoss-thieves, or +anything that we kin shoot. We ain't takin' no chances on this here +trip." + +Big Jim gestured toward the table and pulled up his chair. Little Jim +was too heartily interested in the meal to notice that his father gazed +curiously at him from time to time. Until then, Big Jim had thought of +his small son as a chipper, sturdy, willing boy--his boy. But now, +Little Jim seemed suddenly to have become an actual companion, a +partner, a sharer in things as they were and were to be. + +Hard work and inherent industry had developed in Little Jim an +independence that would have been considered precocious in the East. Big +Jim was glad that the mother's absence did not seem to affect the boy +much. Little Jim seemed quite philosophical about it. Yet, deep in his +heart, Little Jim missed his mother, more than his father realized. The +house seemed strangely empty and quiet. And it had seemed queer that Big +Jim should cook the supper, and, later, wash the dishes. + +That evening, just before they went to bed, Big Jim ransacked the +bureau, sorting out his own things, and laying aside a few things that +his wife had left: a faded pink ribbon, an old pair of high-heeled +slippers, a torn and unmended apron, and an old gingham dress. Gathering +these things together, Big Jim stuffed them in the kitchen stove. Little +Jim watched him silently. + +But when his father came from the stove and sat down, Little Jim slipped +over to him. "Dad, are you mad at ma for leavin' us?" he queried. + +Big Jim shook his head. "No, Jimmy. Just didn't want to leave her things +around, after we had gone. Benson'll be movin' in sometime this week. I +sold our place to him." + +"The stove and beds and everything?" + +"Everything." + +Little Jim wrinkled his nose and sniffed. "Them things you put in the +stove smell just like brandin' a critter," he said, gesturing toward the +kitchen. + +Big Jim gazed hard at his young son. Then he smiled to himself, and +shook his head. "Just like brandin' a critter," he repeated, half to +himself. "Just like brandin' a critter." + + + + + + +CHAPTER II + +PANHANDLE + + +While his friends and neighbors called Jim Hastings "Big Jim," he was no +more than average size--compact, vigorous, reared in the Wyoming cattle +lands, and typical of the country. He was called Big Jim simply to +distinguish him from Little Jim, who was as well known in Laramie as his +father. Little Jim, when but five years of age, rode his own pony, +jogging alongside his father when they went to town, where he was +decidedly popular with the townsfolk because of his sturdy independence +and humorous grin. + +Little Jim talked horses and cattle and ranching with the grown-ups and +took their good-natured joshing philosophically. He seldom retorted +hastily, but, rather, blinked his eyes and wrinkled his forehead as he +digested this or that pleasantry, and either gave it the indifferent +acknowledgment of "Shucks! Think you can josh _me_?" or, if the occasion +and the remark seemed to call for more serious consideration, he rose to +it manfully, and often to the embarrassment of the initial speaker. + +Little Jim liked to go to town with his father, yet he considered town +really a sort of suburb to his real world, the homestead, which he had +seen change from a prairie level of unfenced space to a small--and to +him--complete kingdom of pasture lot, hayfield, garden, corrals, stable, +and house. Town was simply a place to which you went to buy things, get +the mail, exchange views on the weather and grazing, and occasionally +help the hands load a shipment of cattle. Little Jim helped by sitting +on the top rail of the pens and commenting on the individual +characteristics of the cattle, and, sometimes, of the men loading them. +In such instances he found opportunity to pay off old scores. +Incidentally he kept the men in good humor by his lively comment. + +Little Jim was six years of age when his mother left to resume her +former occupation of waitress in the station restaurant of Laramie, +where she had been popular because of her golden hair, her blue eyes, +and her ability to "talk back" to the regular customers in a manner +which they seemed to enjoy. Big Jim married her when he was not much +more than a boy--twenty, in fact; and during the first few years they +were happy together. But homesteading failed to supply more than their +immediate needs. + +Occasional trips to town at first satisfied the wife's craving for the +attention and admiration that most men paid to her rather superficial +good looks. But as the years slipped by, with no promise of easier +conditions, she became dissatisfied, shrewish, and ashamed of her lack +of pretty things to wear. Little Jim was, of course, as blind to all +this as he was to his need for anything other than his overalls, shoes, +and jumper. He thought his mother was pretty and he often told her so. + +Meanwhile, Big Jim tried to blind himself to his wife's growing +dissatisfaction. He was too much of a man to argue her own short-comings +as against his inability to do more for her than he was doing. But when +she did leave, with simply a brief note saying that she was tired of it +all, and would take care of herself, what hit Big Jim the hardest was +the fact that she could give up Little Jim without so much as a word +about him. Every one liked Little Jim, and the mother's going proved +something that Big Jim had tried to ignore for several years--that his +wife cared actually nothing for the boy. When Big Jim finally realized +this, his indecision evaporated. He would sell out and try his fortunes +in Arizona, where his sister Jane lived, the sister who had never seen +Little Jim, but who had often written to Big Jim, inviting him to come +and bring his family for a visit. + +Big Jim had enough money from the sale of his effects to make the +journey by train, even after he had deposited half of the proceeds at +the local bank, in his wife's name. But being a true son of the open, he +wanted to see the country; so he decided to travel horseback, with a +pack-animal. Little Jim, used to the saddle, would find the journey a +real adventure. They would take it easy. There was no reason for haste. + +It had seemed the simplest thing to do, to sell out, leave that part of +the country, and forget what had happened. There was nothing to be +gained by staying where they were. Big Jim had lost his interest in the +ranch. Moreover, there had been some talk of another man, in Laramie, a +man who had "kept company" with Jenny Simpson, before she became Mrs. +Jim Hastings. Mrs. Hastings was still young and quite good-looking. + +It had seemed a simple thing to do--to leave and begin life over again +in another land. But Big Jim had forgotten Smiler. Smiler was a dog of +vague ancestry, a rough-coated, yellow dog that belonged solely to +Little Jim. Smiler stuck so closely to Little Jim that their shadows +were veritably one. Smiler was a sort of chuckle-headed, good-natured +animal, meek, so long as Little Jim's prerogatives were not infringed +upon, but a cyclone of yellow wrath if Little Jim were approached by any +one in other than a friendly spirit. Even when Big Jim "roughed" his +small son, in fun, Smiler grew nervous and bristled, and once, when the +mother had smacked Little Jim for some offense or other, Smiler had +taken sides to the extent of jumping between the mother and the boy, +ready to do instant battle if his young partner were struck again. + +"I'm afraid we can't take Smiler with us," said Big Jim, as Little Jim +scurried about next morning, getting ready for the great adventure. + +Little Jim stopped as though he had run against a rope. He had not even +dreamed but that Smiler would go with them. + +Now, Little Jim had not forgathered with punchers and townsfolk for +nothing. He was naturally shrewd, and he did not offer or controvert +opinions hastily. He stood holding a bit of old tie-rope in his hand, +pondering this last unthinkable development of the situation. Smiler was +to be left behind. Jimmy wanted to ask why Smiler could not go. He +wanted to assure his father that Smiler would be a help rather than a +hindrance to the expedition. + +Little Jim knew that if he wept, his father might pay some attention to +that sort of plea. But Little Jim did not intend to weep, nor ask +questions, nor argue. Smiler stood expectantly watching the +preparations. He knew that something important was about to happen, and, +with the loyalty of his kind, he was ready to follow, no matter where. +Smiler had sniffed the floor of the empty house, the empty stables, the +corral. His folks were going somewhere. Well, he was ready. + +Little Jim, who had been gazing wistfully at Smiler, suddenly strode to +his pack and sat down. He bit his lips. Tears welled to his eyes and +drifted slowly down his cheeks. He had not intended to let himself +weep--but there was Smiler, wagging his thick tail, waiting to go. + +"I g-g-guess you better go ahead and hit the trail, dad." + +"Why, that's what we're going to do. What--" Big Jim glanced at his boy. +"What's the matter?" + +Little Jim did not answer, but his attitude spoke for itself. He had +decided to stay with Smiler. + +Big Jim frowned. It was the first time that the boy had ever openly +rebelled. And because it was the first time, Big Jim realized its +significance. Yet, such loyalty, even to a dog, was worth while. + +Big Jim put his hand on Little Jim's shoulder. "Smiler'll get sore feet +on the trails, Jimmy. And there won't be a whole lot to eat." + +Little Jim blinked up at his father. "Well, he can have half of my grub, +and I reckon I can pack him on the saddle with me if his feet get +tender." + +"All right. But don't blame me if Smiler peters out on the trip." + +"Smiler's tough, he is!" stated Little Jim. "He's so tough he bites barb +wire. Anyhow, you said we was goin' to take it easy. And he can catch +rabbits, I guess." + +"Perhaps he won't want to come along," suggested Big Jim as he pulled up +a cincha and slipped the end through the ring. + +Little Jim beckoned to Smiler who had stood solemnly listening to the +controversy about himself as though he understood. Smiler trotted over +to Jimmy. + +"You want to take it plumb easy on this trip," said Little Jim, "and not +go to chasin' around and runnin' yourself ragged gettin' nowhere. If you +get sore feet, we'll just have to beef you and hang your hide on the +fence." + +Smiler grinned and wagged his tail. He pushed up and suddenly licked +Little Jim's face. Little Jim promptly cuffed him. Smiler came back for +more. + +Big Jim turned and watched the boy and the dog in their rough-and-tumble +about the yard. He blinked and turned back to the horses. "Come on, +Jimmy. We're all set." + +"Got to throw my pack on ole Lazy, dad. Gimme a hand, will you?" + +Little Jim never would admit that he could not do anything there was to +be done. When he was stuck he simply asked his father to help him. + +Big Jim slung up the small pack and drew down the hitch. Little Jim +ducked under Lazy and took the rope on the other side, passing the end +to his father. + +"Reckon that pack'll ride all right," said the boy, surveying the +outfit. "Got the _morrals_ and everything, dad?" + +"All set, Jimmy." + +"Then let's go. I got my ole twenty-two loaded. If we run on to one of +them stingin' lizards, he's sure a sconer. Does dogs eat lizards?" + +Big Jim swung to the saddle and hazed the old pack-horse ahead. "Don't +know, Jimmy. Sometimes the Indians eat them." + +"Eat stingin' lizards?" + +"Yep." + +"Well, I guess Smiler can, then. Come on, ole-timer!" + +Suddenly Little Jim thought of his mother. It seemed that she ought to +be with them. Little Jim had wept when Smiler was in question. Now he +gazed with clear-eyed faith at his father. + +"It ain't our fault ma ain't goin' with us, is it?" he queried timidly. + +Big Jim shrugged his shoulders. + +"Say, dad, we're headed west. Thought you said we was goin' to Arizona?" + +"We'll turn south, after a while." + +Little Jim asked no more questions. His father knew everything--why they +were going and where. Little Jim glanced back to where Smiler padded +along, his tongue out and his eyes already rimmed with dust, for he +would insist upon traveling tight to Lazy's heels. + +Little Jim leaned back. "Stick it out, ole-timer! But don't you go to +cuttin' dad's trail till he gets kind of used to seein' you around. +Sabe?" + +Smiler grinned through a dust-begrimed countenance. He wagged his tail. + +Little Jim plunked his horse in the ribs and drew up beside his father. +Little Jim felt big and important riding beside his dad. There had been +some kind of trouble at home--and they were leaving it behind. It would +be a long trail, and his father sure would need help. + +Little Jim drew a deep breath. He wanted to express his unwavering +loyalty to his father. He wanted to talk of his willingness to go +anywhere and share any kind of luck. But his resolve to speak evaporated +in a sigh of satisfaction. This was a real holiday, an adventure. +"Smiler's makin' it fine, dad." + +But Big Jim did not seem to hear. He was gazing ahead, where in the +distance loomed an approaching figure on horseback. Little Jim knew who +it was, and was about to say so when his father checked him with a +gesture. Little Jim saw his father shift his belt round so that his gun +hung handy. He said nothing and showed by no other sign that he had +recognized the approaching rider, who came on swiftly, his high-headed +pinto fighting the bit. + +Within twenty yards of them, the rider reined his horse to a walk. +Little Jim saw the two men eye each other closely. The man on the pinto +rode past. Little Jim turned to his father. + +"I guess Panhandle is goin' to town," said the boy, not knowing just +what to say, yet feeling that the occasion called for some remark. + +"Panhandle" Sears and his father knew each other. They had passed on the +road, neither speaking to the other. And Little Jim was not blind to the +significant movement of shifting a belt that a gun might hang ready to +hand. + +Yet he soon forgot the incident in visioning the future. Arizona, Aunt +Jane, and stingin' lizards! + +Big Jim rode with head bowed. He was thinking of the man who had just +passed them. If it had not been for the boy, Big Jim and that man would +have had it out, there on the road. And Jenny Hastings would have been +the cause of their quarrel. "Panhandle" Sears had "kept company" with +Jenny before she became Big Jim's wife. Now that she had left him-- + +Big Jim turned and gazed back along the road. A far-away cloud of dust +rolled toward the distant town of Laramie. + + + + + + +CHAPTER III + +A MINUTE TOO LATE + + +The Overland, westbound, was late. Nevertheless, it had to stop at +Antelope, but it did so grudgingly and left with a snort of disdain for +the cow-town of the high mesa. Curious-eyed tourists had a brief glimpse +of a loading-chute, cattle-pens, a puncher or two, and an Indian +freighter's wagon just pulling in from the spaces, and accompanied by a +plodding cavalcade of outriders on paint ponies. + +Incidentally the westbound left one of those momentarily interested +Easterners on the station platform, without baggage, sense of direction, +or companion. He had stepped off the train to send a telegram to a +friend in California. He discovered that he had left his address book in +his grip. Meanwhile the train had moved forward some sixty yards, to +take water. Returning for his address book, he boarded the wrong +Pullman, realized his mistake, and hastened on through to his car. Out +to the station again--delay in getting the attention of the telegraph +operator, the wire finally written--and the Easterner heard the rumble +of the train as it pulled out. + +Even then he would have made it had it not been for a portly individual +in shirt-sleeves who inadvertently blocked the doorway of the telegraph +office. Bartley bumped into this portly person, tried to squeeze past, +did so, and promptly caromed off the station agent whom he met head on, +halfway across the platform. Gazing at the departing train, Bartley +reached in his pocket for a cigar which he lighted casually. + +The portly individual touched him on the shoulder. "'Nother one, this +afternoon." + +"Thanks. But my baggage is on that one." + +"You're lucky it ain't two sections behind, this time of year. Travel is +heavy." + +Bartley's quick glance took in the big man from his high-heeled boots to +his black Stetson. A cattleman, evidently well to do, and quite +evidently not flustered by the mishaps of other folks. + +"There's a right comfortable little hotel, just over there," stated the +cattleman. "Wishful runs her. It ain't a bad place to wait for your +train." + +Bartley smiled in spite of his irritation. + +The cattleman's eyes twinkled. "You'll be sending a wire to have 'em +take care of your war bag. Well, come on in and send her. You can catch +Number Eight about Winslow." + +The cattleman forged ahead, and in the telegraph office, got the +immediate attention of the operator, who took Bartley's message. + +The cattleman paid for it. "'Tain't the first time my size has cost me +money," he said, as Bartley protested. "Now, let's go over and get +another cigar. Then we can mill around and see Wishful. You'll like +Wishful. He's different." + +They strode down the street and stopped in at a saloon where the +cattleman called for cigars. Bartley noticed that the proprietor of the +place addressed the big cattleman as "Senator." + +"This here is a dry climate, and a cigar burns up right quick, if you +don't moisten it a little," said the cattleman. "I 'most always moisten +mine." + +Bartley grinned. "I think the occasion calls for it, Senator." + +"Oh, shucks! Just call me Steve--Steve Brown. And just give us a little +Green River Tom." + +A few minutes later Bartley and his stout companion were seated on the +veranda of the hotel, gazing out across the mesas. They were both +comfortable, and quite content to watch the folk go past, out there in +the heat. Bartley wondered if the title "Senator" were a nickname, or if +the portly gentleman placidly smoking his cigar and gazing into space +was really a politician. + +A dusty cow-puncher drifted past the hotel, waving his hand to the +Senator, who replied genially. A little later a Navajo buck rode up on a +quick-stepping pony. He grunted a salutation and said something in his +native tongue. The Senator replied in kind. Bartley was interested. +Presently the Navajo dug his heels into his pony's ribs, and clattered +up the road. + +The Senator turned to Bartley. "Politics and cattle," he said, smiling. + +Having learned the Senator's vocation, Bartley gave his own as briefly. +The Senator nodded. + +"It is as obvious as all that, then?" queried Bartley. + +"I wouldn't say that," stated the Senator carefully. "But after you +bumped into me, and then stepped into the agent, and then turned around +and took in my scenery, noticin' the set of my legs, I says to myself, +'painter-man or writer.' It was kind of in your eye. I figured you +wa'n't no painter-man when you looked at the oil paintin' over the bar. + +"A painter-man would 'a' looked sad or said somethin', for that there +paintin' is the most gosh-awful picture of what a puncher might look +like after a cyclone had hit him. I took a painter-man in there once, to +get a drink. He took one look at that picture, and then he says, kind of +sorrowful: 'Is this the only place in town where they serve liquor?' I +told him it was. 'Let's go over and tackle the pump,' he says. But we +had our drink. I told him just to turn his back on that picture when he +took his." + +"I might be anything but a writer," said Bartley. + +"That's correct. But you ain't." + +"You hit the nail on the head. However, I can't just follow your line of +reasoning it out." + +"Easy. Elimination. Now a tourist, regular, stares at folks and things. +But a painter or writer he takes things in without starin'. There's some +difference. I knew you were a man who did things. It's in your eye." + +"Well," laughed Bartley, "I took you for a cattleman the minute I saw +you." + +"Which was a minute too late, eh?" + +"I don't know about that. Since I've been sitting here looking at the +mesa and those wonderful buttes over there, and watching the natives +come and go, I have begun to feel that I don't care so much about that +train, after all. I like this sort of thing. You see, I planned to visit +California, but there was nothing definite about the plan. I chose +California because I had heard so much about it. It doesn't matter much +where I go. By the way, my name is Bartley." + +"I'm Steve Brown--cattle and politics. I tell you, Mr. Bartley--" + +"Suppose you say just Bartley?" + +The Senator chuckled. "Suppose I said 'Green River'?" + +"I haven't an objection in the world," laughed Bartley. + +"Wishful, here, don't keep liquor," explained the Senator. "And he's +right about that. Folks that stay at this hotel want to sleep nights." + +The Senator heaved himself out of his chair, stood up, and stretched. + +"I reckon you'll be wantin' to see all you can of this country. My ranch +lays just fifty miles south of the railroad, and not a fence from here +to there. Then, there's them Indians, up north a piece. And over yonder +is where they dig up them prehistoric villages. And those buttes over +there used to be volcanoes, before they laid off the job. To the west is +the petrified forest. I made a motion once, when the Legislature was in +session, to have that forest set aside as a buryin'-ground for +politicians,--State Senators and the like,--but they voted me down. They +said I didn't specify _dead_ politicians. + +"South of my place is the Apache reservation. There's good huntin' in +that country. 'Course, Arizona ain't no Garden of Eden to some folks. +Two kinds of folks don't love this State a little bit'--homesteaders and +tourists. But when it comes to cattle and sheep and mines, you can't +beat her. She sure is the Tiger Lily of the West. But let's step over +and see Tom. Excuse me a minute. There's a constituent who has somethin' +on his chest. I'll meet you at the station." + +The Senator stepped out and talked with his constituent. Meanwhile, +Bartley turned to gaze down the street. A string of empty freight +wagons, followed by a lazy cloud of dust, rolled slowly toward town. +Here and there a bit of red showed in the dun mass of riders that +accompanied the wagons. A gay-colored blanket flickered in the sun. The +mesas radiated keen dry heat. + +Bartley turned and crossed over to the station. He blinked the effects +of the white light from his eyes as he entered the telegraph office. The +operator, in shirt-sleeves, and smoking a brown-paper cigarette, nodded +and handed Bartley a service message stating that his effects would be +carried to Los Angeles and held for further orders. + +"It's sure hot," said the operator. "Did you want to send another wire?" + +Bartley shook his head. "Who is that stout man I bumped into trying to +catch my train?" + +"That's Senator Steve Brown--State Senator. Thought you knew him." + +"No. I just met him to-day." + +The operator slumped down in his chair. + +Bartley strode to the door and blinked in the Arizona sunshine. "By +George!" he murmured, "I always thought they wore those big Stetsons for +show. But all day in this sun--guess I'll have to have one." + + + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +"A LITTLE GREEN RIVER" + + +To suddenly stop off at a cow-town station, without baggage or definite +itinerary, was unconventional, to say the least. Bartley was amused and +interested. Hitherto he had written more or less conventional +stuff--acceptable stories of the subway, the slums, the docks, and the +streets of Eastern cities. But now, as he strode over to the saloon, he +forgot that he was a writer of stories. A boyish longing possessed him +to see much of the life roundabout, even to the farthest, faint range of +hills--and beyond. + +He felt that while he still owed something to his original plan of +visiting California, he could do worse than stay right where he was. He +had thought of wiring to have his baggage sent back. Then it occurred to +him that, aside from his shaving-kit and a few essentials, his baggage +comprised but little that he could use out here in the mesa country. And +he felt a certain relief in not having trunks to look after. Outing +flannels and evening clothes would hardly fit into the present scheme of +things. The local store would furnish him all that he needed. In this +frame of mind he entered the Blue Front Saloon where he found Senator +Steve and his foreman seated at a side table discussing the merits of +"Green River." + +"Hello!" called the Senator. "Mr. Bartley, meet my foreman, Lon Pelly." + +They shook hands. + +"Lon says the source of Green River is Joy in the Hills," asserted the +Senator, smiling. + +The long, lean cow-puncher grinned. "Steve, here, says the source of +Green River is trouble." + +"Now, as a writin' man, what would you say?" queried the Senator. + +Bartley gazed at the label on the bottle under discussion. "Well, as a +writer, I might say that it depends how far you travel up or down Green +River. But as a mere individual enjoying the blessings of companionship, +I should say, let's experiment, judiciously." + +"Fetch a couple more glasses, Tom," called the Senator. + +After the essential formalities, Bartley pushed back his chair, crossed +one leg over the other, and lighted a cigar. "I'm rather inclined toward +that Joy in the Hills theory, just now," he asserted. + +"That's all right," said Lon Pelly. "Bein' a little inclined don't hurt +any. But if you keep on reachin' for Joy, your foot is like to slip. +Then comes Trouble." + +"Lon's qualified for the finals once or twice," said the Senator. "Now, +take _me_, for a horrible example. I been navigatin' Green River, off +and on, for quite a spell, and I never got hung up bad." + +"Speaking of rivers, they're rather scarce in this country, I believe," +said Bartley. + +"Yes. But some of 'em are noticeable in the rainy season," stated +Senator Steve. "But you ain't seen Arizona. You've only been peekin' +through your fingers at her. Wait till you get on a cayuse and hit the +trail for a few hundred miles--that's the only way to see the country. +Now, take 'Cheyenne.' He rides this here country from Utah to the +border, and he can tell you somethin' about Arizona. + +"Cheyenne is a kind of hobo puncher that rides the country with his +little old pack-horse, stoppin' by to work for a grubstake when he has +to, but ramblin' most of the time. He used to be a top-hand once. Worked +for me a spell. But he can't stay in one place long. Wish you could meet +him sometime. He can tell you more about this State than any man I know. +He's what you might call a character for a story. He stops by regular, +at the ranch, mebby for a day or two, and then takes the trail, singin' +his little old song. He's kind of a outdoor poet. Makes up his own +songs." + +"What was that one about Arizona that you gave 'em over to the State +House onct?" queried Lon Pelly. + +"Oh, that wa'n't Cheyenne's own po'try. It was one he read in a magazine +that he gave me. Let's see-- + + "Arizona! The tramp of cattle, + The biting dust and the raw, red brand: + Shuffling sheep and the smoke of battle: + The upturned face--and the empty hand. + + "Dawn and dusk, and the wide world singing, + Songs that thrilled with the pulse of life, + As we clattered down with our rein chains ringing + To woo you--but never to make you wife." + +The Senator smiled a trifle apologetically. "There's more of it. But +po'try ain't just in my line. Once in a while I bust loose on +po'try--that is, my kind of po'try. And I want to say that we sure +clattered down from the Butte and the Blue in the old days, with our +rein chains jinglin', thinkin'--some of us--that Arizona was ours to +fare-ye-well. + +"But we old-timers lived to find out that Arizona was too young to get +married yet; so we just had to set back and kind of admire her, after +havin' courted her an amazin' lot, in our young days." The Senator +chuckled. "Now, Lon, here, he'll tell you that there ain't no po'try in +this here country. And I never knew they was till I got time to set back +and think over what we unbranded yearlin's used to do." + +"For instance?" queried Bartley. + +Senator Steve waved his pudgy hand as though shooing a flock of chickens +off a front lawn. "If I was to tell you some of the things that +happened, you would think I was a heap sight bigger liar than I am. +Seein' some of them yarns in print, folks around this country would say: +'Steve Brown's corralled some tenderfoot and loaded him to the muzzle +with shin tangle and ancient history!' Things that would seem amazin' to +you would never ruffle the hair of the mavericks that helped make this +country." + +"This country ain't all settled yet," said the foreman, rising. "Reckon +I'll step along, Steve." + +After the foreman had departed, Bartley turned to the Senator. "Are +there many more like him, out here?" + +"Who, Lon? Well, a few. He's been foreman for me quite a spell. Lon he +thinks. And that's more than I ever did till after I was thirty. And Lon +ain't twenty-six, yet." + +"I think I'll step over to the drug-store and get a few things," said +Bartley. + +"So you figure to bed down at the hotel, eh?" + +"Yes. For a few days, at least. I want to get over the idea that I have +to take the next train West before I make any further plans." + +The Senator accompanied Bartley to the drug-store. The Easterner bought +what he needed in the way of shaving-kit and brush and comb. The Senator +excused himself and crossed the street to talk to a friend. The +afternoon sun slanted across the hot roofs, painting black shadows on +the dusty street. Bartley found Wishful, the proprietor, and told him +that he would like to engage a room with a bath. + +Wishful smiled never a smile as he escorted Bartley to a room. + +"I'll fetch your bath up, right soon," he said solemnly. + +Presently Wishful appeared with a galvanized iron washtub and a kettle +of boiling water. Bartley thanked him. + +"You can leave 'em out in the hall when you're through," said Wishful. + +Bartley enjoyed a refreshing bath and rub-down. Later he set the kettle +and tub out in the dim hallway. Then he sat down and wrote a letter to +his friend in California, explaining his change of plan. The afternoon +sunlight waned. Bartley gazed out across the vast mesas, lavender-hued +and wonderful, as they darkened to blue, then to purple that was shot +with strange half-lights from the descending sun. + +Suddenly a giant hand seemed to drop a canopy over the vista, and it was +night. Bartley lighted the oil lamp and sat staring out into the +darkness. From below came the rattle of dishes. Presently Bartley heard +heavy, deliberate footsteps ascending the stairway. Then a clanging +crash and a thud, right outside his door. He flung the door open. +Senator Steve was rising from the flattened semblance of a washtub and +feeling of himself tenderly. The Senator blinked, surveyed the wrecked +tub and the kettle silently, and then without comment he stepped back +and kicked the kettle. It soared and dropped clanging into the hall +below. + +Wishful appeared at the foot of the stairs. "Did you ring, Senator?" + +"Yes, I did! And I'm goin' to ring again." + +"Hold on!" said Wishful, "I'll come up and get the tub. I got the +kettle." + +The Senator puffed into Bartley's room and sat on the edge of the bed. +He wiped his bald head, smiling cherubically. "Did you hear him, askin' +me, a member of the Society for the Prevention of Progress, if I rang +for him! That's about all the respect I command in this community. I +sure want to apologize for not stoppin' to knock," added the Senator. + +Bartley grinned. "It was hardly necessary. I heard you." + +"I just came up to see if you would take dinner with me and my missus. +We're goin' to eat right soon. You see, my missus never met up with a +real, live author." + +"Thanks, Senator. I'll be glad to meet your family. But suppose you +forget that author stuff and just take me as a tenderfoot out to see the +sights. I'll like it better." + +"Why, sure! And while the House is in session, I might rise to remark +that I can't help bein' called 'Senator,' because I'm guilty. But, +honest, I always feel kinder toward my fellow-bein's who call me just +plain 'Steve.'" + +"All right. I'll take your word for it." + +"Don't you take my word for anything. How do you know but I might be +tryin' to sell you a gold mine?" + +"I think the risk would be about even," said Bartley. + +The Senator chuckled. "I just heard Wishful lopin' down the hall with +his bathin' outfit, so I guess the right of way is clear again. And +there goes the triangle--sounds like the old ranch, that triangle. You +see, Wishful used to be a cow-hand, and lots of cow-hands stop at this +hotel when they're in town. That triangle sounds like home to 'em. I'm +stoppin' here myself. But I got a real bathroom out to the ranch. Let's +go down and look at some beef on the plate." + + + + + + +CHAPTER V + +"TOP HAND ONCE" + + +Bartley happened to be alone on the veranda of the Antelope House that +evening. Senator Brown and his "missus" had departed for their ranch. +Mrs. Senator Brown had been a bit diffident when first meeting Bartley, +but he soon put her at her ease with some amusing stories of Eastern +experiences. The dinner concluded with an invitation from Mrs. Brown +that anticipated Bartley visiting the ranch and staying as long as he +wished. The day following the Senator's departure Bartley received a +telegram from his friend in California, wishing him good luck and a +pleasant journey in the Arizona country. The friend would see to +Bartley's baggage, as Bartley had forwarded the claim checks in his +letter. + +The town was quiet and the stars were serenely brilliant. The dusty, +rutted road past the hotel, dim gray in the starlight, muffled the tread +of an occasional Navajo pony passing in the faint glow of light from the +doorway. Bartley was content with things as he found them, just then. +But he knew that he would eventually go away from there--from the untidy +town, the railroad, the string of box-cars on the siding, and seek the +new, the unexpected, an experience to be had only by kicking loose from +convention and stepping out for himself. He thought of writing a Western +story. He realized that all he knew of the West was from hearsay, and a +brief contact with actual Westerners. He would do better to go out in +the fenceless land and live a story, and then write it. And better +still, he would let chance decide where and when he would go. + +His first intimation that chance was in his vicinity was the distant, +faint cadence of a song that floated over the night-black mesa from the +north. Presently he heard the soft, muffled tread of horses and a +distinct word or two of the song. He leaned forward, interested, amused, +alert. The voice was a big voice, mellowed by distance. There was a +take-it-or-leave-it swing to the melody that suggested the singer's +absolute oblivion to anything but the joy of singing. Again the plod, +plod of the horses, and then: + + I was top-hand once for the T-Bar-T, + In the days of long ago, + But I took to seein' the scenery + Where the barbed-wire fence don't grow. + + I was top-hand once--but the trail for mine, + And plenty of room to roam; + So now I'm ridin' the old chuck line, + And any old place is home ... for me ... + And any old place is home. + +Bartley grinned. Whoever he was, drifting in from the northern spaces, +he had evidently lost the pack-horse that bore his troubles. Suddenly, +out of the wall of dusk that edged the strip of road loomed a horse's +head, and then another. The lead horse bore a pack. The second horse was +ridden by an individual who leaned slightly forward, his hands clasped +comfortably over the saddle horn. The horses stopped in the light of the +doorway. + +"Well, I reckon we're here," said a voice. "But hotels and us ain't in +the same class. I stop at the Antelope House, take a look at her, and +then spread my roll in the brush, same as always. Nobody to home? They +don't know what they're missin'." + +Bartley struck a match and lighted his cigar. The pack-horse jerked its +head up. + +"Hello, stranger! Now I didn't see you settin' there." + +"Good-evening! But why 'stranger' when you say you can't see me?" + +"Why? 'Cause everybody knows _me_, and you didn't whoop when I rode up. +Me, I'm Cheyenne, from no place, and likewise that's where I'm goin'. +This here town of Antelope got in the way--towns is always gittin' in my +way--but nobody can help that. Is Wishful bedded down for the night or +is he over to the Blue Front shootin' craps?" + +"I couldn't say. I seem to be the only one around here, just now." + +"That sure excuses me and the hosses. Wishful is down to the Blue Front, +all right. It's the only exercise he gets, regular." Cheyenne pushed +back the brim of his faded black Stetson and sighed heavily. Bartley +caught a glimpse of a face as care-free as that of a happy child--the +twinkle of humorous eyes and a flash of white teeth as the other +grinned. "Reckon you never heard tell of me," said the rider, hooking +his leg over the horn. + +I just arrived yesterday. I have not heard of you--but I heard you down +the road, singing. I like that song." + +"One of my own. Yes, I come into town singin' and I go out singin'. +'Course, we eat, when it's handy. Singin' sure keeps a fellow's appetite +from goin' to sleep. Guess I'll turn the hosses into Wishful's corral +and go find him. Reckon you had your dinner." + +"Several hours ago." + +"Well, I had mine this mornin'. The dinner I had this mornin' was the +one I ought to had day before yesterday. But I aim to catch up--and +mebby get ahead a couple of eats, some day. But the hosses get theirs, +regular. Come on, Filaree, we'll go prospect the sleepin'-quarters." + +Bartley sat back and smiled to himself as Cheyenne departed for the +corral. This wayfarer, breezing in from the spaces, suggested +possibilities as a character for a story No doubt the song was more or +less autobiographical. "A top-hand once, but the trail for mine," seemed +to explain the singer's somewhat erratic dinner schedule. Bartley +thought that he would like to see more of this strange itinerant, who +sang both coming into and going out of town. + +Presently Cheyenne was back, singing something about a Joshua tree as he +came. + +He stopped at the veranda rail. His smile was affable. "Guess I'll go +over and hunt up Wishful. I reckon you'll have to excuse me for not +refusin' to accompany you to the Blue Front to get a drink." + +Bartley was puzzled. "Would you mind saying that again?" + +"Sure I don't mind. I thought, mebby, you bein' a stranger, settin' +there alone and lookin' at the dark, that you was kind of lonesome. I +said I reckoned you'd have to excuse me for not refusin' to go over to +the Blue Front and take a drink." + +"I think I get you. I'll buy. I'll try anything, once." + +Cheyenne grinned. "I kind of hate to drink alone, 'specially when I'm +broke." + +Bartley grinned in turn. "So do I. I suppose it is all right to leave. +The door is wide open and there doesn't seem to be any one in charge. + +"She sure is an orphan, to-night. But, honest, Mr.--" + +"Bartley." + +"Mr. Bartley, nobody'd ever think of stealin' anything from Wishful. +Everybody likes Wishful 'round here. And strangers wouldn't last long +that tried to lift anything from his tepee. That is, not any longer than +it would take Wishful to pull a gun--and that ain't long." + +"If he caught them." + +"Caught 'em? Say, stranger, how far do you think a man could travel out +of here, before somebody'd get him? Anyhow, Wishful ain't got nothin' in +his place worth stealin'." + +"Wishful doesn't look very warlike," said Bartley. + +"Nope. That's right. He looks kind of like he'd been hit on the roof and +hadn't come to, yet. But did you ever see him shoot craps?" + +"No." + +"Then you've got somethin' comin', besides buyin' me a drink." + +Bartley laughed as he stepped down to the road. Bartley, a fair-sized +man, was surprised to realize that the other was all of a head taller +than himself. Cheyenne had not looked it in the saddle. + +"Are you acquainted with Senator Brown?" queried Bartley as he strode +along beside the stiff-gaited outlander. + +Cheyenne stopped and pushed back his hat. "Senator Steve Brown? Say, +pardner, me and Steve put this here country on the map. If kings was in +style, Steve would be wearin' a crown. Why, last election I wore out a +pair of jeans lopin' around this here country campaignin' for Steve. See +this hat? Steve give me this hat--a genuwine J.B., the best they make. +Inside he had printed on the band, in gold, 'From Steve to Cheyenne, +hoping it will always fit.' Do I know Steve Brown? Next time you see him +just ask him about Cheyenne Hastings." + +"I met the Senator, yesterday. Come to think of it, he did mention your +name--'Cheyenne--and said you knew the country." + +"Was you lookin' for a guide, mebby?" + +"Well, not exactly. But I hope to see something of Arizona." + +"Uh-huh. Well, I travel alone, mostly. But right now I'm flat broke. If +you was headin' south--" + +"I expect to visit Mr. and Mrs. Brown some day. Their ranch is south of +here, I believe." + +"Yep. Plumb south, on the Concho road. I'm ridin' down that way." + +"Well, we will talk about it later," said Bartley as they entered the +saloon. + +With a few exceptions, the men in the place were grouped round a long +table, in the far end of the room, at the head of which stood Wishful +evidently about to make a throw with the dice. No one paid the slightest +attention to the arrival of Bartley and his companion, with the +exception of the proprietor, who nodded to Bartley and spoke a word of +greeting to Cheyenne. + +Bartley did the honors which included a sandwich and a glass of beer for +Cheyenne, who leaned with his elbow on the bar gazing at the men around +the table. Out of the corner of his eye Bartley saw the proprietor touch +Cheyenne's arm and, leaning across the bar, whisper something to him. +Cheyenne straightened up and seemed to be adjusting his belt. Bartley +caught a name: "Panhandle." He turned and glanced at Cheyenne. + +The humorous expression had faded from Cheyenne's face and in its stead +there was a sort of grim, speculative line to the mouth, and no twinkle +in the blue eyes. Bartley stepped over to the long table and watched the +game. Craps, played by these free-handed sons of the open, had more of a +punch than he had imagined possible. A pile of silver and bills lay on +the table--a tidy sum--no less than two hundred dollars. + +Wishful, the sad-faced, seemed to be importuning some one by the name of +"Jimmy Hicks" to make himself known, as the dice rattled across the +board. The players laughed as Wishful relinquished the dice. A lean +outlander, with a scarred face, took up the dice and made a throw. He +evidently did not want to locate an individual called "Little Joe," whom +he importuned incessantly to stay away. + +Side bets were made and bills and silver withdrawn or added to the pile +with a rapidity which amazed Bartley. Hitherto craps had meant to him +three or four newsboys in an alley and a little pile of nickels and +pennies. But this game was of robust proportions. It had pep and speed. + +Bartley became interested. His fingers itched to grasp the dice and try +his luck. But he realized that his amateurish knowledge of the game +would be an affront to those free-moving sons of the mesa. So he +contented himself with watching the game and the faces of the men as +they won or lost. Bartley felt that some one was close behind him +looking over his shoulder. Cheyenne's eyes were fixed on the player +known as "Panhandle," and on no other person at that table. Bartley +turned back to the game. + +Just then some one recognized Cheyenne and spoke his name. The game +stopped and Bartley saw several of the men glance curiously from +Cheyenne to the man known as "Panhandle." Then the game was resumed, but +it was a quieter game. One or two of the players withdrew. + +"Play a five for me," said Bartley, turning to Cheyenne. + +"I'll do that--fifty-fifty," said Cheyenne as Bartley stepped back and +handed him a bill. + +Cheyenne straightway elbowed deeper into the group and finally secured +the dice. Wishful, for some unknown reason, remarked that he would back +Cheyenne to win--"shootin' with either hand," Wishful concluded. Bartley +noticed that again one or two players withdrew and strolled to the bar. +Meanwhile, Cheyenne threw and sang a little song to himself. + +His throws were wild, careless, and lucky. Slowly he accumulated easy +wealth. His forehead was beaded with sweat. His eyes glistened. He +forgot his song. Bartley stepped over to the bar and chatted for a few +minutes with the proprietor, mentioning Senator Steve and his wife. + +When Bartley returned to the game the players had dwindled to a small +group--'Wishful, the man called "Panhandle," a fat Mexican, a railroad +engineer, and Cheyenne. + +Bartley turned to a bystander. + +"Cheyenne seems to be having all the luck," he said. + +"Is he a friend of yours?" + +"Never saw him until to-night." + +"He ain't as lucky as you think," stated the other significantly. + +"How is that?" + +"Panhandle, the man with the scar on his face, ain't no friend of +Cheyenne's." + +"Oh, I see." + +Bartley turned from the man, and watched the players. Wishful had +withdrawn from the game, but he stood near the table, watching closely. +Presently the fat Mexican quit playing and left. Cheyenne threw and won. +He played as though the dice were his and he was giving an exhibition +for the benefit of the other players. Finally the engineer quit, and +counted his winnings. Cheyenne and the man, Panhandle, faced each other, +with Bartley standing close to Cheyenne and Wishful, who had moved +around the table, standing close to Panhandle. + +Panhandle took up the dice. There was no joy in his play. He shot the +dice across the table viciously. Every throw was a, sort of insidious +insult to his competitor, Cheyenne. Bartley was more interested in the +performance than the actual winning or losing, although he realized that +Cheyenne was still a heavy winner. + +Presently Wishful stepped over to Bartley and touched his arm. Panhandle +and Cheyenne were intent upon their game. + +"You kin see better from that side of the table," said Wishful mildly, +yet with a peculiar significance. + +Bartley glanced up, his face expressing bewilderment. + +"I seen you slip Cheyenne a bill," murmured Wishful. "Accordin' to that, +you're backin' him. Thought I'd just mention it." + +"I don't understand what you're driving at," said Bartley. + +"That's just why I spoke to you." And Wishful's face expressed a sort of +sad wonder. But then, the Easterner had not been in town long and he did +not know Panhandle. + +Wishful turned away casually. Bartley noticed that he again took up his +position near Panhandle. + +This time Panhandle glanced up and asked Wishful if he didn't want to +come into the game. + +Wishful shook his head. "No use tryin' to bust his luck," he said, +indicating Cheyenne. + +"Oh, I don't know," said Panhandle. + +"And he's got good backin'," continued Wishful. + +Panhandle slanted a narrow glance toward Bartley, and Bartley felt that +the other had somehow or other managed to convey an insult and a +challenge in that glance, which suggested the contempt of the tough +Westerner for the supposedly tender Easterner. + +Bartley did not know just what was on the boards, aside from dice and +money, but he took Wishful's hint and moved around to Panhandle's side +of the table, leaving Cheyenne facing his competitor alone. Bartley +happened to catch Cheyenne's eye. The happy-go-lucky expression was +gone. Cheyenne's face seemed troubled, yet he played with his former +vigor and luck. + +Panhandle posed insolently, his thumb in his belt, watching the dice. He +was all but broke. Cheyenne kept rolling the bones, but now he evoked no +aid from the gods of African golf. His lips were set in a thin line. + +Suddenly he tossed up the dice, caught them and transferred them to his +right hand. Hitherto he had been shooting with his left. "I'll shoot +you, either hand," he said. + +"And win," murmured Wishful. + +Panhandle whirled and confronted Wishful. "I don't see any of your money +on the table," he snarled. + +"I'll come in--on the next game," stated Wishful mildly. + +Panhandle's last dollar was on the table. He reached forward and drew a +handful of bills from the pile and counted them. "Fifty," he said; +"fifty against the pot that you don't make your next throw." + +"Suits me," said Cheyenne, picking up the dice and shaking them. + +Cheyenne threw and won on the third try. Panhandle reached toward the +pile of money again. + +Cheyenne, who had not picked up the dice, stopped him. "You can't play +on that money," he stated tensely. "Half of it belongs to Mr. Bartley, +there." + +"What have you got to say about it," challenged Panhandle, turning to +Bartley. + +"Half of the money on the table is mine, according to agreement. I +backed Cheyenne to win." + +"No dam' tenderfoot can tell me where to head in!" exclaimed Panhandle. +"Go on and shoot, you yella-bellied waddie!" And Panhandle reached +toward the money. + +"Just a minute," said Bartley quietly. "The game is finished." + +"Take your mouth out of this, you dam' dude!" + +"Put your gun on the table--and then tell me that," said Bartley. + +Panhandle lowered his hand to his gun, hesitated, and then whirling, +slapped Bartley's face. + +Wishful, the silent, jerked out his own gun and rapped Panhandle on the +head. Panhandle dropped in a heap. + +It had happened so quickly that Bartley hardly realized what had +happened. Panhandle was on the floor, literally down and out. Bartley +was surprised that such an apparently light tap on the head should put a +man out. + +"Get him out of here," said Tom, the proprietor. "I don't want any rough +stuff in here. And if I were in your boots, Cheyenne, I'd leave town for +a while." + +"I'm leavin' to-morrow mornin'." Cheyenne was coolly counting his +winnings. + +Wishful, the silent, doused a glass of water in Panhandle's face. +Presently Panhandle was revived and helped from the saloon. His former +attitude of belligerency had entirely evaporated. Wishful followed him +to the hitch-rail and saw him mount his horse. + +"Your best bet is to fan it back where you come from, and stay there," +said Wishful softly. "You don't belong in this town, and you can't go +slappin' any of my guests in the face and get away with it. And when you +git so you can think it over, just figure that if I hadn't 'a' slowed +you down, Cheyenne would 'a' killed you." + +Panhandle did not feel like discussing the question just then. He left +without even turning to glance back. If he had glanced back, he would +have seen that Wishful had disappeared. Wishful, familiar with the ways +of Panhandle and his kind, immediately sought the shadows, leaving the +lighted doorway a blank. He entered the saloon from the rear. + +Cheyenne was endeavoring to make Bartley take half of the winnings. "You +staked me--and it's fifty-fifty, pardner," insisted Cheyenne. + +Finally Bartley accepted his share of the money and stuffed it into his +pocket. + +"Now I can get back at you," stated Cheyenne, gesturing toward the bar. + +His gesture included both Wishful and Bartley. Bartley, a bit shaken, +accepted the invitation. Wishful, not at all shaken, but rather a bit +more silent and melancholy than heretofore, also accepted. + +Alone in his room at the hotel, Bartley wondered what would have +happened if Wishful had not rapped Panhandle on the head. Bartley +recalled the fact that he had drawn back his arm, intending to take one +good punch at Panhandle, even if it were his last. But Panhandle had +crumpled down suddenly, silently, and Wishful had stood over him, gazing +down speculatively and swinging his gun back and forth before he +returned it to the holster. "They move quick, in this country," thought +Bartley. "And speaking of material for a story--" Then he smiled. + +Somewhere out on the mesa Cheyenne had spread his bed-roll and was no +doubt sleeping peacefully. Bartley shook his head. He had been in +Antelope but two days and yet it seemed that months had passed since he +had stepped from the westbound train to telegraph to his friend in +California. Incidentally, he decided to purchase an automatic pistol. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +A HORSE-TRADE + + +When Bartley came down to breakfast next morning he noticed two horses +tied at the hitch-rail in front of the hotel. One of the horses, a +rather stocky gray, bore a pack. The other, a short-coupled, sturdy +buckskin, was saddled. Evidently Cheyenne was trying to catch up with +his dinner schedule, for as Bartley entered the dining-room he saw him, +sitting face to face with a high stack of flapjacks, at the base of +which reposed two fried eggs among some curled slivers of bacon. + +Two railroad men, a red-eyed Eastern tourist who looked as though he had +not slept for a week, a saturnine cattleman in from the mesas, and two +visiting ladies from an adjacent town comprised the tale of guests that +morning. As Bartley came in the guests glanced at him curiously. They +had heard of the misunderstanding at the Blue Front. + +Cheyenne immediately rose and offered Bartley a chair at his table. The +two women, alone at their table, immediately became subdued and +watchful. They were gazing their first upon an author. Wishful had made +the fact known, with some pride. The ladies, whom Cheyenne designated as +"cow-bunnies,"---or wives of ranchers,--were dressed in their "best +clothes," and were trying to live up to them. They had about finished +breakfast, and shortly after Bartley was seated they rose. On their way +out they stopped at Cheyenne's table. + +"Don't forget to stop by when you ride our way," said one of the women. + +Bartley noticed the toil-worn hands, and the lines that hard work and +worry had graven in her face. Her "best clothes" rather accentuated +these details. But back of it all he sensed the resolute spirit of the +West, resourceful, progressive, large-visioned. + +"Meet Mr. Bartley," said Cheyenne unexpectedly. + +Which was just what the two women had been itching to do. Bartley rose +and shook hands with them. + +"A couple of lady friends of mine," said Cheyenne when they had gone. + +Cheyenne made no mention of the previous evening's game, or its climax. +Yet Bartley had gathered from Wishful that Panhandle Sears and Cheyenne +had an unsettled quarrel between them. + +In the hotel office Cheyenne purchased cigars and proffered Bartley a +half-dozen. Bartley took one. Cheyenne seemed disappointed. When cigars +were going round, it seemed strange not to take full advantage of the +circumstance. As they stepped out to the veranda, the horses recognized +Cheyenne and nickered gently. + +"Going south?" queried Bartley. + +"That's me. I got the silver changed to bills and some of the bills +changed to grub. I reckon I'll head south. Kind of wish you was headed +that way." + +Bartley bit the end from his cigar and lighted it, as he gazed out +across the morning mesa. A Navajo buck loped past and jerked his little +paint horse to a stop at the drug-store. + +Cheyenne, pulling up a cinch, smiled at Bartley. + +"That Injun was in a hurry till he got here. And he'll be in a hurry, +leavin'. But you notice how easy he takes it right now. Injuns has got +that dignity idea down fine." + +"Did he come in for medicine, perhaps?" + +"Mebby. But most like he's after chewin'-gum for his squaw, and +cigarettes for himself, with a bottle of red pop on the side. Injuns +always buy red pop." + +"Cigarettes and chewing-gum?" + +"Sure thing! Didn't you ever see a squaw chew gum and smoke a +tailor-made cigarette at the same time? You didn't, eh? Well, then, you +got somethin' comin'." + +"Romance!" laughed Bartley. + +"Ever sleep in a Injun hogan?" queried Cheyenne as he busied himself +adjusting the pack. + +"No. This is my first trip West." + +"I was forgettin'. Well, I ain't what you'd call a dude, but, honest, if +I was prospectin' round lookin' for Injun romance I'd use a pair of +field-glasses. Injuns is all right if you're far enough up wind from +'em." + +"When do you start?" asked Bartley. + +"Oh, 'most any time. And that's when I'll get there." + +"Well, give my regards to Senator Brown and his wife, if you happen to +see them." + +"Sure thing! I'm on my way. You know-- + + "I was top-hand once--but the trail for mine: + Git along, cayuse, git along! + But now I'm ridin' the old chuck line, + Feedin' good and a-feelin' fine: + Oh, some folks eat and some folks dine, + Git along, cayuse, git along!" + +Bartley smiled. Here was the real hobo, the irrepressible absolute. +Cheyenne stepped up and swung to the saddle with the effortless ease of +the old hand. Bartley noticed that the pack-horse had no lead-rope, nor +had he been tied. Bartley did not know that Filaree, the pack-horse, +would never let Joshua, the saddle-horse, out of his sight. They had +traveled the Arizona trails together for years. + +In spite of his happy-go-lucky indifference to persons and events, +Cheyenne had a sort of intuitive shrewdness in reading humans. And he +read in Bartley's glance a half-awakened desire to outfit and hit the +trail himself. But Cheyenne departed without suggesting any such idea. +Every man for himself was his motto. "And as for me," he added, aloud: + + Seems like I don't git anywhere, + Git along, cayuse, git along; + But we're leavin' here and we're goin' there: + Git along, cayuse, git along! + + With little ole Josh that steps right free, + And my ole gray pack-hoss, Filaree, + The world ain't got no rope on me: + Git along, cayuse, git along! + +Bartley watched him as he crossed the railroad tracks and turned down a +side street. + +Back in his room Bartley paced up and down, keeping time to the tune of +Cheyenne's trail song. The morning sun poured down upon the station roof +opposite, and danced flickering across the polished tracks of the +railroad. Presently Bartley stopped pacing his room and stood at the +window. Far out across the mesa he saw a rider, drifting along in the +sunshine, followed by a gray pack-horse. + +"By George!" exclaimed Bartley. "He may be a sort of wandering joke to +the citizens of this State, but he's doing what he wants to do, and +that's more than I'm doing. Just fifty miles to Senator Brown's ranch. +Drop in and see us. As the chap in Denver said when he wrote to his +friend in El Paso: 'Drop into Denver some evening and I'll show you the +sights.' Distance? Negligible. Time? An inconsequent factor. Big stuff! +As for me, I think I'll go downstairs and interview the pensive +Wishful." + +Wishful had the Navajo blankets and chairs piled up in the middle of the +hotel office and was thoughtfully sweeping out cigar ashes, cigarette +stubs, and burned matches. Wishful, besides being proprietor of the +Antelope House, was chambermaid, baggage-wrangler, clerk, advertising +manager, and, upon occasion, waiter in his own establishment. And he +kept a neat place. + +Bartley walked over to the desk. Wishful kept on sweeping. Bartley +glanced at the signatures on the register. Near the bottom of the page +he found Cheyenne's name, and opposite it "Arizona." + +"Where does Cheyenne belong, anyway?" queried Bartley. + +Wishful stopped sweeping and leaned on his broom. "Wherever he happens +to be." And Wishful sighed and began sweeping again. + +"What sort of traveling companion would he make?" + +Wishful stopped sweeping. His melancholy gaze was fixed on a defunct +cigar. "Never heard either of his hosses object to his company," he +replied. + +Bartley grinned and glanced up and down the register. Wishful dug into a +corner with his broom. Something shot rattling across the floor. Wishful +laid down the broom and upon hands and knees began a search. Presently +he rose. A slow smile illumined his face. He had found a pair of dice in +the litter on the floor. He made a throw, shook his head, and picked up +the dice. His sweeping became more sprightly. Amused by the +preoccupation of the lank and cautiously humorous Wishful, Bartley +touched the bell on the desk. Wishful promptly stood his broom against +the wall, rolled down his sleeves, and stepped behind the counter. + +"I think I'll pay my bill," said Bartley. + +Wishful promptly named the amount. Bartley proffered a ten-dollar bill. + +Wishful searched in the till for change. He shook his head. "You got two +dollars comin'," he stated. + +"I'll shake you for that two dollars," said Bartley. + +Wishful's tired eyes lighted up. "You said somethin'." And he produced +the dice. + +Just then the distant "Zoom" of the westbound Overland shook the +silence. Wishful hesitated, then gestured magnificently toward space. +What was the arrival of a mere train, with possibly a guest or so for +the hotel, compared with a game of craps? + +While they played, the train steamed in and was gone. Wishful won the +two dollars. + +Bartley escaped to the veranda and his reflections. Presently he rose +and strolled round to the corral. Wishful's three saddle-animals were +lazying in the heat. Bartley was not unfamiliar with the good points of +a horse. He rejected the sorrel with the Roman nose, as stubborn and +foolish. The flea-bitten gray was all horse, but he had a white-rimmed +eye. The chestnut bay was a big, hardy animal, but he appeared rather +slow and deliberate. Yet he had good, solid feet, plenty of bone, deep +withers, and powerful hindquarters. + +Bartley stepped round to the hotel. "Have you a minute to spare?" he +queried as Wishful finished rearranging the furniture of the lobby. + +Wishful had. He followed Bartley round to the corral. + +"I'm thinking of buying a saddle-horse," stated Bartley. + +Wishful leaned his elbows on the corral bar. "Why don't you rent +one--and turn him in when you're through with him." + +"I'd rather own one, and I may use him a long time." + +"I ain't sufferin' to sell any of my hosses, Mr. Bartley. But I wouldn't +turn down a fair offer." + +"Set a price on that sorrel," said Bartley. + +Now, Wishful was willing to part with the sorrel, which was showy and +looked fast. Bartley did not want the animal. He merely wanted to arrive +at a basis from which to work. + +"Well," drawled Wishful, "I'd let him go for a hundred." + +"What will you take for the gray?" + +"Him? Well, he's the best hoss I got. I don't think he's your kind of a +hoss." + +"The best, eh? And a hundred for the sorrel." Bartley appeared to +reflect. + +Wishful really wanted to sell the gray, describing him as the best horse +he owned to awaken Bartley's interest. The best horse in the corral was +the big bay cow-horse; but Wishful had no idea that Bartley knew that. + +"Would you put a price on the gray?" queried Bartley. + +"Why, sure! You can have him, for a hundred and twenty-five." + +"A hundred for the sorrel--and a hundred and twenty-five for the gray; +is that correct?" + +"Yep." + +"And you say the gray is the best horse in the corral?" + +"He sure is!" + +"All right. I'll give you a hundred for that big bay, there. I don't +want to rob you of your best horse, Wishful." + +Wishful saw that he was cornered. He had cornered himself, premising +that the Easterner didn't know horses. "That bay ain't much account, Mr. +Bartley. He's slow--nothin' but a ole cow-hoss I kind of keep around for +odd jobs of ropin' and such." + +"Well, he's good enough for me. I'll give you a hundred for him." + +Wishful scratched his head. He did not want to sell the bay for that +sum, yet he was too good a sport to go back on his word. + +"Say, where was you raised?" he queried abruptly. + +"In Kentucky." + +"Hell, I thought you was from New York?" + +"I lived in Kentucky until I was twenty-five." + +"Was your folks hoss-traders?" + +"Not exactly," laughed Bartley. "My father always kept a few good +saddle-horses, however." + +"Uh-huh? I reckon he did. And you ain't forgot what a real hoss looks +like, either." Wishful's pensive countenance lighted suddenly. "You'll +be wantin' a rig--saddle and bridle and slicker and saddle-bags. Now I +got just what you want." + +Bartley stepped to the stable and inspected the outfit. It was old and +worn, and worth, Bartley estimated, about thirty dollars, all told. + +"I'll let you have the whole outfit--hoss and rig and all, for two +hundred," stated Wishful unblushingly. + +"I priced a saddle, over in the shop across from the station, this +morning," said Bartley. + +"With bridle and blanket and saddle-pockets it would only stand me +ninety dollars. If the bay is the poorest horse you own, then at your +figure this outfit would come rather high." + +"I might 'a' knowed it!" stated Wishful. "Say, Mr. Bartley, give me a +hundred and fifty for the hoss and I'll throw in the rig." + +"No. I know friendship ceases when a horse-trade begins; but I am only +taking you at your word." + +"I sure done overlooked a bet, this trip," said Wishful. "Say, I reckon +you must 'a' cut your first tooth on a cinch-ring. I done learnt +somethin' this mornin'. Private eddication comes high, but I'm game. +Write your check for a hundred--and take the bay. By rights I ought to +give him to you, seein as how you done roped and branded me for a +blattin' yearlin' the first throw; and you been out West just three +days! You'll git along in this country." + +"I hope so," laughed Bartley. "Speaking of getting along, I plan to +visit Senator Brown. How long will it take me to get there, riding the +bay?" + +"He's got a runnin' walk that is good for six miles an hour. He's a +walkin' fool. And anything you git your rope on, he'll hold it till +you're gray-headed and got whiskers. That ole hoss is the best cow-hoss +in Antelope County--and I'm referrin' you to Steve Brown to back me up. +I bought that hoss from Steve. Any time you see the Box-S brand on a +hoss, you can figure he's a good one." + +"I suppose I'd have to camp on the mesa two or three nights," said +Bartley. + +"Nope! Ole Dobe'll make it in two days. He don't look fast, but the +trail sure fades behind him when he's travelin'. I'm kind of glad you +didn't try to buy the Antelope House. You'd started in pricin' the +stable, and kind of milled around and ast me what I'd sell the kitchen +for, and afore I knowed it, you'd 'a' had me selling the hotel for less +than the stable. I figure you'd made a amazin' hand at shootin' craps." + +"Let's step over and buy that saddle, and the rest of it. Will you +engineer the deal? I don't know much about Western saddlery." + +"Shucks! You can take that ole rig I was showin' you. She ain't much on +looks, but she's all there." + +"Thanks. But I'd rather buy a new outfit." + +"When do you aim to start?" + +"Right away. I suppose I'll need a blanket and some provisions." + +"Yes. But you'll catch up with Cheyenne, if you keep movin'. He won't +travel fast with a pack-hoss along. He'll most like camp at the first +water, about twenty-five miles south. But you can pack some grub in your +saddle-bags, and play safe. And take a canteen along." + +Wishful superintended the purchasing of the new outfit, and seemed +unusually keen about seeing Bartley well provided for at the minimum +cost. Wishful's respect for the Easterner had been greatly enhanced by +the recent horse-deal. When it came to the question of clothing, Wishful +wisely suggested overalls and a rowdy, as being weather and brush proof. +Incidentally Wishful asked Bartley why he had paid his bill before he +had actually prepared to start on the journey. Bartley told Wishful that +he would not have prepared to start had he not paid the bill on impulse. + +"Well, some folks git started on impulse, afore they pay their bills, +and keep right on fannin' it," asserted Wishful. + +An hour later Bartley was ready for the trail. With some food in the +saddle-pockets, a blanket tied behind the cantle, and a small canteen +hung on the horn, he felt equipped to make the journey. Wishful +suggested that he stay until after the noon hour, but Bartley declined. +He would eat a sandwich or two on the way. + +"And ole Dobe knows the trail to Steve's ranch," said Wishful, as he +walked around horse and rider, giving them a final inspection. "And you +don't have to cinch ole Dobe extra tight," he advised. "He carries a +saddle good. 'Course that new leather will stretch some." + +"How old _is_ Dobe?" queried Bartley. "You keep calling him 'old.'" + +"I seen you mouthin' him, after you had saddled him. How old would _you_ +say?" + +"Seven, going on eight." + +"Git along! And if anybody gits the best of you in a hoss-trade, wire me +collect. It'll sure be news!" + +Bartley settled himself in the saddle and touched Dobe with the spurs. + +"Give my regards to Senator Steve--and Cheyenne," called Wishful. + +Wishful stood gazing after his recent guest until he had disappeared +around a corner. + +Then Wishful strode into the hotel office and marked a blue cross on the +big wall calendar. A humorous smile played about his mouth. It was a +mark to indicate the day and date that an Eastern tenderfoot had got the +best of him in a horse-deal. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +AT THE WATER-HOLE + + +Before Bartley had been riding an hour he knew that he had a good horse +under him. Dobe "followed his head" and did not flirt with his shadow, +although he was grain-fed and ready to go. When Dobe trotted--an easy, +swinging trot that ate into the miles--Bartley tried to post, English +style. But Dobe did not understand that style of riding a trot. Each +time Bartley raised in the stirrups, Dobe took it for a signal to lope. +Finally Bartley caught the knack of leaning forward and riding a trot +with a straight leg, and to his surprise he found it was a mighty +satisfactory method and much easier than posting. + +The mesa trail was wide--in reality a cross-country road, so Bartley had +opportunity to try Dobe's different gaits. The running walk was a joy to +experience, the trot was easy, and the lope as regular and smooth as the +swing of a pendulum. Finally Bartley settled to the best long-distance +gait of all, the running walk, and began to enjoy the vista; the +wide-sweeping, southern reaches dotted with buttes, the line of the far +hills crowded against the sky, and the intense light in which there was +no faintest trace of blur or moisture. Everything within normal range of +vision stood out clean-edged and definite. + +Unaccustomed to riding a horse that neck-reined at the merest touch, and +one that stopped at the slightest tightening of the rein, Bartley had to +learn through experience that a spade bit requires delicate handling. He +was jogging along easily when he turned to glance back at the town--now +a far, huddled group of tiny buildings. Inadvertently he tightened rein. +Dobe stopped short. Bartley promptly went over the fork and slid to the +ground. + +Dobe gazed down at his rider curiously, ears cocked forward, as though +trying to understand just what his rider meant to do next. Bartley +expected to see the horse whirl and leave for home. But Dobe stood +patiently until his rider had mounted. Bartley glanced round covertly, +wondering if any one had witnessed his impromptu descent. Then he +laughed, realizing that it was a long way to Central Park, flat saddles +and snaffles. + +A little later he ate two of the sandwiches Wishful had thoughtfully +provided, and drank from the canteen. Gradually the shadows of the +buttes lengthened. The afternoon heat ebbed away in little, infrequent +puffs of wind. The western reaches of the great mesa seemed to expand, +while the southern horizon drew nearer. + +Presently Bartley noticed pony tracks on the road, and either side of +the tracks the mark of wheels. Here the wagon had swung aside to avoid a +bit of bad going, yet the tracks of two horses still kept the middle of +the road. "Senator Brown--and Cheyenne," thought Bartley, studying the +tracks. He became interested in them. Here, again, Cheyenne had +dismounted, possibly to tighten a cinch. There was the stub of a +cigarette. Farther along the tracks were lost in the rocky ground of the +petrified forest. He had made twenty miles without realizing it. + +Winding in and out among the shattered and fallen trunks of those +prehistoric trees, Bartley forgot where he was until he passed the +bluish-gray sweep of burned earth edging the forest. Presently a few +dwarf junipers appeared. He was getting higher, although the mesa seemed +level. Again he discovered the tracks of the horses in the powdered red +clay of the road. + +He crossed a shallow arroyo, sandy and wide. Later he came suddenly upon +a red clay cutbank, and a hint of water where the bank shadowed the +mud-smeared rocks. He rode slowly, preoccupied in studying the country. +The sun showed close to the rim of the world when he finally realized +that, if he meant to get anywhere, he had better be about it. Dobe +promptly caught the change of his rider's mental attitude and stepped +out briskly. Bartley patted the horse's neck. + +It was a pleasure to ride an animal that seemed to want to work with a +man and not against him. The horse had cost one hundred dollars--a fair +price for such a horse in those days. Yet Bartley thought it a very +reasonable price. And he knew he had a bargain. He felt clearly +confident that the big cow-pony would serve him in any circumstance or +hazard. + +As a long, undulating stretch of road appeared, softly brown in the +shadows, Bartley began to look about for the water-hole which Wishful +had spoken about. The sun slipped from sight. The dim, gray road reached +on and on, shortening in perspective as the quick night swept down. + +Beyond and about was a dusky wall through which loomed queer shapes that +seemed to move and change until, approached, they became junipers. +Bartley's gaze became fixed upon the road. That, at least, was a +reality. He reached back and untied his coat and swung into it. An early +star flared over the southern hills. He wondered if he had passed the +water-hole. He had a canteen, but Dobe would need water. But Dobe was +thoroughly familiar with the trail from Antelope to the White Hills. And +Dobe smelled the presence of his kind, even while Bartley, peering ahead +in the dusk, rode on, not aware that some one was camped within calling +distance of the trail. A cluster of junipers hid the faint glow of the +camp-fire. + +Dobe stopped suddenly. Bartley urged him on. For the first time the big +horse showed an inclination to ignore the rein. Bartley gazed round, saw +nothing in particular, and spoke to the horse, urging him forward. Dobe +turned and marched deliberately away from the road, heading toward the +west, and nickered. From behind the screen of junipers came an answering +nicker. Bartley hallooed. No one answered him. Yet Dobe seemed to know +what he was about. He plodded on, down a slight grade. Suddenly the soft +glow of a camp-fire illumined the hollow. + +A blanket-roll, a saddle, a coil of rope, and a battered canteen and the +fire--but no habitant of the camp. + +"Hello!" shouted Bartley. + +Dobe shied and snorted as a figure loomed in the dusk, and Cheyenne was +peering up at him. + +"Is this the water-hole?" Bartley asked inanely. + +"This is her. I'm sure glad to see you! I feel like a plumb fool for +standin' you up that way--but I didn't quite get you till I seen your +face. I thought I knowed your voice, but I never did see you in jeans, +and ridin' a hoss before. And that hat ain't like the one you wore in +Antelope." + +"Then you didn't know just what to expect?" + +"I wa'n't sure. But say, I got some coffee goin'--and some bacon. Light +down and give your saddle a rest." + +"I'll just water my horse and stake him out and--" + +"I'll show you where. I see you're ridin' Dobe. Wishful rent him to +you?" + +"No. I bought him." + +"If you don't mind tellin' me--how much?" + +"A hundred." + +"Was Wishful drunk?" + +"No." + +"Well, you got a real hoss, there. The water is right close. Old Dobe +knows where it is. Just lift off your saddle and turn him loose--or +mebby you better hobble him the first night. He ain't used to travelin' +with you, yet." + +"I have a stake-rope," said Bartley. + +"A hoss would starve on a stake-rope out here. I'll make you a pair of +hobbles, pronto. Then he'll stick with my hosses." + +"Where are they?" + +"Runnin' around out there somewhere. They never stray far from camp." + +Bartley watched Cheyenne untwist a piece of soft rope and make a pair of +serviceable hobbles. + +"Now he'll travel easy and git enough grass to keep him in shape. And +them hobbles won't burn him. Any time you're shy of hobbles, that's how +to make 'em." + +Later, as Bartley sat by the fire and ate, Cheyenne asked him if +Panhandle had been seen in town since the night of the crap game. +Bartley told him that he had seen nothing of Panhandle. + +"He's ridin' this country, somewhere," said Cheyenne. "You're headed for +Steve's ranch?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, Steve'll sure give you the time of your life." + +"I think I'll stay there a few days, if the Senator can make room for +me." + +"Room! Wait till you see Steve's place. And say, if you want to get wise +to how they run a cattle outfit, just throw in with the boys, tell 'em +you're a plumb tenderfoot and can't ride a bronc, nohow, and that you +never took down a rope in your life, and that all you know about cattle +is what you've et, and then the boys will use you white. There's nothin' +puts a fella in wrong with the boys quicker than for him to let on he is +a hand when he ain't. 'Course the boys won't mind seem' you top a bronc +and get throwed, just to see if you got sand." + +Meanwhile Cheyenne manipulated the coffee-pot and skillet most +effectively. And while Bartley ate his supper, Cheyenne talked, +seemingly glad to have a companion to talk to. + +"You see," he began, apropos of nothing in particular, "entertainin' +folks with the latest news is my long suit. I'm kind of a travelin' +show, singin' and packin' the news around to everybody. 'Course folks +read the paper and hear about somebody gettin' married, or gettin' shot +or leavin' the country, and then they ask me the how of it. I been +ramblin' so long that I know the pedigrees of 'most everybody down this +way. + +"Newspapers is all right, but folks get plumb hungry to git their news +with human trimmin's. I recollec' I come mighty near gettin' in trouble, +onct. Steve had some folks visitin' down to his ranch. They was new to +the country, and seems they locked horns with a outfit runnin' sheep +just south of Springerville. Now, I hadn't been down that way for about +six months, but I had heard of that ruckus. So after Steve lets me sing +a couple of songs, and I got to feelin' comfortable with them new folks, +I set to and tells 'em about the ruckus down near Springerville. I guess +the fella that told me must 'a' got his reins crossed, for pretty soon +Steve starts to laugh and turns to them visitors and says: 'How about +it, Mr. Smith?' + +"Now, Smith was the fella that had the ruckus, and I'd been tellin' how +that sheep outfit had run _him_ out of the country. He was a young, +long, spindlin' hombre from Texas--a reg'lar Whicker-bill, with that +drawlin' kind of a voice that hosses and folks listen to. I knowed he +was from Texas the minute I seen him, but I sure didn't know he was the +man I was talkin' about. + +"Everybody laughed but him and his wife. I reckon she was feelin' her +oats, visitin' at the Senator's house. I don't know what she said to her +husband, but, anyhow, afore I left for the bunk-house that evenin', he +says, slow and easy, that if I was around there next mornin', he would +explain all about that ruckus to me, when the ladies weren't present, so +I wouldn't get it wrong, next time. I seen I had made a mistake for +myself, and I didn't aim to make another, so I just kind of eased off +and faded away, bushin' down that night a far piece from Senator Steve's +ranch. I know them Whicker-bills and I didn't want to tangle with any of +'em." + +"Afraid you'd get shot?" queried Bartley, laughing. + +"Shot? Me? No, pardner. I was afraid that Texas gent would get shot. You +see, he was married--and I--ain't." + +Bartley lay back on his saddle and gazed up at the stars. The little +fire had died down to a dot of red. A coyote yelped in the far dusk. +Another coyote replied. Cheyenne rose and threw some wood on the fire. +Then he stepped down to the water-hole and washed the plates and cups. +Bartley could hear the peculiar thumping sound of hobbled horses moving +about on the mesa. Cheyenne returned to the fire, picked up his +bed-roll, and marched off into the bushes. Bartley wondered why he +should take the trouble to move his bed-roll such a distance from the +water-hole. + +"Pack your saddle and blanket over, when you feel like turnin' in," said +Cheyenne. "And you might throw some dirt on that fire. I ain't lookin' +for visitors down this way, but you can't tell." + +Bartley carried his saddle out to the distant clump of junipers. + +"Just shed your coat and boots and turn in," invited Cheyenne. + +Bartley was not sleepy, and for a long time he lay gazing up at the +stars. Presently he heard Cheyenne snore. The Big Dipper grew dim. Then +a coyote yelped--a shrill cadence of mocking laughter. "I wonder what +the joke is?" Bartley thought drowsily. + +Sometime during the night he was awakened by the tramping of horses, a +sound that ran along the ground and diminished in the distance. + +Cheyenne was sitting up. He touched Bartley. "Five or six of 'em," +whispered Cheyenne. + +"Our horses?" + +"Too many. Mebby some strays." + +"Or cowboys," suggested Bartley. + +"Night-ridin' ain't so popular out here." + +Bartley turned over and fell asleep. It seemed but a moment later that +he was wide awake and Cheyenne was standing over him. It was daylight. + +"They got our hosses," said Cheyenne. + +"Who?" + +"I dunno." + +"What? _Our_ horses? Great Scott, how far is it to Senator Brown's +ranch?" + +"About twenty-five miles, by road. I know a short cut." + +Bartley jumped up and pulled on his boots. From the far hills came the +faint yelp of a coyote, shrill and derisive. + +"The joke is on us," said Bartley. + +"This here ain't no joke," stated Cheyenne. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS + + +Bartley suggested that, perhaps, the horses had strayed. + +Cheyenne shook his head. "My hosses ain't leavin' good feed, or leavin' +me. They know this here country." + +"Perhaps Dobe left for home and the rest followed him," said Bartley. + +"Nope. Our hosses was roped and led south." + +Bartley stared at Cheyenne, whose usually placid countenance expressed +indecision and worry. Cheyenne seemed positive about the missing horses. +Then Bartley saw an expression in Cheyenne's eyes that indicated more +sternness of spirit than he had given Cheyenne credit for. + +"Roped and led south," reiterated Cheyenne. + +"How do you know it?" + +"I been scoutin' around. The bunch that rode by last night was leadin' +hosses. I could tell by the way the hosses was travelin'. They was goin' +steady. If they'd been drivin' our hosses ahead, they would 'a' gone +faster, tryin' to keep 'em from turnin' back. I don't see nothin' around +camp to show who's been here." + +"I'll make a fire," said Bartley. + +"You got the right idea. We can eat. Then I aim to look around." + +Cheyenne was over in the bushes rolling his bed when Bartley called to +him, and he found Bartley pointing at a pair of dice on a flat rock +beside the fire. + +Cheyenne stooped and picked up the dice. "Was you rattlin' the bones to +see if you could beat yourself?" + +"I found them here. Are they yours?" + +"Nope. And they weren't here last evenin'." + +Cheyenne turned and strode out to the road while Bartley made breakfast. +Cheyenne was gone a long time, examining the tracks of horses. When he +returned he squatted down and ate. + +Presently he rose. "First off, I thought they might 'a' been some stray +Apaches or Cholas. But they don't pack dice. And the bunch that rode by +last night was ridin' shod bosses." + +Bartley turned slowly toward his companion. "Panhandle?" he queried. + +"And these here dice? Looks like it. It's like him to leave them dice +for us to play with while he trails south with our stack. I reckon it +was that Dobe hoss he was after. But he must 'a' knowed who was campin' +around here. You see, when Wishful kind of hinted to Panhandle to leave +town, Panhandle figured that meant to stay out of Antelope quite a +spell. First off he steals some hosses. Next thing, he'll sell 'em or +trade 'em, down south of here. He'll travel nights, mostly." + +"I can't see why he should especially pick us out as his victims," said +Bartley. + +"I don't say he did. But it would make no difference to him. He'd steal +any man's stock. Only, I figure some of his friends must 'a' told him +about you--that seen you ridin' down this way. He would know our camp +would be somewhere near this water-hole. What kind of matches you got +with you?" + +"Why--this kind." And Bartley produced a few blue-top matches. + +"This here is a old-timer sulphur match, cut square. It was right here, +by the rock. Somebody lit a match and laid them dice there--sixes up. No +reg'lar hoss-thief would take that much trouble to advertise himself. +Panhandle done it--and he wanted me to know he done it." + +"You've had trouble with him before, haven't you?" + +"Yes--and no man can say I ever trailed him. But I never stepped out of +his way." + +"Then that crap game in Antelope meant more than an ordinary crap game?" +said Bartley. + +"He had his chance," stated Cheyenne. + +"Well, we're in a fix," asserted Bartley. + +"Yes; we're afoot. But we'll make it. And right here I'm tellin' you +that I aim to shoot a game of craps with Panhandle, usin' these here +dice, that'll be fast and won't last long." + +"How about the law?" + +"The law is all right, in spots. But they's a whole lot of country +between them spots." + +Cheyenne cached the bed-roll, saddles, and cooking-outfit back in the +brush, taking only a canteen and a little food. He proffered a pair of +moccasins, parfleche-soled and comfortable, to Bartley. + +"You wear these. Them new ridin'-boots'll sure kill you dead, walkin'. +You can pack 'em along with you." + +"How about your feet?" + +"Say, you wouldn't call me a tenderfoot, would you?" + +"Not exactly." + +"Then slip on them moccasins. But first I aim to make a circle and see +just where they caught up our stock." + +Bartley drew on the moccasins and, tying his boots together, rolled them +in his blanket. Meanwhile, Cheyenne circled the camp far out, examining +the scattered tracks of horses. When he returned the morning sun was +beginning to make itself felt. + +"I'll toss up to see who wears the moccasins," said Bartley. "I'm more +used to hiking than you are." + +"Spin her!" + +As Bartley tossed the coin, Cheyenne called. The half-dollar dropped and +stuck edge-up in the sand. + +"You wear 'em the first fifteen miles and then we'll swap," said +Cheyenne. + +Bartley filled the canteen and scraped dirt over the fire. Cheyenne took +a last look around, and turned toward the south. + +"You didn't say nothin' about headin' back to Antelope," said Cheyenne. + +"Why, no. I started out to visit Senator Brown's ranch." + +Cheyenne laughed. "Well, you're out to see the country, anyhow. We'll +see lots, to-day." + +Once more upon the road Cheyenne's manner changed. He seemed to ignore +the fact that he was afoot, in country where there was little prospect +of getting a lift from a passing rancher or freighter. And he said +nothing about his horses, Filaree and Joshua, although Bartley knew that +their loss must have hit him hard. + +A mile down the road, and Cheyenne was singing his trail song, +bow-legging ahead as though he were entirely alone and indifferent to +the journey: + + Seems like I don't git anywhere: + Git along, cayuse, git along! + But I'm leavin' here and I'm goin' there, + Git along, cayuse, git along-- + +He stopped suddenly, pulled his faded black Stetson over one eye, and +then stepped out again, singing on: + + They ain't no water and they ain't no shade: + They ain't no beer or lemonade, + But I reckon most like we'll make the grade + Git along, cayuse, git along. + +"That's the stuff!" laughed Bartley. "A stanza or two of that every few +miles, and we'll make the grade all right. That last was improvised, +wasn't it?" + +"Nope. Just naturalized. I make 'em up when I'm ridin' along, to kind of +fit into the scenery. Impervisin' gets my wind." + +"Well, if you are singing when we finish, you're a wonder," stated +Bartley. + +"Oh, I'm a wonder, all right! And mebby I don't feel like a plumb fool, +footin' it into Steve's ranch with no hosses and no bed-roll and no +reputation. And I sure lose mine this trip. Why, folks all over the +country will josh me to death when they hear Panhandle Sears set me +afoot on the big mesa. I reckon I'll have to kind of change my route +till somethin' happens to make folks forget this here bobble." + +Another five miles of hot and monotonous plodding, and Cheyenne stopped +and sat down. He pulled off his boots. + +Bartley offered the moccasins, but Cheyenne waved the offer aside. + +"Just coolin' my feet," he explained. "It ain't so much the kind of +boots, because these fit. It's scaldin' your feet that throws you." + +They smoked and drank from the canteen. Five minutes' rest, and they +were on the road again. The big mesa reached on and on toward the south, +seemingly limitless, without sign of fence or civilization save for the +narrow road that swung over each slight, rounded rise and ran away into +the distance, narrowing to a gray line that disappeared in space. + +Occasionally singing, Cheyenne strode along, Bartley striding beside +him. + +"You got a stride like a unbroke yearlin'," said; Cheyenne, as Bartley +unconsciously drew ahead. + +Bartley stopped and turned into step as Cheyenne caught up. He held +himself to a slower pace, realizing that, while his companion could have +outridden him by days and miles, the other was not used to walking. + +As they topped a low rise a coyote sprang up and floated away. Bartley +flinched as Cheyenne whipped up his gun and fired. The coyote +jack-knifed and lay still. Cheyenne punched the empty shell from his +gun, slipped in a cartridge, and strode on. + +"Pretty fast work," remarked Bartley. + +"Huh! I just throwed down on him to see if I was gettin' slow." + +"It seems to me that if I could shoot like that, I wouldn't let any man +back me down," said Bartley. + +"Mebby so. But you're wrong, old-timer. Bein' fast with a gun is just +like advertisin' for the coroner. Me, I'm plumb peaceful." + +A few miles farther along they nooned in the shade of a piñion. When +they started down the road again, Bartley noticed that Cheyenne limped +slightly. But Cheyenne still refused to put on the moccasins. Bartley +argued that his own feet were getting tender. He was unaccustomed to +moccasins. Cheyenne turned this argument aside by singing a stanza of +his trail song. + +Also, incidentally, Cheyenne had been keeping his eye on the +horse-tracks; and just before they left the main road taking a short +cut, he pointed to them. "There's Filaree's tracks, and there's +Joshua's. Your hoss has been travelin' over here, on the edge. Them +hoss-thieves figure to hit into the White Hills and cut down through the +Apache forest, most like." + +"Will they sell the horses?" + +"Yes. Or trade 'em for whiskey. Panhandle's got friends up in them +hills." + +"How far is it to the ranch?" queried Bartley. + +"We done reached her. We're on Steve's ranch, right now. It's about five +miles from that first fence over there to his house, by trail. It's +fifteen by road." + +"Then here is where you take the moccasins." + +"Nope. My feet are so swelled you couldn't start my boots with a fence +stretcher. They's no use both of us gettin' cripped up." + +Bartley's own feet ached from the constant bruising of pebbles. + +Presently Cheyenne dropped back and asked Bartley to set the pace. + +"I'll just tie to your shadow," said Cheyenne. "Keeps me interested. +When I'm drillin' along ahead I can't think of nothin' but my feet." + +Because there was now no road and scarcely a trail, Bartley began to +choose his footing, dodging the rougher places. The muscles of his +calves ached under the unaccustomed strain of walking without heels. +Cheyenne dogged along behind, suffering keenly from blistered feet, but +centering his attention on Bartley's bobbing shadow. They had made about +two miles across country when the faint trail ran round a butte and +dipped into a shallow arroyo. + +The arroyo deepened to a gulch, narrow and rocky. Up the gulch a few +hundred yards they came suddenly upon a bunch of Hereford cattle headed +by a magnificent bull. The trail ran in the bottom of the gulch. On +either side the walls were steep and rocky. Angling junipers stuck out +from the walls in occasional dots of green. + +"That ole white-face sure looks hostile," Cheyenne remarked. "Git along, +you ole Mormon; curl your tail and drift." + +Cheyenne heaved a stone which took the bull fairly between the eyes. The +bull shook his head and snapped his tail, but did not move. The cattle +behind the bull stared blandly at the invaders of their domain. The +bull, being an aristocrat, gave warning of his intent to charge by +shaking his head and bellowing. Then he charged. + +Cheyenne stooped for another stone, but Bartley had no intention of +playing ping-pong with a roaring red avalanche. Bartley made for the +side of the gulch and, catching hold of the bole of a juniper, drew +himself up. Cheyenne stood to his guns, shied a third stone, scored a +bull's-eye, and then decided to evacuate in favor of the enemy. His feet +were sore, but he managed to keep a good three jumps ahead of the bull, +up the precipitous bank of the gulch. There was no time to swing into +the tree where Bartley had taken refuge, so Cheyenne backed into a +shallow depression beneath the roots of the juniper. + +The bull shook his head and butted at Cheyenne. Cheyenne slapped the +bull's nose with his hat. The bull backed part-way down the grade, +snapped his tail, and bellowed. Up the grade he charged again. He could +not quite reach Cheyenne, who slapped at the bull with his hat and spake +eloquently. + +Bartley, clinging to his precarious perch, gazed down upon the scene, +wondering if he had not better take a shot at the bull. "Shall I let him +have it?" he queried. + +"Have what?" came the muffled voice of Cheyenne. "He's 'most got what +he's after, right now." + +"Shall I shoot him?" + +"Hell, no! No use beefin' twelve hundred dollars' worth of meat. We +don't need that much." + +"Look out! He's coming again!" called Bartley. + +Cheyenne had suddenly poked his head out of the shallow cave. The bull +charged, backed down, and amused himself by tossing dirt over his +shoulders and grumbling like distant thunder. + +"Perhaps if you stay in that cave and don't show yourself, he'll leave," +suggested Bartley. + +"Stay nothin'!" answered Cheyenne. "There's a rattler in this here cave. +I can hear him singin'. I'm comin' out, right now!" + +Bartley leaned forward and glanced down. The branch on which he was +straddled snapped. + +"Look out below!" he shouted as he felt himself going. + +Bartley's surprising evolution was too much for his majesty the bull, +who whirled and galloped clumsily down the slope. Bartley rolled to the +bottom, still holding to a broken branch of the tree. Cheyenne was also +at the bottom of the gulch. The bull was trotting heavily toward his +herd. + +"Is there anything hooked to the back of my jeans?" queried Cheyenne. + +"No. They're torn; that's all." + +"Huh! I thought mebby that ole snake had hooked on to my jeans. He +sounded right mad, singin' lively, back in there. My laigs feel kind of +limp, right now." + +Cheyenne felt of his torn overalls, shook his head, and then a slow +smile illumined his face. "How do you like this here country, anyhow?" + +"Great!" said Bartley. + + + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +AT THE BOX-S + + +When they emerged from the western end of the gulch, they paused to +rest. Not over a half-mile south stood the ranch-house, just back of a +row of giant cottonwoods. + +Cheyenne pointed out the stables, corrals, and bunk-house. "A mighty +neat little outfit," he remarked, as they started on again. + +"Little?" + +"Senator Steve's only got about sixty thousand acres under fence." + +"Then I'd like to see a big ranch," laughed Bartley. + +"You can't. They ain't nothin' to see more'n you see right now. Why, I +know a outfit down in Texas that would call this here ranch their north +pasture--and they got three more about the same size, besides the +regular range. But standin' in any one place you can't see any more than +you do right now. Steve just keeps up this here ranch so he can have +elbow-room. Yonder comes one of his boys. Reckon he seen us." + +A rider had just reined his horse round and was loping toward them. + +"He seen we was afoot," said Cheyenne. + +"Mighty decent of him--" began Bartley, but Cheyenne waved the +suggestion aside. "Decent nothin'! A man afoot looks as queer to a +waddie as we did to that ole bull." + +The puncher loped up, recognized Cheyenne, nodded to Bartley, and seemed +to hesitate. Cheyenne made no explanation of their plight, so the +puncher simply turned back and loped toward the ranch-house. + +"Just steppin' over to tell Steve we're here," said Cheyenne, as +Bartley's face expressed astonishment. + +They plodded on, came to a gate, limped down a long lane, came to +another gate, and there Senator Steve met them. + +"I'd 'a' sent a man with a buckboard if I had known you planned to walk +over from Antelope," he asserted, and his eyes twinkled. + +Cheyenne frowned prodigiously. "Steve," he said slowly, "you can +lovin'ly and trustfully go plumb to hell!" + +Cheyenne turned and limped slowly toward the bunk-house. + +Mrs. Brown welcomed Bartley as the Senator ushered him into the +living-room. The Senator half-filled a tumbler from a cold, dark bottle +and handed it to Bartley. + +"'Green River,'" he said. + +"Mrs. Brown," said Bartley as he bowed. + +Then the Senator escorted Bartley to the bathroom. The tub was already +filled with steaming water. A row of snow-white towels hung on the rack. +The Senator waved his hand and, stepping out, closed the door. + +A few minutes later he knocked at the bathroom door. "There's a spare +razor in the cabinet, and all the fixings. And when you're ready there's +a pair of clean socks on the doorknob." + +Bartley heard the Senator's heavy, deliberate step as he passed down the +hallway. + +"A little 'Green River,' a hot bath, and clean socks," murmured Bartley. +"Things might be worse." + +His tired muscles relaxed under the beneficent warmth of the bath. He +shaved, dressed, and stepped out into the hall. He sniffed. "Chicken!" +he murmured soulfully. + +Mrs. Senator Brown was supervising the cooking of a dinner that Bartley +never forgot. Boiled chicken, dumplings, rich gravy, mashed potatoes, +creamed carrots, sliced tomatoes--to begin with. And then the pie! +Bartley furnished the appetite. + +But that was not until after the Senator had returned from the +bunk-house. He had seen to it that Cheyenne had had a bucket of hot +water, soap, and towels and grease for his sore feet. In direct and +effectual kindliness, without obviously expressed sympathy, the +Westerner is peculiarly supreme. + +Back in the living-room Bartley made himself comfortable, admiring the +generous proportions of the house, the choice Indian blankets, the wide +fireplace, and the general solidity of everything, which reflected the +personality of his hosts. + +Presently the Senator came in. "Cheyenne tells me that somebody set you +afoot, down at the water-hole." + +"Did he also tell you about your bull?" + +"No! Is that how he came to tear his jeans?" + +Bartley nodded. And he told the Senator of their recent experience in +the gulch. + +The Senator chuckled. "Don't say a word to Mrs. Brown about it. I'll +have Cheyenne in, after dinner, and sweat it out of him. You see, +Cheyenne won't eat with us. He always eats with the boys. No use asking +him to eat in here. And, say, Bartley, we've got a little surprise for +you. One of my boys caught up your horse, old Dobe. Dobe was dragging a +rope. Looks like he broke away from some one. I had him turned into the +corral. Dobe was raised on this range." + +"Broke loose and came back!" exclaimed Bartley. "That's good news, +Senator. I like that horse." + +"But Cheyenne is out of luck," said the Senator. "He thought more of +those horses, Filaree and Joshua, than he did of anything on earth. I'll +send one of the boys back to the water-hole to-morrow, for your saddles +and outfit. But now you're here, how do you like the country?" + +"Almost as much as I like some of the people living in it," stated +Bartley. + +"Not including Panhandle Sears, eh?" + +"I'm pretty well fed up on walking," and Bartley smiled. + +"Sears is a worthless hombre," stated the Senator. "He's one of a gang +that steal stock, and generally live by their wits and never seem to get +caught. But he made a big mistake when he lifted Cheyenne's horses. +Cheyenne already has a grievance against Sears. Some day Cheyenne will +open up--and that will be the last of Mr. Sears." + +"I had an idea there was something like that in the wind," said Bartley. +"Cheyenne hasn't said much about Sears, but I was present at that crap +game." + +The Senator chuckled. "I heard about it. Heard you offered to take on +Sears if he would put his gun on the table." + +Bartley flushed. "I must have been excited." + +The Senator leaned forward in his big, easy-chair. "Cheyenne wants me to +let him take a couple of horses to trail Panhandle. And, judging from +what Cheyenne said, he thinks you are going along with him. There's lots +of country right round here to see, without taking any unnecessary +risks." + +"I understand," said Bartley. + +"And this is your headquarters, as long as you want to stay," continued +the Senator. + +"Thank you. It's a big temptation to stay, Senator." + +"How?" + +"Well, it was rather understood, without anything being said, that I +would help Cheyenne find his horses and mine. Dobe came back; but that +hardly excuses me from going with Cheyenne." + +"But your horse is here; and you seem to be in pretty fair health, right +now." + +"I appreciate the hint, Senator." + +"But you don't agree with me a whole lot." + +"Well, not quite. Chance rather chucked us together, Cheyenne and me, +and I think I'll travel with him for a while. I like to hear him sing." + +"He likes to hear him sing!" scoffed the Senator, frowning. He sat back +in his chair, blew smoke-rings, puffed out his cheeks, and presently +rose. "Bartley, I see that you're set on chousin' around the country +with that warbling waddie--just to hear him sing, as you say. I say +you're a dam' fool. + +"But you're the kind of a dam' fool I want to shake hands with. You +aren't excited and you don't play to the gallery; so if there's anything +you want on this ranch, from a posse to a pack-outfit, it's yours. And +if either of you get Sears, I'll sure chip in my share to buy his +headstone." + +"I wouldn't have it inscribed until we get back," laughed Bartley. + +"No; I don't think I will. Trailin' horse-thieves on their own stamping +ground ain't what an insurance company would call a good risk." + + + + + + +CHAPTER X + +TO TRY HIM OUT + + +Two days later Cheyenne was able to get his feet into his boots, but +even then he walked as though he did not care to let his left foot know +what his right foot was doing. Lon Pelly, just in from a ride out to the +line shack, remarked to the boys in the bunk-house that Cheyenne walked +as though his brains were in his feet and he didn't want to get stone +bruises stepping on them. + +Cheyenne made no immediate retort, but later he delivered himself of a +new stanza of his trail song, wherein the first line ended with "Pelly" +followed by the rhymed assertion that the gentleman who bore that +peculiar name had slivers in his anatomy due to a fondness for leaning +against the bar of the Blue Front Saloon. + +The boys were mightily pleased with the stanza, and they also improvised +until, according to their versions, Long Lon bore a marked resemblance +to a porcupine. Lon, being a real person, felt that Cheyenne's +retaliation was just. Moreover, Lon, who never did anything hastily, let +it be known casually that he had seen three riders west of the line +shack some two days past, and that the riders were leading two horses, a +buckskin and a gray. They were too far away to be distinguished +absolutely, but he could tell the color of the horses. + +"Panhandle?" queried a puncher. + +"And two riders with him," said Long Lon. + +"Goin' to trail him, Cheyenne?" came presently. + +"That's me." + +"Then let's pass the hat," suggested the first speaker. + +"Wait!" said Cheyenne, drawing a pair of dice from his pocket. "Somehow, +and sometime, I aim to shoot Panhandle a little game. Then you guys can +pass the hat for the loser. Panhandle left them dice on the flat rock, +by the water-hole. My pardner, Bartley, found them." + +"Kind of sign talk that Pan pulled one on you," said Lon Pelly. + +"He sure left his brains behind him when he left them dice," asserted +Cheyenne. "I suspicioned that it was him--but the dice told me, plain." + +"So you figure to walk up to Pan and invite him to shoot a little game, +when you meet up with him?" queried a puncher. + +"That's me." + +"The tenderfoot"--he referred to Bartley--"is he goin' along with you?" + +"He ain't so tender as you might think," said Cheyenne. "He's green, but +not so dam' tender." + +"Well, it's right sad. He looks like a pretty decent hombre." + +"What's sad?" queried Cheyenne belligerently. + +"Why, gettin' that tenderfoot all shot up, trailin' a couple of +twenty-dollar cayuses. They ain't worth it." + +"They ain't, eh?" + +"Course, they make a right good audience, when you're singin'. They do +all the listenin'," said another puncher. + +"Huh! They ain't one of you got a hoss that can listen to you, without +blushin'. You fellas think you're a hard-ridin'--" + +"Ridin' beats walkin'," suggested Long Lon. + +"Keep a-joshin'. I like it. Shows how much you don't know. I--hello, Mr. +Bartley! Shake hands with Lon Pelly--but I guess you met him, over to +Antelope. You needn't to mind the rest of these guys. They're harmless." + +"I don't want to interrupt--" began Bartley. + +"Set right in!" they invited in chorus. "We're just listenin' to +Cheyenne preachin' his own funeral sermon." + +Bartley seated himself in the doorway of the bunk-house. The joshing +ceased. Cheyenne, who could never keep his hands still, toyed with the +dice. Presently one of the boys suggested that Cheyenne show them some +fancy work with a six-gun--"just to keep your wrist limber," he +concluded. + +Cheyenne shook his head. But, when Bartley intimated that he would like +to see Cheyenne shoot, Cheyenne rose. + +"All right. I'll shoot any fella here for ten bucks--him to name the +target." + +"No, you don't," said a puncher. "We ain't givin' our dough away, just +to git rid of it." + +"And right recent they was talkin' big," said Cheyenne. "I'll shoot the +spot of a playin'-card, if you'll hold it," he asserted, indicating +Bartley. + +The boys glanced at Bartley and then lowered their eyes, wondering what +the Easterner would do. Bartley felt that this was a test of his nerve, +and, while he didn't like the idea of engaging in a William Tell +performance he realized that Cheyenne must have had a reason for +choosing him, out of the men present, and that Cheyenne knew his +business. + +"Cheyenne wants to git out of shootin'," suggested a puncher. + +That settled it with Bartley. "He won't disappoint you," he stated +quietly. "Give me the card." + +One of the boys got up and fetched an old deck of cards. Bartley chose +the ace of spades. Back of the corrals, with nothing but mesa in sight, +he took up his position, while Cheyenne stepped off fifteen paces. +Bartley's hand trembled a little. Cheyenne noticed it and turned to the +group, saying something that made them laugh. Bartley's fingers tensed. +He forgot his nervousness. Cheyenne whirled and shot, apparently without +aim. Bartley drew a deep breath, and glanced at the card. The black pip +was cut clean from the center. + +"That's easy," asserted Cheyenne. Then he took a silver dollar from his +pocket, laid it in the palm of his right hand, hung the gun, by its +trigger guard on his right forefinger, lowered his hand and tossed the +coin up. As the coin went up the gun whirled over. Then came the whiz of +the coin as it cut through space. + +"About seventy-five shots like that and I'm broke," laughed Cheyenne. +"Anybody's hat need ventilatin'?" + +"Not this child's," asserted Lon Pelly. "I sailed my hat for him onct. +It was a twenty-dollar J.B., when I sailed it. When it hit it sure +wouldn't hold water. Six holes in her--and three shots." + +"Six?" exclaimed Bartley. + +"The three shots went clean through both sides," said Lon. + +Cheyenne reloaded his gun and dropped it into the holster. + +Later, Bartley had a talk with Cheyenne about the proposed trailing of +the stolen horses. Panhandle's name was mentioned. And the name of +another man--Sneed. Cheyenne seemed to know just where he would look, +and whom he might expect to meet. + +Bartley and Cheyenne were in the living-room that evening talking with +the Senator and his wife. Out in the bunk-house those of the boys who +had not left for the line shack were discussing horse-thieves in general +and Panhandle and Sneed in particular. Bill Smalley, a saturnine member +of the outfit, who seldom said anything, and who was a good hand but a +surly one, made a remark. + +"That there Cheyenne is the fastest gun artist--and the biggest coward +that ever come out of Wyoming. Ain't that right, Lon?" + +"I never worked in Wyoming," said Long Lon. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +PONY TRACKS + + +Mrs. Senator Brown did not at all approve of Bartley's determination to +accompany Cheyenne in search of the stolen horses. Late that night, long +after Cheyenne had ceased to sing for the boys in the bunk-house, and +while Bartley was peacefully slumbering in a comfortable bed, Mrs. Brown +took the Senator to task for not having discouraged the young Easterner +from attempting such a wild-goose chase. The Senator, whose diameter +made the task of removing his boots rather difficult, puffed, and tugged +at a tight riding-boot, but said nothing. + +"Steve!" + +"Yes'm. I 'most got it off. Wild-goose chase? Madam, the wild goose is a +child that shuns this element. You mean wild-horse chase." + +"That sort of talk may amuse your constituents, but you are talking to +me." + +Off came the stubborn boot. The Senator puffed, and tugged at the other +boot. + +"No, ma'am. You're talking to me. There! Now go ahead and I'll listen." + +"Why didn't you discourage Mr. Bartley's idea of making such a journey?' + +"I did, Nelly. I told him he was a dam' fool." + +Mrs. Senator Brown, who knew her husband's capabilities in dodging +issues when he was cornered,--both at home and abroad,--peered at him +over her glasses. "What else did you tell him?" + +"Well, your honor," chuckled the Senator, "I also told him he was the +kind of dam' fool I liked to shake hands with." + +"I knew it! And what else?" + +"I challenge the right of the attorney for the plaintiff to introduce +any evidence that may--" + +"The attorney for the defense may proceed," said Mrs. Brown, smiling. + +"Why, shucks, Nelly! When you smile like that--why, I told Bartley he +could have anything on this ranch that would help him get a rope on +Sears." + +"I knew it!" + +"Then why did you ask me?" + +Mrs. Brown ignored the question. "Very well, Stephen. Mr. Bartley gave +me his sister's address, in case anything happened. She is his only +living relative and I'm going to write to her at once and tell her what +her brother is up to." + +"And most like she'll head right for this ranch." + +"Well, suppose she does? If she is anything like her brother she will be +welcome." + +"You bet! Just leave that to me!" + +"It's a shame!" asserted Mrs. Brown. + +"It is! With her good looks and inexperience she'll sure need somebody +to look after her." + +"How do you know she is good-looking?" + +"I don't. I was just hoping." + +"I shall write, just the same." + +"I reckon you will. I'm going to bed." + +Just as the sun rounded above the mesa next morning, Bartley stepped out +to the veranda. He was surprised to find the Senator up and about, +inspecting the details of Cheyenne's outfit, for Cheyenne had the horses +saddled and packed. Bartley was still more surprised to find that Mrs. +Brown had breakfast ready. Evidently the good Senator and his wife had a +decided interest in the welfare of the expedition. + +After breakfast the Senator's wife came out to the bunk-house with a +mysterious parcel which she gave to Bartley. He sniffed at it. + +"Cold chicken sandwiches!" he said, smiling broadly. + +"And some doughnuts. It will save you boys fussing with a lunch." + +Long Lon Pelly was also up and ready to start. The air was still cool +and the horses were a bit snuffy. Lon mounted and rode toward the west +gate where he waited for Cheyenne and Bartley. + +"Now don't forget where you live," said the Senator as Bartley mounted. + +With a cheery farewell to their hosts, Cheyenne and Bartley rode away. +The first warmth of the sun touched them as they headed into the western +spaces. Long Lon closed the big gate, stepped up on his horse, and +jogged along beside them. + +Bartley felt as though he had suddenly left the world of reality and was +riding in a sort of morning dream. He could feel the pleasant warmth of +the sun on his back. He sniffed the thin dust cast up by the horses. On +either side of him the big mesa spread to the sky-line. Cattle were +scattered in the brush, some of them lying down, some of them grazing +indolently. + +Presently Cheyenne began to sing, and his singing seemed to fit into the +mood of the morning. He ceased, and nothing but the faint jingle of rein +chains and the steady plod of hoofs disturbed the vast silence. A +flicker of smoke drifted back as Cheyenne lighted a cigarette. Long Lon +drilled on, wrapped in his reflections. Their moving shadows shortened. +Occasionally a staring-eyed cow strayed directly in their way and stood +until Long Lon struck his chaps with his quirt, when the cow, swinging +its head, would whirl and bounce off to one side, stiff-legged and +ridiculous. + +Bartley unbuttoned his shirt-collar and pushed back his hat. Far across +the mesa a dust devil spun up and writhed away toward the distant hills. +As the horses slowed to cross a sandy draw, Bartley turned and glanced +back. The ranch buildings--a dot of white in a clump of green--shimmered +vaguely in the morning sunlight. + +Thus far, Bartley felt that he had been leaving the ranch and the +cheerful companionship of the Senator and his wife. But as Lon Pelly +reined up--it was something like two hours since they had started--and +pointed to a cross-trail leading south, Bartley's mental attitude +changed instantly. Hitherto he had been leaving a pleasant habitation. +Now he was going somewhere. He felt the distinction keenly. Cheyenne's +verse came back to him. + + Seems like I don't git anywhere, + Git along, cayuse, git along; + But we're leavin' here and we're goin' there, + Git along, cayuse, git along-- + +"Just drop a line when you get there," said Long Lon as he reined round +and set off toward the far western sky-line. That was his casual +farewell. + +Cheyenne now turned directly toward the south and a range of hills that +marked the boundary of the mesa level. Occasionally he got off his horse +and stooped to examine tracks. Once he made a wide circle, leaving +Bartley to haze the pack-horse along. Slowly they drew nearer to the +hills. During the remainder of that forenoon, Cheyenne said nothing, but +rode, slouched forward, his hand on the horn, his gaze on the ground. + +They nooned in the foothills. The horses grazed along the edge of a tiny +stream while Cheyenne and Bartley ate the cold chicken sandwiches. In +half an hour they were riding again, skirting the foothills, and, it +seemed to Bartley, simply meandering about the country, for now they +were headed west again. + +Presently Cheyenne spoke. "I been makin' a plan." + +"I didn't say a word," laughed Bartley. + +"You didn't need to. I kind of got what you were thinkin'. This here is +big country. When you're ridin' this kind of country with some fella, +you can read his mind almost as good as a horse can. You was thinkin' I +was kind of twisted and didn't know which way to head. Now take that +there hoss, Joshua. Plenty times I've rode him up to a fork in the +trail, and kep' sayin' to myself, 'We'll take the right-hand fork.' And +Joshua always took the fork I was thinkin' about. You try it with Dobe, +sometime." + +"I have read of such things," said Bartley. + +"Well, I _know_ 'em. What would you say if I was to tell you that Joshua +knowed once they was a fella ridin' behind me, five miles back, and out +of sight--and told me, plain?" + +"I wouldn't say anything." + +"There's where you're wise. I can talk to you about such things. But +when I try to talk to the boys like that, they just josh, till I git mad +and quit. They ain't takin' me serious." + +"What is your plan?" queried Bartley. + +Cheyenne reined up and dismounted. "Step down, and take a look," he +suggested. + +Bartley dismounted. Cheyenne pointed out horse-tracks on the trail along +the edge of the hills. + +"Five hosses," he asserted. "Two of 'em is mine. That leaves three that +are carryin' weight. But we're makin' a mistake for ourselves, trailin' +Panhandle direct. He figures mebby I'd do that. I got to outfigure him. +I don't want to git blowed out of my saddle by somebody in the brush, +just waitin' for me to ride up and git shot. I got the way he's headed, +and by to-morrow mornin' I'll know for sure. + +"If he'd been goin' to swing back, to fool me, he'd 'a' done it before +he hit the timber, up yonder. Once he gits in them hills he'll head +straight south, for they ain't no other trail to ride on them ridges. +But mebby he cut along the foothills, first. I got to make sure." + +Late that afternoon and close to the edge of the foothills, Cheyenne +lost the tracks. He spent over an hour finding them again. Bartley could +discern nothing definite, even when Cheyenne pointed to a queer, blurred +patch in some loose earth. + +"It looks like the imprint of some coarse cloth," said Bartley. + +"Gunnysack. They pulled the shoes off my hosses and sacked their feet." + +"How about their own horses?" + +"They been ridin' hard ground, and the tracks don't show, plain. +Panhandle figured, when I seen that only the tracks of three horses +showed, I'd think he had turned my hosses loose on the big mesa. He +stops, pulls their shoes, sacks their feet, and leads 'em over there. +Whoever done it was afoot, and steppin' careful. Hell, I could learn +that yella-bellied hoss-thief how to steal hosses right, if I was in the +business." + +"Looks like a pretty stiff drill up those hills," remarked Bartley. + +"That's why he turned, right here. 'Tain't just the stealin' of my +hosses that's interestin' him. He's takin' trouble to run a whizzer on +me--get me guessin'. Here is where we quit trailin' him. I got my plan +workin' like a hen draggin' fence rails. We ain't goin' to trail +Panhandle. We're goin' to ride 'round and meet him." + +"Not a bad idea," said Bartley. + +"It won't be--if I see him first." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +JIMMY AND THE LUGER GUN + + +Two days of riding toward the west, along the edge of the hills, and +Bartley and Cheyenne found themselves approaching the high country. The +trail ran up a wide valley, on either side of which were occasional +ranches reaching back toward the slopes. In reality they were gradually +climbing the range on an easy grade and making good time. + +Their course now paralleled the theoretical course of Panhandle and his +fellows. Dodging the rugged land to the south, Cheyenne had swung round +in a half-circle, hoping to head off Panhandle on the desert side of the +range. Since abandoning the tracks of the stolen horses, Cheyenne had +resumed his old habit of singing as he rode. He seemed to know the name +of every ranch, and of every person they met. + +Once or twice some acquaintance expressed surprise that Cheyenne did not +stop and spend the night with him. But Cheyenne jokingly declined all +invitations, explaining to Bartley that in stopping to visit they would +necessarily waste hours in observing the formalities of arrival and +departure, although Cheyenne did not put it just that way. + +They found water and plenty of feed, made their camps early, broke camp +early, and rode steadily. With no visible incentive to keep going, +Bartley lost his first keen interest in the hunt, and contented himself +with listening to Cheyenne's yarns about the country and its folk, or +occasionally chatting with some wayfarer. But never once did Cheyenne +hint, to those they met, just why he was riding south. + +There were hours at a stretch, when the going was level, when Cheyenne +did nothing but roll his gun, throw down on different objects, toss up +his gun, and catch it by the handle; and once he startled Bartley by +making a quick fall from the saddle and shooting from the ground. +Cheyenne explained to Bartley that often, when riding alone, he had +spent hour after hour figuring out the possibilities of gun-play, till +it became evident to the Easterner that, aside from being naturally +quick, there was a very good reason for Cheyenne's proficiency with the +six-gun. He practiced continually. And yet, thought Bartley, one of the +Box-S punchers had said that Cheyenne had never killed anything bigger +than a coyote, and never would--intimating that he was too good-natured +ever to take advantage of his own proficiency with a gun. + +Bartley wondered just how things would break if they did happen to meet +Panhandle unexpectedly. Panhandle would no doubt dispose of the stolen +horses as soon as he could. What excuse would Cheyenne have to call +Panhandle to account? And when it came to a show-down, _would_ Cheyenne +call him to account? + +Bartley was thinking of this when they made an early camp, the afternoon +of the third day out. After the horses were hobbled and the packs +arranged, Bartley decided to experiment a little with his new Luger +automatic. Cheyenne declined to experiment with the gun. + +"It's a mean gat," he asserted, "and it's fast. But I'll bet you a new +hat I can empty my old smoke-wagon quicker than you can that pocket +machine gun." + +For the fun of the thing, Bartley took him up. He selected as target a +juniper stump, and blazed away. + +"I'm leavin' the decision to you," said Cheyenne, as he braced his right +arm against his body and fanned the Colt, emptying it before Bartley +could realize that he had fired three shots--and Cheyenne had fired +five. + +"I'll buy you that hat when we get to town," laughed Bartley. "You beat +me, hands down." + +"Hands down is right, old-timer. Fannin' a gun is show stuff, but it's +wicked, at close range." + +Meanwhile, Bartley had been experimenting further with the Luger. When +he got through he had a hat full of pieces and Cheyenne was staring at +what seemed to be the wreck of a once potent weapon. + +"Why, you done pulled that little lead sprinkler all to bits!" exclaimed +Cheyenne, "and you didn't have no tools to do it with." + +"You can take down and assemble this gun without tools," stated Bartley. +"All you need is your fingers." + +"But what in Sam Hill did you pull her apart for?" + +"Just to see if I could put her together again." + +Cheyenne scratched his head, and stepped over to inspect the juniper +stump. He stooped, whistled, and turned to Bartley. "Man, you like to +sawed that stub in two. Why didn't you say you could shoot?" + +"I can't, in your class. But tell me why you Westerners always seem to +think it strange that an Easterner can sit a horse or shoot fairly well? +Is it because you consider that the average tourist represents the +entire East?" + +"I dunno. But, then, I've met up with Easterners that weren't just like +you." + +Bartley was busy, assembling the Luger, and Cheyenne was watching him, +when they glanced up simultaneously. A shadow drifted between them. + +Cheyenne hesitated and then stepped forward. "I'll be dinged if it ain't +Jimmy! What you doin' up here in the brush, anyhow?" + +The boy, who rode a well-mannered gray pony, kicked one foot out of the +stirrup and hooked his small leg over the horn. He nodded to Cheyenne, +but his interest was centered on Bartley and the Luger. + +"It's Jimmy--my boy," said Cheyenne. "His Aunt Jane lives over yonder, a +piece." + +"Why, hello!" exclaimed Bartley, laying the pistol aside. And he stepped +up and shook hands with the boy, who grinned. + +"How's the folks?" queried Cheyenne. + +"All right. That there is a Luger gun, ain't it?" + +"Yes," said Bartley. "Would you like to try it?" + +The boy scrambled down from the saddle. "Honest?" + +"Ain't you goin' to say hello to your dad?" queried Cheyenne. + +"Sure! Only I was lookin' at that Luger gun--" + +Jimmy shook hands perfunctorily with his father and turned to Bartley, +expectancy in his gaze. + +Bartley reloaded the gun and handed it to the boy, who straightaway +selected the juniper stump and blazed away. Bartley watched him, a +sturdy youngster, brown-fisted, blue-eyed, with sandy hair, and dressed +in jeans and a rowdy--a miniature cow-puncher, even to his walk. + +"Ever shoot one before?" queried Bartley as the boy gave back the +pistol. + +"Nope. There's one like it, over to the store in San Andreas. It's in +the window. I never got to look at it right close." + +"Try it again," said Bartley. + +The boy grinned. "I reckon you're rich?" + +"Why?" + +"'Cause you got a heap of ca'tridges. They cost money." + +"Never mind. Go ahead and shoot." + +Jimmy blazed away again and ran to see where his bullets had hit the +stump. "She's a pretty fair gun," he said as he handed it back. "But I +reckon I'll have to stick to my ole twenty-two rifle. She's gettin' wore +out, but I can hit things with her, yet. I git rabbits." + +"Now, mebby you got time to tell us something about Aunt Jane and Uncle +Frank and Dorry," suggested Cheyenne. + +"Why, they're all right," said the boy. "Why didn't you stop by to our +place instead of bushin' way up here?" + +Cheyenne hesitated. "I reckon I'll be comin' over," he said finally. + +Bartley put the Luger away. The boy turned to his father. Cheyenne's +face expressed happiness, yet Bartley was puzzled. The boy was not what +could be termed indifferent in any sense, yet he had taken his father's +presence casually, showing no special interest in their meeting. And why +had Cheyenne never mentioned the boy? Bartley surmised that there was +some good reason for Cheyenne's silence on that subject--and because it +was obvious that there was a good reason, Bartley accepted the +youngster's presence in a matter-of-fact manner, as though he had known +all along that Cheyenne had a son. In fact, Cheyenne had not stopped to +think about it at all. If he had, he would have reasoned that Bartley +had heard about it. Almost every one in Arizona knew that Cheyenne had +been married and had separated from his wife. + +"That would be a pretty good gun to git hoss-thieves with," asserted the +boy, still thinking of the Luger. + +"What do you know about hoss-thieves?" queried Cheyenne. + +"You think I didn't see you was ridin' different hosses!" said Jimmy. +"Mebby you think I don't know where Josh and Filaree are." + +"You quit joshin' your dad," said Cheyenne. + +"I ain't joshin' _nobody_. Ole 'Clubfoot' Sneed, over by the +re'savation's got Josh and Filaree. I seen 'em in his corral, yesterday. +I was up there, huntin'." + +"Did you talk to him?" queried Cheyenne. + +"Nope. He just come out of his cabin an' told me to fan it. I wasn't +doin' nothin'. He said it was against the law to be huntin' up there. +Mebby he don't hunt when he feels like it!" + +"Did you tell Uncle Frank?" + +"Yep. Wish I hadn't. He says for me to stay away from the high +country--and not to ride by Sneed's place any more." + +Cheyenne turned to Bartley. "I done made one guess right," he said. + +"You goin' to kill Sneed?" queried young Jim enthusiastically. + +"Nobody's goin' to get killed. But I aim to git my hosses." + +Cheyenne turned to Jimmy. "You ride over and tell Uncle Frank and Aunt +Jane that me and Mr. Bartley'll be over after we eat." + +"Will you sing that 'Git Along' song for me, dad?" + +"You bet!" + +"But why don't you come over and eat to our place? You always stop by, +every time you ride down this way," said Jimmy. + +"You ride right along, like I told you, or you'll be late for your +supper." + +Little Jim climbed into the saddle, and, turning to cast a lingering and +hopeful glance at Bartley,--a glance which suggested the possibilities +of further practice with the Luger gun,--he rode away, a manful figure, +despite his size. + +"They're bringin' my kid up right," said Cheyenne, as though in +explanation of something about which he did not care to talk. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +AT AUNT JANE'S + + +Aunt Jane Lawrence was popular with the young folks of the district, not +alone because she was a good cook, but because she was a sort of foster +mother to the entire community. The young ladies of the community +brought to Aunt Jane their old hats and dresses, along with their love +affairs, petty quarrels, and youthful longings. A clever woman at +needlework, she was often able to remodel the hats and "turn" the +dresses so that they would serve a second season or maybe a third. + +The love affairs, petty quarrels, and youthful longings were not always +so easy to remodel, even when they needed it: but Aunt Jane managed +well. She had much patience and sympathy. She knew the community, and so +was often able to help her young friends without conflicting with +paternal or maternal views. Hat-trimming and dressmaking were really +only incidental to her real purpose in life, which was to help young +folks realize their ideals, when such ideals did not lead too far from +everyday responsibilities. + +Yet, with all her capabilities, her gentle wisdom, and her unobtrusive +sympathy, she was unable to influence her Brother Jim--known by every +one as "Cheyenne"--toward a settled habit of life. So it became her +fondest desire to see that Cheyenne's boy, Little Jim, should be brought +up in a home that he would always cherish and respect. Aunt Jane's +husband Frank Lawrence, had no patience with Cheyenne's aimless +meanderings. Frank Lawrence was a hard-working, silent nonentity. Aunt +Jane was the real manager of the ranch, and incidentally of Little Jim, +and her husband was more than content that it should be so. + +Occasionally Aunt Jane gave a dance at her home. The young folks of the +valley came, had a jolly time, and departed, some of them on horseback, +some in buckboards, and one or two of the more well-to-do in that small +but aggressive vehicle which has since become a universal odor in the +nostrils of the world. + +Little Jim detested these functions which entailed his best clothes and +his best behavior. He did not like girls, and looked down with scorn +upon young men who showed any preference for the sex feminine. He made +but two exceptions to this hard-baked rule: his Aunt Jane, and her young +friend who lived on the neighboring ranch, Dorothy. Little Jim called +her Dorry because it sounded like a boy's name. And he liked Dorry +because she could ride, and shoot with a twenty-two rifle almost as well +as he could. Then, she didn't have a beau, which was the main thing. +Once he told her frankly that if she ever got a beau, he--Jimmy--was +going to quit. + +"Quit what?" asked Dorothy, smiling. + +Little Jim did not know just what he was going to quit, but he had +imagination. + +"Why, quit takin' you out huntin' and campin' and showin' you how to +tell deer tracks from goat's tracks--and everything." + +"But I have a beau," said Dorothy teasingly. + +"Who is he?" demanded Little Jim. + +"Promise you won't tell?" + +Little Jim hesitated. He did not consider it quite the thing to promise +a girl anything. But he was curious. "Uh-huh," he said. + +"Jimmy Hastings!" said Dorothy, laughing at his expression. + +"That ain't fair!" blurted Little Jim. "I ain't nobody's beau. Shucks! +Now you gone and spoiled all the fun." + +"I was only teasing you, Jimmy." And she patted Little Jim's tousled +head. He wriggled away and smoothed down his hair. + +"I can beat you shootin' at tin cans," he said suddenly, to change the +subject. + +Shooting at tin cans was much more interesting than talking about beaux. + +"I have to help Aunt Jane get supper," said Dorothy, who had been +invited to stay for supper that evening. In fact, she was often at the +Hastings ranch, a more than welcome guest. + +Jimmy scowled. Dorry was always helping Aunt Jane make dresses or trim +hats, or get supper. A few minutes later Little Jim was out back of the +barn, scowling over the sights of his twenty-two at a tomato can a few +yards away. He fired and punctured the can. + +"Plumb center!" he exclaimed. "You think you're her beau, do you? Well, +that's what you get. And if I see you around this here ranch, just even +_lookin'_ at her, I'll plug you again." Jimmy was romancing, with the +recently discussed subject of beaux in mind. + +When Little Jim informed the household that his father and another man +were coming over, that evening, Uncle Frank asked who the other man was. +Little Jim described Bartley and told about the wonderful Luger gun. + +"My dad is huntin' his hosses," he said. "And I know who's got 'em!" + +"Was the other man a deputy?" queried Uncle Frank. + +"He didn't have a badge on him. He kind of acted like everything was a +joke--shootin' at that stump, and everything. He wasn't mad at nobody. +And he looked kind of like a dude." + +Little Jim meanwhile amused himself by trying to rope the family cat +with a piece of clothesline. Uncle Frank, who took everything seriously, +asked Little Jim if he had told his father where the horses were. + +"Sure I told him. Wouldn't you? They're dad's hosses, Filaree and Josh. +I guess he'll make ole Clubfoot Sneed give 'em back!" + +"You want to be careful what you say about Mr. Sneed, Jimmy. And don't +you go to ridin' over that way again. We aim to keep out of trouble." + +Little Jim had succeeded in noosing the cat's neck. That sadly molested +animal jumped, rolled over, and clawed at the rope, and left hurriedly +with the bit of clothesline trailing in its wake. + +"I got to git that cat afore he hangs himself," stated Little Jim, +diving out of the house and heading for the barn. Thus he avoided +acknowledging his uncle's command to stay away from Sneed's place. + +Supper was over and the dishes were washed and put away when Cheyenne +and Bartley appeared. Clean-shaven, his dark hair brushed smoothly, a +small, dark-blue, silk muffler knotted loosely about his throat, and in +a new flannel shirt and whipcord riding-breeches--which he wore under +his jeans when on the trail--Bartley pretty well approximated Little +Jim's description of him as a dude. And the word "dude" was commonly +used rather to differentiate an outlander from a native than in an +exactly scornful sense. Without a vestige of self-consciousness, Bartley +made himself felt as a distinct entity, physically fit and mentally +alert. Cheyenne, with his cow-puncher gait and his general +happy-go-lucky attitude, furnished a strong contrast to the trim and +well-poised Easterner. Dorothy was quick to appreciate this. She thought +that she rather liked Bartley. He was different from the young men whom +she knew. Bartley was pleased with her direct and natural manner of +answering his many questions about Western life. + +Presently he found himself talking about his old home in Kentucky, and +the thorough-bred horses of the Blue Grass. The conversation drifted to +books and plays, but never once did it approach the subject of guns--and +Little Jim, who had hoped that the subject of horse-thieves might be +broached, felt altogether out of the running. + +He waited patiently, for a while. Then during a lull in the talk he +mentioned Sneed's name. + +"Jimmy!" reprimanded his Uncle Frank. + +"Yes, sir?" + +Uncle Frank merely gestured, significantly. + +Little Jim subsided, frowning, and making a face at Dorothy, who was +smiling at him. It seemed mighty queer that, when _he_ "horned in," his +Aunt Jane or his uncle always said "Jimmy!" in that particular tone. But +when any of the grown-ups interrupted, no one said a word. However, +Bartley was not blind to Little Jim's attitude of forced silence, and +presently Bartley mentioned the subject of guns, much to Little Jim's +joy. Little Jim worked round to the subject of twenty-two rifles, +intimating that his own single-shot rifle was about worn out. + +Uncle Frank heard and promptly changed the subject. Little Jim was +disgusted. A boy just wouldn't talk when other folks were talking, and +he couldn't talk when they were not. What was the use of living, anyhow, +if you had to go around without talking at all, except when somebody +asked you if you had forgotten to close the lane gate and had let the +stock get into the alfalfa--and you had to say that you had? + +However, Little Jim had his revenge. When Aunt Jane proffered apple pie, +later in the evening, Jimmy prefixed his demand for a second piece with +the statement that he knew there was another uncut pie in the kitchen, +because Aunt Jane had said maybe his dad would eat half a one, and then +ask for more. + +This gentle insinuation brought forth a sharp reprimand from Uncle +Frank. But Jimmy had looked before he leaped. + +"Well, Aunt Jane said so. Didn't you, Aunt Jane?" + +Whereat every one laughed, including the gentle Aunt Jane. And Jimmy got +his second piece of pie. + +After the company had found itself, Uncle Frank, Cheyenne, and Bartley +forgathered out on the veranda and talked about the missing horses. +Little Jim sat silently on the steps, hoping that the talk would swing +round to where he could have his say. If he had not discovered the +missing horses, how would his father know where they were? It did not +seem exactly fair to Little Jim that he should be ignored in the matter. + +"I'd just ride over and talk with Sneed," suggested Uncle Frank. + +"Oh, I'll do that, all right," asserted Cheyenne. + +"But I'd go slow. You might talk like your stock had strayed and you +were looking for them. Sneed and Panhandle Sears are pretty thick. I'd +start easy, if I was in your boots." + +This from the cautious Uncle Frank. + +"But you'd go get 'em, if they happened to be your hosses," said +Cheyenne. "You're always tellin' me to step light and go slow. I reckon +you expect me to sing and laugh and josh and take all the grief that's +comin' and forget it." + +"No," said Uncle Frank deliberately. "If they was my hosses, I'd ride +over and get 'em. But I can't step into your tangle. If I did, Sneed +would just nacherally burn us out, some night. There's only two ways to +handle a man like Clubfoot Sneed: one is to kill him, and the other is +to leave him alone. And it's got to be one or the other when you live as +close to the hills as we do. I aim to leave him alone, unless he tries +to ride me." + +"Which means that you kind of think I ought to let the hosses go, for +fear of gettin' you in bad." + +Uncle Frank shook his head, but said nothing. Bartley smoked a cigar and +listened to the conversation that followed. Called upon by Uncle Frank +for his opinion, Bartley hesitated, and then said that, if the horses +were his, he would be tempted to go and get them, regardless of +consequences. Bartley's stock went up, with Little Jim, right there. + +Cheyenne turned to Uncle Frank. "I'm ridin' over to Clubfoot's wikiup +to-morrow mornin'. I'll git my hosses, or git him. And I'm ridin' +alone." + +Little Jim, meanwhile, had been raking his mind for an idea as to how he +might attract attention. He disappeared. Presently he appeared in front +of the veranda with the end of a long rope in his fist. He blinked and +grinned. + +"What's on the other end of that rope?" queried Uncle Frank, immediately +suspicious. + +"Nothin' but High-Tail." + +"I thought I told you not to rope that calf," said Uncle Frank, rising. + +"I didn't. I jest held my loop in front of some carrots and High-Tail +shoves his head into it. Then I says, 'Whoosh!' and he jumps back--and I +hung on." + +"How in Sam Hill did you get him here?" queried Uncle Frank. + +"Jest held a carrot to his nose--and he walked along tryin' to get it." + +"Well you shake off that loop and haze him back into the corral." + +High-Tail, having eaten the carrot, decided to go elsewhere. He backed +away and blatted. Little Jim took a quick dally round a veranda post. +High-Tail plunged and fought the rope. + +"Turn him loose!" cried Uncle Frank. + +"What's the matter?" said Aunt Jane, appearing in the doorway. + +Little Jim eased off the dally, but clung to the rope. High-Tail whirled +and started for the corral. Little Jim set back on his heels, but Little +Jim was a mere item in High-Tail's wild career toward freedom. A patter +of hoofs in the dark, and Little Jim and the calf disappeared around the +corner of the barn. + +Cheyenne laughed and rose, following Uncle Frank to the corral. When +they arrived, High-Tail had made his third round of the corral, with +Jimmy still attached to the rope. Cheyenne managed to stop the calf and +throw off the noose. + +Little Jim rose and gazed wildly around. He was one color, from head to +foot--and it was a decidedly local color. His jeans were torn and his +cotton shirt was in rags, but his grit was unsifted. + +"D-didn't I hang to him, dad?" he inquired enthusiastically. + +"You sure did!" said Cheyenne. + +With a pail of hot water, soap, and fresh raiment, Aunt Jane undertook +to make Little Jim's return to the heart of the family as agreeable as +possible to all concerned. + +"Isn't he hurt?" queried Bartley. + +"Not if he doesn't know it," stated Cheyenne. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +ANOTHER GAME + + +Cheyenne knew enough about Sneed, by reputation, to make him cautious. +He decided to play ace for ace--and, if possible, steal the stolen +horses from Sneed. The difficulty was to locate them without being seen. +Little Jim had said the horses were in Sneed's corral, somewhere up in +the mountain meadows. And because Cheyenne knew little about that +particular section of the mountains, he rolled a blanket and packed some +provisions to see him through. Bartley and he had returned to their camp +after their visit to the ranch, and next morning, as Cheyenne made +preparation to ride, Bartley offered to go with him. + +Cheyenne dissuaded Bartley from accompanying him, arguing that he could +travel faster and more cautiously alone. "One man ridin' in to Sneed's +camp wouldn't look as suspicious as two," said Cheyenne. "And if I +thought you could help any, I'd say to come along. That's on the square. +Me and my little old carbine will make out, I guess." + +So Bartley, somewhat against his inclination, stayed in camp, with the +understanding that, if Cheyenne did not return in two days, he was to +report the circumstance to the authorities in San Andreas, the principal +town of the valley. + +Meanwhile, the regular routine prevailed at the Lawrence ranch. Uncle +Frank had the irrigation plant to look after; and Aunt Jane was immersed +in the endless occupation of housekeeping. Little Jim had his regular +light tasks to attend to, and that morning he made short work of them. +It was not until noon that Aunt Jane missed him. He had disappeared +completely, as had his saddle-pony. + +At first, Jimmy had thought of riding over to his father's camp, but he +was afraid his father would guess his intent and send him back home. So +he tied his pony to a clump of junipers some distance from the camp, +and, crawling to a rise, he lay and watched Cheyenne saddle up and take +the trail that led into the high country. A half-hour later, Jimmy +mounted his pony and, riding wide of the camp, he cut into the hill +trail and followed it on up through the brush to the hillside timber. He +planned to ride until he got so far into the mountains that when he did +overtake his father and offer his assistance in locating the stolen +horses, it would hardly seem worth while to send him back. Jimmy +expected to be ordered back, but he had his own argument ready in that +event. + +Little Jim's pony carried him swiftly up the grade. Meanwhile, Cheyenne +had traveled rather slowly, saving his horse. At a bend in the trail he +drew rein to breathe the animal. On the lookout for any moving thing, he +glanced back and down--and saw an old black hat bobbing along through +the brush below. He leaned forward and peered down. "The little cuss!" +he exclaimed, grinning. Then his expression changed. "Won't do, a-tall! +His aunt will be havin' fits--and Miss Dorry'll be helpin' her to have +'em, if she hears of it. Dog-gone that boy!" + +Nevertheless, Cheyenne was pleased. His boy had sand, and liked +adventure. Little Jim might have stayed in camp, with Bartley, and spent +a joyous day shooting at a mark, incidentally hinting to the Easterner +that "his ole twenty-two was about worn out." But Little Jim had chosen +to follow his father into the hills. + +"Reckon he figures to see what'll happen," muttered Cheyenne as he led +his horse off the trail and waited for Jimmy to come up. + +Little Jim's black hat bobbed steadily up the switchbacks. Presently he +was on the stretch of trail at the end of which his father waited, +concealed in the brush. + +As Little Jim's pony approached the bend it pricked its ears and +snorted. "Git along, you!" said Jimmy. + +"Where you goin'?" queried Cheyenne, stepping out on the trail. + +Little Jim gazed blankly at his father. "I'm just a-ridin'. I wa'n't +goin' no place." + +"Well, you took the wrong trail to get there. You fan it back to the +folks." + +"Aunt Jane is my boss!" said Jimmy defiantly. "'Course she is," agreed +Cheyenne. "You and me, we're just pardners. But, honest, Jimmy, you +can't do no good, doggin' along after me. Your Aunt Jane would sure +stretch my hide if she knowed I let you come along." + +"I won't tell her." + +"But she'd find out. You just ride back and wait down at my camp. I'll +find them hosses, all right." + +Little Jim hesitated, twisting his fingers in his pony's mane. +"Suppose," he ventured, "that a bunch of Sneed's riders was to run on to +you? You'd sure need help." + +"That's just it! Supposin' they did? And supposin' they took a crack at +us, they might git you--for you sure look man-size, a little piece off." + +Jimmy grinned at the compliment, but compliments could not alter his +purpose. "I got my ole twenty-two loaded," he asserted hopefully. + +"Then you just ride back and help Mr. Bartley take care of the hosses. +He ain't much of a hand with stock." + +"Can't I go with you?" + +"Not this trip, son. But I'll tell you somethin'. Mr. Bartley, down +there, said to me this mornin' that he was goin' to buy you a brand-new +twenty-two rifle, one of these days: mebby after we locate the hosses. +You better have a talk with him about it." + +This _was_ a temptation to ride back: yet Jimmy had set his heart on +going with his father. And his father had said that he was simply going +to ride up to Sneed's place and have a talk with him. Jimmy wanted to +hear that talk. He knew that his father meant business when he had told +him to go back. + +"All right for you!" said Jimmy finally. And he reined his pony round +and rode back down the trail sullenly, his black hat pulled over his +eyes, and his small back very straight and stiff. + +Cheyenne watched him until the brush of the lower levels intervened. +Then Cheyenne began the ascent, his eye alert, his mind upon the task +ahead. When Little Jim realized that his father was so far into the +timber that the trail below was shut from view, he reined his pony round +again and began to climb the grade, slowly, this time, for fear that he +might overtake his father too soon. + +Riding the soundless upland trail that meandered among the spruce and +pine, skirting the edges of the mountain meadows and keeping within the +timber, Cheyenne finally reached the main ridge of the range. +Occasionally he dismounted and examined the tracks of horses. + +It was evident that Sneed had quite a bunch of horses running in the +meadows. Presently Cheyenne came to a narrow trail which crossed a +meadow. At the far end of the trail, close to the timber, was a spring, +fenced with poles. The spring itself was boxed, and roundabout were the +marks of high-heeled boots. Cheyenne realized that he must be close to +Sneed's cabin. He wondered if he had been seen. + +If he had, the only thing to do was to act natural. He was now too close +to a habitation--although he could see none--to do otherwise. So he +dismounted and, tying his horse to the spring fence, he stepped through +the gate and picked up the rusted tin cup and dipped it in the cold +mountain water. He had the cup halfway to his lips when his horse +nickered. From somewhere in the brush came an answering nicker. +Cheyenne, kneeling, threw the water from the cup as though he had +discovered dirt in it, and dipped the cup again. + +Behind him he heard his horse moving restlessly. As Cheyenne raised the +cup to drink, he half closed his eyes, and glancing sideways, caught a +glimpse of a figure standing near the upper end of the spring fence. +Cheyenne drank, set down the cup, and, rising, turned his back on the +figure, and, stretching his arms, yawned heartily. He strode to his +horse, untied the reins, mounted, and began to sing: + + Seems like I don't get anywhere + Git along, cayuse, git along! + But we're leavin' here and-- + +"What's your hurry?" came from behind him. + +Cheyenne turned and glanced back. "Hello, neighbor! Now, if I'd 'a' +knowed you was around, I'd 'a' asked you to have a drink with me." + +A tall, heavy-set mountain man, bearded, and limping noticeably, stepped +round the end of the spring fence and strode toward him. From Uncle +Frank's description, Cheyenne at once recognized the stranger as Sneed. +Across Sneed's left arm lay a rifle. Cheyenne saw him let down the +hammer as he drew near. + +"Where you headed?" queried Sneed. + +"Me, I'm lookin' for Bill Sneed's cabin. You ain't Sneed, are you?" + +"Yes, I'm Sneed." + +"Well, I'm in luck. I'm Cheyenne Hastings." + +"That don't buy you nothin' around here. What do you want to see me +about?" + +"Why, I done lost a couple of hosses the other night. I reckon somethin' +stampeded 'em, for they never strayed far from camp before. I trailed +'em up to the hills and then lost their tracks on the rocks. Thought I'd +ride up and see if you had seen 'em--a little ole buckskin and a gray." + +Sneed waved his hand toward the east. "My corrals are over there. You're +welcome to look my stock over." + +"Thanks. This way, you said?" + +"Straight ahead." + +Cheyenne hesitated, hoping that Sneed would take the lead. But the +mountain man merely gestured again and followed Cheyenne through a patch +of timber, and across another meadow--and Cheyenne caught a glimpse of +the ridge of a cabin roof, and smoke above it. Close to the cabin was a +large pole corral. Cheyenne saw the backs of Filaree and Joshua, among +the other horses, long before he came to the corral. Yet, not wishing to +appear too eager, he said nothing until he arrived at the corner of the +fence. + +Then he turned and pointed. "Them's my hosses--the gray and the +buckskin. I'm mighty glad you caught 'em up." + +Sneed nodded. "One of my boys found them in with a bunch of my stock and +run them in here." + +A few rods from the corral stood the cabin, larger than Cheyenne had +imagined, and built of heavy logs, with a wide-roofed porch running +across the entire front. On the veranda lay several saddles. Tied to the +hitch rail stood two chunky mountain ponies that showed signs of recent +hard use. + +Cheyenne smiled as he turned toward Sneed. "You got a mighty snug +homestead up here, neighbor." + +"Tie your horse and step in," invited Sneed. + +"He'll stand," said Cheyenne, dismounting and dropping the reins. + +Cheyenne was in the enemy's country. But he trusted to his ability to +play up to his reputation for an easy-going hobo to get him out again, +without trouble. He appeared unaware of the covert suspicion with which +Sneed watched his every movement. + +"Meet the boys," said Sneed as they entered the cabin. + +Cheyenne nodded to the four men who sat playing cards at a long table in +the main room. They returned his nod indifferently and went on with +their game. Cheyenne pretended an interest in the game, meanwhile +studying the visible characteristics of the players. One and all they +were hard-boiled, used to the open, rough-spoken, and indifferent to +Cheyenne's presence. + +Sneed stepped to the kitchen and pulled the coffee-pot to the front of +the stove. Finally Cheyenne strolled out to the veranda and seated +himself on the long bench near the doorway. He picked up a stick and +began to whittle, and as he whittled his gaze traveled from the log +stable to the corral, and from there to the edge of the clearing. He +heard Sneed speak to one of the men in a low voice. Cheyenne slipped his +knife into his pocket and his fingers touched the pair of dice. + +He drew out the dice and rattled them. "Go 'way, you snake eyes!" he +chanted as he threw the dice along the bench. "Little Jo, where you +bushin' out? You sure are bashful!" He threw again. "Roll on, you +box-car! I don't like you, nohow! Nine? Nine? Five and a four! Six and a +three! Just as easy!" + +Sneed came to the doorway and glanced at Cheyenne, who continued +shooting craps with himself, oblivious to Sneed's muttered comment. +Sneed turned and stepped in. "Crazy as a hoot owl," he said as one of +the card-players glanced up. + +Cheyenne picked up the dice and listened. He heard Sneed stepping +heavily about the kitchen, and he heard an occasional and vivid +exclamation from one of the card-players. He glanced at the distant edge +of timber. He shook his head. "Can't make it!" he declared, and again he +threw the dice. + +One of the cubes rolled off the bench. He stooped and picked it up. As +he straightened, he stared. Just at the edge of the timber he saw Little +Jim's pony, and Little Jim's black hat. Some one in the cabin pushed +back a chair. Evidently the card game was finished. + +Then Cheyenne heard Sneed's voice: "Just lay off that game, if you want +to eat. Come and get it." + +Wondering what Little Jim was up to, Cheyenne turned and walked into the +cabin. "Guess I'll wash up, first," he said, gazing about as though +looking for the wherewithal to wash. He knew well enough where the basin +was. He had noticed it out by the kitchen door, when he rode up to the +cabin. Sneed told him where to find the basin. Cheyenne stepped round +the cabin. Covertly he glanced toward the edge of the timber. Little Jim +had disappeared. + +Entering the cabin briskly, Cheyenne took his place at the table and ate +heartily. + +Lawson, who seemed to be Sneed's right-hand man, was the first to speak +to him. "Bill tells me you are huntin' hosses." + +"Yep! That little gray and the buckskin, out in your corral, are my +hosses. They strayed--" + +"Didn't see no brand on 'em," declared Lawson. + +"Nope. They never was branded. I raised 'em both, when I was workin' for +Senator Steve, over to the Box-S." + +"That sounds all right. But you got to show me. I bought them cayuses +from a Chola, down in the valley." + +Cheyenne suspected that Lawson was trying to create argument and, in so +doing, open up a way to make him back down and leave or take the +consequences of his act in demanding the horses. + +"Honest, they're my hosses," declared Cheyenne, turning to Sneed. + +"You'll have to talk to Lawson," said Sneed. + +Cheyenne frowned and scratched his head. Suddenly his face brightened. +"Tell you what I'll do! I'll shoot you craps for 'em." + +"That's all right, but what'll you put up against 'em?" asked Lawson. + +"What did you pay for 'em?" queried Cheyenne. + +"Fifty bucks." + +"You got 'em cheap. They're worth that much to me." Cheyenne pushed back +his chair and, fishing in his jeans, dug up a purse. "Here's my fifty. +As soon as you get through eatin' we'll shoot for the ponies." + +Lawson, while finishing his meal, made up his mind that Cheyenne would +not get away with that fifty dollars, game or no game; and, also, that +he would not get the horses. Cheyenne knew this--knew the kind of man he +was dealing with. But he had a reason to keep the men in the cabin. +Little Jim was out there somewhere, and up to something. If any of the +men happened to catch sight of Little Jim, they would suspect Cheyenne +of some trickery. Moreover, if Little Jim were caught--but Cheyenne +refused to let himself think of what might happen in that event. + +Cheyenne threw the dice on the table as Lawson got up. "Go ahead and +shoot." + +"Show me what I got to beat," said Lawson. + +"All right. Watch 'em close." + +Cheyenne gathered up the dice and threw. Calling his point, he snapped +his fingers and threw again. The men crowded round, momentarily +interested in Cheyenne's sprightly monologue. Happening to glance +through the doorway as he gathered up the dice for another throw, +Cheyenne noticed that his horse had turned and was standing, with ears +and eyes alert, looking toward the corral. + +Cheyenne tossed up the dice, caught them and purposely made a wild +throw. One of the little cubes shot across the table and clattered on +the floor. Cheyenne barely had time to glance through the kitchen +doorway and the window beyond as he recovered the cube. But he had seen +that the corral bars were down and that the corral was empty. Quickly he +resumed his place at the table and threw again, meanwhile talking +steadily. He had not made his point nor had he thrown a seven. Sweat +prickled on his forehead. Little Jim had seen his father's horses and +knew that the men were in the cabin. With the rashness of boyhood he had +sneaked up to the corral, dropped the bars, and had then flung pine +cones at the horses, starting them to milling and finally to a dash +through the gateway and out into the meadow. + +Cheyenne brushed his arm across his face. "Come on you, Filaree!" he +chanted. + +Somebody would be mightily surprised when the ownership of Filaree and +Joshua was finally decided. Unwittingly, Little Jim had placed his +father in a still more precarious position. Sneed and his men, finding +the corral empty, would naturally conclude that Cheyenne had kept them +busy while some friend had run off the horses. Cheyenne knew the risks +he ran; but, above all, he wanted to prolong the game until Little Jim +got safely beyond reach of Sneed's men. As for himself-- + +Again Cheyenne threw, but he did not make his point, nor throw a seven. +He threw several times; and still he did not make his point. Finally he +made his point. Smiling, he gathered up his money and tucked it in his +pocket. + +"I reckon that settles it," he said cheerfully. + +Sneed and Lawson exchanged glances. Cheyenne, rolling a cigarette, drew +a chair toward them and sat down. He seemed at home, and altogether +friendly. One of the men picked up a deck of cards and suggested a game. +Sneed lighted his pipe and stepped to the kitchen to get a drink of +water. Cheyenne glanced casually round the cabin, drew his feet under +himself, and jumped for the doorway. He heard Sneed drop the dipper and +knew that Sneed would pick up something else, and quickly. + +Cheyenne made the saddle on the run, reined toward the corral, and, +passing it on the run, turned in the saddle to glance back. Sneed was in +the doorway. Cheyenne jerked his horse to one side and dug in the spurs. +Sneed's rifle barked and a bullet whined past Cheyenne's head. He +crouched in the saddle. Again a bullet whistled across the sunlit +clearing. The cow-horse was going strong. A tree flicked past, then +another and another. + +Cheyenne straightened in the saddle and glanced back through the timber. +He saw a jumble of men and horses in front of the cabin. "They got just +two hosses handy, and they're rode down," he muttered as he sped through +the shadows of the forest. + +Across another sun-swept meadow he rode, and into the timber again--and +before he realized it he was back on the mountain trail that led to the +valley. He took the first long, easy grade on the run, checked at the +switchback, and pounded down the succeeding grade, still under cover of +the hillside timber, but rapidly nearing the more open country of brush +and rock. + +As he reined in at the second switchback he saw, far below, and going at +a lively trot, seven or eight horses, and behind them, hazing them along +as fast as the trail would permit, Little Jim. + +"If Sneed's outfit gets to the rim before he makes the next turn, +they'll get him sure," reasoned Cheyenne. + +He thought of turning back and trying to stop Sneed's men. He thought of +turning his horse loose and ambushing the mountainmen, afoot. But +Cheyenne did not want to kill. His greatest fear was that Little Jim +might get hurt. As he hesitated, a rifle snarled from the rim above, and +he saw Little Jim's horse flinch and jump forward. + +"I reckon it's up to us, old Steel Dust," he said to his horse. + +Hoping to draw the fire of the men above, he eased his horse round the +next bend and then spurred him to a run. Below, Little Jim was jogging +along, within a hundred yards or so of the bend that would screen him +from sight. Realizing that he could never make the next turn on the run, +Cheyenne gripped with his knees, and leaned back to meet the shock as +Steel Dust plunged over the end of the turn and crashed through the +brush below. A slug whipped through the brush and clipped a twig in +front of the horse. + +Steel Dust swerved and lunged on down through the heavy brush. A naked +creek-bed showed white and shimmering at the bottom of the slope. Again +a slug whined through the sunlight and Cheyenne's hat spun from his head +and settled squarely on a low bush. It was characteristic of Cheyenne +that he grabbed for his hat--and got it as he dashed past. + +"Keep the change," said Cheyenne as he ducked beneath a branch and +straightened up again. He was almost to the creek-bed, naked to the +sunlight, and a bad place to cross with guns going from above. He pulled +up, slipped from his horse, and slapped him on the flank. + +The pony leaped forward, dashed across the creek-bed, and cut into the +trail beyond. A bullet flattened to a silver splash on a boulder. +Another bullet shot a spurt of sand into the air. Cheyenne crouched +tense, and then made a rush. A slug sang past his head. Heat palpitated +in the narrow draw. He gained the opposite bank, dropped, and crawled +through the brush and lay panting, close to the trail. From above him +somewhere came the note of a bird: _Chirr-up! Chirr-up!_ Again a slug +tore through the brush scattering twigs and tiny leaves on Cheyenne's +hat. + +"That one didn't say, 'Cheer up!'" murmured Cheyenne. + +When he had caught his breath he crawled out and into the narrow trail. +The shooting had ceased. Evidently the men were riding. Stepping round +the shoulder of the next bend, he peered up toward the rim of the range. +A tiny figure appeared riding down the first long grade, and then +another figure. Turning, he saw his own horse quietly nipping at the +grass in the crevices of the rocks along the trail. + +He walked down to the horse slowly and caught him up. Loosening his +carbine from the scabbard, and deeming himself lucky to have it, after +that wild ride down the mountain, he stepped back to the angle of the +bend, rested the carbine against a rocky shoulder and dropped a shot in +front of the first rider, who stopped suddenly and took to cover. + +"That'll hold 'em for a spell," said Cheyenne, stepping back. He mounted +and rode on down the trail, eyeing the tracks of the horses that Little +Jim was hazing toward the valley below. Cheyenne shook his head. "He's +done run off the whole dog-gone outfit! There's nothin' stingy about +that kid." + +Striking to the lower level, Cheyenne cut across country to his camp. He +found Bartley leaning comfortably back against a saddle, reading aloud, +and opposite him sat Dorry, so intent upon the reading that she did not +hear Cheyenne until he spoke. + +"Evenin', folks! Seen anything of Jimmy?" + +"Oh--Cheyenne! No, have you?" It was Dorothy who spoke, as Bartley +closed the book and got to his feet. + +"Was you lookin' for Jimmy's address in that there book?" queried +Cheyenne, grinning broadly. + +Dorothy flushed and glanced at Bartley, who immediately changed the +subject by calling attention to Cheyenne's hat. Cheyenne also changed +the subject by stating that Jimmy had recently ridden down the trail +toward the ranch--with some horses. + +"Then you got your horses?" said Bartley. + +"I reckon they're over to the ranch about now." + +"Jimmy has been gone all day," said Dorothy. "Aunt Jane is terribly +worried about him." + +"Jimmy and me took a little ride in the hills," said Cheyenne casually. +"But you needn't to tell Aunt Jane that Jimmy was with me. It turned out +all right." + +"I rode over to your camp to look for Jimmy," said Dorothy, "but Mr. +Bartley had not seen him." + +Cheyenne nodded and reined his horse round. + +"Why, your shirt is almost ripped from your back!" said Bartley. + +"My hoss shied, back yonder, and stepped off into the brush. We kept on +through the brush. It was shorter." + +Dorothy mounted her horse, and, nodding farewell to Bartley, accompanied +Cheyenne to the ranch. When they were halfway there, Dorothy, who had +been riding thoughtfully along, saying nothing, turned to her companion: +"Cheyenne, you had trouble up there. You might at least tell _me_ about +it." + +"Well, Miss Dorry--" And Cheyenne told her how Jimmy had followed him, +how he had sent Jimmy back, and the unexpected appearance of that young +hopeful in the timber near Sneed's cabin. "I was in there, figurin' hard +how to get my hosses and get away, when, somehow, Jimmy got to the +corral and turned Sneed's stock loose and hazed 'em down the trail. But +where he run 'em to is the joke. I figured he would show up at our camp. +It would be just like him to run the whole bunch into the ranch corral. +And I reckon he done it." + +"But, Mr. Sneed!" exclaimed Dorothy. "If he finds out we had anything to +do with running off his horses--" + +"He never saw Jimmy clost enough to tell who he was. 'Course, Sneed +knows Aunt Jane is my sister, and most he'll suspicion is that I got +help from _some_ of my folks. But so far he don't know _who_ helped me +turn the trick." + +"You don't seem to be very serious about it," declared Dorothy. + +"Serious? Me? Why, ain't most folks serious enough without everybody +bein' took that way?" + +"Perhaps. But I knew something had happened the minute you rode into +camp." + +"So did I," asserted Cheyenne, and he spoke sharply to his horse. + +Dorothy flushed. "Cheyenne, I rode over to find Jimmy. You needn't--Oh, +there's Aunt Jane now! And there's Jimmy, and the corral is full of +horses!" + +"Reckon we better step along," and Cheyenne put Steel Dust to a lope. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +MORE PONY TRACKS + + +Summoned from the west end of the ranch, where he had been irrigating +the alfalfa, Uncle Frank arrived at the house just as Cheyenne and +Dorothy rode up. Little Jim was excitedly endeavoring to explain to Aunt +Jane how the corral came to be filled with strange horses. + +Uncle Frank nodded to Cheyenne and turned to Jimmy. "Where you been?" + +"I was over on the mountain." + +"How did these horses get here?" + +Uncle Frank's eye was stern. Jimmy hesitated. He had been forbidden to +go near Sneed's place; and he knew that all that stood between a harness +strap and his small jeans was the presence of Dorothy and Cheyenne. It +was pretty tough to have recovered the stolen horses single-handed, and +then to take a licking for it. + +Little Jim gazed hopefully at his father. + +"Why, I was chousin' around up there," he explained, "and I seen dad's +hosses, and--and I started 'em down the trail and the whole blame bunch +followed 'em. They was travelin' so fast I couldn't cut 'em out, so I +just let 'em drift. Filaree and Josh just nacherally headed for the +corral and the rest followed 'em in." + +Uncle Frank gazed sternly at Jimmy. "Who told you to help your father +get his horses?" + +"Nobody." + +"Did your Aunt Jane tell you you could go over to the mountain?" + +"I never asked her." + +"You trot right into the house and stay there," said Uncle Frank. + +Little Jim cast an appealing glance at Cheyenne and walked slowly toward +the house, incidentally and unconsciously rubbing his hand across his +jeans with a sort of anticipatory movement. He bit his lip, and the +tears started to his eyes. But he shook them away, wondering what he +might do to avert the coming storm. Perhaps his father would interpose +between him and the dreaded harness strap. Yet Jimmy knew that his +father had never interfered when a question of discipline arose. + +Suddenly Little Jim's face brightened. He marched through the house to +the wash bench, and, unsolicited, washed his hands and face and soaped +his hair, after which he slicked it down carefully, so that there might +be no mistake about his having brushed and combed it. He rather hoped +that Uncle Frank or Aunt Jane would come in just then and find him at +this unaccustomed task. It might help. + +Meanwhile, Cheyenne and his brother-in-law had a talk, outside. Dorothy +and Aunt Jane retired to the veranda, talking in low tones. Presently +Little Jim, who could stand the strain no longer,--the jury seemed a +long time at arriving at a verdict,--appeared on the front veranda, +hatless, washed, and his hair fearfully and wonderfully brushed and +combed. + +"Why, Jimmy!" exclaimed Dorothy. + +Jimmy fidgeted and glanced away bashfully. Presently he stole to his +Aunt Jane's side. + +"Am I goin' to get a lickin'?" he queried. + +Aunt Jane shook her head, and patted his hand. Entrenched beside Aunt +Jane, Jimmy watched his father and Uncle Frank as they talked by the big +corral. Uncle Frank was gesturing toward the mountains. Cheyenne was +arguing quietly. + +"It ain't just the runnin' off of Sneed's hosses," said Uncle Frank. +"That's bad enough. But I told Jimmy to keep away from Sneed's." + +"So did I," declared Cheyenne. "And seein' as I'm his dad, it's up to me +to lick him if he's goin' to get licked." + +"Sneed is like to ride down some night and set fire to the barns," +asserted Uncle Frank. + +"Sneed don't know yet who run off his stock. And he can't say that I +did, and prove it. Now, Frank, you just hold your hosses. I'll ride over +to camp and get my outfit together and come over here. Then we'll throw +Steve Brown's hosses into your pasture, and I'll see that Sneed's stock +is out of here, pronto." + +"That's all right. But Sneed will trail his stock down here." + +"But he won't find 'em here. And he'll never know they was in your +corral." + +Uncle Frank shook his head doubtfully. He was a pessimist and always +argued the worst of a possible situation. + +"And before I'll see Jimmy take a lickin'--this trip--I'll ride back and +shoot it out with Sneed and his outfit," stated Cheyenne. + +"I reckon you're fool enough to do it," said Uncle Frank. + + * * * * * + +An hour later Bartley and Cheyenne were at the Lawrence ranch, where +they changed packs, saddled Filaree and Joshua, and turned the horses +borrowed from Steve Brown into Uncle Frank's back pasture. + +Little Jim watched these operations with keen interest. He wanted to +help, but refrained for fear that he would muss up his hair--and he +wanted Uncle Frank to notice his hair as it was. + +Aunt Jane hastily prepared a meal and Dorothy helped. + +In a few minutes Cheyenne and Bartley had eaten, and were ready for the +road. Cheyenne stepped up and shook hands with Jimmy, as though Jimmy +were a grown-up. Jimmy felt elated. There was no one just like his +father, even if folks did say that Cheyenne Hastings could do better +than ride around the country singing and joking with everybody. + +"And don't forget to stop by when you come back," said Aunt Jane, +bidding farewell to Bartley. + +Dorothy shook hands with the Easterner and wished him a pleasant +journey, rather coolly, Bartley thought. She was much more animated when +bidding farewell to Cheyenne. + +"And I won't forget to send you that rifle," said Bartley as he nodded +to Little Jim. + +Uncle Frank helped them haze Sneed's horses out of the yard on to the +road, where Cheyenne waited to head them from taking the hill trail, +again. + +Just as he left, Bartley turned to Dorothy who stood twisting a +pomegranate bud in her fingers. "May I have it?" he asked, half in jest. + +She tossed the bud to him and he caught it. Then he spurred out after +Cheyenne who was already hazing the horses down the road. Occasionally +one of the horses tried to break out and take to the hills, but Cheyenne +always headed it back to the bunch, determined, for some reason unknown +to Bartley, to keep the horses together and going south. + +The road climbed gradually, winding in and out among the foothills. As +the going became stiffer, the rock outcropped and the dust settled. + +The horses slowed to a walk. Bartley wondered why his companion seemed +determined to drive Sneed's stock south. He thought it would be just as +well to let them break for the hills, and not bother with them. But +Cheyenne offered no explanation. He evidently knew what he was about. + +To their right lay the San Andreas Valley across which the long, +slanting shadows of sunset crept slowly. Still Cheyenne kept the bunch +of horses going briskly, when the going permitted speed. Just over a +rise they came suddenly upon an Apache, riding a lean, active paint +horse. Cheyenne pulled up and talked with the Indian. The latter +grinned, nodded, and, jerking his pony round, rode after the horses as +they drifted ahead. Bartley saw the Apache bunch the animals again, and +turn them off the road toward the hills. + +"Didn't expect to meet up with luck, so soon," declared Cheyenne. "I +figured to turn Sneed's hosses loose when I'd got 'em far enough from +the ranch. But that Injun'll take care of 'em. Sneed ain't popular with +the Apaches. Sneed's cabin is right clost to the res'avation line." + +"What will the Indian do with the horses?" queried Bartley. + +"Most like trade 'em to his friends." + +Bartley gestured toward a spot of green far across the valley. "Looks +like a town," he said. + +"San Andreas--and that's where we stop, to-night. No campin' in the +brush for me while Sneed is ridin' the country lookin' for his stock. It +wouldn't be healthy." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +SAN ANDREAS TOWN + + +A sleepy town, that paid little attention to the arrival or departure of +strangers, San Andreas in the valley merely rubbed its eyes and dozed +again as Cheyenne and Bartley rode in, put up their horses at the +livery, and strolled over to the adobe hotel where they engaged rooms +for the night. + +Bartley was taken by the picturesque simplicity of the place, and next +morning he suggested that they stay a few days and enjoy the advantage +of having some one other than themselves cook their meals and make their +beds. The hotel, a relic of old times, with its patio and long portal, +its rooms whose lower floors were on the ground level, its unpretentious +spaciousness, appealed strongly to Bartley as something unusual in the +way of a hostelry. It seemed restful, romantic, inviting. It was a place +where a man might write, dream, loaf, and smoke. Then, incidentally, it +was not far from the Lawrence ranch, which was not far from the home of +a certain young woman whom Little Jim called "Dorry." + +Bartley thought that Dorothy was rather nice--in fact, singularly +interesting. He had not imagined that a Western girl could be so +thoroughly domestic, natural, charming, and at the same time manage a +horse so well. He had visioned Western girls as hard-voiced horse-women, +masculine, bold, and rather scornful of a man who did not wear chaps and +ride broncos. True, Dorothy was not like the girls in the East. She +seemed less sophisticated--less inclined to talk small talk just for its +own sake; yet, concluded Bartley, she was utterly feminine and quite +worth while. + +Cheyenne smiled as Bartley suggested that they stay in San Andreas a few +days; and Cheyenne nodded in the direction from which they had come. + +"I kinda like this part of the country, myself," he said, "but I hate to +spend all my money in one place." + +Bartley suddenly realized that his companion, was nothing more than a +riding hobo, a vagrant, without definite means of support, and +disinclined to stay in any one place long. + +"I'll take care of the expenses," said Bartley. + +Cheyenne smiled, but shook his head. "It ain't that, right now. Me, I +got to shoot that there game of craps with Panhandle, and I figure he +won't ride this way." + +"But you have recovered your horses," argued Bartley. + +Cheyenne gestured toward the south. "I reckon I'll keep movin', pardner. +And that game of craps is as good a excuse as I want." + +"I had hoped that it would be plain sailing, from now on," declared +Bartley. "I thought of stopping here only three or four days. This sort +of town is new to me." + +"They's lots like it, between here and the border," said Cheyenne. "But +I don't want no 'dobe walls between me and the sky-line, reg'lar. I can +stand it for a day, mebby." + +"Well, perhaps we may agree to dissolve partnership temporarily," +suggested Bartley. "I think I'll stay here a few days, at least." + +"That's all right, pardner. I don't aim to tell no man how to live. But +me, I aim to live in the open." + +"Do you think that man Sneed will ride down this way?" queried Bartley, +struck by a sudden idea. + +"That ain't why I figure to keep movin'," said Cheyenne. "But seein' as +you figure to stay, I'll stick around to-day, and light out to-morrow +mornin'. Mebby you'll change your mind, and come along." + +Bartley spent the forenoon with Cheyenne, prowling about the old town, +interested in its quaint unusualness. The afternoon heat drove him to +the shade of the hotel veranda, and, feeling unaccountably drowsy, he +finally went to his room, and, stretching out on the bed, fell asleep. +He was awakened by Cheyenne's knock at the door. Supper was ready. + +After supper they strolled out to the street and watched the town wake +up. From down the street a ways came the sound of a guitar and singing. +A dog began to howl. Then came a startled yelp, and the howl died away +in the dusk. The singing continued. A young Mexican in a blue serge +suit, tan shoes, and with a black sombrero set aslant on his head, +walked down the street beside a Mexican girl, young, fat, and giggling. +They passed the hotel with all the self-consciousness of being attired +in their holiday raiment. + +A wagon rattled past and stopped at the saloon a few doors down the +street. Then a ragged Mexican, hazing two tired burros, appeared in the +dim light cast from a window--a quaint silhouette that merged in the +farther shadows. Cheyenne moved his feet restlessly. + +Bartley smiled. "The road for mine," he quoted. + +Cheyenne nodded. "Reckon I'll go see how the hosses are makin' it." + +"I'll walk over with you," said Bartley. + +As they came out of the livery barn again, Bartley happened to glance at +the lighted doorway of the cantina opposite. From within the saloon came +the sound of glasses clinking occasionally, and voices engaged in lazy +conversation. Cheyenne fingered the dice in his pocket and hummed a +tune. Slowly he moved toward the lighted doorway, and Bartley walked +beside him. + +"I got a thirst," stated Cheyenne. + +Bartley laughed. "Well, as we are about to dissolve partnership, I don't +mind taking one myself." + +"Tough joint," declared Cheyenne as he stepped up to the doorway. + +"All the better," said Bartley. + +A young rancher, whose team stood at the hitch-rail, nodded pleasantly +as they entered. + +"Mescal," said Cheyenne, and he laid a silver dollar on the bar. + +Bartley glanced about the low-ceilinged room. The place, poorly lighted +with oil lamps, looked sinister enough to satisfy the most hardy +adventurer, although it was supposed to be a sort of social center for +the enjoyment of vino and talk. The bar was narrow, made of some kind of +soft wood, and painted blue. The top of it was almost paintless in +patches. + +Back of the bar a narrow shelf, also painted blue, offered a lean choice +of liquors. Several Mexicans lounged at the side tables along the wall. +The young American rancher stood at the bar, drinking. The proprietor, a +fat, one-eyed Mexican whose face was deeply pitted from smallpox, served +Bartley and Cheyenne grudgingly. The mescal was fiery stuff. Bartley +coughed as he swallowed it. + +"Why not just whiskey, and have it over with?" he queried, grinning at +Cheyenne. + +"Whiskey ain't whiskey, here," Cheyenne replied. "But mescal is just +what she says she is. I like to know the kind of poison I'm drinkin'." + +Bartley began to experience an inner glow that was not unpleasant. Once +down, this native Mexican drink was not so bad. He laid a coin on the +bar and the glasses were filled again. + +Cheyenne nodded and drank Bartley's health. Bartley suggested that they +sit at one of the side tables and study the effects of mescal on the +natives present. + +"Let joy be unconfined," said Cheyenne. + +"Where in the world did you get that?" + +"Oh, I can read," declared Cheyenne. "Before I took to ramblin', I used +to read some, nights. I reckon that's where I got the idea of makin' up +po'try, later." + +"I really beg your pardon," said Bartley. + +"The mescal must of told you." + +"I don't quite get that," said Bartley. + +"No? Well, you ain't the first. Josh and Filaree is the only ones that +sabes me. Let's sit in this corner and watch the mescal work for a +livin'." + +It was a hot night. Sweat prickled on Bartley's forehead. His nose +itched. He lit a cigar. It tasted bitter, so he asked Cheyenne for +tobacco and papers, and rolled a cigarette. He inhaled a whiff, and felt +more comfortable. The Mexicans, who had ceased to talk when Bartley and +Cheyenne entered, were now at it again, making plenty of noise. + +Cheyenne hummed to himself and tapped the floor with his boot-heel. +"She's a funny old world," he declared. + +Bartley nodded and blew a smoke-ring. + +"Miss Dorry's sure a interestin' girl," asserted Cheyenne. + +Bartley nodded again. + +"Kind of young and innocent-like." + +Again Bartley nodded. + +"It ain't a bad country to settle down in, for folks that likes to +settle," said Cheyenne. + +Bartley glanced sharply at his companion. Cheyenne was gazing straight +ahead. His face was unreadable. + +"Now if I was the settlin' kind--" He paused and slowly turned toward +Bartley. "A man could raise alfalfa and chickens and kids." + +"Go ahead," laughed Bartley. + +"I'm goin'--to-morrow mornin'. And you say you figure to stay here a +spell?" + +"Oh, just a few days. I imagine I shall grow tired of it. But to-night, +I feel pretty well satisfied to stay right where I am." + +Cheyenne rose and strode to the bar. After a short argument with the +proprietor, he returned with a bottle and glasses. Bartley raised his +eyebrows questioningly. + +"Once in a while--" And Cheyenne gestured toward the bottle. + +"It's powerful stuff," said Bartley. + +"We ain't far from the hotel," declared Cheyenne. And he filled their +glasses. + +"This ought to be the last, for me," said Bartley, drinking. "But don't +let that make any difference to you." + +Cheyenne drank and shrugged his shoulders. He leaned back and gazed at +the opposite wall. Bartley vaguely realized that the Mexicans were +chattering, that two or three persons had come in, and that the +atmosphere was heavy with tobacco smoke. He unbuttoned his shirt-collar. + +Presently Cheyenne twisted round in his chair. "Remember Little Jim, +back at the Hastings ranch?" + +"I should say so! It would be difficult to forget him." + +"Miss Dorry thinks a heap of that kid." + +"She seems to." + +"Now, I ain't drunk," Cheyenne declared solemnly. "I sure wish I was. +You know Little Jim is my boy. Well, his ma is livin' over to Laramie. +She writ to me to come back to her, onct. I reckon Sears got tired of +her. She lived with him a spell after she quit me. Folks say Sears +treated her like a dog. I guess I wasn't man enough, when I heard +that--" + +"You mean Panhandle Sears--at Antelope?" + +"Him." + +"Oh, I see!" said Bartley slowly. "And that crap game, at Antelope--I +see!" + +"If Panhandle had a-jumped me, instead of you, that night, I'd 'a' +killed him. Do you know why Wishful stepped in and put Sears down? +Wishful did that so that there wouldn't be a killin'. That's the second +time Sears has had his chance to git me, but he won't take that chance. +That's the second time we met up since--since my wife left me. The third +time it'll be lights out for somebody. I ain't drunk." + +"Then Sears has got a yellow streak?" + +"Any man that uses a woman rough has. When Jimmy's ma left us, I reckon +I went loco. It wa'n't just her _leavin'_ us. But when I heard she had +took up with Sears, and knowin' what he was--I just quit. I was workin' +down here at the ranch, then. I went up North, figurin' to kill him. +Folks thought I was yellow, for not killin' him. They think so right +now. Mebby I am. + +"I worked up North a spell, but I couldn't stay. So I lit out and come +down South again. First time I met up with Sears was over on the Tonto. +He stepped up and slapped my face, in front of a crowd, in the Lone +Star. And I took it. But I told him I'd sure see him again, and give him +another chance to slap my face. + +"You see, Panhandle Sears is that kind--he's got to work himself up to +kill a man. And over there at Antelope, that night, he just about knowed +that if he lifted a finger, I'd git him. He figured to start a ruckus, +and then git me in the mix-up. Wishful was on, and he stopped that +chance. Folks think that because I come ridin' and singin' and joshin' +that I ain't no account. Mebby I ain't." + +Cheyenne poured another drink for himself. Bartley declined to drink +again. He was thinking of this squalid tragedy and of its possible +outcome. The erstwhile sprightly Cheyenne held a new significance for +the Easterner. That a man could ride up and down the trails singing, and +yet carry beneath it all the grim intent some day to kill a man-- + +Bartley felt that Cheyenne had suddenly become a stranger, an unknown +quantity, a sinister jester, in fact, a dangerous man. He leaned forward +and touched Cheyenne's arm. + +"Why not give up the idea of--er--getting Sears; and settle down, and +make a home for Little Jim?" + +"When Aunt Jane took him, the understandin' was that Jimmy was to be +raised respectable, which is the same as tellin' me that I don't have +nothin' to do with raisin' him. Me, I got to keep movin'." + +Bartley turned toward the doorway as a tall figure loomed through the +haze of tobacco smoke: a gaunt, heavy-boned man, bearded and limping +slightly. With him were several companions, booted and spurred; +evidently just in from a hard ride. + +Cheyenne turned to Bartley. "That's Bill Sneed--and his crowd. I ain't +popular with 'em--right now." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +THAT MESCAL + + +"The man who had your horses?" queried Bartley. + +Cheyenne nodded. "The one at the end of the bar. The hombre next to him +is Lawson, who claims he bought my hosses from a Mexican, down here. +Lawson is the one that is huntin' trouble. Sneed don't care nothin' +about a couple of cayuses. He won't start anything. He's here just to +back up Lawson if things git interestin'." + +"But what can they do? We're here, in town, minding our own business. +They know well enough that Panhandle stole your horses. And you said the +people in San Andreas don't like Sneed a whole lot." + +"Because they're scared of him and his crowd. And we're strangers here. +It's just me and Lawson, this deal. Sneed is sizin' you up, back of his +whiskers, right now. He's tryin' to figure out who you are. Sneed ain't +one to run into the law when they's anybody lookin' on. He works +different. + +"Now, while he is figurin', you just git up easy and step out and slip +over to the barn and saddle up Joshua. I'm goin' to need him. Take the +tie-rope off Filaree and leave him loose in his stall. Just say 'Adios' +to me when you git up, like you was goin' back to the hotel. And if +you'll settle what we owe--" + +"That's all right. But my feet aren't cold, yet." + +"You figure to stay in town a spell, don't you? Well, I figure to leave, +right soon. I'm tryin' to dodge trouble. It's your chanct to help out." + +"Why can't we both walk out?" + +"'Cause they'd follow us. They won't follow you." + +Bartley glanced at the men ranged along the bar, rose, and, shaking +hands with Cheyenne, strode out, nodding pleasantly to the one-eyed +proprietor as he went. + +Sneed eyed the Easterner sharply, and nudged one of his men as Bartley +passed through the doorway. + +"Just step out and see where he goes, Hull," he ordered in an undertone. +"Keep him in sight." + +The man spoken to hitched up his chaps, and, turning to finish his +drink, strolled out casually. + +Bartley saw a row of saddle-horses tied at the rail. He noticed the +slickers on the saddles and the carbines under the stirrup leathers. It +was evident that the riders were not entirely on pleasure bent. He +crossed the street, wakened the stableman, paid the bill, and saddled +Joshua. Then he took the tie-rope off Filaree, as Cheyenne had directed. +Bartley led Joshua through the barn to the back, where he was tying him +to a wagon wheel when a figure loomed up in the semi-darkness. + +"Ridin', stranger?" + +The figure struck a match and lighted a cigarette. Bartley at once +recognized him as one of Sneed's men. Resenting the other's question and +his attitude of easy familiarity, Bartley ignored his presence. + +"Hard of hearin'?" queried Hull. + +"Rather." + +"I said: Was you ridin'?" + +"Yesterday," replied Bartley. + +Hull blew a whiff of smoke in Bartley's face. It seemed casual, but was +intended as an insult. Bartley flushed, and realizing that the other was +there to intercept any action on his part to aid Cheyenne, he dropped +Joshua's reins, and without the slightest warning of his intent--in +fact, Hull thought the Easterner was stooping to pick up the +reins--Bartley launched a haymaker that landed with a loud crack on +Hull's unguarded chin, and Hull's head snapped back. Bartley jumped +forward and shot another one to the same spot. Hull's head hit the edge +of the doorway as he went down. + +He lay there, inert, a queer blur in the half-light. Bartley licked his +skinned knuckles. + +"He may resent this, when he wakes up," he murmured. "I believe I'll tie +him." + +Bartley took Joshua's tie-rope and bound Mr. Hull's arms and legs, +amateurishly, but securely. + +Then he strode through to the front of the barn. He could hear loud +talking in the saloon opposite and thought he could distinguish +Cheyenne's voice. Bartley wondered what would happen in there, and when +things would begin to pop, if there was to be any popping. He felt +foolishly helpless and inefficient--rather a poor excuse for a partner, +just then. Yet there was that husky rider, back there in the straw. He +was even more helpless and inefficient. Bartley licked his knuckles, and +grinned. + +"There must have been a little mescal in that second punch," he thought. +"I never hit so hard in my life." + +The stableman had retired to his bunk--a habit of night stablemen. The +stable was dark and still, save for the munching of the horses. In the +saloon across the way Cheyenne was facing Sneed and his men, alone. +Bartley felt like a quitter. Indecision irritated him, and curiosity +urged him to do something other than to stand staring at the saloon +front. He recalled his plan to sojourn in San Andreas a few days, and +incidently to ride over to the Lawrence ranch--frankly, to have another +visit with Dorothy. He shrugged his shoulders. That idea now seemed +insignificant, compared with the present possibilities. + +"I'm a free agent," he soliloquized. "I think I'll take a hand in this, +myself." + +He snapped his fingers as he turned and hastened to Dobe's stall. He led +Dobe out to the stable floor, got his saddle from the office, told the +sleepy stableman that he was going to take a little ride, and saddled +Dobe. And he led Dobe back to where Joshua was tied. He had forgotten +his victim on the floor, for a moment, but was aware of him when he +stumbled over him in the dark. The other mumbled and struggled faintly. + +"I left your gun in the wagon-box," said Bartley. "I wouldn't move +around much, if I were you. One of the horses might step on your face +and hurt his foot." + +Mr. Hull was not pleased at this, and he said as much. Bartley tied Dobe +to the back of the wagon. + +"Just keep your eye on the horses a minute," he told Hull. "I'll be back +soon." + +Bartley felt unusually and inexplicably elated. He had not realized the +extreme potency of mescal. The proprietor of the hotel was mildly +surprised when Bartley, remarking that he had been called away +unexpectedly, paid the hotel bill. Bartley hastened back to the stable. +Across the way the horses of the mountain men drowsed in the faint +lamplight. Turning, Bartley saw Joshua and Dobe dimly silhouetted in the +opening at the far end of the stable. Cheyenne was still in the saloon. + +Bartley grinned. "It might help," he said as he stepped across the +street. Taking down the rope from the nearest horse, he tied the end of +the rope in the horse's bridle and threaded the end through the bridles +of all five horses, tying the loose end to the last horse's bridle. +"Just like stringing fish!" he murmured soulfully. "When those gentlemen +from the interior try to mount, there'll be something doing." + +He had just turned to walk back to the stable when he heard a shot, and +the lighted doorway of the saloon became suddenly dark. Without waiting +to see what would happen next, Bartley ran to the rear of the stable and +untied the horses. Behind him he heard the quick trample of feet. He +turned. A figure appeared in the front doorway of the stable, a figure +that dashed toward him, and, with a leap and a swing, mounted Joshua and +spurred out and down the alley back of the building. + +Bartley grabbed for his own stirrup, missed it, grabbed again and swung +up. Dobe leaped after the other horse, turned at the end of the alley, +and, reaching into a long, swinging gallop, pounded across the +night-black open. San Andreas had but one street. The backs of its +buildings opened to space. + +Ahead, Cheyenne thundered across a narrow bridge over an arroyo. Dobe +lifted and leaped forward, as though in a race. From behind came the +quick patter of hoofs. One of Sneed's men had evidently managed to get +his horse loose from the reata. A solitary house, far out on the level, +flickered past. Bartley glanced back. The house door opened. A ray of +yellow light shot across the road. + +"Hey, Cheyenne!" called Bartley. + +But Cheyenne's little buckskin was drumming down the night road at a +pace that astonished the Easterner. Dobe seemed to be doing his best, +yet he could not overtake the buckskin. Behind Bartley the patter of +hoofs sounded nearer. Bartley thought he heard Cheyenne call back to +him. He leaned forward, but the drumming of hoofs deadened all other +sound. + +They were on a road, now--a road that ran south across the spaces, +unwinding itself like a tape flung from a reel. Suddenly Cheyenne pulled +to a stop. Bartley raced up, bracing himself as the big cow-horse set up +in two jumps. + +"I thought you was abidin' in San Andreas," said Cheyenne. + +"There's some one coming!" warned Bartley, breathing heavily. + +"And his name is Filaree," declared Cheyenne. "You sure done a good job. +Let's keep movin'." And Cheyenne let Joshua out as Filaree drew +alongside and nickered shrilly. + +"Now I reckon we better hold 'em in a little," said Cheyenne after they +had gone, perhaps, a half-mile. "We got a good start." + +They slowed the horses to a trot. Filaree kept close to Joshua's flank. +A gust of warm air struck their faces. + +"Ain't got time to shake hands, pardner," said Cheyenne. "Know where +you're goin'?" + +"South," said Bartley. + +"Correc'. And I don't hear no hosses behind us." + +"I strung them together on a rope," said Bartley. + +"How's that?" + +"I tied Sneed's horses together, with a rope. Ran it through the +bridles--like stringing fish. Not according to Hoyle, but it seems to +have worked." + +Cheyenne shook his head. He did not quite get the significance of +Bartley's statement. + +"Any one get hurt?" queried Bartley presently. + +"Nope. I spoiled a lamp, and I reckon I hit somebody on the head, in the +dark, comin' through. Seems like I stepped on somethin' soft, out there +back of the barn. It grunted like a human. But I didn't stop to look." + +"I had to do it," declared Bartley ambiguously. + +"Had to do what?" + +"Punch a fellow that wanted to know what I was doing with your horse. I +let him have it twice." + +"Then you didn't hit him with your gun?" + +"No. I wish I had. I've got a fist like a boiled ham. I can feel it +swell, right now." + +"That there mescal is sure pow'ful stuff." + +"Thanks!" said Bartley succinctly. + +"Got a kick like white lightin'," said Cheyenne. + +"And I paid our hotel bill," continued Bartley. + +"Well, that was mighty thoughtful. I plumb forgot it." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +JOE SCOTT + + +Just before daybreak Cheyenne turned from the road and picked his way +through the scattered brush to a gulch in the western foothills. +Cheyenne's horses seemed to know the place, when they stopped at a +narrow, pole gate across the upper end of the gulch, for on beyond the +gate the horses again stopped of their own accord. Bartley could barely +discern the outlines of a cabin. Cheyenne hallooed. + +A muffled answer from the cabin, then a twinkle of light, then the open +doorway framing a gigantic figure. + +"That you, Shy?" queried the figure. + +"Me and a friend." + +"You're kind of early," rumbled the figure as the riders dismounted. + +"Shucks! You'd be gettin' up, anyway, right soon. We come early so as +not to delay your breakfast." + +In the cabin, Cheyenne and the big man shook hands. Bartley was +introduced. The man was a miner, named Joe Scott. + +"Joe, here, is a minin' man--when he ain't runnin' a all-night +lunch-stand," explained Cheyenne. "He can't work his placer when it's +dark, but he sure can work a skillet and a coffee-mill." + +"What you been up to?" queried the giant slowly, as he made a fire in +the stove, and set about getting breakfast. + +"Up to Clubfoot Sneed's place, to get a couple of hosses that belonged +to me. He was kind of hostile. Followed us down to San Andreas and done +spoiled our night's rest. But I got the hosses." + +"Hosses seems to be his failin'," said the big man. + +"So some folks say. I'm one of 'em." + +"How are the folks up Antelope way?" + +"Kinda permanent, as usual. I hear Panhandle's drifted south again. +Wishful, he shoots craps, reg'lar." + +Scott nodded, shifted the coffee-pot and sat down on the edge of his +bunk. "Got any smokin'?" he queried presently. + +Bartley offered the miner a cigar. "I'm afraid it's broken," apologized +Bartley. + +"That's all right. I was goin' to town this mornin', to get some tobacco +and grub. But this will help." And doubling the cigar Scott thrust it in +his mouth and chewed it with evident satisfaction. + +The gray edge of dawn crept into the room. Scott blew out the light and +opened the door. + +Bartley felt suddenly sleepy and he drowsed and nodded, realizing that +Scott and Cheyenne were talking, and that the faint aroma of coffee +drifted toward him, mingling with the chill, fresh air of morning. He +pulled himself together and drank the coffee and ate some bacon. From +time to time he glanced at Scott, fascinated by the miner's tremendous +forearms, his mighty chest and shoulders. Even Cheyenne, who was a +fair-sized man, appeared like a boy beside the miner. Bartley wondered +that such tremendous strength should be isolated, hidden back there +behind the foothills. Yet Scott himself, easy-going and dryly humorous, +was evidently content right where he was. + +Later the miner showed Bartley about the diggings, quietly proud of his +establishment, and enthusiastic about the unfailing supply of water--in +fact, Scott talked more about water than he did about gold. Bartley +realized that the big miner would have been a misfit in town, that he +belonged in the rugged hills from which he wrested a scant six dollars a +day by herculean toil. + +In a past age, Scott would have been a master builder of castles or of +triremes or a maker of armor, but never a fighting man. It was evident +that the miner was, despite his great strength, a man of peace. Bartley +rather regretted, for some romantic reason or other, that the big miner +was not a fighting man. + +Yet when they returned to the shack, where Cheyenne sat smoking, Bartley +learned that Big Joe Scott had a reputation in his own country. That was +when Scott suggested that they needed sleep. He spread a blanket-roll on +the cabin floor for Cheyenne and offered Bartley his bunk. Then Scott +picked up his rifle and strode across to a shed. Cheyenne pulled off his +boots, stretched out on the blanket-roll, and sighed comfortably. +Bartley could see the big miner busily twisting something in his hands, +something that looked like a leather bag from which occasional tiny +spurts of silver gleamed and trickled. Bartley wondered what Scott was +doing. He asked Cheyenne. + +"He's squeezin' 'quick.'" And Cheyenne explained the process of +squeezing quicksilver through a chamois skin. "And I'm glad it ain't my +neck," added Cheyenne. "Joe killed a man, with his bare hands, onct. +That's why he never gets in a fight, nowadays. He dassn't. 'Course, he +had to kill that man, or get killed." + +"I noticed he picked up his rifle," said Bartley. + +"Nobody'll disturb our sleep," said Cheyenne drowsily. + + * * * * * + +The afternoon shadows were long when Bartley awakened. Through the +doorway he could see Cheyenne out in the shed, talking with Joe Scott. + +"Hello!" called Bartley, sitting up. "Lost any horses, Cheyenne?" + +Presently Scott and Cheyenne came over to the cabin. + +"I'm cook, this trip," stated Cheyenne as he bustled about the kitchen. +"I reckon Joe needs a rest. He ain't lookin' right strong." + +An early supper, and the three men forgathered outside the cabin and +smoked and talked until long after dark. Cheyenne had told Scott of the +happenings since leaving Antelope, and jokingly he referred to San +Andreas and Bartley's original plan of staying there awhile. + +Bartley nodded. "And now that the smoke has blown away, I think I'll go +back and finish my visit," he said. + +Cheyenne's face expressed surprise and disappointment. "Honest?" he +queried. + +"Why not?" asked Bartley, and it was a hard question to answer. + +After all, Bartley had stuck to him when trouble seemed inevitable, +reasoned Cheyenne. + +Now the Easterner felt free to do as he pleased. And why shouldn't he? +There had been no definite or even tentative agreement as to when they +would dissolve partnership. And Bartley's evident determination to carry +out his original plan struck Cheyenne as indicative of considerable +spirit. It was plain that Sneed's unexpected presence in San Andreas had +not affected Bartley very much. With a tinge of malice, born of +disappointment, Cheyenne suggested to Bartley that the man he had +knocked out, back of the livery barn, would no doubt be glad to see him +again. + +Bartley turned to Joe Scott. "He's trying to 'Out-West' me a bit, isn't +he?" + +Scott laughed heartily. "Cheyenne is getting tired of rambling up and +down the country alone. He wants a pardner. Seems he likes your company, +from what he says. But you can't take him serious. He'll be singin' that +everlastin' trail song of his next." + +"He hasn't sung much, recently." + +Cheyenne bridled and snorted like a colt. "Huh! Just try this on your +piano." And seemingly improvising, he waved his arm toward the burro +corral. + + One time I had a right good pal, + Git along, cayuse, git along; + But he quit me cold for a little ranch gal, + Git along, cayuse, git along. + + And now he's took to pitchin' hay + On a rancho down San Andreas way; + He's done tied up and he's got to stay; + Git along, cayuse, git along. + +"I was just learnin' him the ropes, and he quit me cold," complained +Cheyenne, appealing to Scott. + +"He aims to keep out of trouble," suggested Scott. + +"I ain't got no friends," said Cheyenne, grinning. + +"Thanks for that," said Scott. + +Cheyenne reached in his pocket and drew out the dice. His eyes +brightened. He rattled the dice and shot them across the hardpacked +ground near the doorstep. Then he struck a match to see what he had +thrown. "I'm hittin' the road five minutes after six, to-morrow +mornin'," he declared, as he picked up the dice. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +DORRY COMES TO TOWN + + +At six, next morning, Bartley and Scott were on their way to San +Andreas, Bartley riding Dobe and Scott hazing two pack-burros. They took +a hill trail, which, Scott explained, was shorter by miles than the +valley road which Cheyenne and Bartley had taken to the gulch. Cheyenne +was forced to stay at the miner's cabin until Scott returned with the +pack-saddle and outfit left in the livery. Scott was after supplies and +tobacco. + +At first Cheyenne had thought of going along with them. But he +reconsidered. He did not care to risk being arrested in San Andreas for +having disturbed the peace. If the authorities should happen to detain +him, there would be one broken head, one broken lamp, and possibly five +or six witnesses as evidence that he had been the aggressor in the +saloon. Sneed and his men would swear to anything, and the owner of the +saloon would add his bit of evidence. Bartley himself was liable to +arrest for assault and battery should Hull lodge a complaint against +him. Incidentally, Hull had been found by the stableman, curiously roped +and tied and his lower jaw somewhat out of plumb. + +Bartley and Scott arrived in San Andreas about noon, saw to their stock +and had dinner together. Bartley engaged a room at the hotel. Scott +bought supplies. Then, unknown to Bartley, Scott hunted up the town +marshal and told him that the Easterner was a friend of his. The town +marshal took the hint. Scott assured the marshal that, if Sneed or his +men made any trouble in San Andreas, he would gladly come over and help +the marshal establish peace. Cheyenne's name was not mentioned. + +An hour later Scott appeared in front of the hotel with his burros +packed. Bartley, loafing on the veranda, rose and stepped out. + +"If you got time," said Scott, "you might walk along with me, out to the +edge of town." + +Bartley wondered what Scott had in mind, but he agreed to the suggestion +at once. + +Together they trudged through the sleepy town until they reached the +open. + +"I guess you can find your way back," said Scott, his eyes twinkling. +"And, say, it's a good idea not to pack a shootin'-iron--and let folks +know you don't pack one." + +"I think I understand," said Bartley. + +"Ride over to my camp, any time, and if I'm not there, just make +yourself to home." And the big miner turned and started his burros +toward the hills. + +"Give my regards to Cheyenne," called Bartley. + +The miner nodded. + +On his way back through town, Bartley wondered why the miner had asked +him to take that walk. Then suddenly he thought of a reason. They had +been seen in San Andreas, walking and talking together. That would +intimate that they were friends. And a man would have to be blind, not +to realize that it would be a mistake to pick a quarrel with Scott, or +one of his friends. Joe Scott never quarreled; but he had the reputation +of being a man of whom it was safe to step around. + +With his sleeves rolled up, sitting in the quiet of his room, Bartley +spent the afternoon jotting down notes for a story. He thought he had +experienced enough adventure to make a good beginning. Of course, the +love element was lacking, yet he thought that might be supplied, later. +He had a heroine in mind. Bartley laid down his pencil, and sat back, +shaping daydreams. It was hot in the room. It would be cooler down on +the veranda. Well, he would finish his rough sketch of Cheyenne, and +then step down to the veranda. He caught himself drowsing over his work. +He sat up, scribbled a while, nodded sleepily, and, finally, with his +head on his arms, he fell asleep. + +The rattle of wagon wheels wakened him. A ranch team had just pulled up +to the hitch-rail in front of the hotel and a small boy was tying the +horses. The boy's hat seemed familiar to Bartley. Then Bartley heard a +voice. Suddenly he was wide awake. Little Jim was down there, talking to +some one. Bartley rose and peered down. Little Jim's companion was +Dorothy. Bartley could not see her face, because of her wide hat-brim. +Stepping back into the room, Bartley picked up his pencil and, leaning +out of the window, started it rolling down the gentle slope of the +veranda roof. It dropped at Dorothy's feet. She started and glanced up. +Bartley waved a greeting and disappeared from the window. + +Decently clothed, and, imagining that he was in his right mind, he +hastened downstairs. + +Little Jim expressed no surprise at seeing Bartley, but the youngster's +eyes were eager. + +He shook hands, like a grown-up. "Got that twenty-two, yet?" + +"Haven't seen one, Jimmy. But I won't forget." + +"There's a brand-new twenty-two over to Hodges' store, in the window," +declared Little Jim. + +"That so? Then we'll have to walk over and look at it." + +"I done _looked_ at it already," said Little Jim. + +"Well, then, let's go and price it." + +"I done priced it. It's twelve-fifty." + +"Well, what do you say to going over and buying it?" + +"Sure! Is dad gone?" + +"Yes. He left here last night. I thought Miss Gray was with you," said +Bartley. + +"Sure! She had to come to town to buy some things. She's over to Hodges' +now." + +Dorothy had not waited for him to appear. Bartley was a bit piqued. But +he asked himself why should he be? They were the merest acquaintances. +True, they had spent several hours together, reading and discussing +verse. But no doubt that had been purely impersonal, on her part. With +Little Jim as his guide, Bartley entered Hodges' general store. Dorothy +was at the back of the store making purchases. Bartley watched her a +moment. He felt a tug at his sleeve. + +"The guns is over on this side," declared Little Jim. + +"We'll have to wait until Mr. Hodges gets through waiting on Miss Gray," +said Bartley. + +Little Jim scampered across the aisle and stood on tiptoe peering into a +showcase. There were pistols, cheap watches, and a pair of spurs. + +Little Jim gazed a moment and then shot over to Dorothy. "Say, Dorry, +can't you hurry up? Me and Mr. Bartley are waitin' to look at that +twenty-two in the window." + +"Now, Jimmy! Oh, how do you do!" And Dorothy greeted Bartley with +considerable poise for a young woman who was as interested in the +Easterner as she was. + +"Don't let us interrupt you," said Bartley. "Our business can wait." + +Little Jim scowled, and grimaced at Dorothy, who excused herself to +Bartley and went on making her purchases. They were really insignificant +purchases--some pins, some thread, and a roll of binding tape. +Insignificant as they were, Bartley offered to carry them to the wagon +for her. Dorothy declined his offer and took them to the wagon herself. + +"Now for that rifle," said Bartley. + +Little Jim, itching all over to get hold of that new and shining weapon, +squirmed as Hodges took it from the window and handed it to Bartley. +Bartley examined it and passed it over to Little Jim. + +"Is that the kind you wanted?" he asked. + +"This is her! Twenty-two, long or short, genuwine repeater." Jimmy +pretended to read the tags tied to the trigger guard. "Yep! This is +her." + +"And some cartridges," suggested Bartley. + +"How many?" queried the storekeeper. + +"All you got," said Little Jim. + +But Bartley's good nature was not to be imposed upon to that extent. +"Give us five boxes, Mr. Hodges." + +"That cleans me out of twenty-twos," declared Hodges. + +Jimmy grinned triumphantly. Dorothy had come in and was viewing the +purchase with some apprehension. She knew Little Jim. + +Bearing the rifle proudly, Jimmy marched from the store. Dorothy and +Bartley followed him, and Bartley briefly outlined Cheyenne's recent +sprightly exodus from San Andreas. + +"I heard about it, from Mr. Hodges," said Dorothy. "And I also noticed +that you have hurt your hand." + +Bartley glanced at his right hand--and then at Dorothy, who was gazing +at him curiously. It had become common news in town that Cheyenne +Hastings and the Easterner had engaged in a free-for-all fight with the +Sneed outfit, and that two of the Sneed boys were laid up for repairs. +That was Mr. Hodges' version. + +"I also heard that you had left town," said Dorothy. + +Bartley's egoism was slightly deflated. Then Dorothy had come to town to +buy a few trinkets, and not to find out how it fared with him. + +"We have to get back before dark," she declared. + +"And you got to drive," said Little Jim. "I want to try my new gun!" + +"Did you thank Mr. Bartley for the gun?" + +Little Jim admitted that he had forgotten to do so. He stuck out his +small hand. "Thanks, pardner," he said heartily. + +Bartley laughed and patted Jimmy's shoulder--something that Jimmy +utterly detested, but suffered nobly, under the circumstances. + +"You earned that gun--and thank you for fetching Miss Dorry to town." + +"Huh! I didn't fetch _her_. She fetched me. Uncle Frank was comin', but +Dorry said she just had to get some things--" + +"Jimmy, please don't point that gun at the horses." + +Bartley felt better. He didn't know just why he felt better. Yet he felt +more than grateful to Little Jim. + +Nevertheless, Dorothy met Bartley's eyes frankly as he said farewell. "I +hope you will find time to ride over to the ranch," she said. "I'm sure +Aunt Jane would be glad to see you." + +"Thanks. Say, day after to-morrow?" + +"Oh, it doesn't matter. Aunt Jane is nearly always at home." + +"And I got lots of ca'tridges," chirruped Little Jim. "We can shoot all +day." + +"I wouldn't miss such an opportunity for anything," declared Bartley, +yet he was looking at Dorothy when he spoke. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +ALONG THE FOOTHILLS + + +Bartley, enjoying his after-dinner smoke, felt that he wanted to know +more about the girl who had invited him to call at the Lawrence ranch +again. He told himself that he wanted to study her; to find out her +preferences, her ideals, her attitude toward life, and how the thought +of always living in the San Andreas Valley, shut away from the world, +appealed to her. + +With the unconscious intolerance of the city-bred man, he did not +realize that her world was quite as interesting to her as his world was +to him. Manlike, he also failed to realize that Dorothy was studying him +quite as much as he was studying her. While he did not feel in the least +superior, he did feel that he was more worldly-wise than this young +woman whose horizon was bounded by the hills edging the San Andreas +Valley. + +True, she seemed to have read much, for one as isolated as she, and she +had evidently appreciated what she had read. And then there was +something about her that interested him, aside from her good looks. He +had known many girls far more beautiful. It was not her manner, which +was a bit constrained, at times. Her charm for him was indefinable. +Somehow, she seemed different from other girls he had met. Bartley was +himself responsible for this romantic hallucination. He saw her with +eyes hungry for the sympathetic companionship of youth, especially +feminine youth, for he could talk with her seriously about things which +the genial Cheyenne could hardly appreciate. + +In other words, Bartley, whose aim was to isolate himself from +convention, was unconsciously hungry for the very conventions he thought +he was fleeing from. And in a measure, Dorothy Gray represented the life +he had left behind. Had she been a boy, Bartley would have enjoyed +talking with her--or him; but she was a girl, and, concluded Bartley, +just the type of girl for the heroine of a Western romance. Bartley's +egoism would not allow him to admit that their tentative friendship +could become anything more than friendship. And it was upon that +understanding with himself that he saddled up, next morning,--why the +hurry, with a week to spend in San Andreas,--and set out for the +Lawrence ranch, to call on Aunt Jane. + +Purposely he timed his arrival to follow the dinner hour--dinner was at +noon in the ranch country--and was mildly lectured by Aunt Jane for not +arriving earlier. Uncle Frank was at the lower end of the ranch, +superintending the irrigating. Little Jim was on the veranda, needlessly +cleaning his new rifle, preparatory to a rabbit hunt that afternoon. +Bartley was at once invited to participate in the hunt, and he could +think of no reason to decline. Dorothy, however, was not at the ranch. + +Little Jim scrubbed his rifle with an oily rag, and scowled. "Got both +hosses saddled, and lots of ca'tridges--and Dorry ain't here yet! She +promised to be here right after dinner." + +"Was Miss Dorry going with you?" + +Jimmy nodded. "You bet! She's goin' to take my old twenty-two. It's only +a single-shot," added Jimmy scornfully. "But it's good enough for a +girl." + +"Isn't it early to hunt rabbits?" queried Bartley. + +"Sure! But we got to get there, clear over to the flats. If Dorry don't +come as soon as I get this gun cleaned, I'm goin' anyhow." + +But Dorothy appeared before Jimmy could carry out his threat of leaving +without her. Jimmy, mounted on his pony, fretted to be gone, while +Dorothy chatted a minute or so with Aunt Jane and Bartley. Finally they +rode off, with Jimmy in the lead, explaining that there would be no +rabbits on the flat until at least five o'clock, and in the meantime +they would ride over to the spring and pretend they were starving. That +is, Dorothy and Bartley were to pretend they were starving, while Jimmy +scouted for meat and incidentally shot a couple of Indians and returned +with a noble buck deer hanging across the saddle. + +It was hot and they rode slowly. Far ahead, in the dim southern +distances, lay the hills that walled the San Andreas Valley from the +desert. + +Dorothy noticed that Bartley gazed intently at those hills. "Cheyenne?" +she queried, smiling. + +"I beg your pardon. I was dreaming. Yes, I was thinking of him, and--" +Bartley gestured toward Little Jim. + +"Then you know?" + +"Cheyenne told me, night before last, in San Andreas." + +"Of course, Jimmy is far better off right where he is," asserted +Dorothy, although Bartley had said nothing. "I don't think Cheyenne will +ever settle down. At least, not so long as that man Sears is alive. Of +course, if anything happens to Sears--" + +Dorothy was interrupted by Little Jim, who turned in the saddle to +address her. "Say, Dorry, if you keep on talkin' out loud, the Injuns is +like to jump us! Scoutin' parties don't keep talkin' when they're on the +trail." + +"Don't be silly, Jimmy," laughed Dorothy. + +"Well, they _used_ to be Injuns in these hills, once." + +"We'll behave," said Bartley. "But can't we ride toward the foothills +and get in the shade?" + +"You just follow me," said Little Jim. "I know this country." + +It was Little Jim's day. It was his hunt. Dorothy and Bartley were +merely his guests. He had allowed them to come with him--possibly +because he wanted an audience. Presently Little Jim reined his horse to +the left and rode up a dim trail among the boulders. By an exceedingly +devious route he led the way to the spring, meanwhile playing the scout +with intense concentration on some cattle tracks which were at least a +month old. Bartley recognized the spot. Cheyenne and he had camped there +upon their quest for the stolen horses. Little Jim assured his charges +that all was safe, and he suggested that they "light down and rest a +spell." + +The contrasting coolness of the shade was inviting. Jimmy explained that +there would be no rabbits visible until toward evening. Below and beyond +them stretched the valley floor, shimmering in the sun. Behind them the +hills rose and dipped, rose and dipped again, finally reaching up to the +long slope of the mother range. Far above a thin, dark line of timber +showed against the eastern sky. + +"Ole Clubfoot Sneed lives up there," asserted Jimmy, pointing toward the +distant ridge. "I been up there." + +"Yes. And your father saved you from a whipping. Uncle Frank was very +angry." + +"I got that new rifle, anyhow," declared Little Jim. + +"And they lived happily ever afterward," said Bartley. + +"Huh! That's just like them fairy stories that Dorry reads to me +sometimes. I like stories about Buffalo Bill and Injuns and fights. +Fairy stories make me tired." + +"Jimmy thinks he is quite grown up," teased Dorothy. + +"You ain't growed up yourself, anyhow," retorted Jimmy. "Girls ain't +growed up till they git married." + +Dorothy turned to Bartley and began to talk about books and writers. +Little Jim frowned. Why couldn't they talk about something worth +listening to? Jimmy examined his new rifle, sighting it at different +objects, and opening and closing the empty magazine. Finally he loaded +it. His companions of the hunt were deep in a discussion having to do +with Western stories. Jimmy fidgeted under the constant stress of +keeping silent. He would have interrupted Dorothy, willingly enough, but +Bartley's presence rather awed him. + +Jimmy felt that his afternoon was being wasted. However, there was the +solace of the new rifle, and plenty of ammunition. While he knew there +was no big game in those hills, he could pretend that there was. He +debated with himself as to whether he would hunt deer, bear, or mountain +lion. Finally he decided he would hunt bear. He waited for an +opportunity to leave without being noticed, and, carrying his trusty +rifle at the ready, he stealthily disappeared in the brush south of the +spring. A young boy, with a new gun and lots of brush to prowl through! +Under such circumstances the optimist can imagine anything from rabbits +to elephants. + +Some time passed before Dorothy missed him. She called. There was no +reply. "He won't go far," she assured Bartley who rose to go and look +for Jimmy. + +Bartley sat down by the spring again. He questioned Dorothy in regard to +ranch life, social conditions, local ambitions, and the like. Quite +impersonally she answered him, explaining that the folk in the valley +were quite content, so long as they were moderately successful. Of +course, the advent of that funny little machine, the automobile, would +revolutionize ranch life, eventually. Why, a wealthy rancher of San +Andreas had actually driven to Los Angeles and back in one of those +little machines! + +Bartley smiled. "They've come to stay, no doubt. But I can't reconcile +automobiles with saddle-horses and buckboards. I shan't have an +automobile snorting and snuffing through my story." + +"Your story!" + +"I really didn't mean to speak about it. But the cat is out of the bag. +I'm making notes for a Western novel, Miss Gray. I confess it." + +"Confession usually implies having done something wrong, doesn't it?" + +"Yes. But with you as the heroine of my story, I couldn't go very far +wrong." + +Dorothy flushed and bit her lip. So that was why Bartley had been so +attentive and polite? He had been studying her, questioning her, +mentally jotting down what she had said--and he had not told her, until +that moment, that he was writing a story. She had not known that he was +a writer of stories. + +"You might, at least, have asked me if I cared to be a Western heroine +in your story." + +"Oh, that would have spoiled it all! Can't you see? You would not have +been yourself, if you had known. And our visits--" + +"I don't think I care to be the heroine of your story, Mr. Bartley." + +"You really mean it?" + +Dorothy nodded thoughtfully. Bartley knew, intuitively, that she was +sincere--that she was not angling for flattery. He had thought that he +was rather paying her a compliment in making her the heroine of his +first Western book; or, at least, that she would take it as a +compliment. He frowned, twisting a spear of dry grass in his fingers. + +"Of course--that needn't make any difference about your calling--on Aunt +Jane." + +"Thank you," laughed Bartley. "And because of the privilege which I +really appreciate, I'll agree to look for another heroine." + +Dorothy had not expected just such an answer. "In San Andreas?" she +queried. + +"I can't say. I'll be lucky if I find another, anywhere, to compare--" + +"If you had asked me, first," interrupted Dorothy, "I might have said +'yes.'" + +"I'm sorry I didn't. Won't you reconsider?" + +Dorothy shook her head. Then she looked up at him frankly, steadily. "I +think you took me for granted. That is what I didn't like." + +"But--I didn't! It didn't occur to me to really begin my story until +after I had seen you. Of course I knew I would write a new story sooner +or later. I hope you will believe that." + +"Yes. But I think I know why you decided to stay in San Andreas, instead +of riding south, with Cheyenne. Aunt Jane and Little Jim and your +heroine were within easy riding distance." + +"I'll admit I intended to write about Aunt Jane and Jimmy. I actually +adore Aunt Jane. And Little Jim, he's what one might call an unknown +quantity--" + +"He seems to be, just now." + +"Oh, he won't go far," said Bartley, smiling. + +Dorothy tossed her head. "And Cheyenne--" + +"Oh, he is the moving figure in the story. That is not a pun, if you +please. I had no idea that Cheyenne could actually hate any one, until +the other night when he told me about--Laramie, and that man Sears." + +"Did he talk much about Sears?" + +"Not much--but enough. Frankly, I think Cheyenne will kill Sears if he +happens to meet him again." + +"And that will furnish the climax for your story!" said Dorothy +scornfully. + +"Well, if it has to happen--" Bartley paused. + +Dorothy's face was troubled. Finally she rose and picked up her gloves +and hat. + +"I wish some one or something would stop him," she said slowly. "He +liked you. All the years he has been riding up and down the country he +has ridden alone, until he met you. I'm sorry you didn't go with him." + +"He did pretend that he was disappointed when I told him I was going to +stay in San Andreas for a while." + +"You thought he was joking, but he wasn't. We have all tried to get him +to settle down; but he would not listen. If I were a man--" + +"Then you think I could have influenced him?" queried Bartley. + +"You might have tried, at least." + +"Well, he's gone. And I'll have to make the best of it--and also find +another heroine," said Bartley lightly, trying to make her smile. + +"I'll be the heroine of your story, upon one condition," Dorothy said, +finally. + +"And that is--" + +"If you will try and find Cheyenne and--and just be a friend to him. I +suppose it sounds silly, and I would not think of asking you to try and +keep him from doing anything he decided to do. But you might happen to +be able to say the right word at the right time." + +"I hardly took myself as seriously as that, in connection with +Cheyenne," declared Bartley. "I suppose, if I should saddle up and ride +south to-morrow, I might overtake him along the road, somewhere. He +travels slowly." + +"But you won't go, just because I spoke as I did?" + +"Not altogether because of that. I like Cheyenne." + +Impetuously Dorothy stepped close to Bartley and laid her hand on his +arm. "I knew you were like that! And what does writing about people +amount to, when you can really do something for them? It isn't just +Cheyenne. There's Little Jim--" + +"Yes. But where _is_ Little Jim?" + +Dorothy called in her high, clear voice. There was no answering halloo. +"His horse is there. I can't understand--" + +"I'll look around a bit," said Bartley. "He's probably ambushing us, +somewhere, and expects us to be tremendously surprised." + +"I'll catch up my horse," said Dorothy. "No, you had better let me catch +him. He knows me." + +And Dorothy stepped from the clearing round the spring and walked toward +the horses. They were grazing quite a ways off, up the hillside. + +Bartley recalled having glimpsed Little Jim crawling through the brush +on the south side of the spring. No doubt Jimmy had grown tired of +waiting, and had dropped down to the mesa on foot to hunt rabbits. Once +clear of the hillside brush, Bartley was able to overlook the mesa +below. Presently he discerned a black hat moving along slowly. Evidently +the young hunter was stalking game. + +Bartley hesitated to call out. He doubted that Jimmy could hear him at +that distance. Stepping down the gentle slope of the hillside to the +road, Bartley watched Jimmy for a while, hoping that he would turn and +see him. But Jimmy was busy. "Might as well go back and get the horses +and ride over to him," said Bartley. + +He had turned to cross the road, when he heard the sound of quick +hoof-beats. Surely Dorothy had not caught up the horses so soon? Bartley +turned toward the bend of the road. Presently a rider, his worn chaps +flapping, his shapeless hat pulled low, and his quirt swinging at every +jump of the horse, pounded up and had almost passed Bartley, when he set +up his horse and dismounted. Bartley did not recognize him until he +spoke. + +"My name's Hull. I was lookin' for you." + +"All right, Mr. Hull. What do you want?" + +Hull's gaze traveled up and down the Easterner. Hull was looking to see +if the other carried a gun. Bartley expected argument and inwardly +braced himself. Meanwhile he wondered if he could find Hull's chin +again, and as easily as he had found it that night back of the livery +barn. Hull loomed big and heavy, and it was evident from the minute he +dismounted that he meant business. + +Without a word, Hull swung at Bartley, smashing in with right and left, +fighting like a wild-cat, forcing his weight into the fight, and kicking +wickedly when he got a chance. Finally, after taking a straight blow in +the face, Hull clinched--and the minute Bartley felt those tough-sinewed +arms around him he knew that he was in for a licking. + +Bartley's only chance, and that a pretty slim one, lay in getting free +from the grip of those arms. He used his knee effectively. Hull grunted +and staggered back. Bartley jumped forward and bored in, knocking Hull +off his feet. The cow-puncher struck the ground, rolled over, and was up +and coming like a cyclone. It flashed through Bartley's mind that the +only thing to do was to stay with it till the finish. Hull was beating +him down slowly, but surely. + +Dully conscious that some one was calling, behind him, Bartley struck +out, straight and clean, but he might as well have tried to stop a +runaway freight with a whisk-broom. He felt the smashing impact of a +blow--then suddenly he was on his back in the road--and he had no desire +to get up. Free from the hammering of those heavy fists, he felt +comparatively comfortable. + +"You brute!" It was Dorothy's voice, tense with anger. + +Bartley heard another voice, thick with heavy breathing. "That's all +right, Miss Gray. But the dude had it comin'." + +Then Bartley heard the sound of hoof-beats--and somehow or other, +Dorothy was helping him to his feet. He tried to grin--but his lips +would not obey his will. + +"I'm all right," he mumbled. + +"Perhaps," said Dorothy, steady and cool. "But you'll want to wash your +face at the spring. I fetched your horse." + +"Lord, Miss Gray, let's walk. I'm more used to it." + +"It was that man Hull, from the mountain, wasn't it?" + +"I don't know his name. I _did_ meet him once, in San Andreas, after +dark." + +"I'll just tie the horses, here. It's not far to the spring. Feel +dizzy?" + +"A little. But I can walk without help, thank you. Little Jim is down +there, stalking rabbits." + +At the spring Bartley knelt and washed the blood from his face and felt +tenderly of his half closed eye, twisted his neck round and felt a sharp +click--and then his head became clearer. His light shirt was half-torn +from his shoulders, and he was scandalously mussed up, to put it mildly. +He got to his feet and faced Dorothy. + +"There's a formula for this sort of thing, in books," he said. "Just now +I can't recall it. First, however, you say you're 'all right,' if you +are alive. If you are not, it doesn't matter. Then you say, 'a mere +scratch!' But I'm certain of one thing. I never needed a heroine more +than I did when you arrived." + +Dorothy smiled in spite of herself. "You aren't pretending, are you? I +mean--about your condition?" + +"I should say not. My eye is closed. My right arm won't work, and my +head feels queer--and I am _not_ hungry. But my soul goes marching on." + +"Then we'll have to find Jimmy. It's getting late." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +"GIT ALONG CAYUSE" + + +It was dark when Bartley arrived at his hotel in San Andreas. Not caring +to parade his black eye and his swollen mouth, he took his evening meal +at a little Mexican restaurant, and then went back to his room, where he +spent the evening adding a few more pertinent notes to his story; notes +that were fresh in his mind. He knew what it felt like to take a good +licking. In fact, the man is unfortunate who does not. Bartley thought +he could write effectively upon the subject. + +He had found Dorothy's quiet sympathy rather soothing. She had made no +fuss whatever about the matter. And she had not insisted that he stop at +the ranch and get doctored up. Little Jim had promptly asked Bartley, +"Who done it?" and Bartley had told him. Little Jim asked more questions +and was silenced only by a promise from Dorothy to buy him more +cartridges. "That is, if you promise not to say anything about it to +Aunt Jane or Uncle Frank," she stipulated. Little Jim gravely shook +hands upon the agreement. Dorothy knew that he would keep his word. + +This agreement had been made after Bartley had left them. Dorothy had +sworn Little Jim to silence, not so much on Bartley's account as on her +own. Should the news of the fight become public, there would be much +bucolic comment, wherein her name would be mentioned and the whole +affair interpreted to suit the crude imaginings of the community. +Bartley also realized this and, because of it, stuck close to his room +for two days, meanwhile making copious notes for the new story. + +But the making of notes for the story was a rather tame occupation +compared with the possibilities of actual adventure on the road. He had +a good saddle-horse, plenty of optimism, and enough money to pay his way +wherever he chose to go. Incidentally he had a notebook and pencil. What +more did a man need to make life worth while? + +And then, somewhere along the southern highway Cheyenne was jogging with +Filaree and Joshua: + + Seems like I don't git anywhere: + Git along, cayuse, git along. + +Bartley rose and stepped to the window. San Andreas drowsed in the noon +sun. Far to the north he could see a dot of fresh green--the cottonwoods +of the Lawrence rancho. Again he found himself in the grip of +indecision. After all, a fellow didn't have to journey up and down the +land to find material for a story. There was plenty of material right +where he was. All he had to do was to stop, look, and listen. "Hang the +story!" he exclaimed peevishly. "I'll just go out and _live_--and then +write the story." + +It did not take him long to pack his saddle-bags, nor to get together +the few articles of clothing he had had washed by a Mexican woman in +town. He wrote a brief note to Dorothy, stating that he was on his way. +He paid his hotel bill, stepped round to the livery and paid for Dobe's +entertainment, saddled up, and, literally shaking the dust of San +Andreas from his feet, rode down the long trail south, headed for Joe +Scott's placer, as his first stop. + +He would spend the night there and then head south again. The only +living thing that seemed interested in Bartley's exodus was a stray dog +that seemed determined to follow him. Turning from the road, Bartley +took the short cut to Scott's placer. Glancing back he saw that the dog +was still following. Bartley told him to go home. The dog, a very +ordinary yellow dog, didn't happen to have a home--and he was hungry. So +he ignored Bartley's command. + +Whether or not he imagined that Bartley was different from the run of +townsfolk is a question. Possibly he imagined Bartley might give him +something to eat. In any event, the dog stuck to the trail clear up to +Scott's placer. + +Scott was not at the cabin. Bartley hallooed, glanced round, and +dismounted. On the cabin door was a note: "Gone to Phoenix. J. Scott." + +Bartley turned from the cabin to find the dog gazing up at him +mournfully; his expression seemed to convey the idea that they were both +in hard luck. Nobody home and nothing to eat. + +"What, you here!" exclaimed Bartley. + +The yellow dog wagged his tail. He was young and as yet had some faith +in mankind. + +Bartley tied his horse and strode up the trail to the workings. +Everything had been put in order. The dog helped investigate, sniffing +at the wheelbarrow, the buckets, the empty sacks weighted down with rock +to keep them from blowing away, the row of tools, picks and shovels and +bars. Evidently the owner of the place was not concealed beneath any of +these things. + +Meanwhile the afternoon shadows warned Bartley that a camp with water +and feed was the next thing in order. He strode back to the cabin. There +was no problem to solve, although he thought there was. The yellow dog, +an old campaigner in the open, though young in years, solved his problem +by a suggestion. He was tired. There seemed to be no food in sight. He +philosophically trotted to the open shed opposite the cabin and made a +bed for himself in a pile of gunny-sacks. Bartley grinned. Why not? + +Experience had taught Bartley to carry something else, besides a +notebook and pencil, in his saddle-bags. Hence the crackers and can of +corned beef came in handy. The mountain water was cold and refreshing. +There was hay in the burro stable. Moreover, Bartley now had a happy +companion who licked his chops, wagged his tail, and grinned as he +finished a bit of corned beef. Bartley tossed him a cracker. The dog +caught it and it disappeared. This was something like it! Here was a man +who rode a big horse, didn't kick stray dogs, and even shared a meal +with a fellow! Such a man was worth following forever. + +"It would seem that you have adopted me," declared Bartley. The dog had +shown no inclination to leave since being fed. There might possibly be +another meal coming, later. + +"But what am I going to do with you?" queried Bartley, as the dog curled +up on the pile of gunny-sacks. "You don't look as though you habitually +stopped at hotels, and I'll have to, until I catch up with Cheyenne. +What's the answer?" + +The yellow dog, all snuggled down in the sacks, peered at Bartley with +unblinking eyes. Bartley laughed. Then he made his own bed with +gunny-sacks, and after smoking a cigarette, turned in and slept well. + +He did not expect to find the dog there in the morning. But the dog was +there, most evidently waiting for breakfast, grinning his delight at not +being cursed or kicked at, and frisking round the cabin yard in a mad +race after nothing in particular, and indicating in every way possible +that he was the happiest dog that ever wagged a tail. + +Crackers and corned beef again, and spring water for breakfast. And +while Dobe munched his hay, Bartley smoked and roughly planned his +itinerary. He would travel south as far as Phoenix and then swing back +again, over the old Apache Trail--if he did not overtake Cheyenne. + +If he did overtake him, the plan might be changed. It did not matter. He +had set out to find his erstwhile traveling companion. If he found him, +they could just as well travel together. If he did not, Bartley +determined to see much of the country. In so far as influencing Cheyenne +in any way--that would have to be determined by chance. Bartley felt +that his influence with the sprightly Cheyenne weighed very little +against Cheyenne's hatred for Panhandle Sears. + +Once more upon the road, with the early morning shadows slanting across +the valley, Bartley felt that it was his own fault if he did not enjoy +himself. Swinging into an easy trot he turned to see if the yellow dog +were following him. At first Bartley thought the dog had shown wisdom +and had departed for San Andreas, but, happening to glance down on the +other side of his horse, he saw the dog trotting along, close to Dobe's +heels. + +Bartley felt a pity for the dog's dumb, insistent attachment. Reining +in, Bartley told the dog he had better go home. For answer the dog lay +down in the horse's shadow, his head on his paws, and his eyes fixed on +Bartley's face. He did not seem to know what the words meant. But he did +know--only pretended he did not. His rooftree was the Arizona sky, and +his home the place where his adopted master camped at night. + +"Oh, very well," said Bartley, smiling in spite of himself. + +That noon they stopped at a ranch where Bartley had dinner and fed his +horse. Cheyenne had passed that way several days ago, the ranch folk +told him. It was about twenty miles to the next town. Bartley was +invited to stop by and spend the night, but he declined the invitation, +even as they had declined to accept money for their hospitality. +Meanwhile the dog had disappeared. He had not followed Bartley into the +ranch. And it was some twenty minutes or so after Bartley was on the +road again that he discovered the dog, coming round a bend on the run. +There was no getting rid of him. + +The dog, who had often been chased from ranches by other dogs, had at +first waited patiently for Bartley to appear. Then, as Bartley did not +appear, the dog made a short scout through the near-by brush. Finally he +stirred up a rabbit. It was a long, hard chase, but the dog got his +dinner. Then, circling, he took up Bartley's trail from the ranch, +overtaking him with grim determination not to lose sight of him again. + +Arriving at the town of Stacey early that afternoon, Bartley arranged +with the local liveryman for the dog's keep that night. From that night +on, the dog never let Dobe out of his sight. It was evidently intended +that he should sleep in stalls and guard Dobe against the approach of +any one save his master. + +Bartley learned that Cheyenne had passed through Stacey headed south. He +had stopped at the local store to purchase provisions. Estimating +roughly, Bartley was making better time than had Cheyenne, yet it would +be several days before he could possibly overtake him. + +Next day Bartley had ridden better than forty miles, and that night he +stayed at a ranch, where he was made welcome. In fact, any one who rode +a good horse and appeared to be even halfway civil never suffered for +want of a meal or a bed in those days. Gasoline has somewhat diluted +such hospitality, yet there are sections of Arizona still unspoiled, +where the stranger is made to feel that the word "home" has retained its +ancient and honorable significance. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +BOX-S BUSINESS + + +A few days later, Bartley stopped at a small town to have his horse +shod. The blacksmith seemed unusually interested in the horse and +complimented Bartley upon owning such a good mount. + +"Comes from up San Andreas way," said the smith, noticing the brand on +Dobe's flank. + +"Yes. I picked him up at Antelope. I understand he was raised on Senator +Brown's ranch." + +"That's Steve Brown's brand, all right. Heard the news from up that +way?" + +"Nothing special." + +"Seems somebody run off a bunch of Senator Steve's horses, last week. +Thought mebby you'd heard." + +"No." + +"Well, thought I'd just tell you. I seen one posse ride through +yesterday. They'll be lookin' for strangers along the road." + +"Thanks. I bought this horse--and I happen to know Senator Brown." + +"No offense, stranger. If I'd 'a' suspicioned you'd stole that horse, +you wouldn't take him out of here. Like I said to Cheyenne, last week; +he could fetch a whole carload of stock in here and take 'em out again +without trouble. He was tellin' me how he lost his horses, and we got to +talkin' about some folks bein' blind when they're facin' a brand on a +critter. Mebby you heard tell of Cheyenne Hastings?" + +"I have traveled with him. You say he stopped here a few days ago?" + +"Well, not just stopped; he kind of looked in to see how I was gettin' +along. He acted queerlike, for him. I've knowed Cheyenne for years. Said +he was feelin' all right. He ast me if I'd seen Panhandle Sears down +this way, recent. Seemed kind of disappointed when I told him no. +Cheyenne used to be a right-smart man, before he had trouble with that +woman of his." + +"Yes? He told me about it," said Bartley, not caring to hear any more of +the details of Cheyenne's trouble. + +"'Most everybody knows it," stated the smith. "And if I was Sears I'd +sure leave this country." + +"So should I. I've seen Cheyenne handle a gun." + +"You got the right idea!" exclaimed the blacksmith, evidently pleased. +"All Cheyenne's friends have been waitin' for years for him to clean +that slate and start fresh again. He used to be a right-smart hand, +before he had trouble." + +The blacksmith accompanied his conversation with considerable elbow +motion and the rattle and clang of shaping horseshoes. Presently Dobe +was new shod and ready for the road. Bartley paid the smith, thanked him +for a good job, and rode south. Evidently Cheyenne's open quarrel with +Sears was the talk of the countryside. It was expected of Cheyenne that +he would "clean the slate and start fresh" some day. And cleaning the +slate meant killing Sears. To Bartley it seemed strange that any one +should be pleased with the idea of one man killing another deliberately. + +In speaking of the recent horse-stealings, the blacksmith had mentioned +no names. But Bartley at once drew the conclusion that it had been +Sneed's men who had run off the Senator's horses. Sneed was known to be +a horse-thief. He had never been convicted, although he had been +arrested and tried several times. It was also known that Senator Steve +had openly vowed that he would rid the country of Sneed, sooner or +later. + +Several times, during his journey south, Bartley was questioned, but +never interfered with. Thus far he heard of Cheyenne occasionally, but, +nearing Phoenix, he lost track of his erstwhile companion. However, he +took it for granted that Phoenix had been Cheyenne's destination. And +Bartley wanted to see the town for himself, in any event. + + * * * * * + +Cheyenne, arriving in Phoenix, stabled his horses at the Top-Notch +livery, and took a room for himself directly opposite the +Hole-in-the-Wall gambling-house. He refused to drink with the occasional +acquaintance he met, not because he did not like liquor, but because +Colonel Stevenson, the city marshal, had told him that Panhandle Sears +and his friends were in town. + +"Why don't you tell me to go git him?" queried Cheyenne, looking the +marshal in the eye. + +"I didn't think it was necessary," said the marshal. + +"What? To git him?" + +The marshal smiled. Then casually: "I hear that Panhandle and his +friends are drinking heavy and spending considerable money. They must +have made a strike, somewhere." + +"I see by the paper somebody run off a bunch of the Box-S hosses," +remarked Cheyenne, also casually. + +Then, without further comment, he left the marshal wondering if +Panhandle's presence in town had any connection with the recent +running-off of the Box-S stock. The sheriff of Antelope had wired +Colonel Stevenson to be on the lookout for Bill Sneed and his gang, but +had not mentioned Panhandle's name in the telegram. + +The following day, Senator Brown and his foreman, Lon Pelly, arrived in +Phoenix and had a long talk with the marshal. That afternoon Lon Pelly +took the train south. Early in the evening Senator Brown received a +telegram from Pelly stating that Sneed and four men had left Tucson, +headed north and riding horses. + +The stolen horses had been trailed south as far as Phoenix. It was +evident that they had been driven to Tucson and disposed of somewhere in +that vicinity. Yet there was no conclusive proof that Sneed had stolen +the horses. As usual, he had managed to keep a few days ahead of his +pursuers. Sneed was known to have left his camp in the hills above San +Andreas. The first posse had found the camp abandoned. Sneed had not +been identified until Pelly got track of him in Tucson. + +During his talk with Senator Brown the marshal mentioned the fact that +Panhandle Sears was in Phoenix. + +"Did Panhandle come in from the south?" queried the Senator. + +"Nobody seems to know." + +"Well, if he did, we have got the link that's missing in this chain, +Colonel. Pelly is holdin' one end of the chain down in Tucson, and the +other end is layin' right here in Phoenix. If we can connect her up--" + +"But we haven't located the horses, Senator." + +"Colonel, I'll find those horses if I can. But I'm after Sneed, this +journey. He has been running things about ten years too long to suit me. +I've got a check-book with me. You have the men. I'm out to do a little +housecleanin' of my own. If we can get Panhandle to talk, we can find +out something." + +"He's been on a drunk for a week. I could run him in for disturbing the +peace and--" + +"And he'd suspect what we're after and freeze up, tight. No, let him run +loose, but keep your eye on him. He'll give the deal away, sooner or +later." + +"I hope it's sooner," said the Colonel. "Cheyenne is holed up down the +street, waiting for a chance to get Sears. Cheyenne didn't say so, but +it was in his eye. He's changed considerable since I saw him last." + +"Was there any one with him: a tall, dark-haired, kind of clean-cut boy, +for instance?" + +"No, not when I saw him. He rode in with his usual outfit." + +"Wonder where he lost young Bartley? Well, I'm glad the boy isn't here. +He might get hurt." + +"Wild?" + +"No. Quiet. Writes stories. He's out here to look at the West. Stayed at +the ranch a spell. Mrs. Brown likes him." + +Colonel Stevenson nodded and offered the Senator a cigar. "Let's step +over to the hotel, Steve. It's a long time since--" + + * * * * * + +That evening Bartley arrived in Phoenix, put up his horse, and, upon +inquiry, learned that the Grand Central was the best hotel in town. He +was registering when he noticed Senator Brown's name. He made inquiry of +the clerk. Yes, the Senator had arrived that morning. And would Mr. +Bartley prefer a front room? The front rooms on the north side were +cooler. No, the clerk knew nothing about a Mr. Cheyenne. There was no +one by that name registered at the hotel. It was past the regular dinner +hour, but the dining-room was not yet closed. There was a men's +furnishings store just across the street. They carried a complete stock. +And did Mr. Bartley wish to be called at any special hour in the +morning? Breakfast was served from six-thirty to nine-thirty. + +Bartley had dinner, and later strolled around to the Top-Notch livery to +see that Dobe was being well cared for. While talking with the +stableman, Bartley noticed a gray pony and in the next stall a +buckskin--Cheyenne's horses. + +"Those are Cheyenne's horses, aren't they?" he queried. + +"I dunno. Mebby that's his name. He left 'em here a few days ago. I only +seen him once, since then." + +"I'll be around in the morning. If a man called Cheyenne should happen +to come in, just tell him that Bartley is stopping at the Grand +Central." + +"I'll tell him, all right," said the stableman. + +And as soon as Bartley was out of sight, that worthy called up the city +marshal and told him that a stranger had ridden in and stabled a horse +bearing the Box-S brand. A big reward had been offered for the stolen +horses. + +At the hotel Bartley learned that Senator Brown had gone out for the +evening. Tired from his long ride, Bartley went to his room. Senator +Steve and Cheyenne were in town. Bartley recalled the blacksmith's talk +about the stolen horses. No doubt that accounted for Senator Steve's +presence in Phoenix. As for Cheyenne--Bartley decided to hunt him up in +the morning. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL + + +Panhandle Sears, in a back room in the Hole-in-the-Wall, was ugly drunk. +The Hole-in-the-Wall had the reputation of running a straight game. +Whether or not the game was straight, Panhandle had managed to drop his +share of the money from the sale of the Box-S horses. He had had nothing +to do with the actual stealing of them, but he had, with the assistance +of his Mexican companion Posmo, engineered the sale to a rancher living +out of Tucson. It was understood that the horses would find their way +across the border. + +Now Panhandle was broke again. He stated that unpleasant fact to his +companions, Posmo and Shorty,--the latter a town loafer he had picked up +in Antelope. Shorty had nothing to say. Panhandle's drunken aggressive +cowed him. But Posmo, who had really found the market for the stolen +stock, felt that he had been cheated. Panhandle had promised him a third +of his share of the money. Panhandle had kept on promising from day to +day, liquidating his promises with whiskey. And now there was no money. + +Posmo knew Panhandle well enough not to press the matter, just then. But +Panhandle, because neither of his companions had said anything when told +that he was broke, turned on Posmo. + +"What you got to say about it, anyway?" he asked with that curious +stubbornness born in liquor. + +"I say that you owe me a hundred dollar," declared Posmo. + +"Well, go ahead and collect!" + +"Yes, go ahead and collect," said Shorty, suddenly siding with +Panhandle. "We blowed her in. We're broke, but we ain't cryin' about +it." + +"That is all right," said Posmo quietly. "If the money is gone, she is +gone; yes?" + +"That's the way to say it!" asserted Panhandle, changing front and +slapping Posmo on the shoulder. "We're broke, and who the hell cares?" + +"Let's have a drink," suggested Shorty. "I got a couple of beans left." + +They slouched out from the back room and stood at the bar. Panhandle +immediately became engaged in noisy argument with one of the frequenters +of the place. Senator Brown's name was mentioned by the other, but +mentioned casually, with no reference whatever to stolen horses. + +Panhandle laughed. "So old Steve is down here lookin' for his hosses, +eh?" + +"What horses?" + +The question, spoken by no one knew whom, chilled the group to silence. + +Panhandle saw that he had made a blunder. "Who wants to know?" he +queried, gazing round the barroom. + +"Why, it's in all the papers," declared the bartender conciliatingly. +"The Box-S horses was run off a couple of weeks ago." + +Panhandle turned his back on the group and called for a drink. + +Shorty was tugging gently at his sleeve. "Posmo's beat it, Pan." + +"To hell with him! Beat it yourself if you feel like it." + +"I'll stick Pan," declared Shorty, yet his furtive eyes belied his +assertion. + + * * * * * + +For three days Bartley had tried to find where Cheyenne was staying, but +without success, chiefly because Cheyenne kept close to his room during +the daytime, watching the entrance to the Hole-in-the-Wall, waiting for +Panhandle to step out into the daylight, when there would be folk on the +street who could witness that Panhandle had drawn his gun first. +Cheyenne determined to give his enemy that chance, and then kill him. +But thus far Panhandle had not appeared on the street in the daytime, so +far as Cheyenne knew. + +Incidentally, Senator Steve had warned Bartley to keep away from the +Hole-in-the-Wall district after dark, intimating that there was more in +the wind than Cheyenne's feud with Panhandle Sears. So Bartley contented +himself with acting as a sort of private secretary for the Senator, a +duty that was a pleasure. The hardest thing Bartley did was to refuse +bottled entertainment, at least once out of every three times it was +offered. + +On the evening of the fourth day after Pelly had wired the Senator that +Sneed and his men had ridden north from Tucson, Posmo, hanging about the +eastern outskirts of Phoenix, saw a small band of horsemen against the +southern sky-line. Knowing the trail they would take, north, Posmo had +timed their arrival almost to the hour. They would pass to the east of +Phoenix, and take the old Apache Trail, North. Posmo had his horse +saddled and hidden in a draw. He mounted and rode directly toward the +oncoming horsemen. + +He sang as he rode. It was safer to do that, when it was growing dark. +The riders would know he was a Mexican, and that he did not wish to +conceal his identity on the road. He did not care to be mistaken for an +enemy, especially so near Phoenix. + +Sneed, a giant in the dusk, reined in as Posmo hailed the group. Sneed +asked his name. Posmo replied, and was told to ride up. Sneed, +separating himself from his men, rode a little ahead and met Posmo. + +"Panhandle is give the deal away," stated Posmo. + +"How?" + +"He drunk and spend all the money. He do not give me anything for that I +make the deal--over there," and Posmo gestured toward the south. + +"Double-crossed you, eh? And now you're sore and want his scalp." + +"He talk too much of the Box-S horses in that cantina," stated Posmo +deliberately. "He say that you owe him money." This was an afterthought, +and an invention. + +"Who did he say that to?" queried Sneed. + +"He tell everybody in that place that you turn the good trick and then +throw him hard." + +"Either you're lyin', or Panhandle's crazy." Sneed turned and called to +his men, a few paces off. They rode up on tired horses. "What do you +say, boys? Panhandle is talkin', over there in Phoenix. Posmo, here, +says Panhandle is talkin' about us. Now nobody's got a thing on us. We +been south lookin' at some stock we're thinkin' of buyin'. Want to ride +over with me and have a little talk with Panhandle?" + +"Ain't that kind of risky, Cap?" + +"Every time! But it ain't necessary to ride right into the marshal's +office. We put our little deal through clean. The horses we're ridin' +belong to us. And who's goin' to stop us from ridin' in, or out, of +town? I aim to talk to Panhandle into ridin' north with us. It's safer +to have him along. If you all don't want to ride with me, I'll go in +alone." + +"We're with you, Cap," said one of the men. + +"Mebby it's safer to ride through the towns from now on than to keep +dodgin' 'em," suggested Lawson. + +"Come on, then," and Sneed indicated Posmo. + +"And don't make any mistakes," threatened Lawson, riding close to the +Mexican. "If you do--you won't last." + +Posmo had not counted on this turn of affairs. He had supposed that his +news would send Sneed and his men in to have it out with Panhandle, or +that one of them would ride in and persuade Panhandle to join them. But +he now knew that he would have to ride with Sneed, or he would be +suspected of double-dealing. + +At the fork of the road leading into Phoenix, Sneed reined in. "We're +ridin' tired horses, boys. And we ain't lookin' for trouble. All we want +is Panhandle. We'll get him." + +Sitting his big horse like a statue, his club foot concealed by the long +_tapadero_, his physical being dominating his followers, Sneed headed +the group that rode slowly down the long open stretch bordering on the +east of the town. They entered town quietly and stopped a few doors +below the lighted front of the Hole-in-the-Wall. + +"Just step in and tell Panhandle I want to see him," and Sneed indicated +one of his riders. + +The man went in and came out again with the information that Panhandle +had left the saloon about an hour ago; that he had told the bartender he +was going out to get some money and come back and play the wheel. + +"Get on your horse," said Sneed, who had been gazing up the street while +listening to the other. "Here comes Panhandle now. I'll do the talking." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +CHEYENNE PLAYS BIG + + +Watching from his darkened window, Cheyenne had seen Panhandle leave the +Hole-in-the-Wall, and stride up the street alone. It was the first time +Cheyenne had seen Sears since he had taken the single room opposite the +gambling-house. Cheyenne stepped back, drew down the curtain, and turned +on the light. The bare board floor was littered with cigarette stubs. A +pair of saddle-bags hung on the iron bedstead. Other furniture was a +chair, a scratched and battered washstand, a cracked mirror. Standing by +the washstand Cheyenne took his gun from its holster, half-cocked it, +and punched out the loaded cartridges. He pulled the pin, pushed the +cylinder out with his thumb, and examined it against the light. +Carefully he cleaned and replaced the cylinder, reloaded it, held the +hammer back, and spun the cylinder with his hand. Finally he thrust the +gun in the holster and, striding to the bed, sat down, his chin in his +hands. + +Somewhere out there on the street, or in the Hole-in-the-Wall, he would +meet his enemy--in a few minutes, perhaps. There would be no wordy +argument. They understood each other, and had understood each other, +since that morning, long ago when they had passed each other on the +road--Panhandle riding in to Laramie and Cheyenne and Little Jim riding +from the abandoned home. Cheyenne thought of Little Jim, of his wife, +and, by some queer trick of mind, of Bartley. He knew that the Easterner +was in town. The stableman at the Top-Notch had told him. Well, he had +seen Panhandle. Now he would go out and meet him, or overtake him. + +Some one turned from the street into the hall below and rapidly climbed +the stairs. Cheyenne heard a knock at the door opposite his. That room +was unoccupied. Then came a brisk knock at his own door. + +"What do you want?" + +"Is that you, Cheyenne?" + +"Who wants to know?" + +"Bartley. I just found out from Colonel Stevenson where you were +camping." + +Cheyenne stepped to the door and unlocked it. + +Bartley entered, glanced round the room, and then shook hands with +Cheyenne. "Been a week trying to find you. How are you and how are the +horses? Man, but it was a long, lonesome ride from San Andreas! If it +hadn't been for that dog that adopted me--by the way, Colonel Stevenson +was telling Senator Brown that Panhandle is in town. I suppose you know +it." + +"I seen him, this evenin'." + +"So did I. Just passed him as I came down here. The Colonel said you +were camping somewhere opposite the Hole-in-the-Wall. How is +everything?" + +"Quiet." + +"Were you going anywhere?" + +"No place in particular." + +Bartley sat down on the edge of the bed and lighted a cigarette. +Cheyenne stood as though waiting for him to leave. There was something +queer about Cheyenne. His eyes were somber, his manner stiff and +unnatural. His greeting had been cool. + +"About that man Panhandle--" Bartley began, but Cheyenne interrupted +with a gesture. + +"You say you saw him, on your way down here?" + +"Yes. He didn't seem to recognize me. He was walking fast." + +"How was Little Jim when you left?" + +"Just fine!" + +"And the folks?" + +"Same as ever. Miss Gray--" + +"Well, I reckon I'll be steppin' along. Glad I saw you again." + +"Going to leave town to-night?" + +"I aim to." + +Bartley could no longer ignore Cheyenne's attitude. He knew that +something had happened or was about to happen. Cheyenne's manner did not +invite question or suggestion. Yet Bartley had promised Dorothy that he +would exert what influence he had--and it seemed a critical time, just +at that moment. + +"I'd like to talk with you a minute, if you have time," said Bartley. + +"Won't do no good, pardner." And without waiting for Bartley to say +anything more, Cheyenne stepped up to him and held out his hand. "So +long," he said. + +"Well, good luck!" replied Bartley, and shook hands with him heartily. +"I hope you win." + +Cheyenne gestured toward the door. Bartley stepped out into the hallway. +The light in the room flickered out. + +"I reckon you'll be goin' back to your hotel," said Cheyenne. "Wait. +I'll just step down first." + +At the foot of the stairs Cheyenne paused and glanced up and down the +street. Directly across the way the Hole-in-the-Wall was ablaze with +light. A few doors east of the gambling-hall an indistinct group of +riders sat their horses as though waiting for some one. Cheyenne drew +back into the shadows of the hallway. + +Bartley peered out over Cheyenne's shoulder. From up the street in the +opposite direction came the distant click of boot-heels. A figure strode +swiftly toward the patch of white light in front of the gambling-hall. + +"Just stand back a little, pardner," said Cheyenne. + +Bartley felt his heart begin to thump as Cheyenne gently loosened his +gun in the holster. + +"It's Panhandle!" whispered Bartley, as the figure of Sears was +silhouetted against the lighted windows of the place opposite. + +Out of the shadows where the riders waited came a single, abrupt word, +peremptory, incisive: "Panhandle!" + +Panhandle, about to turn into the lighted doorway, stopped short. + +Sneed had called to Panhandle; but it was Posmo the Mexican who rode +forward to meet him. Sneed, close behind Posmo, watched to see that the +Mexican carried out his instructions, which were simply to tell +Panhandle to get his horse and leave town with them. Seeing the group +behind the Mexican, Panhandle's first thought was that Posmo had +betrayed him to the authorities. It _was_ Posmo. Panhandle recognized +the Mexican's pinto horse. + +Enraged by what he thought was a trap, and with drunken contempt for the +man he had cheated, Panhandle jerked out his gun and fired at the +Mexican; fired again at the bulky figure behind Posmo, and staggered +back as a slug shattered his shoulder. Cursing, he swung round and +emptied his gun into the blur of riders that separated and spread across +the street, returning his fire from the vantage of the shadows. Flinging +his empty gun at the nearest rider, Panhandle lurched toward the doorway +where Cheyenne and Bartley stood watching. He had almost made the curb +when he lunged and fell. He rose and tried to crawl to the shelter of +the doorway. One of Sneed's men spurred forward and shot Panhandle in +the back. He sank down, his body twitching. + +Bartley gasped as he saw the rider deliberately throw another shot into +the dying man. Then Cheyenne's arm jerked up. The rider swerved and +pitched from the saddle. Another of Sneed's men crossed the patch of +light, and a splinter ripped from the door-casing where Cheyenne stood. +Cheyenne's gun came down again and the rider pitched forward and fell. +His horse galloped down the street. Again Cheyenne fired, and again. +Then, in the sudden stillness that followed, Cheyenne stepped out and +dragged Panhandle into the hallway. Some one shouted. A window above the +saloon opposite was raised. Doors opened and men came out, questioning +each other, gathering in a group in front of the Hole-in-the-Wall. + +Stunned by the sudden shock of events, the snakelike flash of guns in +the semi-darkness, and the realization that several men had been gravely +wounded, perhaps killed, Bartley heard Cheyenne's voice as though from a +distance. + +Cheyenne's hand was on Bartley's arm. "Come on. The game is closed for +the night." + +As they stepped from the doorway a man stopped them and asked what had +happened. + +"We're goin' for a doctor," said Cheyenne. "Somebody got hurt." + +Hastening along the shadowy wall of the building, they turned a corner +and by a roundabout way reached the city marshal's office. + +The marshal, who had been summoned in haste, was at his desk. "Sneed and +his bunch got Panhandle," stated Cheyenne quietly. "Mr. Bartley, here, +saw the row. Four of Sneed's men are down. One got away." + +"Sure it was Sneed?" + +"I reckon your men will fetch him in, right soon. Panhandle got Sneed +and a Mexican, before they stopped him." + +Colonel Stevenson glanced at Cheyenne's belt and holster. Cheyenne drew +his gun and handed it to the marshal. "She's fresh loaded," he said. + +"Cheyenne emptied his gun trying to fight off the men who killed +Panhandle," said Bartley, stepping forward. + +"And you're sure they were Sneed's men?" queried the marshal. + +Cheyenne nodded. + +"I am obliged to you," said the marshal. "But I'll have to detain you +both until after the inquest." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +TWO TRAILS HOME + + +Bartley was the chief witness at the inquest. He told his story in a +manner that impressed the coroner's jury. Senator Brown was present, and +identified one of the dead outlaws as Sneed. Posmo, killed by +Panhandle's first shot, was known in Phoenix. Panhandle, riddled with +bullets, was also identified by the Senator, Cheyenne, and several +habitués of the gambling-hall. Bartley himself identified the body of +one man as that of Hull. + +Cheyenne was the last witness called. He admitted that he had had +trouble with Panhandle Sears, and that he was looking for him when the +fight started; that Sneed and his men had unexpectedly taken the quarrel +out of his hands, and that he had fired exactly five shots at the men +who had killed Panhandle and it had been close work, and easy. Panhandle +had put up a game fight. The odds had been heavily against him. He had +been standing in the light of the gambling-hall doorway while the men +who had killed him had been in the shadow. "He didn't have a chance," +concluded Cheyenne. + +"You say you were looking for this man Sears, and yet you took his part +against Sneed's outfit?" queried the coroner. + +"I didn't just say so. Mr. Bartley said that." + +"Mr. Bartley seems to be the only disinterested witness of the +shooting," observed the coroner. + +"If there is any further evidence needed to convince the jury that Mr. +Bartley's statements are impartial and correct, you might read this," +declared the city marshal. "It is the antemortem statement of one of +Sneed's men, taken at the hospital at three-fifteen this morning. He +died at four o'clock." + +The coroner read the statement aloud. Ten minutes later the verdict was +given. The deceased, named severally, had met death by gunshot wounds, +_at the hands of parties unknown_. + +It was a caustic verdict, intended for the benefit of the cattle-and +horse-thieves of the Southwest. It conveyed the hint that the city of +Phoenix was prompt to resent the presence of such gentry within its +boundaries. One of the daily papers commented upon the fact that "the +parties unknown" must have been fast and efficient gunmen. Cheyenne's +name was not mentioned, and that was due to the influence of the +marshal, Senator Brown, and the mayor, which left readers of the papers +to infer that the police of Phoenix had handled the matter themselves. + +Through the evidence of the outlaw who had survived long enough to make +a statement, the Box-S horses were traced to a ranch in the neighborhood +of Tucson, identified, and finally returned to their owner. + +The day following the inquest, Bartley and Cheyenne left Phoenix, with +Fort Apache as their first tentative destination, and with the promise +of much rugged and wonderful country in between as an incentive to +journey again with his companion, although Bartley needed no special +incentive. At close range Bartley had beheld the killing of several men. +And he could not free himself from the vision of Panhandle crawling +toward him in the patch of white light, the flitting of horsemen back +and forth, and the red flash of six-guns. Bartley was only too anxious +to leave the place. + +It was not until they were two days out of Phoenix that Cheyenne +mentioned the fight--and then he did so casually, as though seeking an +opinion from his comrade. + +Bartley merely said he was glad Cheyenne had not killed Panhandle. +Cheyenne pondered a while, riding loosely, and gazing down at the trail. + +"I reckon I would 'a' killed him--if I'd 'a' got the chance," he said. +"I meant to. No, it wasn't me or Panhandle that settled that argument: +it was somethin' bigger than us. Folks that reads about the fight, +knowin' I was in Phoenix, will most like say that I got him. Let 'em say +so. I know I didn't; and you know I didn't--and that's good enough for +me." + +"And Dorothy and Aunt Jane and Little Jim," said Bartley. + +"Meanin' Little Jim won't have to grow up knowin' that his father was a +killer." + +"I was thinking of that." + +"Well, right here is where I quit thinkin' about it and talkin' about +it. If that dog of yours there was to kill a coyote, in a fair fight, I +reckon he wouldn't think about it long." + +A few minutes later Cheyenne spoke of the country they were in. + +"She's rough and unfriendly, right here," he said. "But north a ways she +sure makes up for it. There's big spruce and high mesas and grass to +your pony's knees and water 'most anywhere you look for it. I ain't much +on huntin'. But there's plenty deer and wild turkey up that way, and +some bear. And with a bent pin and a piece of string a fella can catch +all the trout he wants. Arizona is a mighty surprisin' State, in spots. +Most folks from the East think she's sagebrush and sand, except the +Grand Cañon; but that's kind of rented out to tourists, most of the +time. I like the Painted Desert better." + +"Where haven't you been?" said Bartley, laughing. + +"Well, I ain't been North for quite a spell." + +And Cheyenne fell silent, thinking of Laramie, of the broad prairies of +Wyoming, of his old homestead, and the days when he was happy with his +wife and Little Jim. But he was not silent long. He visioned a plan that +he might work out, after he had seen Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank again. +Meanwhile, the sun was shining, the road wound among the ragged hills, +and Filaree and Joshua stepped along briskly, their hoof-beats +suggesting the rhythm of a song. + +That night they camped in the hill country not far from a crossroads +store. In the morning they bought a few provisions and an extra canteen. + +"There's a piece of country between here and the real hills that is like +to be dry," explained Cheyenne. "We're leavin' the road, this mornin', +and cuttin' north. She's some rough, the way we're headed, but you'll +like it." + +From the sagebrush of the southern slopes they climbed slowly up to a +country of scattered juniper. By noon they were among the piñons, +following a dim bridle trail that Cheyenne's horses seemed to know. + +"In a couple of days, I aim to spring a surprise on you," said Cheyenne +as they turned in that night. "I figure to show you somethin' you been +wantin' to see." + +"Bring on your bears," said Bartley, laughing. + +Cheyenne's moodiness had vanished. Frequently he hummed his old trail +song as they rode. Next day, as they nooned among the spruce of the high +country, Cheyenne suddenly drew the dice from his pocket and, turning +them in his hands, finally tossed them over the rim-rock of the cañon +edging their camp. "It's a fool game," he said. And Bartley knew, by the +otter's tone, that he did not alone refer to the game of dice. + +The air was thin, clear, and vital with a quality that the air of the +lower country lacked. Bartley felt an ambition to settle down and go to +writing. He thought that he now had material enough and to spare. They +were in a country, vast, fenceless, verdant--almost awesome in its +timbered silences. His imagination was stirred. + +From their noon camp they rode into the timber and from the timber into +a mountain meadow, knee-deep with lush grass. There was no visible trail +across the meadow but the horses seemed to know which way to go. After +crossing the meadow, Filaree, leading the cavalcade, turned and took a +steep trail down the side of a hidden cañon, a mighty chasm, rock-walled +and somber. At the bottom the horses drank, and, crossing the stream, +climbed the farther side. In an hour they were again on the rim, +plodding noiselessly through the sun-flecked shadows of the giant +spruce. + +"How about that surprise?" queried Bartley. + +"Ain't this good enough?" said Cheyenne, gesturing roundabout. + +"Gosh, yes! Lead on, Macduff." + +About four that afternoon the horses pricked their ears and quickened +their pace. Filaree and Joshua especially seemed interested in getting +along the silent trail; and presently the trail merged with another +trail, more defined. A few hundred yards down this trail, and Bartley +saw a big log cabin; to the left and beyond it a corral, empty, and with +the bars down. Bartley had never seen the place before, and did not +realize where he was, yet he had noticed that the horses seemed to know +the place. + +"We won't stop by," said Cheyenne. + +"Any one live there?" + +"Sneed used to," stated Cheyenne. + +Then Bartley knew that they were not far from the San Andreas Valley +and--well, the Lawrence ranch. + +They dropped down a long trail into another cañon which finally spread +to a green valley dotted with ranches. The horses stepped briskly. +Presently, rounding a bend, they saw a ranch-house, far below, and +sharply defined squares of alfalfa. + +"That house with the red roof--" said Bartley. + +"That's her," asserted Cheyenne, a trifle ambiguously. + +"Then we've swung round in a circle." + +"We done crossed the res'avation, pardner. And we didn't see a dog-gone +Injun." + +Little Jim was the first to catch sight of them as they jogged down the +last stretch of trail leaving the foothills. He recognized the horses +long before their riders were near enough to be identified as his father +and Bartley. + +Little Jim did not rush to Aunt Jane and tell her excitedly that they +were coming. Instead, he quietly saddled up his pony and rode out to +meet them. Part-way up the slope he waited. + +His greeting was not effusive. "I just thought I'd ride up and tell you +folks that--'that I seen you comin'." + +"How goes the hunting?" queried Bartley. + +"Fine! I got six rabbits yesterday. Dorry is gittin' so she can shoot +pretty good, too. How you makin' it, dad?" + +Cheyenne pushed back his hat and gazed at his young son. "Pretty fair, +for an old man," said Cheyenne presently. "You been behavin' yourself?" + +"Sure." + +"How would you like to ride a real hoss, once?" + +"You mean _your_ hoss?" + +"Uh-huh." + +"I'll trade you, even." + +"No, you won't, son. But you can ride him down to the ranch, if you +like." + +Little Jim almost tumbled from his pony in his eagerness to ride Joshua, +his father's horse, with the big saddle and rope and the carbine under +the stirrup leather. + +"You musta made a long ride," declared Jimmy, as he scrambled up on +Joshua. "Josh's shoes is worn thin. He'll be throwin' one, next." + +Jimmy called attention to the horse's shoes, that his father and Bartley +might not see how really pleased he was to ride a "real horse." + +"Yes, a long ride. How is Aunt Jane and Dorry?" + +"Oh, they're all right. Uncle Frank he cut twenty-two tons of alfalfa +off the lower field last week." + +Cheyenne sat sideways on Jimmy's pony as they rode down the last easy +slope and turned into the ranch gate. Aunt Jane, who was busy +cooking,--it seemed that Aunt Jane was always busy cooking something or +other, when she wasn't dressmaking or mending clothing or +ironing,--greeted them warmly. Frank was working down at the lower end. +Dorry had gone to San Andreas. She would be back 'most any time, now. +And weren't they hungry? + +They were. And there was fresh milk and pie. But they put up the horses +first. + +Later, Cheyenne and Little Jim decided to walk down to the lower end of +the ranch and see Uncle Frank. Cheyenne had washed his hands and face +before eating, as had Bartley. But Bartley did not let it go at that. He +begged some hot water and again washed and shaved, brushed his clothes, +and changed his flannel shirt for a clean one. Then he strolled to the +kitchen and chatted with Aunt Jane, who had read of the killing of the +outlaws in Phoenix, and had many questions to ask. It had been a +terrible tragedy. And Mr. Bartley had actually seen the shooting? + +Aunt Jane was glad that Cheyenne had not been mixed up in it, especially +as that man Sears had been killed. But now that he had been killed, +people would talk less about her brother. It really had seemed an act of +Providence that Cheyenne had had nothing to do with the shooting. Of +course, Mr. Bartley knew about the trouble that her brother had had--and +why he had never settled down-- + +"His name was not mentioned in the papers," said Bartley, thinking that +he must say something. + +"There's Dorry, now," said Aunt Jane, glancing through the kitchen +window. + +Bartley promptly excused himself and stepped out to the gate, which he +vaulted and opened as Dorothy waved a greeting. Bartley carried the +groceries in, and later helped unhitch the team. They chatted casually +neither referring to the subject uppermost in their minds. + +When Cheyenne returned, riding on a load of alfalfa with Uncle Frank and +Little Jim, Bartley managed to let Uncle Frank know that he was not +supposed to have had a hand in the Phoenix affair. Cheyenne thanked him. + +"But you ain't talked with Dorry, yet, have you?" queried Cheyenne. + +Bartley shook his head. + +"She'll find out," stated Cheyenne. "You can't fool Dorry." + +That evening, while Uncle Frank and Cheyenne were discussing a matter +which seemed confidential to themselves, and while Aunt Jane was quietly +keeping an eye on Jimmy, who could hardly keep from interrupting his +seniors--Bartley and Dorry didn't count, just then, for _they_ were +also talking together--Dorothy intimated to Bartley that she would like +to talk with him alone. She did not say so, nor make any gesture to +indicate her wish, yet Bartley interpreted her expression correctly. + +He suggested that they step out to the veranda, where it was cooler. +From the veranda they strolled to the big gate, and there she asked him, +point-blank, to tell her just what had happened in Phoenix. She had read +the papers, and she surmised that there was more to the affair than the +papers printed. For instance, Senator Brown, upon his return to the +Box-S, had kindly sent word to Aunt Jane that Cheyenne was all right. +Bartley thought that the thoughtful Senator had rather spilled the +beans. + +"Did Cheyenne--" and Dorothy hesitated. + +"Cheyenne didn't kill Sears," stated Bartley. + +"You talked with Cheyenne, and got him to keep out of it?" + +"I tried to. He wouldn't listen. Then I wished him good luck and told +him I hoped he'd win." + +Dorothy was puzzled. "How do you know he didn't?" + +"Because I was standing beside him when it happened. I don't see why you +shouldn't know about it. Cheyenne and I were just about to cross the +street, that night, when we saw Panhandle coming down the opposite side. +Sneed and his men, who were evidently waiting for him, called to +Panhandle. Panhandle must have thought it was the sheriff, or the city +marshal. It happened suddenly. Panhandle began firing at Sneed and his +riders. They shot him down just as he reached the curb in front of us. +They kept on shooting at him as he lay in the street. Cheyenne couldn't +stand that. He emptied his gun, trying to keep them off--and he emptied +some saddles." + +"Thank you for trying to--to give Cheyenne my message," said Dorothy. +And she shook hands with him. + +"Do you know this is the loveliest vista I have seen since leaving +Phoenix--this San Andreas Valley," said Bartley. + +"But you came through the Apache Forest," said Dorothy, not for the sake +of argument, but because Bartley was still holding her hand. + +"Yes. But you don't happen to live in the Apache Forest." + +"But, Mr. Bartley--" + +"John, please." + +"Cheyenne calls you Jack." + +"Better still. Do you think Aunt Jane would mind if we walked up the +road as far as--well, as far as the spring?" + +"Hadn't you better ask her?" + +"No. But she wouldn't object. Would you?" + +Slowly Dorothy withdrew her hand and Bartley opened the big gate. As +they walked down the dim, starlit road they were startled by the advent +of a yellow dog that bounded from the brush and whined joyously. + +"And I had forgotten him," said Bartley. "Oh, he's mine! I can't get +away from the fact. He adopted me, and has followed me clear through. I +had forgotten that he is afraid to come into a ranch. And I am ashamed +to say that I forgot to feed him, to-night. He isn't at all beautiful, +but he's tremendously loyal." + +"And he shall have a good supper when we get back," declared Dorothy. + +The yellow dog padded along behind them in the dusk, content to be with +his master again. Bartley talked with Dorothy about his plans, his +hopes, and her promise to become the heroine of his new story. Then he +surprised her by stating that he had decided to make a home in the San +Andreas Valley. + +"You really don't know anything about me, or my people," he said. "And I +want you to know. My only living relative is my sister, and she is +scandalously well-to-do. Her husband makes money manufacturing hooks and +eyes. He's not romantic, but he's solid. As for me--" + +And Bartley spoke of his own income, just what he could afford to spend +each month, and just how much he managed to save, and his ambition to +earn more. Dorothy realized that he was talking to her just as he would +have talked to a chum--a man friend, without reserve, and she liked him +for it. She had been curious about him, his vocation, and even about his +plans; and she felt a glow of affection because he had seemed so loyal +to his friendship with Cheyenne, and because he had been kind to Little +Jim Hastings. While doing so with no other thought than to please the +boy, Bartley had made no mistake in buying him that new rifle. + +As they came to the big rock by the roadside--a spot which Bartley had +good reason to remember--he paused and glanced at Dorothy. She was +laughing. + +"You looked so funny that day. You were the most dilapidated-looking +person--for a writer--" + +"I imagine I was, after Hull got through with me. Let's sit down awhile. +I want to tell you what I should like to do. Are you comfortable?" + +Dorothy nodded. + +"Well," said Bartley, seating himself beside her, "I should like to rent +a small place in the valley, a place just big enough for two, and then +settle down and write this story. Then, if I sold it, I think I should +lock up, get a pack-horse and another saddle-horse, outfit for a long +trip, and then take the trail north and travel for, say, six months, +seeing the country, camping along the way, visiting with folks, and +incidentally gathering material for another story. It could be done." + +"But why rent a place, if you plan to leave it right away?" + +"Because I should want a home to come to, a place to think of when I was +on the trails. You know a fellow can't wander up and down the world +forever. I like to travel, but I think a chap ought to spend at least +half a year under a roof. Don't you?" + +"I was thinking of Cheyenne," said Dorothy musingly. + +"I think of him a great deal," declared Bartley. + +Dorothy glanced up at him from her pondering. + +Bartley leaned toward her. "Dorothy, will you help me make that home, +here in the valley, and be my comrade on the trails?" + +"Hadn't you better ask Aunt Jane?" said Dorothy softly, yet with a touch +of humor. + +"Do you mean it?" Bartley's voice was boyishly enthusiastic, like the +voice of a chum, a hearty comrade. "But how about your own folks?" + +Dorothy's answer was not given then and there, in words. Nor yet by +gesture, nor in any visible way--there being no moon that early in the +evening. After a brief interval--or, at least, it seemed brief--they +rose and strolled back down the road, the yellow dog padding faithfully +at their heels. Presently-- + +"Hey, Dorry!" came in a shrill voice. + +"It's the scout!" exclaimed Bartley, laughing. + +"We're coming, Jimmy," called Dorothy. + +"But before we're taken into custody--" said Bartley; and as mentioned +before, the moon had not appeared. + +Little Jim, astride of the ranch gate, querulously demanded where they +had been and why they had not told him they were going somewhere. + +"And you left the gate open, and--everything!" concluded Jimmy. + +"We just went for a walk," said Dorothy. + +"What's the use of walkin' up the old road in the dark?" queried Jimmy. +"You can't see anything." + +"What do you say to a rabbit hunt to-morrow morning early?" asked +Bartley. + +"Nope!" declared Little Jim decisively. "'Cause my dad was talkin' with +Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank, and dad says me and him are goin' back to +Laramie where ma is. And we're goin' on the _train_. Aunt Jane she +cried. But shucks! We ain't goin' to stay in Laramie all the time. Dad +says if things rib up right, me and ma and him are comin' back to live +in the valley. Don't you wish you was goin', Dorry?" + +"You run along and tell Aunt Jane we're coming," said Bartley. + +Little Jim hesitated. But then, Mr. Bartley had bought him that new +rifle. Jimmy pattered down the path to the lighted doorway, delivered +his message, and pattered back again toward the gate, wasting no time +_en route_. Halfway to the gate he stopped. Mr. Bartley was standing +very close to Dorry--in fact, Jimmy was amazed to see him kiss her. +Jimmy turned and trotted back to the house. + +"Shucks!" he exclaimed. "I thought he liked guns and things more'n +girls!" + +But Jimmy was too loyal to tell what he had seen. After all, Dorry was +mighty fine, for a girl. She could ride and shoot, and she never told on +him when he had done wrong. + +With a skip and a hop Jimmy burst into the room. "We're goin' on the +_train_," he declared. "Ain't we, dad?" + +Dorothy and Bartley came in. Bartley glanced at Cheyenne, hesitated, and +then thrust out his hand. + +"Good luck to your new venture," he said heartily. + +"Same to you, pardner!" And Cheyenne included Dorry in his glance. + +"I want to ask Aunt Jane's advice," stated Bartley. + +"Then," said Cheyenne, "I reckon me and Frank and Jimmy'll step out and +take a look at the stars. She's a wonderful night." + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARTNERS OF CHANCE*** + + +******* This file should be named 14085-8.txt or 14085-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/0/8/14085 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: Partners of Chance</p> +<p>Author: Henry Herbert Knibbs</p> +<p>Release Date: November 18, 2004 [eBook #14085]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARTNERS OF CHANCE***</p> +<br /><br /><h3>E-text prepared by Kevin Handy, John Hagerson,<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team</h3><br /><br /> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> +<h1>PARTNERS OF CHANCE</h1> +<br /> +<h3>BY</h3> +<h2>HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS</h2> +<br /> +<h3>AUTHOR OF</h3> +<h3><i>THE RIDIN' KID FROM POWDER RIVER</i>,</h3> +<h3><i>SUNDOWN SLIM</i>, <i>OVERLAND RED</i>, ETC.</h3> +<br /> +<h6>GROSSET & DUNLAP<br /> +PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK</h6> +<br /> +<h4>1921</h4> + +<hr /> + + + + +<h2><a name='CONTENTS'></a>CONTENTS</h2> + +<a href='#LITTLE_JIM'>I. LITTLE JIM</a><br /> +<a href='#PANHANDLE'>II. PANHANDLE</a><br /> +<a href='#A_MINUTE_TOO_LATE'>III. A MINUTE TOO LATE</a><br /> +<a href='#A_LITTLE_GREEN_RIVER'>IV. "A LITTLE GREEN RIVER"</a><br /> +<a href='#TOP_HAND_ONCE'>V. "TOP HAND ONCE"</a><br /> +<a href='#A_HORSE_TRADE'>VI. A HORSE-TRADE</a><br /> +<a href='#AT_THE_WATER_HOLE'>VII. AT THE WATER-HOLE</a><br /> +<a href='#HIGH_HEELS_AND_MOCCASINS'>VIII. HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS</a><br +/> +<a href='#AT_THE_BOX_S'>IX. AT THE BOX-S</a><br /> +<a href='#TO_TRY_HIM_OUT'>X. TO TRY HIM OUT</a><br /> +<a href='#PONY_TRACKS'>XI. PONY TRACKS</a><br /> +<a href='#JIMMY_AND_THE_LUGER_GUN'>XII. JIMMY AND THE LUGER GUN</a><br /> +<a href='#AT_AUNT_JANES'>XIII. AT AUNT JANE'S</a><br /> +<a href='#ANOTHER_GAME'>XIV. ANOTHER GAME</a><br /> +<a href='#MORE_PONY_TRACKS'>XV. MORE PONY TRACKS</a><br /> +<a href='#SAN_ANDREAS_TOWN'>XVI. SAN ANDREAS TOWN</a><br /> +<a href='#THAT_MESCAL'>XVII. THAT MESCAL</a><br /> +<a href='#JOE_SCOTT'>XVIII. JOE SCOTT</a><br /> +<a href='#DORRY_COMES_TO_TOWN'>XIX. DORRY COMES TO TOWN</a><br /> +<a href='#ALONG_THE_FOOTHILLS'>XX. ALONG THE FOOTHILLS</a><br /> +<a href='#GIT_ALONG_CAYUSE'>XXI. "GIT ALONG CAYUSE"</a><br /> +<a href='#BOX_S_BUSINESS'>XXII. BOX-S BUSINESS</a><br /> +<a href='#THE_HOLE_IN_THE_WALL'>XXIII. THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL</a><br /> +<a href='#CHEYENNE_PLAYS_BIG'>XXIV. CHEYENNE PLAYS BIG</a><br /> +<a href='#TWO_TRAILS_HOME'>XXV. TWO TRAILS HOME</a><br /> +<p> </p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1"></a>[pg 1]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<h3><a name='LITTLE_JIM'></a>LITTLE JIM</h3> + + +<p>Little Jim knew that something strange had happened, because Big Jim, +his father, had sold their few head of cattle, the work team, and the farm +implements, keeping only the two saddle-horses and the pack-horse, Filaree. +When Little Jim asked where his mother had gone, Big Jim told him that she +had gone on a visit, and would be away a long time. Little Jim wanted to +know if his mother would ever come back. When Big Jim said that she would +not, Little Jim manfully suppressed his tears, and, being of that frontier +stock that always has an eye to the main chance, he thrust out his hand. +"Well, I'll stick with you, dad. I reckon we can make the grade."</p> + +<p>Big Jim turned away and stood for a long time gazing out of the cabin +window toward town. Presently he felt a tug at his coat-sleeve.</p> + +<p>"Is ma gone to live in town?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2"></a>[pg +2]</span>"Then why don't you go get her?"</p> + +<p>"She don't want to come back, Jimmy."</p> + +<p>Little Jim could not understand this. Yet he had often heard his mother +complain of their life on the homestead, and as often he had watched his +father sitting grimly at table, saying nothing in reply to his wife's +querulous complainings. The boy knew that his father had worked hard to +make a home. They had all worked hard. But, then, that had seemed the only +thing to do.</p> + +<p>Presently Big Jim swung round as though he had made a decision. He +lighted the lamp in the kitchen and made a fire. Little Jim scurried out to +the well with a bucket. Little Jim was a hustler, never waiting to be told +what to do. His mother was gone. He did not know why. But he knew that +folks had to eat and sleep and work. While his father prepared supper, +Little Jim rolled up his own shirt-sleeves and washed vigorously. Then he +filled the two glasses on the table, laid the plates and knives and forks, +and finding nothing else to do in the house, just then, he scurried out +again and returned with his small arms filled with firewood.</p> + +<p>Big Jim glanced at him. "I guess we don't <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_3" id="Page_3"></a>[pg 3]</span>need any more wood, Jimmy. We'll +be leaving in the morning."</p> + +<p>"What? Leavin' here?"</p> + +<p>His father nodded.</p> + +<p>"Goin' to town, dad?"</p> + +<p>"No. South."</p> + +<p>"Just us two, all alone?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Don't you want to go?"</p> + +<p>"Sure! But I wish ma was comin', too."</p> + +<p>Big Jim winced. "So do I, Jimmy. But I guess we can get along all right. +How would you like to visit Aunt Jane, down in Arizona?"</p> + +<p>"Where them horn toads and stingin' lizards are?"</p> + +<p>"Yes--and Gila monsters and all kinds of critters."</p> + +<p>"Gee! Has Aunt Jane got any of 'em on her ranch?"</p> + +<p>Big Jim forced a smile. "I reckon so."</p> + +<p>Little Jim's face was eager. "Then I say, let's go. Mebby I can get to +shoot one. Huntin' is more fun than workin' all the time. I guess ma got +tired of workin', too. She said that was all she ever expected to do, 'long +as we lived out here on the ranch. But she never told <i>me</i> she was +goin' to quit."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4"></a>[pg 4]</span>"She +didn't tell me, either, Jimmy. But you wouldn't understand."</p> + +<p>Jimmy puckered his forehead. "I guess ma kind of throwed us down, didn't +she, dad?"</p> + +<p>"We'll have to forget about it," said Big Jim slowly. "Down at Aunt +Jane's place in--"</p> + +<p>"Somethin' 's burnin', dad!"</p> + +<p>Big Jim turned to the stove. Little Jim gazed at his father's back +critically. There was something in the stoop of the broad shoulders that +was unnatural, strange--something that caused Little Jim to hesitate in his +questioning. Little Jim idolized his father, and, with unfailing intuition, +believed in him to the last word. As for his mother, who had left without +explanation and would never return--Little Jim missed her, but more through +habit of association than with actual grief.</p> + +<p>He knew that his mother and father had not gotten along very well for +some time. And now Little Jim recalled something that his mother had said: +"He's as much your boy as he is mine, Jim Hastings, and, if you are set on +sending him to school, for goodness' sake get him some decent clothes, +which is more than I have had for many a year."</p> + +<p>Until then Jimmy had not realized that his <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_5" id="Page_5"></a>[pg 5]</span>clothing or his mother's was +other than it should be. Moreover, he did not want to go to school. He +preferred to work on the ranch with his father. But it was chiefly the tone +of his mother's voice that had impressed him. For the first time in his +young life, Little Jim felt that he was to blame for something which he +could not understand. He was accustomed to his mother's sudden fits of +unreasonable anger, often followed by a cuff, or sharp reprimand. But she +had never mentioned his need of better clothing before, nor her own +need.</p> + +<p>As for being as much his father's boy as his mother's--Little Jim felt +that he quite agreed to that, and, if anything, that he belonged more to +his father, who was kind to him, than to any one else in the world. Little +Jim, trying to reason it out, now thought that he knew why his mother had +left home. She had gone to live in town that she might have better clothes +and be with folks and not wear her fingers to the bone simply for a bed and +three meals a day, as Little Jim had heard her say more than once.</p> + +<p>But the trip to Aunt Jane's, down in Arizona, was too vivid in his +imagination to allow room for pondering. Big Jim had said they were to +leave <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6"></a>[pg +6]</span>in the morning. So, while supper was cooking, Little Jim slipped +into his bedroom and busied himself packing his own scant belongings. +Presently his father called him. Little Jim plodded out bearing his few +spare clothes corded in a neat bundle, with an old piece of canvas for the +covering. His father had taught him to pack.</p> + +<p>Big Jim stared. Then a peculiar expression flitted across his face. +Little Jim was always for the main chance.</p> + +<p>"I'm all hooked up to hit the trail, dad."</p> + +<p>In his small blue overalls and jumper, in his alert and manful attitude, +Little Jim was a pocket edition of his father.</p> + +<p>"Where's your shootin'-iron?" queried Big Jim jokingly.</p> + +<p>"Why, she's standin' in the corner, aside of yours. A man don't pack his +shootin'-iron in his bed-roll when he hits the trail. He keeps her +handy."</p> + +<p>"For stingin' lizards, eh?"</p> + +<p>"For 'most anything. Stingin' lizards, Injuns, or hoss-thieves, or +anything that we kin shoot. We ain't takin' no chances on this here +trip."</p> + +<p>Big Jim gestured toward the table and pulled up his chair. Little Jim +was too heartily interested <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" +id="Page_7"></a>[pg 7]</span>in the meal to notice that his father gazed +curiously at him from time to time. Until then, Big Jim had thought of his +small son as a chipper, sturdy, willing boy--his boy. But now, Little Jim +seemed suddenly to have become an actual companion, a partner, a sharer in +things as they were and were to be.</p> + +<p>Hard work and inherent industry had developed in Little Jim an +independence that would have been considered precocious in the East. Big +Jim was glad that the mother's absence did not seem to affect the boy much. +Little Jim seemed quite philosophical about it. Yet, deep in his heart, +Little Jim missed his mother, more than his father realized. The house +seemed strangely empty and quiet. And it had seemed queer that Big Jim +should cook the supper, and, later, wash the dishes.</p> + +<p>That evening, just before they went to bed, Big Jim ransacked the +bureau, sorting out his own things, and laying aside a few things that his +wife had left: a faded pink ribbon, an old pair of high-heeled slippers, a +torn and unmended apron, and an old gingham dress. Gathering these things +together, Big Jim stuffed them in the kitchen stove. Little Jim watched him +silently.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8"></a>[pg 8]</span>But +when his father came from the stove and sat down, Little Jim slipped over +to him. "Dad, are you mad at ma for leavin' us?" he queried.</p> + +<p>Big Jim shook his head. "No, Jimmy. Just didn't want to leave her things +around, after we had gone. Benson'll be movin' in sometime this week. I +sold our place to him."</p> + +<p>"The stove and beds and everything?"</p> + +<p>"Everything."</p> + +<p>Little Jim wrinkled his nose and sniffed. "Them things you put in the +stove smell just like brandin' a critter," he said, gesturing toward the +kitchen.</p> + +<p>Big Jim gazed hard at his young son. Then he smiled to himself, and +shook his head. "Just like brandin' a critter," he repeated, half to +himself. "Just like brandin' a critter."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9"></a>[pg 9]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<h3><a name='PANHANDLE'></a>PANHANDLE</h3> + + +<p>While his friends and neighbors called Jim Hastings "Big Jim," he was no +more than average size--compact, vigorous, reared in the Wyoming cattle +lands, and typical of the country. He was called Big Jim simply to +distinguish him from Little Jim, who was as well known in Laramie as his +father. Little Jim, when but five years of age, rode his own pony, jogging +alongside his father when they went to town, where he was decidedly popular +with the townsfolk because of his sturdy independence and humorous +grin.</p> + +<p>Little Jim talked horses and cattle and ranching with the grown-ups and +took their good-natured joshing philosophically. He seldom retorted +hastily, but, rather, blinked his eyes and wrinkled his forehead as he +digested this or that pleasantry, and either gave it the indifferent +acknowledgment of "Shucks! Think you can josh <i>me</i>?" or, if the +occasion and the remark seemed to call for more serious consideration, he +rose to it manfully, and often to the embarrassment of the initial +speaker.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10"></a>[pg +10]</span>Little Jim liked to go to town with his father, yet he considered +town really a sort of suburb to his real world, the homestead, which he had +seen change from a prairie level of unfenced space to a small--and to +him--complete kingdom of pasture lot, hayfield, garden, corrals, stable, +and house. Town was simply a place to which you went to buy things, get the +mail, exchange views on the weather and grazing, and occasionally help the +hands load a shipment of cattle. Little Jim helped by sitting on the top +rail of the pens and commenting on the individual characteristics of the +cattle, and, sometimes, of the men loading them. In such instances he found +opportunity to pay off old scores. Incidentally he kept the men in good +humor by his lively comment.</p> + +<p>Little Jim was six years of age when his mother left to resume her +former occupation of waitress in the station restaurant of Laramie, where +she had been popular because of her golden hair, her blue eyes, and her +ability to "talk back" to the regular customers in a manner which they +seemed to enjoy. Big Jim married her when he was not much more than a +boy--twenty, in fact; and during the first few years they were happy +together. But homesteading <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" +id="Page_11"></a>[pg 11]</span>failed to supply more than their immediate +needs.</p> + +<p>Occasional trips to town at first satisfied the wife's craving for the +attention and admiration that most men paid to her rather superficial good +looks. But as the years slipped by, with no promise of easier conditions, +she became dissatisfied, shrewish, and ashamed of her lack of pretty things +to wear. Little Jim was, of course, as blind to all this as he was to his +need for anything other than his overalls, shoes, and jumper. He thought +his mother was pretty and he often told her so.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Big Jim tried to blind himself to his wife's growing +dissatisfaction. He was too much of a man to argue her own short-comings as +against his inability to do more for her than he was doing. But when she +did leave, with simply a brief note saying that she was tired of it all, +and would take care of herself, what hit Big Jim the hardest was the fact +that she could give up Little Jim without so much as a word about him. +Every one liked Little Jim, and the mother's going proved something that +Big Jim had tried to ignore for several years--that his wife cared actually +nothing for the boy. When Big Jim finally realized this, his indecision +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12"></a>[pg +12]</span>evaporated. He would sell out and try his fortunes in Arizona, +where his sister Jane lived, the sister who had never seen Little Jim, but +who had often written to Big Jim, inviting him to come and bring his family +for a visit.</p> + +<p>Big Jim had enough money from the sale of his effects to make the +journey by train, even after he had deposited half of the proceeds at the +local bank, in his wife's name. But being a true son of the open, he wanted +to see the country; so he decided to travel horseback, with a pack-animal. +Little Jim, used to the saddle, would find the journey a real adventure. +They would take it easy. There was no reason for haste.</p> + +<p>It had seemed the simplest thing to do, to sell out, leave that part of +the country, and forget what had happened. There was nothing to be gained +by staying where they were. Big Jim had lost his interest in the ranch. +Moreover, there had been some talk of another man, in Laramie, a man who +had "kept company" with Jenny Simpson, before she became Mrs. Jim Hastings. +Mrs. Hastings was still young and quite good-looking.</p> + +<p>It had seemed a simple thing to do--to leave and begin life over again +in another land. But Big Jim had forgotten Smiler. Smiler was <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13"></a>[pg 13]</span>a dog of +vague ancestry, a rough-coated, yellow dog that belonged solely to Little +Jim. Smiler stuck so closely to Little Jim that their shadows were +veritably one. Smiler was a sort of chuckle-headed, good-natured animal, +meek, so long as Little Jim's prerogatives were not infringed upon, but a +cyclone of yellow wrath if Little Jim were approached by any one in other +than a friendly spirit. Even when Big Jim "roughed" his small son, in fun, +Smiler grew nervous and bristled, and once, when the mother had smacked +Little Jim for some offense or other, Smiler had taken sides to the extent +of jumping between the mother and the boy, ready to do instant battle if +his young partner were struck again.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid we can't take Smiler with us," said Big Jim, as Little Jim +scurried about next morning, getting ready for the great adventure.</p> + +<p>Little Jim stopped as though he had run against a rope. He had not even +dreamed but that Smiler would go with them.</p> + +<p>Now, Little Jim had not forgathered with punchers and townsfolk for +nothing. He was naturally shrewd, and he did not offer or controvert +opinions hastily. He stood holding a bit of old tie-rope in his hand, +pondering this last unthinkable <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" +id="Page_14"></a>[pg 14]</span>development of the situation. Smiler was to +be left behind. Jimmy wanted to ask why Smiler could not go. He wanted to +assure his father that Smiler would be a help rather than a hindrance to +the expedition.</p> + +<p>Little Jim knew that if he wept, his father might pay some attention to +that sort of plea. But Little Jim did not intend to weep, nor ask +questions, nor argue. Smiler stood expectantly watching the preparations. +He knew that something important was about to happen, and, with the loyalty +of his kind, he was ready to follow, no matter where. Smiler had sniffed +the floor of the empty house, the empty stables, the corral. His folks were +going somewhere. Well, he was ready.</p> + +<p>Little Jim, who had been gazing wistfully at Smiler, suddenly strode to +his pack and sat down. He bit his lips. Tears welled to his eyes and +drifted slowly down his cheeks. He had not intended to let himself +weep--but there was Smiler, wagging his thick tail, waiting to go.</p> + +<p>"I g-g-guess you better go ahead and hit the trail, dad."</p> + +<p>"Why, that's what we're going to do. What--" Big Jim glanced at his boy. +"What's the matter?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15"></a>[pg +15]</span>Little Jim did not answer, but his attitude spoke for itself. He +had decided to stay with Smiler.</p> + +<p>Big Jim frowned. It was the first time that the boy had ever openly +rebelled. And because it was the first time, Big Jim realized its +significance. Yet, such loyalty, even to a dog, was worth while.</p> + +<p>Big Jim put his hand on Little Jim's shoulder. "Smiler'll get sore feet +on the trails, Jimmy. And there won't be a whole lot to eat."</p> + +<p>Little Jim blinked up at his father. "Well, he can have half of my grub, +and I reckon I can pack him on the saddle with me if his feet get +tender."</p> + +<p>"All right. But don't blame me if Smiler peters out on the trip."</p> + +<p>"Smiler's tough, he is!" stated Little Jim. "He's so tough he bites barb +wire. Anyhow, you said we was goin' to take it easy. And he can catch +rabbits, I guess."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps he won't want to come along," suggested Big Jim as he pulled up +a cincha and slipped the end through the ring.</p> + +<p>Little Jim beckoned to Smiler who had stood solemnly listening to the +controversy about himself <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" +id="Page_16"></a>[pg 16]</span>as though he understood. Smiler trotted over +to Jimmy.</p> + +<p>"You want to take it plumb easy on this trip," said Little Jim, "and not +go to chasin' around and runnin' yourself ragged gettin' nowhere. If you +get sore feet, we'll just have to beef you and hang your hide on the +fence."</p> + +<p>Smiler grinned and wagged his tail. He pushed up and suddenly licked +Little Jim's face. Little Jim promptly cuffed him. Smiler came back for +more.</p> + +<p>Big Jim turned and watched the boy and the dog in their rough-and-tumble +about the yard. He blinked and turned back to the horses. "Come on, Jimmy. +We're all set."</p> + +<p>"Got to throw my pack on ole Lazy, dad. Gimme a hand, will you?"</p> + +<p>Little Jim never would admit that he could not do anything there was to +be done. When he was stuck he simply asked his father to help him.</p> + +<p>Big Jim slung up the small pack and drew down the hitch. Little Jim +ducked under Lazy and took the rope on the other side, passing the end to +his father.</p> + +<p>"Reckon that pack'll ride all right," said the <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_17" id="Page_17"></a>[pg 17]</span>boy, surveying the outfit. +"Got the <i>morrals</i> and everything, dad?"</p> + +<p>"All set, Jimmy."</p> + +<p>"Then let's go. I got my ole twenty-two loaded. If we run on to one of +them stingin' lizards, he's sure a sconer. Does dogs eat lizards?"</p> + +<p>Big Jim swung to the saddle and hazed the old pack-horse ahead. "Don't +know, Jimmy. Sometimes the Indians eat them."</p> + +<p>"Eat stingin' lizards?"</p> + +<p>"Yep."</p> + +<p>"Well, I guess Smiler can, then. Come on, ole-timer!"</p> + +<p>Suddenly Little Jim thought of his mother. It seemed that she ought to +be with them. Little Jim had wept when Smiler was in question. Now he gazed +with clear-eyed faith at his father.</p> + +<p>"It ain't our fault ma ain't goin' with us, is it?" he queried +timidly.</p> + +<p>Big Jim shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"Say, dad, we're headed west. Thought you said we was goin' to +Arizona?"</p> + +<p>"We'll turn south, after a while."</p> + +<p>Little Jim asked no more questions. His father knew everything--why they +were going and where. Little Jim glanced back to where <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18"></a>[pg 18]</span>Smiler +padded along, his tongue out and his eyes already rimmed with dust, for he +would insist upon traveling tight to Lazy's heels.</p> + +<p>Little Jim leaned back. "Stick it out, ole-timer! But don't you go to +cuttin' dad's trail till he gets kind of used to seein' you around. +Sabe?"</p> + +<p>Smiler grinned through a dust-begrimed countenance. He wagged his +tail.</p> + +<p>Little Jim plunked his horse in the ribs and drew up beside his father. +Little Jim felt big and important riding beside his dad. There had been +some kind of trouble at home--and they were leaving it behind. It would be +a long trail, and his father sure would need help.</p> + +<p>Little Jim drew a deep breath. He wanted to express his unwavering +loyalty to his father. He wanted to talk of his willingness to go anywhere +and share any kind of luck. But his resolve to speak evaporated in a sigh +of satisfaction. This was a real holiday, an adventure. "Smiler's makin' it +fine, dad."</p> + +<p>But Big Jim did not seem to hear. He was gazing ahead, where in the +distance loomed an approaching figure on horseback. Little Jim knew who it +was, and was about to say so when his father checked him with a gesture. +Little <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19"></a>[pg +19]</span>Jim saw his father shift his belt round so that his gun hung +handy. He said nothing and showed by no other sign that he had recognized +the approaching rider, who came on swiftly, his high-headed pinto fighting +the bit.</p> + +<p>Within twenty yards of them, the rider reined his horse to a walk. +Little Jim saw the two men eye each other closely. The man on the pinto +rode past. Little Jim turned to his father.</p> + +<p>"I guess Panhandle is goin' to town," said the boy, not knowing just +what to say, yet feeling that the occasion called for some remark.</p> + +<p>"Panhandle" Sears and his father knew each other. They had passed on the +road, neither speaking to the other. And Little Jim was not blind to the +significant movement of shifting a belt that a gun might hang ready to +hand.</p> + +<p>Yet he soon forgot the incident in visioning the future. Arizona, Aunt +Jane, and stingin' lizards!</p> + +<p>Big Jim rode with head bowed. He was thinking of the man who had just +passed them. If it had not been for the boy, Big Jim and that man would +have had it out, there on the road. And Jenny Hastings would have been the +cause of their quarrel. "Panhandle" Sears <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_20" id="Page_20"></a>[pg 20]</span>had "kept company" with Jenny +before she became Big Jim's wife. Now that she had left him--</p> + +<p>Big Jim turned and gazed back along the road. A far-away cloud of dust +rolled toward the distant town of Laramie.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21"></a>[pg 21]</span><hr +/> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<h3><a name='A_MINUTE_TOO_LATE'></a>A MINUTE TOO LATE</h3> + + +<p>The Overland, westbound, was late. Nevertheless, it had to stop at +Antelope, but it did so grudgingly and left with a snort of disdain for the +cow-town of the high mesa. Curious-eyed tourists had a brief glimpse of a +loading-chute, cattle-pens, a puncher or two, and an Indian freighter's +wagon just pulling in from the spaces, and accompanied by a plodding +cavalcade of outriders on paint ponies.</p> + +<p>Incidentally the westbound left one of those momentarily interested +Easterners on the station platform, without baggage, sense of direction, or +companion. He had stepped off the train to send a telegram to a friend in +California. He discovered that he had left his address book in his grip. +Meanwhile the train had moved forward some sixty yards, to take water. +Returning for his address book, he boarded the wrong Pullman, realized his +mistake, and hastened on through to his car. Out to the station +again--delay in getting the attention of the telegraph operator, the wire +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22"></a>[pg +22]</span>finally written--and the Easterner heard the rumble of the train +as it pulled out.</p> + +<p>Even then he would have made it had it not been for a portly individual +in shirt-sleeves who inadvertently blocked the doorway of the telegraph +office. Bartley bumped into this portly person, tried to squeeze past, did +so, and promptly caromed off the station agent whom he met head on, halfway +across the platform. Gazing at the departing train, Bartley reached in his +pocket for a cigar which he lighted casually.</p> + +<p>The portly individual touched him on the shoulder. "'Nother one, this +afternoon."</p> + +<p>"Thanks. But my baggage is on that one."</p> + +<p>"You're lucky it ain't two sections behind, this time of year. Travel is +heavy."</p> + +<p>Bartley's quick glance took in the big man from his high-heeled boots to +his black Stetson. A cattleman, evidently well to do, and quite evidently +not flustered by the mishaps of other folks.</p> + +<p>"There's a right comfortable little hotel, just over there," stated the +cattleman. "Wishful runs her. It ain't a bad place to wait for your +train."</p> + +<p>Bartley smiled in spite of his irritation.</p> + +<p>The cattleman's eyes twinkled. "You'll be <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_23" id="Page_23"></a>[pg 23]</span>sending a wire to have 'em +take care of your war bag. Well, come on in and send her. You can catch +Number Eight about Winslow."</p> + +<p>The cattleman forged ahead, and in the telegraph office, got the +immediate attention of the operator, who took Bartley's message.</p> + +<p>The cattleman paid for it. "'Tain't the first time my size has cost me +money," he said, as Bartley protested. "Now, let's go over and get another +cigar. Then we can mill around and see Wishful. You'll like Wishful. He's +different."</p> + +<p>They strode down the street and stopped in at a saloon where the +cattleman called for cigars. Bartley noticed that the proprietor of the +place addressed the big cattleman as "Senator."</p> + +<p>"This here is a dry climate, and a cigar burns up right quick, if you +don't moisten it a little," said the cattleman. "I 'most always moisten +mine."</p> + +<p>Bartley grinned. "I think the occasion calls for it, Senator."</p> + +<p>"Oh, shucks! Just call me Steve--Steve Brown. And just give us a little +Green River Tom."</p> + +<p>A few minutes later Bartley and his stout companion were seated on the +veranda of the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24"></a>[pg +24]</span>hotel, gazing out across the mesas. They were both comfortable, +and quite content to watch the folk go past, out there in the heat. Bartley +wondered if the title "Senator" were a nickname, or if the portly gentleman +placidly smoking his cigar and gazing into space was really a +politician.</p> + +<p>A dusty cow-puncher drifted past the hotel, waving his hand to the +Senator, who replied genially. A little later a Navajo buck rode up on a +quick-stepping pony. He grunted a salutation and said something in his +native tongue. The Senator replied in kind. Bartley was interested. +Presently the Navajo dug his heels into his pony's ribs, and clattered up +the road.</p> + +<p>The Senator turned to Bartley. "Politics and cattle," he said, +smiling.</p> + +<p>Having learned the Senator's vocation, Bartley gave his own as briefly. +The Senator nodded.</p> + +<p>"It is as obvious as all that, then?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't say that," stated the Senator carefully. "But after you +bumped into me, and then stepped into the agent, and then turned around and +took in my scenery, noticin' the set of my legs, I says to myself, +'painter-man or writer.' It was kind of in your eye. <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25"></a>[pg 25]</span>I figured +you wa'n't no painter-man when you looked at the oil paintin' over the +bar.</p> + +<p>"A painter-man would 'a' looked sad or said somethin', for that there +paintin' is the most gosh-awful picture of what a puncher might look like +after a cyclone had hit him. I took a painter-man in there once, to get a +drink. He took one look at that picture, and then he says, kind of +sorrowful: 'Is this the only place in town where they serve liquor?' I told +him it was. 'Let's go over and tackle the pump,' he says. But we had our +drink. I told him just to turn his back on that picture when he took +his."</p> + +<p>"I might be anything but a writer," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"That's correct. But you ain't."</p> + +<p>"You hit the nail on the head. However, I can't just follow your line of +reasoning it out."</p> + +<p>"Easy. Elimination. Now a tourist, regular, stares at folks and things. +But a painter or writer he takes things in without starin'. There's some +difference. I knew you were a man who did things. It's in your eye."</p> + +<p>"Well," laughed Bartley, "I took you for a cattleman the minute I saw +you."</p> + +<p>"Which was a minute too late, eh?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26"></a>[pg +26]</span>"I don't know about that. Since I've been sitting here looking at +the mesa and those wonderful buttes over there, and watching the natives +come and go, I have begun to feel that I don't care so much about that +train, after all. I like this sort of thing. You see, I planned to visit +California, but there was nothing definite about the plan. I chose +California because I had heard so much about it. It doesn't matter much +where I go. By the way, my name is Bartley."</p> + +<p>"I'm Steve Brown--cattle and politics. I tell you, Mr. Bartley--"</p> + +<p>"Suppose you say just Bartley?"</p> + +<p>The Senator chuckled. "Suppose I said 'Green River'?"</p> + +<p>"I haven't an objection in the world," laughed Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Wishful, here, don't keep liquor," explained the Senator. "And he's +right about that. Folks that stay at this hotel want to sleep nights."</p> + +<p>The Senator heaved himself out of his chair, stood up, and +stretched.</p> + +<p>"I reckon you'll be wantin' to see all you can of this country. My ranch +lays just fifty miles south of the railroad, and not a fence from here +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27"></a>[pg 27]</span>to +there. Then, there's them Indians, up north a piece. And over yonder is +where they dig up them prehistoric villages. And those buttes over there +used to be volcanoes, before they laid off the job. To the west is the +petrified forest. I made a motion once, when the Legislature was in +session, to have that forest set aside as a buryin'-ground for +politicians,--State Senators and the like,--but they voted me down. They +said I didn't specify <i>dead</i> politicians.</p> + +<p>"South of my place is the Apache reservation. There's good huntin' in +that country. 'Course, Arizona ain't no Garden of Eden to some folks. Two +kinds of folks don't love this State a little bit'--homesteaders and +tourists. But when it comes to cattle and sheep and mines, you can't beat +her. She sure is the Tiger Lily of the West. But let's step over and see +Tom. Excuse me a minute. There's a constituent who has somethin' on his +chest. I'll meet you at the station."</p> + +<p>The Senator stepped out and talked with his constituent. Meanwhile, +Bartley turned to gaze down the street. A string of empty freight wagons, +followed by a lazy cloud of dust, rolled slowly toward town. Here and there +a bit of red showed in the dun mass of riders that accompanied the wagons. +A gay-colored blanket <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" +id="Page_28"></a>[pg 28]</span>flickered in the sun. The mesas radiated +keen dry heat.</p> + +<p>Bartley turned and crossed over to the station. He blinked the effects +of the white light from his eyes as he entered the telegraph office. The +operator, in shirt-sleeves, and smoking a brown-paper cigarette, nodded and +handed Bartley a service message stating that his effects would be carried +to Los Angeles and held for further orders.</p> + +<p>"It's sure hot," said the operator. "Did you want to send another +wire?"</p> + +<p>Bartley shook his head. "Who is that stout man I bumped into trying to +catch my train?"</p> + +<p>"That's Senator Steve Brown--State Senator. Thought you knew him."</p> + +<p>"No. I just met him to-day."</p> + +<p>The operator slumped down in his chair.</p> + +<p>Bartley strode to the door and blinked in the Arizona sunshine. "By +George!" he murmured, "I always thought they wore those big Stetsons for +show. But all day in this sun--guess I'll have to have one."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29"></a>[pg 29]</span><hr +/> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<h3><a name='A_LITTLE_GREEN_RIVER'></a>"A LITTLE GREEN RIVER"</h3> + + +<p>To suddenly stop off at a cow-town station, without baggage or definite +itinerary, was unconventional, to say the least. Bartley was amused and +interested. Hitherto he had written more or less conventional +stuff--acceptable stories of the subway, the slums, the docks, and the +streets of Eastern cities. But now, as he strode over to the saloon, he +forgot that he was a writer of stories. A boyish longing possessed him to +see much of the life roundabout, even to the farthest, faint range of +hills--and beyond.</p> + +<p>He felt that while he still owed something to his original plan of +visiting California, he could do worse than stay right where he was. He had +thought of wiring to have his baggage sent back. Then it occurred to him +that, aside from his shaving-kit and a few essentials, his baggage +comprised but little that he could use out here in the mesa country. And he +felt a certain relief in not having trunks to look after. Outing flannels +and evening clothes would <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" +id="Page_30"></a>[pg 30]</span>hardly fit into the present scheme of +things. The local store would furnish him all that he needed. In this frame +of mind he entered the Blue Front Saloon where he found Senator Steve and +his foreman seated at a side table discussing the merits of "Green +River."</p> + +<p>"Hello!" called the Senator. "Mr. Bartley, meet my foreman, Lon +Pelly."</p> + +<p>They shook hands.</p> + +<p>"Lon says the source of Green River is Joy in the Hills," asserted the +Senator, smiling.</p> + +<p>The long, lean cow-puncher grinned. "Steve, here, says the source of +Green River is trouble."</p> + +<p>"Now, as a writin' man, what would you say?" queried the Senator.</p> + +<p>Bartley gazed at the label on the bottle under discussion. "Well, as a +writer, I might say that it depends how far you travel up or down Green +River. But as a mere individual enjoying the blessings of companionship, I +should say, let's experiment, judiciously."</p> + +<p>"Fetch a couple more glasses, Tom," called the Senator.</p> + +<p>After the essential formalities, Bartley pushed back his chair, crossed +one leg over the other, and lighted a cigar. "I'm rather inclined toward +that Joy in the Hills theory, just now," he asserted.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31"></a>[pg +31]</span>"That's all right," said Lon Pelly. "Bein' a little inclined +don't hurt any. But if you keep on reachin' for Joy, your foot is like to +slip. Then comes Trouble."</p> + +<p>"Lon's qualified for the finals once or twice," said the Senator. "Now, +take <i>me</i>, for a horrible example. I been navigatin' Green River, off +and on, for quite a spell, and I never got hung up bad."</p> + +<p>"Speaking of rivers, they're rather scarce in this country, I believe," +said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Yes. But some of 'em are noticeable in the rainy season," stated +Senator Steve. "But you ain't seen Arizona. You've only been peekin' +through your fingers at her. Wait till you get on a cayuse and hit the +trail for a few hundred miles--that's the only way to see the country. Now, +take 'Cheyenne.' He rides this here country from Utah to the border, and he +can tell you somethin' about Arizona.</p> + +<p>"Cheyenne is a kind of hobo puncher that rides the country with his +little old pack-horse, stoppin' by to work for a grubstake when he has to, +but ramblin' most of the time. He used to be a top-hand once. Worked for me +a spell. But he can't stay in one place long. Wish you could meet him +sometime. He can tell you <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" +id="Page_32"></a>[pg 32]</span>more about this State than any man I know. +He's what you might call a character for a story. He stops by regular, at +the ranch, mebby for a day or two, and then takes the trail, singin' his +little old song. He's kind of a outdoor poet. Makes up his own songs."</p> + +<p>"What was that one about Arizona that you gave 'em over to the State +House onct?" queried Lon Pelly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, that wa'n't Cheyenne's own po'try. It was one he read in a magazine +that he gave me. Let's see--</p> + +<blockquote> +"Arizona! The tramp of cattle,<br /> + The biting dust and the raw, red brand:<br /> +Shuffling sheep and the smoke of battle:<br /> + The upturned face--and the empty hand.<br /> +<br /> +"Dawn and dusk, and the wide world singing,<br /> + Songs that thrilled with the pulse of life,<br /> +As we clattered down with our rein chains ringing<br /> + To woo you--but never to make you wife."<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p>The Senator smiled a trifle apologetically. "There's more of it. But +po'try ain't just in my line. Once in a while I bust loose on po'try--that +is, my kind of po'try. And I want to say that we sure clattered down from +the Butte and the Blue in the old days, with our rein chains <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33"></a>[pg 33]</span>jinglin', +thinkin'--some of us--that Arizona was ours to fare-ye-well.</p> + +<p>"But we old-timers lived to find out that Arizona was too young to get +married yet; so we just had to set back and kind of admire her, after +havin' courted her an amazin' lot, in our young days." The Senator +chuckled. "Now, Lon, here, he'll tell you that there ain't no po'try in +this here country. And I never knew they was till I got time to set back +and think over what we unbranded yearlin's used to do."</p> + +<p>"For instance?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>Senator Steve waved his pudgy hand as though shooing a flock of chickens +off a front lawn. "If I was to tell you some of the things that happened, +you would think I was a heap sight bigger liar than I am. Seein' some of +them yarns in print, folks around this country would say: 'Steve Brown's +corralled some tenderfoot and loaded him to the muzzle with shin tangle and +ancient history!' Things that would seem amazin' to you would never ruffle +the hair of the mavericks that helped make this country."</p> + +<p>"This country ain't all settled yet," said the foreman, rising. "Reckon +I'll step along, Steve."</p> + +<p>After the foreman had departed, Bartley <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_34" id="Page_34"></a>[pg 34]</span>turned to the Senator. "Are +there many more like him, out here?"</p> + +<p>"Who, Lon? Well, a few. He's been foreman for me quite a spell. Lon he +thinks. And that's more than I ever did till after I was thirty. And Lon +ain't twenty-six, yet."</p> + +<p>"I think I'll step over to the drug-store and get a few things," said +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"So you figure to bed down at the hotel, eh?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. For a few days, at least. I want to get over the idea that I have +to take the next train West before I make any further plans."</p> + +<p>The Senator accompanied Bartley to the drug-store. The Easterner bought +what he needed in the way of shaving-kit and brush and comb. The Senator +excused himself and crossed the street to talk to a friend. The afternoon +sun slanted across the hot roofs, painting black shadows on the dusty +street. Bartley found Wishful, the proprietor, and told him that he would +like to engage a room with a bath.</p> + +<p>Wishful smiled never a smile as he escorted Bartley to a room.</p> + +<p>"I'll fetch your bath up, right soon," he said solemnly.</p> + +<p>Presently Wishful appeared with a galvanized <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_35" id="Page_35"></a>[pg 35]</span>iron washtub and a kettle of +boiling water. Bartley thanked him.</p> + +<p>"You can leave 'em out in the hall when you're through," said +Wishful.</p> + +<p>Bartley enjoyed a refreshing bath and rub-down. Later he set the kettle +and tub out in the dim hallway. Then he sat down and wrote a letter to his +friend in California, explaining his change of plan. The afternoon sunlight +waned. Bartley gazed out across the vast mesas, lavender-hued and +wonderful, as they darkened to blue, then to purple that was shot with +strange half-lights from the descending sun.</p> + +<p>Suddenly a giant hand seemed to drop a canopy over the vista, and it was +night. Bartley lighted the oil lamp and sat staring out into the darkness. +From below came the rattle of dishes. Presently Bartley heard heavy, +deliberate footsteps ascending the stairway. Then a clanging crash and a +thud, right outside his door. He flung the door open. Senator Steve was +rising from the flattened semblance of a washtub and feeling of himself +tenderly. The Senator blinked, surveyed the wrecked tub and the kettle +silently, and then without comment he stepped back and kicked the kettle. +It soared and dropped clanging into the hall below.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36"></a>[pg +36]</span>Wishful appeared at the foot of the stairs. "Did you ring, +Senator?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I did! And I'm goin' to ring again."</p> + +<p>"Hold on!" said Wishful, "I'll come up and get the tub. I got the +kettle."</p> + +<p>The Senator puffed into Bartley's room and sat on the edge of the bed. +He wiped his bald head, smiling cherubically. "Did you hear him, askin' me, +a member of the Society for the Prevention of Progress, if I rang for him! +That's about all the respect I command in this community. I sure want to +apologize for not stoppin' to knock," added the Senator.</p> + +<p>Bartley grinned. "It was hardly necessary. I heard you."</p> + +<p>"I just came up to see if you would take dinner with me and my missus. +We're goin' to eat right soon. You see, my missus never met up with a real, +live author."</p> + +<p>"Thanks, Senator. I'll be glad to meet your family. But suppose you +forget that author stuff and just take me as a tenderfoot out to see the +sights. I'll like it better."</p> + +<p>"Why, sure! And while the House is in session, I might rise to remark +that I can't help bein' called 'Senator,' because I'm guilty. But, <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37"></a>[pg 37]</span>honest, I +always feel kinder toward my fellow-bein's who call me just plain +'Steve.'"</p> + +<p>"All right. I'll take your word for it."</p> + +<p>"Don't you take my word for anything. How do you know but I might be +tryin' to sell you a gold mine?"</p> + +<p>"I think the risk would be about even," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>The Senator chuckled. "I just heard Wishful lopin' down the hall with +his bathin' outfit, so I guess the right of way is clear again. And there +goes the triangle--sounds like the old ranch, that triangle. You see, +Wishful used to be a cow-hand, and lots of cow-hands stop at this hotel +when they're in town. That triangle sounds like home to 'em. I'm stoppin' +here myself. But I got a real bathroom out to the ranch. Let's go down and +look at some beef on the plate."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38"></a>[pg 38]</span><hr +/> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<h3><a name='TOP_HAND_ONCE'></a>"TOP HAND ONCE"</h3> + + +<p>Bartley happened to be alone on the veranda of the Antelope House that +evening. Senator Brown and his "missus" had departed for their ranch. Mrs. +Senator Brown had been a bit diffident when first meeting Bartley, but he +soon put her at her ease with some amusing stories of Eastern experiences. +The dinner concluded with an invitation from Mrs. Brown that anticipated +Bartley visiting the ranch and staying as long as he wished. The day +following the Senator's departure Bartley received a telegram from his +friend in California, wishing him good luck and a pleasant journey in the +Arizona country. The friend would see to Bartley's baggage, as Bartley had +forwarded the claim checks in his letter.</p> + +<p>The town was quiet and the stars were serenely brilliant. The dusty, +rutted road past the hotel, dim gray in the starlight, muffled the tread of +an occasional Navajo pony passing in the faint glow of light from the +doorway. Bartley was content with things as he found them, <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39"></a>[pg 39]</span>just then. +But he knew that he would eventually go away from there--from the untidy +town, the railroad, the string of box-cars on the siding, and seek the new, +the unexpected, an experience to be had only by kicking loose from +convention and stepping out for himself. He thought of writing a Western +story. He realized that all he knew of the West was from hearsay, and a +brief contact with actual Westerners. He would do better to go out in the +fenceless land and live a story, and then write it. And better still, he +would let chance decide where and when he would go.</p> + +<p>His first intimation that chance was in his vicinity was the distant, +faint cadence of a song that floated over the night-black mesa from the +north. Presently he heard the soft, muffled tread of horses and a distinct +word or two of the song. He leaned forward, interested, amused, alert. The +voice was a big voice, mellowed by distance. There was a +take-it-or-leave-it swing to the melody that suggested the singer's +absolute oblivion to anything but the joy of singing. Again the plod, plod +of the horses, and then:</p> + +<blockquote> +I was top-hand once for the T-Bar-T,<br /> + In the days of long ago,<br /> +But I took to seein' the scenery<br /> + Where the barbed-wire fence don't grow.<br /> +<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40"></a>[pg 40]</span>I +was top-hand once--but the trail for mine,<br /> + And plenty of room to roam;<br /> +So now I'm ridin' the old chuck line,<br /> + And any old place is home ... for me ...<br /> +And any old place is home.<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p>Bartley grinned. Whoever he was, drifting in from the northern spaces, +he had evidently lost the pack-horse that bore his troubles. Suddenly, out +of the wall of dusk that edged the strip of road loomed a horse's head, and +then another. The lead horse bore a pack. The second horse was ridden by an +individual who leaned slightly forward, his hands clasped comfortably over +the saddle horn. The horses stopped in the light of the doorway.</p> + +<p>"Well, I reckon we're here," said a voice. "But hotels and us ain't in +the same class. I stop at the Antelope House, take a look at her, and then +spread my roll in the brush, same as always. Nobody to home? They don't +know what they're missin'."</p> + +<p>Bartley struck a match and lighted his cigar. The pack-horse jerked its +head up.</p> + +<p>"Hello, stranger! Now I didn't see you settin' there."</p> + +<p>"Good-evening! But why 'stranger' when you say you can't see me?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41"></a>[pg +41]</span>"Why? 'Cause everybody knows <i>me</i>, and you didn't whoop when +I rode up. Me, I'm Cheyenne, from no place, and likewise that's where I'm +goin'. This here town of Antelope got in the way--towns is always gittin' +in my way--but nobody can help that. Is Wishful bedded down for the night +or is he over to the Blue Front shootin' craps?"</p> + +<p>"I couldn't say. I seem to be the only one around here, just now."</p> + +<p>"That sure excuses me and the hosses. Wishful is down to the Blue Front, +all right. It's the only exercise he gets, regular." Cheyenne pushed back +the brim of his faded black Stetson and sighed heavily. Bartley caught a +glimpse of a face as care-free as that of a happy child--the twinkle of +humorous eyes and a flash of white teeth as the other grinned. "Reckon you +never heard tell of me," said the rider, hooking his leg over the horn.</p> + +<p>I just arrived yesterday. I have not heard of you--but I heard you down +the road, singing. I like that song."</p> + +<p>"One of my own. Yes, I come into town singin' and I go out singin'. +'Course, we eat, when it's handy. Singin' sure keeps a fellow's appetite +from goin' to sleep. Guess I'll turn the <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_42" id="Page_42"></a>[pg 42]</span>hosses into Wishful's corral +and go find him. Reckon you had your dinner."</p> + +<p>"Several hours ago."</p> + +<p>"Well, I had mine this mornin'. The dinner I had this mornin' was the +one I ought to had day before yesterday. But I aim to catch up--and mebby +get ahead a couple of eats, some day. But the hosses get theirs, regular. +Come on, Filaree, we'll go prospect the sleepin'-quarters."</p> + +<p>Bartley sat back and smiled to himself as Cheyenne departed for the +corral. This wayfarer, breezing in from the spaces, suggested possibilities +as a character for a story No doubt the song was more or less +autobiographical. "A top-hand once, but the trail for mine," seemed to +explain the singer's somewhat erratic dinner schedule. Bartley thought that +he would like to see more of this strange itinerant, who sang both coming +into and going out of town.</p> + +<p>Presently Cheyenne was back, singing something about a Joshua tree as he +came.</p> + +<p>He stopped at the veranda rail. His smile was affable. "Guess I'll go +over and hunt up Wishful. I reckon you'll have to excuse me for not +refusin' to accompany you to the Blue Front to get a drink."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43"></a>[pg +43]</span>Bartley was puzzled. "Would you mind saying that again?"</p> + +<p>"Sure I don't mind. I thought, mebby, you bein' a stranger, settin' +there alone and lookin' at the dark, that you was kind of lonesome. I said +I reckoned you'd have to excuse me for not refusin' to go over to the Blue +Front and take a drink."</p> + +<p>"I think I get you. I'll buy. I'll try anything, once."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne grinned. "I kind of hate to drink alone, 'specially when I'm +broke."</p> + +<p>Bartley grinned in turn. "So do I. I suppose it is all right to leave. +The door is wide open and there doesn't seem to be any one in charge.</p> + +<p>"She sure is an orphan, to-night. But, honest, Mr.--"</p> + +<p>"Bartley."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Bartley, nobody'd ever think of stealin' anything from Wishful. +Everybody likes Wishful 'round here. And strangers wouldn't last long that +tried to lift anything from his tepee. That is, not any longer than it +would take Wishful to pull a gun--and that ain't long."</p> + +<p>"If he caught them."</p> + +<p>"Caught 'em? Say, stranger, how far do you <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_44" id="Page_44"></a>[pg 44]</span>think a man could travel out +of here, before somebody'd get him? Anyhow, Wishful ain't got nothin' in +his place worth stealin'."</p> + +<p>"Wishful doesn't look very warlike," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Nope. That's right. He looks kind of like he'd been hit on the roof and +hadn't come to, yet. But did you ever see him shoot craps?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Then you've got somethin' comin', besides buyin' me a drink."</p> + +<p>Bartley laughed as he stepped down to the road. Bartley, a fair-sized +man, was surprised to realize that the other was all of a head taller than +himself. Cheyenne had not looked it in the saddle.</p> + +<p>"Are you acquainted with Senator Brown?" queried Bartley as he strode +along beside the stiff-gaited outlander.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne stopped and pushed back his hat. "Senator Steve Brown? Say, +pardner, me and Steve put this here country on the map. If kings was in +style, Steve would be wearin' a crown. Why, last election I wore out a pair +of jeans lopin' around this here country campaignin' for Steve. See this +hat? Steve give me this hat--a genuwine J.B., the best they make. Inside +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45"></a>[pg 45]</span>he +had printed on the band, in gold, 'From Steve to Cheyenne, hoping it will +always fit.' Do I know Steve Brown? Next time you see him just ask him +about Cheyenne Hastings."</p> + +<p>"I met the Senator, yesterday. Come to think of it, he did mention your +name--'Cheyenne--and said you knew the country."</p> + +<p>"Was you lookin' for a guide, mebby?"</p> + +<p>"Well, not exactly. But I hope to see something of Arizona."</p> + +<p>"Uh-huh. Well, I travel alone, mostly. But right now I'm flat broke. If +you was headin' south--"</p> + +<p>"I expect to visit Mr. and Mrs. Brown some day. Their ranch is south of +here, I believe."</p> + +<p>"Yep. Plumb south, on the Concho road. I'm ridin' down that way."</p> + +<p>"Well, we will talk about it later," said Bartley as they entered the +saloon.</p> + +<p>With a few exceptions, the men in the place were grouped round a long +table, in the far end of the room, at the head of which stood Wishful +evidently about to make a throw with the dice. No one paid the slightest +attention to the arrival of Bartley and his companion, with the exception +of the proprietor, who nodded to Bartley and spoke a word of greeting to +Cheyenne.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46"></a>[pg +46]</span>Bartley did the honors which included a sandwich and a glass of +beer for Cheyenne, who leaned with his elbow on the bar gazing at the men +around the table. Out of the corner of his eye Bartley saw the proprietor +touch Cheyenne's arm and, leaning across the bar, whisper something to him. +Cheyenne straightened up and seemed to be adjusting his belt. Bartley +caught a name: "Panhandle." He turned and glanced at Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>The humorous expression had faded from Cheyenne's face and in its stead +there was a sort of grim, speculative line to the mouth, and no twinkle in +the blue eyes. Bartley stepped over to the long table and watched the game. +Craps, played by these free-handed sons of the open, had more of a punch +than he had imagined possible. A pile of silver and bills lay on the +table--a tidy sum--no less than two hundred dollars.</p> + +<p>Wishful, the sad-faced, seemed to be importuning some one by the name of +"Jimmy Hicks" to make himself known, as the dice rattled across the board. +The players laughed as Wishful relinquished the dice. A lean outlander, +with a scarred face, took up the dice and made a throw. He evidently did +not want to locate an individual <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" +id="Page_47"></a>[pg 47]</span>called "Little Joe," whom he importuned +incessantly to stay away.</p> + +<p>Side bets were made and bills and silver withdrawn or added to the pile +with a rapidity which amazed Bartley. Hitherto craps had meant to him three +or four newsboys in an alley and a little pile of nickels and pennies. But +this game was of robust proportions. It had pep and speed.</p> + +<p>Bartley became interested. His fingers itched to grasp the dice and try +his luck. But he realized that his amateurish knowledge of the game would +be an affront to those free-moving sons of the mesa. So he contented +himself with watching the game and the faces of the men as they won or +lost. Bartley felt that some one was close behind him looking over his +shoulder. Cheyenne's eyes were fixed on the player known as "Panhandle," +and on no other person at that table. Bartley turned back to the game.</p> + +<p>Just then some one recognized Cheyenne and spoke his name. The game +stopped and Bartley saw several of the men glance curiously from Cheyenne +to the man known as "Panhandle." Then the game was resumed, but it was a +quieter game. One or two of the players withdrew.</p> + +<p>"Play a five for me," said Bartley, turning to Cheyenne.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48"></a>[pg +48]</span>"I'll do that--fifty-fifty," said Cheyenne as Bartley stepped +back and handed him a bill.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne straightway elbowed deeper into the group and finally secured +the dice. Wishful, for some unknown reason, remarked that he would back +Cheyenne to win--"shootin' with either hand," Wishful concluded. Bartley +noticed that again one or two players withdrew and strolled to the bar. +Meanwhile, Cheyenne threw and sang a little song to himself.</p> + +<p>His throws were wild, careless, and lucky. Slowly he accumulated easy +wealth. His forehead was beaded with sweat. His eyes glistened. He forgot +his song. Bartley stepped over to the bar and chatted for a few minutes +with the proprietor, mentioning Senator Steve and his wife.</p> + +<p>When Bartley returned to the game the players had dwindled to a small +group--'Wishful, the man called "Panhandle," a fat Mexican, a railroad +engineer, and Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Bartley turned to a bystander.</p> + +<p>"Cheyenne seems to be having all the luck," he said.</p> + +<p>"Is he a friend of yours?"</p> + +<p>"Never saw him until to-night."</p> + +<p>"He ain't as lucky as you think," stated the other significantly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49"></a>[pg +49]</span>"How is that?"</p> + +<p>"Panhandle, the man with the scar on his face, ain't no friend of +Cheyenne's."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I see."</p> + +<p>Bartley turned from the man, and watched the players. Wishful had +withdrawn from the game, but he stood near the table, watching closely. +Presently the fat Mexican quit playing and left. Cheyenne threw and won. He +played as though the dice were his and he was giving an exhibition for the +benefit of the other players. Finally the engineer quit, and counted his +winnings. Cheyenne and the man, Panhandle, faced each other, with Bartley +standing close to Cheyenne and Wishful, who had moved around the table, +standing close to Panhandle.</p> + +<p>Panhandle took up the dice. There was no joy in his play. He shot the +dice across the table viciously. Every throw was a, sort of insidious +insult to his competitor, Cheyenne. Bartley was more interested in the +performance than the actual winning or losing, although he realized that +Cheyenne was still a heavy winner.</p> + +<p>Presently Wishful stepped over to Bartley and touched his arm. Panhandle +and Cheyenne were intent upon their game.</p> + +<p>"You kin see better from that side of the <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_50" id="Page_50"></a>[pg 50]</span>table," said Wishful mildly, +yet with a peculiar significance.</p> + +<p>Bartley glanced up, his face expressing bewilderment.</p> + +<p>"I seen you slip Cheyenne a bill," murmured Wishful. "Accordin' to that, +you're backin' him. Thought I'd just mention it."</p> + +<p>"I don't understand what you're driving at," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"That's just why I spoke to you." And Wishful's face expressed a sort of +sad wonder. But then, the Easterner had not been in town long and he did +not know Panhandle.</p> + +<p>Wishful turned away casually. Bartley noticed that he again took up his +position near Panhandle.</p> + +<p>This time Panhandle glanced up and asked Wishful if he didn't want to +come into the game.</p> + +<p>Wishful shook his head. "No use tryin' to bust his luck," he said, +indicating Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't know," said Panhandle.</p> + +<p>"And he's got good backin'," continued Wishful.</p> + +<p>Panhandle slanted a narrow glance toward Bartley, and Bartley felt that +the other had somehow or other managed to convey an insult and a challenge +in that glance, which suggested <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" +id="Page_51"></a>[pg 51]</span>the contempt of the tough Westerner for the +supposedly tender Easterner.</p> + +<p>Bartley did not know just what was on the boards, aside from dice and +money, but he took Wishful's hint and moved around to Panhandle's side of +the table, leaving Cheyenne facing his competitor alone. Bartley happened +to catch Cheyenne's eye. The happy-go-lucky expression was gone. Cheyenne's +face seemed troubled, yet he played with his former vigor and luck.</p> + +<p>Panhandle posed insolently, his thumb in his belt, watching the dice. He +was all but broke. Cheyenne kept rolling the bones, but now he evoked no +aid from the gods of African golf. His lips were set in a thin line.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he tossed up the dice, caught them and transferred them to his +right hand. Hitherto he had been shooting with his left. "I'll shoot you, +either hand," he said.</p> + +<p>"And win," murmured Wishful.</p> + +<p>Panhandle whirled and confronted Wishful. "I don't see any of your money +on the table," he snarled.</p> + +<p>"I'll come in--on the next game," stated Wishful mildly.</p> + +<p>Panhandle's last dollar was on the table. He reached forward and drew a +handful of bills <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" +id="Page_52"></a>[pg 52]</span>from the pile and counted them. "Fifty," he +said; "fifty against the pot that you don't make your next throw."</p> + +<p>"Suits me," said Cheyenne, picking up the dice and shaking them.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne threw and won on the third try. Panhandle reached toward the +pile of money again.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne, who had not picked up the dice, stopped him. "You can't play +on that money," he stated tensely. "Half of it belongs to Mr. Bartley, +there."</p> + +<p>"What have you got to say about it," challenged Panhandle, turning to +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Half of the money on the table is mine, according to agreement. I +backed Cheyenne to win."</p> + +<p>"No dam' tenderfoot can tell me where to head in!" exclaimed Panhandle. +"Go on and shoot, you yella-bellied waddie!" And Panhandle reached toward +the money.</p> + +<p>"Just a minute," said Bartley quietly. "The game is finished."</p> + +<p>"Take your mouth out of this, you dam' dude!"</p> + +<p>"Put your gun on the table--and then tell me that," said Bartley.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53"></a>[pg +53]</span>Panhandle lowered his hand to his gun, hesitated, and then +whirling, slapped Bartley's face.</p> + +<p>Wishful, the silent, jerked out his own gun and rapped Panhandle on the +head. Panhandle dropped in a heap.</p> + +<p>It had happened so quickly that Bartley hardly realized what had +happened. Panhandle was on the floor, literally down and out. Bartley was +surprised that such an apparently light tap on the head should put a man +out.</p> + +<p>"Get him out of here," said Tom, the proprietor. "I don't want any rough +stuff in here. And if I were in your boots, Cheyenne, I'd leave town for a +while."</p> + +<p>"I'm leavin' to-morrow mornin'." Cheyenne was coolly counting his +winnings.</p> + +<p>Wishful, the silent, doused a glass of water in Panhandle's face. +Presently Panhandle was revived and helped from the saloon. His former +attitude of belligerency had entirely evaporated. Wishful followed him to +the hitch-rail and saw him mount his horse.</p> + +<p>"Your best bet is to fan it back where you come from, and stay there," +said Wishful softly. "You don't belong in this town, and <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54"></a>[pg 54]</span>you can't +go slappin' any of my guests in the face and get away with it. And when you +git so you can think it over, just figure that if I hadn't 'a' slowed you +down, Cheyenne would 'a' killed you."</p> + +<p>Panhandle did not feel like discussing the question just then. He left +without even turning to glance back. If he had glanced back, he would have +seen that Wishful had disappeared. Wishful, familiar with the ways of +Panhandle and his kind, immediately sought the shadows, leaving the lighted +doorway a blank. He entered the saloon from the rear.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne was endeavoring to make Bartley take half of the winnings. "You +staked me--and it's fifty-fifty, pardner," insisted Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Finally Bartley accepted his share of the money and stuffed it into his +pocket.</p> + +<p>"Now I can get back at you," stated Cheyenne, gesturing toward the +bar.</p> + +<p>His gesture included both Wishful and Bartley. Bartley, a bit shaken, +accepted the invitation. Wishful, not at all shaken, but rather a bit more +silent and melancholy than heretofore, also accepted.</p> + +<p>Alone in his room at the hotel, Bartley wondered what would have +happened if Wishful <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" +id="Page_55"></a>[pg 55]</span>had not rapped Panhandle on the head. +Bartley recalled the fact that he had drawn back his arm, intending to take +one good punch at Panhandle, even if it were his last. But Panhandle had +crumpled down suddenly, silently, and Wishful had stood over him, gazing +down speculatively and swinging his gun back and forth before he returned +it to the holster. "They move quick, in this country," thought Bartley. +"And speaking of material for a story--" Then he smiled.</p> + +<p>Somewhere out on the mesa Cheyenne had spread his bed-roll and was no +doubt sleeping peacefully. Bartley shook his head. He had been in Antelope +but two days and yet it seemed that months had passed since he had stepped +from the westbound train to telegraph to his friend in California. +Incidentally, he decided to purchase an automatic pistol.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56"></a>[pg 56]</span><hr +/> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<h3><a name='A_HORSE_TRADE'></a>A HORSE-TRADE</h3> + + +<p>When Bartley came down to breakfast next morning he noticed two horses +tied at the hitch-rail in front of the hotel. One of the horses, a rather +stocky gray, bore a pack. The other, a short-coupled, sturdy buckskin, was +saddled. Evidently Cheyenne was trying to catch up with his dinner +schedule, for as Bartley entered the dining-room he saw him, sitting face +to face with a high stack of flapjacks, at the base of which reposed two +fried eggs among some curled slivers of bacon.</p> + +<p>Two railroad men, a red-eyed Eastern tourist who looked as though he had +not slept for a week, a saturnine cattleman in from the mesas, and two +visiting ladies from an adjacent town comprised the tale of guests that +morning. As Bartley came in the guests glanced at him curiously. They had +heard of the misunderstanding at the Blue Front.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne immediately rose and offered Bartley a chair at his table. The +two women, alone at their table, immediately became subdued <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57"></a>[pg 57]</span>and +watchful. They were gazing their first upon an author. Wishful had made the +fact known, with some pride. The ladies, whom Cheyenne designated as +"cow-bunnies,"---or wives of ranchers,--were dressed in their "best +clothes," and were trying to live up to them. They had about finished +breakfast, and shortly after Bartley was seated they rose. On their way out +they stopped at Cheyenne's table.</p> + +<p>"Don't forget to stop by when you ride our way," said one of the +women.</p> + +<p>Bartley noticed the toil-worn hands, and the lines that hard work and +worry had graven in her face. Her "best clothes" rather accentuated these +details. But back of it all he sensed the resolute spirit of the West, +resourceful, progressive, large-visioned.</p> + +<p>"Meet Mr. Bartley," said Cheyenne unexpectedly.</p> + +<p>Which was just what the two women had been itching to do. Bartley rose +and shook hands with them.</p> + +<p>"A couple of lady friends of mine," said Cheyenne when they had +gone.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne made no mention of the previous evening's game, or its climax. +Yet Bartley had gathered from Wishful that Panhandle Sears <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58"></a>[pg 58]</span>and +Cheyenne had an unsettled quarrel between them.</p> + +<p>In the hotel office Cheyenne purchased cigars and proffered Bartley a +half-dozen. Bartley took one. Cheyenne seemed disappointed. When cigars +were going round, it seemed strange not to take full advantage of the +circumstance. As they stepped out to the veranda, the horses recognized +Cheyenne and nickered gently.</p> + +<p>"Going south?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"That's me. I got the silver changed to bills and some of the bills +changed to grub. I reckon I'll head south. Kind of wish you was headed that +way."</p> + +<p>Bartley bit the end from his cigar and lighted it, as he gazed out +across the morning mesa. A Navajo buck loped past and jerked his little +paint horse to a stop at the drug-store.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne, pulling up a cinch, smiled at Bartley.</p> + +<p>"That Injun was in a hurry till he got here. And he'll be in a hurry, +leavin'. But you notice how easy he takes it right now. Injuns has got that +dignity idea down fine."</p> + +<p>"Did he come in for medicine, perhaps?"</p> + +<p>"Mebby. But most like he's after chewin'-gum for his squaw, and +cigarettes for himself, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" +id="Page_59"></a>[pg 59]</span>with a bottle of red pop on the side. Injuns +always buy red pop."</p> + +<p>"Cigarettes and chewing-gum?"</p> + +<p>"Sure thing! Didn't you ever see a squaw chew gum and smoke a +tailor-made cigarette at the same time? You didn't, eh? Well, then, you got +somethin' comin'."</p> + +<p>"Romance!" laughed Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Ever sleep in a Injun hogan?" queried Cheyenne as he busied himself +adjusting the pack.</p> + +<p>"No. This is my first trip West."</p> + +<p>"I was forgettin'. Well, I ain't what you'd call a dude, but, honest, if +I was prospectin' round lookin' for Injun romance I'd use a pair of +field-glasses. Injuns is all right if you're far enough up wind from +'em."</p> + +<p>"When do you start?" asked Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Oh, 'most any time. And that's when I'll get there."</p> + +<p>"Well, give my regards to Senator Brown and his wife, if you happen to +see them."</p> + +<p>"Sure thing! I'm on my way. You know--</p> + +<blockquote> +"I was top-hand once--but the trail for mine:<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along!<br /> +But now I'm ridin' the old chuck line,<br /> + Feedin' good and a-feelin' fine:<br /> +Oh, some folks eat and some folks dine,<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along!"<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60"></a>[pg +60]</span>Bartley smiled. Here was the real hobo, the irrepressible +absolute. Cheyenne stepped up and swung to the saddle with the effortless +ease of the old hand. Bartley noticed that the pack-horse had no lead-rope, +nor had he been tied. Bartley did not know that Filaree, the pack-horse, +would never let Joshua, the saddle-horse, out of his sight. They had +traveled the Arizona trails together for years.</p> + +<p>In spite of his happy-go-lucky indifference to persons and events, +Cheyenne had a sort of intuitive shrewdness in reading humans. And he read +in Bartley's glance a half-awakened desire to outfit and hit the trail +himself. But Cheyenne departed without suggesting any such idea. Every man +for himself was his motto. "And as for me," he added, aloud:</p> + +<blockquote> +Seems like I don't git anywhere,<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along;<br /> +But we're leavin' here and we're goin' there:<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along!<br /> +<br /> +With little ole Josh that steps right free,<br /> + And my ole gray pack-hoss, Filaree,<br /> +The world ain't got no rope on me:<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along!<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p>Bartley watched him as he crossed the railroad tracks and turned down a +side street.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61"></a>[pg +61]</span>Back in his room Bartley paced up and down, keeping time to the +tune of Cheyenne's trail song. The morning sun poured down upon the station +roof opposite, and danced flickering across the polished tracks of the +railroad. Presently Bartley stopped pacing his room and stood at the +window. Far out across the mesa he saw a rider, drifting along in the +sunshine, followed by a gray pack-horse.</p> + +<p>"By George!" exclaimed Bartley. "He may be a sort of wandering joke to +the citizens of this State, but he's doing what he wants to do, and that's +more than I'm doing. Just fifty miles to Senator Brown's ranch. Drop in and +see us. As the chap in Denver said when he wrote to his friend in El Paso: +'Drop into Denver some evening and I'll show you the sights.' Distance? +Negligible. Time? An inconsequent factor. Big stuff! As for me, I think +I'll go downstairs and interview the pensive Wishful."</p> + +<p>Wishful had the Navajo blankets and chairs piled up in the middle of the +hotel office and was thoughtfully sweeping out cigar ashes, cigarette +stubs, and burned matches. Wishful, besides being proprietor of the +Antelope House, was chambermaid, baggage-wrangler, clerk, advertising <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62"></a>[pg 62]</span>manager, +and, upon occasion, waiter in his own establishment. And he kept a neat +place.</p> + +<p>Bartley walked over to the desk. Wishful kept on sweeping. Bartley +glanced at the signatures on the register. Near the bottom of the page he +found Cheyenne's name, and opposite it "Arizona."</p> + +<p>"Where does Cheyenne belong, anyway?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>Wishful stopped sweeping and leaned on his broom. "Wherever he happens +to be." And Wishful sighed and began sweeping again.</p> + +<p>"What sort of traveling companion would he make?"</p> + +<p>Wishful stopped sweeping. His melancholy gaze was fixed on a defunct +cigar. "Never heard either of his hosses object to his company," he +replied.</p> + +<p>Bartley grinned and glanced up and down the register. Wishful dug into a +corner with his broom. Something shot rattling across the floor. Wishful +laid down the broom and upon hands and knees began a search. Presently he +rose. A slow smile illumined his face. He had found a pair of dice in the +litter on the floor. He made a throw, shook his head, and <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63"></a>[pg 63]</span>picked up +the dice. His sweeping became more sprightly. Amused by the preoccupation +of the lank and cautiously humorous Wishful, Bartley touched the bell on +the desk. Wishful promptly stood his broom against the wall, rolled down +his sleeves, and stepped behind the counter.</p> + +<p>"I think I'll pay my bill," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>Wishful promptly named the amount. Bartley proffered a ten-dollar +bill.</p> + +<p>Wishful searched in the till for change. He shook his head. "You got two +dollars comin'," he stated.</p> + +<p>"I'll shake you for that two dollars," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>Wishful's tired eyes lighted up. "You said somethin'." And he produced +the dice.</p> + +<p>Just then the distant "Zoom" of the westbound Overland shook the +silence. Wishful hesitated, then gestured magnificently toward space. What +was the arrival of a mere train, with possibly a guest or so for the hotel, +compared with a game of craps?</p> + +<p>While they played, the train steamed in and was gone. Wishful won the +two dollars.</p> + +<p>Bartley escaped to the veranda and his reflections. Presently he rose +and strolled round to the corral. Wishful's three saddle-animals <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64"></a>[pg 64]</span>were +lazying in the heat. Bartley was not unfamiliar with the good points of a +horse. He rejected the sorrel with the Roman nose, as stubborn and foolish. +The flea-bitten gray was all horse, but he had a white-rimmed eye. The +chestnut bay was a big, hardy animal, but he appeared rather slow and +deliberate. Yet he had good, solid feet, plenty of bone, deep withers, and +powerful hindquarters.</p> + +<p>Bartley stepped round to the hotel. "Have you a minute to spare?" he +queried as Wishful finished rearranging the furniture of the lobby.</p> + +<p>Wishful had. He followed Bartley round to the corral.</p> + +<p>"I'm thinking of buying a saddle-horse," stated Bartley.</p> + +<p>Wishful leaned his elbows on the corral bar. "Why don't you rent +one--and turn him in when you're through with him."</p> + +<p>"I'd rather own one, and I may use him a long time."</p> + +<p>"I ain't sufferin' to sell any of my hosses, Mr. Bartley. But I wouldn't +turn down a fair offer."</p> + +<p>"Set a price on that sorrel," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>Now, Wishful was willing to part with the sorrel, which was showy and +looked fast. Bartley <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" +id="Page_65"></a>[pg 65]</span>did not want the animal. He merely wanted to +arrive at a basis from which to work.</p> + +<p>"Well," drawled Wishful, "I'd let him go for a hundred."</p> + +<p>"What will you take for the gray?"</p> + +<p>"Him? Well, he's the best hoss I got. I don't think he's your kind of a +hoss."</p> + +<p>"The best, eh? And a hundred for the sorrel." Bartley appeared to +reflect.</p> + +<p>Wishful really wanted to sell the gray, describing him as the best horse +he owned to awaken Bartley's interest. The best horse in the corral was the +big bay cow-horse; but Wishful had no idea that Bartley knew that.</p> + +<p>"Would you put a price on the gray?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Why, sure! You can have him, for a hundred and twenty-five."</p> + +<p>"A hundred for the sorrel--and a hundred and twenty-five for the gray; +is that correct?"</p> + +<p>"Yep."</p> + +<p>"And you say the gray is the best horse in the corral?"</p> + +<p>"He sure is!"</p> + +<p>"All right. I'll give you a hundred for that big bay, there. I don't +want to rob you of your best horse, Wishful."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66"></a>[pg +66]</span>Wishful saw that he was cornered. He had cornered himself, +premising that the Easterner didn't know horses. "That bay ain't much +account, Mr. Bartley. He's slow--nothin' but a ole cow-hoss I kind of keep +around for odd jobs of ropin' and such."</p> + +<p>"Well, he's good enough for me. I'll give you a hundred for him."</p> + +<p>Wishful scratched his head. He did not want to sell the bay for that +sum, yet he was too good a sport to go back on his word.</p> + +<p>"Say, where was you raised?" he queried abruptly.</p> + +<p>"In Kentucky."</p> + +<p>"Hell, I thought you was from New York?"</p> + +<p>"I lived in Kentucky until I was twenty-five."</p> + +<p>"Was your folks hoss-traders?"</p> + +<p>"Not exactly," laughed Bartley. "My father always kept a few good +saddle-horses, however."</p> + +<p>"Uh-huh? I reckon he did. And you ain't forgot what a real hoss looks +like, either." Wishful's pensive countenance lighted suddenly. "You'll be +wantin' a rig--saddle and bridle and slicker and saddle-bags. Now I got +just what you want."</p> + +<p>Bartley stepped to the stable and inspected <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_67" id="Page_67"></a>[pg 67]</span>the outfit. It was old and +worn, and worth, Bartley estimated, about thirty dollars, all told.</p> + +<p>"I'll let you have the whole outfit--hoss and rig and all, for two +hundred," stated Wishful unblushingly.</p> + +<p>"I priced a saddle, over in the shop across from the station, this +morning," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"With bridle and blanket and saddle-pockets it would only stand me +ninety dollars. If the bay is the poorest horse you own, then at your +figure this outfit would come rather high."</p> + +<p>"I might 'a' knowed it!" stated Wishful. "Say, Mr. Bartley, give me a +hundred and fifty for the hoss and I'll throw in the rig."</p> + +<p>"No. I know friendship ceases when a horse-trade begins; but I am only +taking you at your word."</p> + +<p>"I sure done overlooked a bet, this trip," said Wishful. "Say, I reckon +you must 'a' cut your first tooth on a cinch-ring. I done learnt somethin' +this mornin'. Private eddication comes high, but I'm game. Write your check +for a hundred--and take the bay. By rights I ought to give him to you, +seein as how you done roped and branded me for a blattin' yearlin' the +first throw; and you been out West just three days! You'll git along in +this country."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68"></a>[pg +68]</span>"I hope so," laughed Bartley. "Speaking of getting along, I plan +to visit Senator Brown. How long will it take me to get there, riding the +bay?"</p> + +<p>"He's got a runnin' walk that is good for six miles an hour. He's a +walkin' fool. And anything you git your rope on, he'll hold it till you're +gray-headed and got whiskers. That ole hoss is the best cow-hoss in +Antelope County--and I'm referrin' you to Steve Brown to back me up. I +bought that hoss from Steve. Any time you see the Box-S brand on a hoss, +you can figure he's a good one."</p> + +<p>"I suppose I'd have to camp on the mesa two or three nights," said +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Nope! Ole Dobe'll make it in two days. He don't look fast, but the +trail sure fades behind him when he's travelin'. I'm kind of glad you +didn't try to buy the Antelope House. You'd started in pricin' the stable, +and kind of milled around and ast me what I'd sell the kitchen for, and +afore I knowed it, you'd 'a' had me selling the hotel for less than the +stable. I figure you'd made a amazin' hand at shootin' craps."</p> + +<p>"Let's step over and buy that saddle, and the rest of it. Will you +engineer the deal? I don't know much about Western saddlery."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69"></a>[pg +69]</span>"Shucks! You can take that ole rig I was showin' you. She ain't +much on looks, but she's all there."</p> + +<p>"Thanks. But I'd rather buy a new outfit."</p> + +<p>"When do you aim to start?"</p> + +<p>"Right away. I suppose I'll need a blanket and some provisions."</p> + +<p>"Yes. But you'll catch up with Cheyenne, if you keep movin'. He won't +travel fast with a pack-hoss along. He'll most like camp at the first +water, about twenty-five miles south. But you can pack some grub in your +saddle-bags, and play safe. And take a canteen along."</p> + +<p>Wishful superintended the purchasing of the new outfit, and seemed +unusually keen about seeing Bartley well provided for at the minimum cost. +Wishful's respect for the Easterner had been greatly enhanced by the recent +horse-deal. When it came to the question of clothing, Wishful wisely +suggested overalls and a rowdy, as being weather and brush proof. +Incidentally Wishful asked Bartley why he had paid his bill before he had +actually prepared to start on the journey. Bartley told Wishful that he +would not have prepared to start had he not paid the bill on impulse.</p> + +<p>"Well, some folks git started on impulse, <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_70" id="Page_70"></a>[pg 70]</span>afore they pay their bills, +and keep right on fannin' it," asserted Wishful.</p> + +<p>An hour later Bartley was ready for the trail. With some food in the +saddle-pockets, a blanket tied behind the cantle, and a small canteen hung +on the horn, he felt equipped to make the journey. Wishful suggested that +he stay until after the noon hour, but Bartley declined. He would eat a +sandwich or two on the way.</p> + +<p>"And ole Dobe knows the trail to Steve's ranch," said Wishful, as he +walked around horse and rider, giving them a final inspection. "And you +don't have to cinch ole Dobe extra tight," he advised. "He carries a saddle +good. 'Course that new leather will stretch some."</p> + +<p>"How old <i>is</i> Dobe?" queried Bartley. "You keep calling him +'old.'"</p> + +<p>"I seen you mouthin' him, after you had saddled him. How old would +<i>you</i> say?"</p> + +<p>"Seven, going on eight."</p> + +<p>"Git along! And if anybody gits the best of you in a hoss-trade, wire me +collect. It'll sure be news!"</p> + +<p>Bartley settled himself in the saddle and touched Dobe with the +spurs.</p> + +<p>"Give my regards to Senator Steve--and Cheyenne," called Wishful.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71"></a>[pg +71]</span>Wishful stood gazing after his recent guest until he had +disappeared around a corner.</p> + +<p>Then Wishful strode into the hotel office and marked a blue cross on the +big wall calendar. A humorous smile played about his mouth. It was a mark +to indicate the day and date that an Eastern tenderfoot had got the best of +him in a horse-deal.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72"></a>[pg 72]</span><hr +/> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> + +<h3><a name='AT_THE_WATER_HOLE'></a>AT THE WATER-HOLE</h3> + + +<p>Before Bartley had been riding an hour he knew that he had a good horse +under him. Dobe "followed his head" and did not flirt with his shadow, +although he was grain-fed and ready to go. When Dobe trotted--an easy, +swinging trot that ate into the miles--Bartley tried to post, English +style. But Dobe did not understand that style of riding a trot. Each time +Bartley raised in the stirrups, Dobe took it for a signal to lope. Finally +Bartley caught the knack of leaning forward and riding a trot with a +straight leg, and to his surprise he found it was a mighty satisfactory +method and much easier than posting.</p> + +<p>The mesa trail was wide--in reality a cross-country road, so Bartley had +opportunity to try Dobe's different gaits. The running walk was a joy to +experience, the trot was easy, and the lope as regular and smooth as the +swing of a pendulum. Finally Bartley settled to the best long-distance gait +of all, the running walk, and began to enjoy the vista; the wide-sweeping, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73"></a>[pg +73]</span>southern reaches dotted with buttes, the line of the far hills +crowded against the sky, and the intense light in which there was no +faintest trace of blur or moisture. Everything within normal range of +vision stood out clean-edged and definite.</p> + +<p>Unaccustomed to riding a horse that neck-reined at the merest touch, and +one that stopped at the slightest tightening of the rein, Bartley had to +learn through experience that a spade bit requires delicate handling. He +was jogging along easily when he turned to glance back at the town--now a +far, huddled group of tiny buildings. Inadvertently he tightened rein. Dobe +stopped short. Bartley promptly went over the fork and slid to the +ground.</p> + +<p>Dobe gazed down at his rider curiously, ears cocked forward, as though +trying to understand just what his rider meant to do next. Bartley expected +to see the horse whirl and leave for home. But Dobe stood patiently until +his rider had mounted. Bartley glanced round covertly, wondering if any one +had witnessed his impromptu descent. Then he laughed, realizing that it was +a long way to Central Park, flat saddles and snaffles.</p> + +<p>A little later he ate two of the sandwiches <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_74" id="Page_74"></a>[pg 74]</span>Wishful had thoughtfully +provided, and drank from the canteen. Gradually the shadows of the buttes +lengthened. The afternoon heat ebbed away in little, infrequent puffs of +wind. The western reaches of the great mesa seemed to expand, while the +southern horizon drew nearer.</p> + +<p>Presently Bartley noticed pony tracks on the road, and either side of +the tracks the mark of wheels. Here the wagon had swung aside to avoid a +bit of bad going, yet the tracks of two horses still kept the middle of the +road. "Senator Brown--and Cheyenne," thought Bartley, studying the tracks. +He became interested in them. Here, again, Cheyenne had dismounted, +possibly to tighten a cinch. There was the stub of a cigarette. Farther +along the tracks were lost in the rocky ground of the petrified forest. He +had made twenty miles without realizing it.</p> + +<p>Winding in and out among the shattered and fallen trunks of those +prehistoric trees, Bartley forgot where he was until he passed the +bluish-gray sweep of burned earth edging the forest. Presently a few dwarf +junipers appeared. He was getting higher, although the mesa seemed level. +Again he discovered the tracks of the horses in the powdered red clay of +the road.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75"></a>[pg +75]</span>He crossed a shallow arroyo, sandy and wide. Later he came +suddenly upon a red clay cutbank, and a hint of water where the bank +shadowed the mud-smeared rocks. He rode slowly, preoccupied in studying the +country. The sun showed close to the rim of the world when he finally +realized that, if he meant to get anywhere, he had better be about it. Dobe +promptly caught the change of his rider's mental attitude and stepped out +briskly. Bartley patted the horse's neck.</p> + +<p>It was a pleasure to ride an animal that seemed to want to work with a +man and not against him. The horse had cost one hundred dollars--a fair +price for such a horse in those days. Yet Bartley thought it a very +reasonable price. And he knew he had a bargain. He felt clearly confident +that the big cow-pony would serve him in any circumstance or hazard.</p> + +<p>As a long, undulating stretch of road appeared, softly brown in the +shadows, Bartley began to look about for the water-hole which Wishful had +spoken about. The sun slipped from sight. The dim, gray road reached on and +on, shortening in perspective as the quick night swept down.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76"></a>[pg +76]</span>Beyond and about was a dusky wall through which loomed queer +shapes that seemed to move and change until, approached, they became +junipers. Bartley's gaze became fixed upon the road. That, at least, was a +reality. He reached back and untied his coat and swung into it. An early +star flared over the southern hills. He wondered if he had passed the +water-hole. He had a canteen, but Dobe would need water. But Dobe was +thoroughly familiar with the trail from Antelope to the White Hills. And +Dobe smelled the presence of his kind, even while Bartley, peering ahead in +the dusk, rode on, not aware that some one was camped within calling +distance of the trail. A cluster of junipers hid the faint glow of the +camp-fire.</p> + +<p>Dobe stopped suddenly. Bartley urged him on. For the first time the big +horse showed an inclination to ignore the rein. Bartley gazed round, saw +nothing in particular, and spoke to the horse, urging him forward. Dobe +turned and marched deliberately away from the road, heading toward the +west, and nickered. From behind the screen of junipers came an answering +nicker. Bartley hallooed. No one answered him. Yet Dobe seemed to know what +he was about. He plodded on, down a slight grade. <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_77" id="Page_77"></a>[pg 77]</span>Suddenly the soft glow of a +camp-fire illumined the hollow.</p> + +<p>A blanket-roll, a saddle, a coil of rope, and a battered canteen and the +fire--but no habitant of the camp.</p> + +<p>"Hello!" shouted Bartley.</p> + +<p>Dobe shied and snorted as a figure loomed in the dusk, and Cheyenne was +peering up at him.</p> + +<p>"Is this the water-hole?" Bartley asked inanely.</p> + +<p>"This is her. I'm sure glad to see you! I feel like a plumb fool for +standin' you up that way--but I didn't quite get you till I seen your face. +I thought I knowed your voice, but I never did see you in jeans, and ridin' +a hoss before. And that hat ain't like the one you wore in Antelope."</p> + +<p>"Then you didn't know just what to expect?"</p> + +<p>"I wa'n't sure. But say, I got some coffee goin'--and some bacon. Light +down and give your saddle a rest."</p> + +<p>"I'll just water my horse and stake him out and--"</p> + +<p>"I'll show you where. I see you're ridin' Dobe. Wishful rent him to +you?"</p> + +<p>"No. I bought him."</p> + +<p>"If you don't mind tellin' me--how much?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78"></a>[pg +78]</span>"A hundred."</p> + +<p>"Was Wishful drunk?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Well, you got a real hoss, there. The water is right close. Old Dobe +knows where it is. Just lift off your saddle and turn him loose--or mebby +you better hobble him the first night. He ain't used to travelin' with you, +yet."</p> + +<p>"I have a stake-rope," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"A hoss would starve on a stake-rope out here. I'll make you a pair of +hobbles, pronto. Then he'll stick with my hosses."</p> + +<p>"Where are they?"</p> + +<p>"Runnin' around out there somewhere. They never stray far from +camp."</p> + +<p>Bartley watched Cheyenne untwist a piece of soft rope and make a pair of +serviceable hobbles.</p> + +<p>"Now he'll travel easy and git enough grass to keep him in shape. And +them hobbles won't burn him. Any time you're shy of hobbles, that's how to +make 'em."</p> + +<p>Later, as Bartley sat by the fire and ate, Cheyenne asked him if +Panhandle had been seen in town since the night of the crap game. Bartley +told him that he had seen nothing of Panhandle.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79"></a>[pg +79]</span>"He's ridin' this country, somewhere," said Cheyenne. "You're +headed for Steve's ranch?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Well, Steve'll sure give you the time of your life."</p> + +<p>"I think I'll stay there a few days, if the Senator can make room for +me."</p> + +<p>"Room! Wait till you see Steve's place. And say, if you want to get wise +to how they run a cattle outfit, just throw in with the boys, tell 'em +you're a plumb tenderfoot and can't ride a bronc, nohow, and that you never +took down a rope in your life, and that all you know about cattle is what +you've et, and then the boys will use you white. There's nothin' puts a +fella in wrong with the boys quicker than for him to let on he is a hand +when he ain't. 'Course the boys won't mind seem' you top a bronc and get +throwed, just to see if you got sand."</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Cheyenne manipulated the coffee-pot and skillet most +effectively. And while Bartley ate his supper, Cheyenne talked, seemingly +glad to have a companion to talk to.</p> + +<p>"You see," he began, apropos of nothing in particular, "entertainin' +folks with the latest news is my long suit. I'm kind of a travelin' show, +singin' and packin' the news around to <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_80" id="Page_80"></a>[pg 80]</span>everybody. 'Course folks read +the paper and hear about somebody gettin' married, or gettin' shot or +leavin' the country, and then they ask me the how of it. I been ramblin' so +long that I know the pedigrees of 'most everybody down this way.</p> + +<p>"Newspapers is all right, but folks get plumb hungry to git their news +with human trimmin's. I recollec' I come mighty near gettin' in trouble, +onct. Steve had some folks visitin' down to his ranch. They was new to the +country, and seems they locked horns with a outfit runnin' sheep just south +of Springerville. Now, I hadn't been down that way for about six months, +but I had heard of that ruckus. So after Steve lets me sing a couple of +songs, and I got to feelin' comfortable with them new folks, I set to and +tells 'em about the ruckus down near Springerville. I guess the fella that +told me must 'a' got his reins crossed, for pretty soon Steve starts to +laugh and turns to them visitors and says: 'How about it, Mr. Smith?'</p> + +<p>"Now, Smith was the fella that had the ruckus, and I'd been tellin' how +that sheep outfit had run <i>him</i> out of the country. He was a young, +long, spindlin' hombre from Texas--a reg'lar Whicker-bill, with that +drawlin' kind of a voice <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" +id="Page_81"></a>[pg 81]</span>that hosses and folks listen to. I knowed he +was from Texas the minute I seen him, but I sure didn't know he was the man +I was talkin' about.</p> + +<p>"Everybody laughed but him and his wife. I reckon she was feelin' her +oats, visitin' at the Senator's house. I don't know what she said to her +husband, but, anyhow, afore I left for the bunk-house that evenin', he +says, slow and easy, that if I was around there next mornin', he would +explain all about that ruckus to me, when the ladies weren't present, so I +wouldn't get it wrong, next time. I seen I had made a mistake for myself, +and I didn't aim to make another, so I just kind of eased off and faded +away, bushin' down that night a far piece from Senator Steve's ranch. I +know them Whicker-bills and I didn't want to tangle with any of 'em."</p> + +<p>"Afraid you'd get shot?" queried Bartley, laughing.</p> + +<p>"Shot? Me? No, pardner. I was afraid that Texas gent would get shot. You +see, he was married--and I--ain't."</p> + +<p>Bartley lay back on his saddle and gazed up at the stars. The little +fire had died down to a dot of red. A coyote yelped in the far dusk. +Another coyote replied. Cheyenne rose and threw some wood on the fire. Then +he stepped <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82"></a>[pg +82]</span>down to the water-hole and washed the plates and cups. Bartley +could hear the peculiar thumping sound of hobbled horses moving about on +the mesa. Cheyenne returned to the fire, picked up his bed-roll, and +marched off into the bushes. Bartley wondered why he should take the +trouble to move his bed-roll such a distance from the water-hole.</p> + +<p>"Pack your saddle and blanket over, when you feel like turnin' in," said +Cheyenne. "And you might throw some dirt on that fire. I ain't lookin' for +visitors down this way, but you can't tell."</p> + +<p>Bartley carried his saddle out to the distant clump of junipers.</p> + +<p>"Just shed your coat and boots and turn in," invited Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Bartley was not sleepy, and for a long time he lay gazing up at the +stars. Presently he heard Cheyenne snore. The Big Dipper grew dim. Then a +coyote yelped--a shrill cadence of mocking laughter. "I wonder what the +joke is?" Bartley thought drowsily.</p> + +<p>Sometime during the night he was awakened by the tramping of horses, a +sound that ran along the ground and diminished in the distance.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne was sitting up. He touched Bartley. "Five or six of 'em," +whispered Cheyenne.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83"></a>[pg +83]</span>"Our horses?"</p> + +<p>"Too many. Mebby some strays."</p> + +<p>"Or cowboys," suggested Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Night-ridin' ain't so popular out here."</p> + +<p>Bartley turned over and fell asleep. It seemed but a moment later that +he was wide awake and Cheyenne was standing over him. It was daylight.</p> + +<p>"They got our hosses," said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Who?"</p> + +<p>"I dunno."</p> + +<p>"What? <i>Our</i> horses? Great Scott, how far is it to Senator Brown's +ranch?"</p> + +<p>"About twenty-five miles, by road. I know a short cut."</p> + +<p>Bartley jumped up and pulled on his boots. From the far hills came the +faint yelp of a coyote, shrill and derisive.</p> + +<p>"The joke is on us," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"This here ain't no joke," stated Cheyenne.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84"></a>[pg 84]</span><hr +/> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + +<h3><a name='HIGH_HEELS_AND_MOCCASINS'></a>HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS</h3> + + +<p>Bartley suggested that, perhaps, the horses had strayed.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne shook his head. "My hosses ain't leavin' good feed, or leavin' +me. They know this here country."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps Dobe left for home and the rest followed him," said +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Nope. Our hosses was roped and led south."</p> + +<p>Bartley stared at Cheyenne, whose usually placid countenance expressed +indecision and worry. Cheyenne seemed positive about the missing horses. +Then Bartley saw an expression in Cheyenne's eyes that indicated more +sternness of spirit than he had given Cheyenne credit for.</p> + +<p>"Roped and led south," reiterated Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"How do you know it?"</p> + +<p>"I been scoutin' around. The bunch that rode by last night was leadin' +hosses. I could tell by the way the hosses was travelin'. They was goin' +steady. If they'd been drivin' our hosses ahead, they would 'a' gone +faster, tryin' <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85"></a>[pg +85]</span>to keep 'em from turnin' back. I don't see nothin' around camp to +show who's been here."</p> + +<p>"I'll make a fire," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"You got the right idea. We can eat. Then I aim to look around."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne was over in the bushes rolling his bed when Bartley called to +him, and he found Bartley pointing at a pair of dice on a flat rock beside +the fire.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne stooped and picked up the dice. "Was you rattlin' the bones to +see if you could beat yourself?"</p> + +<p>"I found them here. Are they yours?"</p> + +<p>"Nope. And they weren't here last evenin'."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne turned and strode out to the road while Bartley made breakfast. +Cheyenne was gone a long time, examining the tracks of horses. When he +returned he squatted down and ate.</p> + +<p>Presently he rose. "First off, I thought they might 'a' been some stray +Apaches or Cholas. But they don't pack dice. And the bunch that rode by +last night was ridin' shod bosses."</p> + +<p>Bartley turned slowly toward his companion. "Panhandle?" he queried.</p> + +<p>"And these here dice? Looks like it. It's like him to leave them dice +for us to play with while he trails south with our stack. I reckon <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86"></a>[pg 86]</span>it was +that Dobe hoss he was after. But he must 'a' knowed who was campin' around +here. You see, when Wishful kind of hinted to Panhandle to leave town, +Panhandle figured that meant to stay out of Antelope quite a spell. First +off he steals some hosses. Next thing, he'll sell 'em or trade 'em, down +south of here. He'll travel nights, mostly."</p> + +<p>"I can't see why he should especially pick us out as his victims," said +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"I don't say he did. But it would make no difference to him. He'd steal +any man's stock. Only, I figure some of his friends must 'a' told him about +you--that seen you ridin' down this way. He would know our camp would be +somewhere near this water-hole. What kind of matches you got with you?"</p> + +<p>"Why--this kind." And Bartley produced a few blue-top matches.</p> + +<p>"This here is a old-timer sulphur match, cut square. It was right here, +by the rock. Somebody lit a match and laid them dice there--sixes up. No +reg'lar hoss-thief would take that much trouble to advertise himself. +Panhandle done it--and he wanted me to know he done it."</p> + +<p>"You've had trouble with him before, haven't you?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87"></a>[pg +87]</span>"Yes--and no man can say I ever trailed him. But I never stepped +out of his way."</p> + +<p>"Then that crap game in Antelope meant more than an ordinary crap game?" +said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"He had his chance," stated Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Well, we're in a fix," asserted Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Yes; we're afoot. But we'll make it. And right here I'm tellin' you +that I aim to shoot a game of craps with Panhandle, usin' these here dice, +that'll be fast and won't last long."</p> + +<p>"How about the law?"</p> + +<p>"The law is all right, in spots. But they's a whole lot of country +between them spots."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne cached the bed-roll, saddles, and cooking-outfit back in the +brush, taking only a canteen and a little food. He proffered a pair of +moccasins, parfleche-soled and comfortable, to Bartley.</p> + +<p>"You wear these. Them new ridin'-boots'll sure kill you dead, walkin'. +You can pack 'em along with you."</p> + +<p>"How about your feet?"</p> + +<p>"Say, you wouldn't call me a tenderfoot, would you?"</p> + +<p>"Not exactly."</p> + +<p>"Then slip on them moccasins. But first I <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_88" id="Page_88"></a>[pg 88]</span>aim to make a circle and see +just where they caught up our stock."</p> + +<p>Bartley drew on the moccasins and, tying his boots together, rolled them +in his blanket. Meanwhile, Cheyenne circled the camp far out, examining the +scattered tracks of horses. When he returned the morning sun was beginning +to make itself felt.</p> + +<p>"I'll toss up to see who wears the moccasins," said Bartley. "I'm more +used to hiking than you are."</p> + +<p>"Spin her!"</p> + +<p>As Bartley tossed the coin, Cheyenne called. The half-dollar dropped and +stuck edge-up in the sand.</p> + +<p>"You wear 'em the first fifteen miles and then we'll swap," said +Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Bartley filled the canteen and scraped dirt over the fire. Cheyenne took +a last look around, and turned toward the south.</p> + +<p>"You didn't say nothin' about headin' back to Antelope," said +Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Why, no. I started out to visit Senator Brown's ranch."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne laughed. "Well, you're out to see the country, anyhow. We'll +see lots, to-day."</p> + +<p>Once more upon the road Cheyenne's manner <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_89" id="Page_89"></a>[pg 89]</span>changed. He seemed to ignore +the fact that he was afoot, in country where there was little prospect of +getting a lift from a passing rancher or freighter. And he said nothing +about his horses, Filaree and Joshua, although Bartley knew that their loss +must have hit him hard.</p> + +<p>A mile down the road, and Cheyenne was singing his trail song, +bow-legging ahead as though he were entirely alone and indifferent to the +journey:</p> + +<blockquote> +Seems like I don't git anywhere:<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along!<br /> +But I'm leavin' here and I'm goin' there,<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along--<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p>He stopped suddenly, pulled his faded black Stetson over one eye, and +then stepped out again, singing on:</p> + +<blockquote> +They ain't no water and they ain't no shade:<br /> +They ain't no beer or lemonade,<br /> +But I reckon most like we'll make the grade<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along.<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p>"That's the stuff!" laughed Bartley. "A stanza or two of that every few +miles, and we'll make the grade all right. That last was improvised, wasn't +it?"</p> + +<p>"Nope. Just naturalized. I make 'em up <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_90" id="Page_90"></a>[pg 90]</span>when I'm ridin' along, to +kind of fit into the scenery. Impervisin' gets my wind."</p> + +<p>"Well, if you are singing when we finish, you're a wonder," stated +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm a wonder, all right! And mebby I don't feel like a plumb fool, +footin' it into Steve's ranch with no hosses and no bed-roll and no +reputation. And I sure lose mine this trip. Why, folks all over the country +will josh me to death when they hear Panhandle Sears set me afoot on the +big mesa. I reckon I'll have to kind of change my route till somethin' +happens to make folks forget this here bobble."</p> + +<p>Another five miles of hot and monotonous plodding, and Cheyenne stopped +and sat down. He pulled off his boots.</p> + +<p>Bartley offered the moccasins, but Cheyenne waved the offer aside.</p> + +<p>"Just coolin' my feet," he explained. "It ain't so much the kind of +boots, because these fit. It's scaldin' your feet that throws you."</p> + +<p>They smoked and drank from the canteen. Five minutes' rest, and they +were on the road again. The big mesa reached on and on toward the south, +seemingly limitless, without sign of fence or civilization save for the +narrow road that swung over each slight, rounded rise and <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91"></a>[pg 91]</span>ran away +into the distance, narrowing to a gray line that disappeared in space.</p> + +<p>Occasionally singing, Cheyenne strode along, Bartley striding beside +him.</p> + +<p>"You got a stride like a unbroke yearlin'," said; Cheyenne, as Bartley +unconsciously drew ahead.</p> + +<p>Bartley stopped and turned into step as Cheyenne caught up. He held +himself to a slower pace, realizing that, while his companion could have +outridden him by days and miles, the other was not used to walking.</p> + +<p>As they topped a low rise a coyote sprang up and floated away. Bartley +flinched as Cheyenne whipped up his gun and fired. The coyote jack-knifed +and lay still. Cheyenne punched the empty shell from his gun, slipped in a +cartridge, and strode on.</p> + +<p>"Pretty fast work," remarked Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Huh! I just throwed down on him to see if I was gettin' slow."</p> + +<p>"It seems to me that if I could shoot like that, I wouldn't let any man +back me down," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Mebby so. But you're wrong, old-timer. Bein' fast with a gun is just +like advertisin' for the coroner. Me, I'm plumb peaceful."</p> + +<p>A few miles farther along they nooned in <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_92" id="Page_92"></a>[pg 92]</span>the shade of a piñion. +When they started down the road again, Bartley noticed that Cheyenne limped +slightly. But Cheyenne still refused to put on the moccasins. Bartley +argued that his own feet were getting tender. He was unaccustomed to +moccasins. Cheyenne turned this argument aside by singing a stanza of his +trail song.</p> + +<p>Also, incidentally, Cheyenne had been keeping his eye on the +horse-tracks; and just before they left the main road taking a short cut, +he pointed to them. "There's Filaree's tracks, and there's Joshua's. Your +hoss has been travelin' over here, on the edge. Them hoss-thieves figure to +hit into the White Hills and cut down through the Apache forest, most +like."</p> + +<p>"Will they sell the horses?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Or trade 'em for whiskey. Panhandle's got friends up in them +hills."</p> + +<p>"How far is it to the ranch?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"We done reached her. We're on Steve's ranch, right now. It's about five +miles from that first fence over there to his house, by trail. It's fifteen +by road."</p> + +<p>"Then here is where you take the moccasins."</p> + +<p>"Nope. My feet are so swelled you couldn't start my boots with a fence +stretcher. They's no use both of us gettin' cripped up."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93"></a>[pg +93]</span>Bartley's own feet ached from the constant bruising of +pebbles.</p> + +<p>Presently Cheyenne dropped back and asked Bartley to set the pace.</p> + +<p>"I'll just tie to your shadow," said Cheyenne. "Keeps me interested. +When I'm drillin' along ahead I can't think of nothin' but my feet."</p> + +<p>Because there was now no road and scarcely a trail, Bartley began to +choose his footing, dodging the rougher places. The muscles of his calves +ached under the unaccustomed strain of walking without heels. Cheyenne +dogged along behind, suffering keenly from blistered feet, but centering +his attention on Bartley's bobbing shadow. They had made about two miles +across country when the faint trail ran round a butte and dipped into a +shallow arroyo.</p> + +<p>The arroyo deepened to a gulch, narrow and rocky. Up the gulch a few +hundred yards they came suddenly upon a bunch of Hereford cattle headed by +a magnificent bull. The trail ran in the bottom of the gulch. On either +side the walls were steep and rocky. Angling junipers stuck out from the +walls in occasional dots of green.</p> + +<p>"That ole white-face sure looks hostile," <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_94" id="Page_94"></a>[pg 94]</span>Cheyenne remarked. "Git +along, you ole Mormon; curl your tail and drift."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne heaved a stone which took the bull fairly between the eyes. The +bull shook his head and snapped his tail, but did not move. The cattle +behind the bull stared blandly at the invaders of their domain. The bull, +being an aristocrat, gave warning of his intent to charge by shaking his +head and bellowing. Then he charged.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne stooped for another stone, but Bartley had no intention of +playing ping-pong with a roaring red avalanche. Bartley made for the side +of the gulch and, catching hold of the bole of a juniper, drew himself up. +Cheyenne stood to his guns, shied a third stone, scored a bull's-eye, and +then decided to evacuate in favor of the enemy. His feet were sore, but he +managed to keep a good three jumps ahead of the bull, up the precipitous +bank of the gulch. There was no time to swing into the tree where Bartley +had taken refuge, so Cheyenne backed into a shallow depression beneath the +roots of the juniper.</p> + +<p>The bull shook his head and butted at Cheyenne. Cheyenne slapped the +bull's nose with his hat. The bull backed part-way down the grade, <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95"></a>[pg 95]</span>snapped +his tail, and bellowed. Up the grade he charged again. He could not quite +reach Cheyenne, who slapped at the bull with his hat and spake +eloquently.</p> + +<p>Bartley, clinging to his precarious perch, gazed down upon the scene, +wondering if he had not better take a shot at the bull. "Shall I let him +have it?" he queried.</p> + +<p>"Have what?" came the muffled voice of Cheyenne. "He's 'most got what +he's after, right now."</p> + +<p>"Shall I shoot him?"</p> + +<p>"Hell, no! No use beefin' twelve hundred dollars' worth of meat. We +don't need that much."</p> + +<p>"Look out! He's coming again!" called Bartley.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne had suddenly poked his head out of the shallow cave. The bull +charged, backed down, and amused himself by tossing dirt over his shoulders +and grumbling like distant thunder.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps if you stay in that cave and don't show yourself, he'll leave," +suggested Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Stay nothin'!" answered Cheyenne. "There's a rattler in this here cave. +I can hear him singin'. I'm comin' out, right now!"</p> + +<p>Bartley leaned forward and glanced down. <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_96" id="Page_96"></a>[pg 96]</span>The branch on which he was +straddled snapped.</p> + +<p>"Look out below!" he shouted as he felt himself going.</p> + +<p>Bartley's surprising evolution was too much for his majesty the bull, +who whirled and galloped clumsily down the slope. Bartley rolled to the +bottom, still holding to a broken branch of the tree. Cheyenne was also at +the bottom of the gulch. The bull was trotting heavily toward his herd.</p> + +<p>"Is there anything hooked to the back of my jeans?" queried +Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"No. They're torn; that's all."</p> + +<p>"Huh! I thought mebby that ole snake had hooked on to my jeans. He +sounded right mad, singin' lively, back in there. My laigs feel kind of +limp, right now."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne felt of his torn overalls, shook his head, and then a slow +smile illumined his face. "How do you like this here country, anyhow?"</p> + +<p>"Great!" said Bartley.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97"></a>[pg 97]</span><hr +/> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> + +<h3><a name='AT_THE_BOX_S'></a>AT THE BOX-S</h3> + + +<p>When they emerged from the western end of the gulch, they paused to +rest. Not over a half-mile south stood the ranch-house, just back of a row +of giant cottonwoods.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne pointed out the stables, corrals, and bunk-house. "A mighty +neat little outfit," he remarked, as they started on again.</p> + +<p>"Little?"</p> + +<p>"Senator Steve's only got about sixty thousand acres under fence."</p> + +<p>"Then I'd like to see a big ranch," laughed Bartley.</p> + +<p>"You can't. They ain't nothin' to see more'n you see right now. Why, I +know a outfit down in Texas that would call this here ranch their north +pasture--and they got three more about the same size, besides the regular +range. But standin' in any one place you can't see any more than you do +right now. Steve just keeps up this here ranch so he can have elbow-room. +Yonder comes one of his boys. Reckon he seen us."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98"></a>[pg 98]</span>A +rider had just reined his horse round and was loping toward them.</p> + +<p>"He seen we was afoot," said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Mighty decent of him--" began Bartley, but Cheyenne waved the +suggestion aside. "Decent nothin'! A man afoot looks as queer to a waddie +as we did to that ole bull."</p> + +<p>The puncher loped up, recognized Cheyenne, nodded to Bartley, and seemed +to hesitate. Cheyenne made no explanation of their plight, so the puncher +simply turned back and loped toward the ranch-house.</p> + +<p>"Just steppin' over to tell Steve we're here," said Cheyenne, as +Bartley's face expressed astonishment.</p> + +<p>They plodded on, came to a gate, limped down a long lane, came to +another gate, and there Senator Steve met them.</p> + +<p>"I'd 'a' sent a man with a buckboard if I had known you planned to walk +over from Antelope," he asserted, and his eyes twinkled.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne frowned prodigiously. "Steve," he said slowly, "you can +lovin'ly and trustfully go plumb to hell!"</p> + +<p>Cheyenne turned and limped slowly toward the bunk-house.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Brown welcomed Bartley as the Senator <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_99" id="Page_99"></a>[pg 99]</span>ushered him into the +living-room. The Senator half-filled a tumbler from a cold, dark bottle and +handed it to Bartley.</p> + +<p>"'Green River,'" he said.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Brown," said Bartley as he bowed.</p> + +<p>Then the Senator escorted Bartley to the bathroom. The tub was already +filled with steaming water. A row of snow-white towels hung on the rack. +The Senator waved his hand and, stepping out, closed the door.</p> + +<p>A few minutes later he knocked at the bathroom door. "There's a spare +razor in the cabinet, and all the fixings. And when you're ready there's a +pair of clean socks on the doorknob."</p> + +<p>Bartley heard the Senator's heavy, deliberate step as he passed down the +hallway.</p> + +<p>"A little 'Green River,' a hot bath, and clean socks," murmured Bartley. +"Things might be worse."</p> + +<p>His tired muscles relaxed under the beneficent warmth of the bath. He +shaved, dressed, and stepped out into the hall. He sniffed. "Chicken!" he +murmured soulfully.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Senator Brown was supervising the cooking of a dinner that Bartley +never forgot. Boiled chicken, dumplings, rich gravy, mashed <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100"></a>[pg +100]</span>potatoes, creamed carrots, sliced tomatoes--to begin with. And +then the pie! Bartley furnished the appetite.</p> + +<p>But that was not until after the Senator had returned from the +bunk-house. He had seen to it that Cheyenne had had a bucket of hot water, +soap, and towels and grease for his sore feet. In direct and effectual +kindliness, without obviously expressed sympathy, the Westerner is +peculiarly supreme.</p> + +<p>Back in the living-room Bartley made himself comfortable, admiring the +generous proportions of the house, the choice Indian blankets, the wide +fireplace, and the general solidity of everything, which reflected the +personality of his hosts.</p> + +<p>Presently the Senator came in. "Cheyenne tells me that somebody set you +afoot, down at the water-hole."</p> + +<p>"Did he also tell you about your bull?"</p> + +<p>"No! Is that how he came to tear his jeans?"</p> + +<p>Bartley nodded. And he told the Senator of their recent experience in +the gulch.</p> + +<p>The Senator chuckled. "Don't say a word to Mrs. Brown about it. I'll +have Cheyenne in, after dinner, and sweat it out of him. <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101"></a>[pg 101]</span>You +see, Cheyenne won't eat with us. He always eats with the boys. No use +asking him to eat in here. And, say, Bartley, we've got a little surprise +for you. One of my boys caught up your horse, old Dobe. Dobe was dragging a +rope. Looks like he broke away from some one. I had him turned into the +corral. Dobe was raised on this range."</p> + +<p>"Broke loose and came back!" exclaimed Bartley. "That's good news, +Senator. I like that horse."</p> + +<p>"But Cheyenne is out of luck," said the Senator. "He thought more of +those horses, Filaree and Joshua, than he did of anything on earth. I'll +send one of the boys back to the water-hole to-morrow, for your saddles and +outfit. But now you're here, how do you like the country?"</p> + +<p>"Almost as much as I like some of the people living in it," stated +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Not including Panhandle Sears, eh?"</p> + +<p>"I'm pretty well fed up on walking," and Bartley smiled.</p> + +<p>"Sears is a worthless hombre," stated the Senator. "He's one of a gang +that steal stock, and generally live by their wits and never seem <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102"></a>[pg 102]</span>to get +caught. But he made a big mistake when he lifted Cheyenne's horses. +Cheyenne already has a grievance against Sears. Some day Cheyenne will open +up--and that will be the last of Mr. Sears."</p> + +<p>"I had an idea there was something like that in the wind," said Bartley. +"Cheyenne hasn't said much about Sears, but I was present at that crap +game."</p> + +<p>The Senator chuckled. "I heard about it. Heard you offered to take on +Sears if he would put his gun on the table."</p> + +<p>Bartley flushed. "I must have been excited."</p> + +<p>The Senator leaned forward in his big, easy-chair. "Cheyenne wants me to +let him take a couple of horses to trail Panhandle. And, judging from what +Cheyenne said, he thinks you are going along with him. There's lots of +country right round here to see, without taking any unnecessary risks."</p> + +<p>"I understand," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"And this is your headquarters, as long as you want to stay," continued +the Senator.</p> + +<p>"Thank you. It's a big temptation to stay, Senator."</p> + +<p>"How?"</p> + +<p>"Well, it was rather understood, without anything <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103"></a>[pg 103]</span>being +said, that I would help Cheyenne find his horses and mine. Dobe came back; +but that hardly excuses me from going with Cheyenne."</p> + +<p>"But your horse is here; and you seem to be in pretty fair health, right +now."</p> + +<p>"I appreciate the hint, Senator."</p> + +<p>"But you don't agree with me a whole lot."</p> + +<p>"Well, not quite. Chance rather chucked us together, Cheyenne and me, +and I think I'll travel with him for a while. I like to hear him sing."</p> + +<p>"He likes to hear him sing!" scoffed the Senator, frowning. He sat back +in his chair, blew smoke-rings, puffed out his cheeks, and presently rose. +"Bartley, I see that you're set on chousin' around the country with that +warbling waddie--just to hear him sing, as you say. I say you're a dam' +fool.</p> + +<p>"But you're the kind of a dam' fool I want to shake hands with. You +aren't excited and you don't play to the gallery; so if there's anything +you want on this ranch, from a posse to a pack-outfit, it's yours. And if +either of you get Sears, I'll sure chip in my share to buy his +headstone."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104"></a>[pg +104]</span>"I wouldn't have it inscribed until we get back," laughed +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"No; I don't think I will. Trailin' horse-thieves on their own stamping +ground ain't what an insurance company would call a good risk."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105"></a>[pg +105]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> + +<h3><a name='TO_TRY_HIM_OUT'></a>TO TRY HIM OUT</h3> + + +<p>Two days later Cheyenne was able to get his feet into his boots, but +even then he walked as though he did not care to let his left foot know +what his right foot was doing. Lon Pelly, just in from a ride out to the +line shack, remarked to the boys in the bunk-house that Cheyenne walked as +though his brains were in his feet and he didn't want to get stone bruises +stepping on them.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne made no immediate retort, but later he delivered himself of a +new stanza of his trail song, wherein the first line ended with "Pelly" +followed by the rhymed assertion that the gentleman who bore that peculiar +name had slivers in his anatomy due to a fondness for leaning against the +bar of the Blue Front Saloon.</p> + +<p>The boys were mightily pleased with the stanza, and they also improvised +until, according to their versions, Long Lon bore a marked resemblance to a +porcupine. Lon, being a real person, felt that Cheyenne's retaliation was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106"></a>[pg +106]</span>just. Moreover, Lon, who never did anything hastily, let it be +known casually that he had seen three riders west of the line shack some +two days past, and that the riders were leading two horses, a buckskin and +a gray. They were too far away to be distinguished absolutely, but he could +tell the color of the horses.</p> + +<p>"Panhandle?" queried a puncher.</p> + +<p>"And two riders with him," said Long Lon.</p> + +<p>"Goin' to trail him, Cheyenne?" came presently.</p> + +<p>"That's me."</p> + +<p>"Then let's pass the hat," suggested the first speaker.</p> + +<p>"Wait!" said Cheyenne, drawing a pair of dice from his pocket. "Somehow, +and sometime, I aim to shoot Panhandle a little game. Then you guys can +pass the hat for the loser. Panhandle left them dice on the flat rock, by +the water-hole. My pardner, Bartley, found them."</p> + +<p>"Kind of sign talk that Pan pulled one on you," said Lon Pelly.</p> + +<p>"He sure left his brains behind him when he left them dice," asserted +Cheyenne. "I suspicioned that it was him--but the dice told me, plain."</p> + +<p>"So you figure to walk up to Pan and invite <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_107" id="Page_107"></a>[pg 107]</span>him to shoot a little +game, when you meet up with him?" queried a puncher.</p> + +<p>"That's me."</p> + +<p>"The tenderfoot"--he referred to Bartley--"is he goin' along with +you?"</p> + +<p>"He ain't so tender as you might think," said Cheyenne. "He's green, but +not so dam' tender."</p> + +<p>"Well, it's right sad. He looks like a pretty decent hombre."</p> + +<p>"What's sad?" queried Cheyenne belligerently.</p> + +<p>"Why, gettin' that tenderfoot all shot up, trailin' a couple of +twenty-dollar cayuses. They ain't worth it."</p> + +<p>"They ain't, eh?"</p> + +<p>"Course, they make a right good audience, when you're singin'. They do +all the listenin'," said another puncher.</p> + +<p>"Huh! They ain't one of you got a hoss that can listen to you, without +blushin'. You fellas think you're a hard-ridin'--"</p> + +<p>"Ridin' beats walkin'," suggested Long Lon.</p> + +<p>"Keep a-joshin'. I like it. Shows how much you don't know. I--hello, Mr. +Bartley! Shake hands with Lon Pelly--but I guess you met <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108"></a>[pg 108]</span>him, +over to Antelope. You needn't to mind the rest of these guys. They're +harmless."</p> + +<p>"I don't want to interrupt--" began Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Set right in!" they invited in chorus. "We're just listenin' to +Cheyenne preachin' his own funeral sermon."</p> + +<p>Bartley seated himself in the doorway of the bunk-house. The joshing +ceased. Cheyenne, who could never keep his hands still, toyed with the +dice. Presently one of the boys suggested that Cheyenne show them some +fancy work with a six-gun--"just to keep your wrist limber," he +concluded.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne shook his head. But, when Bartley intimated that he would like +to see Cheyenne shoot, Cheyenne rose.</p> + +<p>"All right. I'll shoot any fella here for ten bucks--him to name the +target."</p> + +<p>"No, you don't," said a puncher. "We ain't givin' our dough away, just +to git rid of it."</p> + +<p>"And right recent they was talkin' big," said Cheyenne. "I'll shoot the +spot of a playin'-card, if you'll hold it," he asserted, indicating +Bartley.</p> + +<p>The boys glanced at Bartley and then lowered their eyes, wondering what +the Easterner would do. Bartley felt that this was a test of his nerve, +and, while he didn't like the idea of <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_109" id="Page_109"></a>[pg 109]</span>engaging in a William Tell +performance he realized that Cheyenne must have had a reason for choosing +him, out of the men present, and that Cheyenne knew his business.</p> + +<p>"Cheyenne wants to git out of shootin'," suggested a puncher.</p> + +<p>That settled it with Bartley. "He won't disappoint you," he stated +quietly. "Give me the card."</p> + +<p>One of the boys got up and fetched an old deck of cards. Bartley chose +the ace of spades. Back of the corrals, with nothing but mesa in sight, he +took up his position, while Cheyenne stepped off fifteen paces. Bartley's +hand trembled a little. Cheyenne noticed it and turned to the group, saying +something that made them laugh. Bartley's fingers tensed. He forgot his +nervousness. Cheyenne whirled and shot, apparently without aim. Bartley +drew a deep breath, and glanced at the card. The black pip was cut clean +from the center.</p> + +<p>"That's easy," asserted Cheyenne. Then he took a silver dollar from his +pocket, laid it in the palm of his right hand, hung the gun, by its trigger +guard on his right forefinger, lowered his hand and tossed the coin up. As +the coin <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110"></a>[pg +110]</span>went up the gun whirled over. Then came the whiz of the coin as +it cut through space.</p> + +<p>"About seventy-five shots like that and I'm broke," laughed Cheyenne. +"Anybody's hat need ventilatin'?"</p> + +<p>"Not this child's," asserted Lon Pelly. "I sailed my hat for him onct. +It was a twenty-dollar J.B., when I sailed it. When it hit it sure wouldn't +hold water. Six holes in her--and three shots."</p> + +<p>"Six?" exclaimed Bartley.</p> + +<p>"The three shots went clean through both sides," said Lon.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne reloaded his gun and dropped it into the holster.</p> + +<p>Later, Bartley had a talk with Cheyenne about the proposed trailing of +the stolen horses. Panhandle's name was mentioned. And the name of another +man--Sneed. Cheyenne seemed to know just where he would look, and whom he +might expect to meet.</p> + +<p>Bartley and Cheyenne were in the living-room that evening talking with +the Senator and his wife. Out in the bunk-house those of the boys who had +not left for the line shack were discussing horse-thieves in general and +Panhandle and Sneed in particular. Bill <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_111" id="Page_111"></a>[pg 111]</span>Smalley, a saturnine +member of the outfit, who seldom said anything, and who was a good hand but +a surly one, made a remark.</p> + +<p>"That there Cheyenne is the fastest gun artist--and the biggest coward +that ever come out of Wyoming. Ain't that right, Lon?"</p> + +<p>"I never worked in Wyoming," said Long Lon.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112"></a>[pg +112]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> + +<h3><a name='PONY_TRACKS'></a>PONY TRACKS</h3> + + +<p>Mrs. Senator Brown did not at all approve of Bartley's determination to +accompany Cheyenne in search of the stolen horses. Late that night, long +after Cheyenne had ceased to sing for the boys in the bunk-house, and while +Bartley was peacefully slumbering in a comfortable bed, Mrs. Brown took the +Senator to task for not having discouraged the young Easterner from +attempting such a wild-goose chase. The Senator, whose diameter made the +task of removing his boots rather difficult, puffed, and tugged at a tight +riding-boot, but said nothing.</p> + +<p>"Steve!"</p> + +<p>"Yes'm. I 'most got it off. Wild-goose chase? Madam, the wild goose is a +child that shuns this element. You mean wild-horse chase."</p> + +<p>"That sort of talk may amuse your constituents, but you are talking to +me."</p> + +<p>Off came the stubborn boot. The Senator puffed, and tugged at the other +boot.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113"></a>[pg +113]</span>"No, ma'am. You're talking to me. There! Now go ahead and I'll +listen."</p> + +<p>"Why didn't you discourage Mr. Bartley's idea of making such a +journey?'</p> + +<p>"I did, Nelly. I told him he was a dam' fool."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Senator Brown, who knew her husband's capabilities in dodging +issues when he was cornered,--both at home and abroad,--peered at him over +her glasses. "What else did you tell him?"</p> + +<p>"Well, your honor," chuckled the Senator, "I also told him he was the +kind of dam' fool I liked to shake hands with."</p> + +<p>"I knew it! And what else?"</p> + +<p>"I challenge the right of the attorney for the plaintiff to introduce +any evidence that may--"</p> + +<p>"The attorney for the defense may proceed," said Mrs. Brown, +smiling.</p> + +<p>"Why, shucks, Nelly! When you smile like that--why, I told Bartley he +could have anything on this ranch that would help him get a rope on +Sears."</p> + +<p>"I knew it!"</p> + +<p>"Then why did you ask me?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Brown ignored the question. "Very <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_114" id="Page_114"></a>[pg 114]</span>well, Stephen. Mr. Bartley +gave me his sister's address, in case anything happened. She is his only +living relative and I'm going to write to her at once and tell her what her +brother is up to."</p> + +<p>"And most like she'll head right for this ranch."</p> + +<p>"Well, suppose she does? If she is anything like her brother she will be +welcome."</p> + +<p>"You bet! Just leave that to me!"</p> + +<p>"It's a shame!" asserted Mrs. Brown.</p> + +<p>"It is! With her good looks and inexperience she'll sure need somebody +to look after her."</p> + +<p>"How do you know she is good-looking?"</p> + +<p>"I don't. I was just hoping."</p> + +<p>"I shall write, just the same."</p> + +<p>"I reckon you will. I'm going to bed."</p> + +<p>Just as the sun rounded above the mesa next morning, Bartley stepped out +to the veranda. He was surprised to find the Senator up and about, +inspecting the details of Cheyenne's outfit, for Cheyenne had the horses +saddled and packed. Bartley was still more surprised to find that Mrs. +Brown had breakfast ready. Evidently the good Senator and his wife had a +decided interest in the welfare of the expedition.</p> + +<p>After breakfast the Senator's wife came out to <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_115" id="Page_115"></a>[pg 115]</span>the bunk-house with a +mysterious parcel which she gave to Bartley. He sniffed at it.</p> + +<p>"Cold chicken sandwiches!" he said, smiling broadly.</p> + +<p>"And some doughnuts. It will save you boys fussing with a lunch."</p> + +<p>Long Lon Pelly was also up and ready to start. The air was still cool +and the horses were a bit snuffy. Lon mounted and rode toward the west gate +where he waited for Cheyenne and Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Now don't forget where you live," said the Senator as Bartley +mounted.</p> + +<p>With a cheery farewell to their hosts, Cheyenne and Bartley rode away. +The first warmth of the sun touched them as they headed into the western +spaces. Long Lon closed the big gate, stepped up on his horse, and jogged +along beside them.</p> + +<p>Bartley felt as though he had suddenly left the world of reality and was +riding in a sort of morning dream. He could feel the pleasant warmth of the +sun on his back. He sniffed the thin dust cast up by the horses. On either +side of him the big mesa spread to the sky-line. Cattle were scattered in +the brush, some of them lying down, some of them grazing indolently.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116"></a>[pg +116]</span>Presently Cheyenne began to sing, and his singing seemed to fit +into the mood of the morning. He ceased, and nothing but the faint jingle +of rein chains and the steady plod of hoofs disturbed the vast silence. A +flicker of smoke drifted back as Cheyenne lighted a cigarette. Long Lon +drilled on, wrapped in his reflections. Their moving shadows shortened. +Occasionally a staring-eyed cow strayed directly in their way and stood +until Long Lon struck his chaps with his quirt, when the cow, swinging its +head, would whirl and bounce off to one side, stiff-legged and +ridiculous.</p> + +<p>Bartley unbuttoned his shirt-collar and pushed back his hat. Far across +the mesa a dust devil spun up and writhed away toward the distant hills. As +the horses slowed to cross a sandy draw, Bartley turned and glanced back. +The ranch buildings--a dot of white in a clump of green--shimmered vaguely +in the morning sunlight.</p> + +<p>Thus far, Bartley felt that he had been leaving the ranch and the +cheerful companionship of the Senator and his wife. But as Lon Pelly reined +up--it was something like two hours since they had started--and pointed to +a cross-trail leading south, Bartley's mental attitude changed instantly. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117"></a>[pg +117]</span>Hitherto he had been leaving a pleasant habitation. Now he was +going somewhere. He felt the distinction keenly. Cheyenne's verse came back +to him.</p> + +<blockquote> +Seems like I don't git anywhere,<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along;<br /> +But we're leavin' here and we're goin' there,<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along--<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p>"Just drop a line when you get there," said Long Lon as he reined round +and set off toward the far western sky-line. That was his casual +farewell.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne now turned directly toward the south and a range of hills that +marked the boundary of the mesa level. Occasionally he got off his horse +and stooped to examine tracks. Once he made a wide circle, leaving Bartley +to haze the pack-horse along. Slowly they drew nearer to the hills. During +the remainder of that forenoon, Cheyenne said nothing, but rode, slouched +forward, his hand on the horn, his gaze on the ground.</p> + +<p>They nooned in the foothills. The horses grazed along the edge of a tiny +stream while Cheyenne and Bartley ate the cold chicken sandwiches. In half +an hour they were riding again, skirting the foothills, and, it seemed to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118"></a>[pg +118]</span>Bartley, simply meandering about the country, for now they were +headed west again.</p> + +<p>Presently Cheyenne spoke. "I been makin' a plan."</p> + +<p>"I didn't say a word," laughed Bartley.</p> + +<p>"You didn't need to. I kind of got what you were thinkin'. This here is +big country. When you're ridin' this kind of country with some fella, you +can read his mind almost as good as a horse can. You was thinkin' I was +kind of twisted and didn't know which way to head. Now take that there +hoss, Joshua. Plenty times I've rode him up to a fork in the trail, and +kep' sayin' to myself, 'We'll take the right-hand fork.' And Joshua always +took the fork I was thinkin' about. You try it with Dobe, sometime."</p> + +<p>"I have read of such things," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Well, I <i>know</i> 'em. What would you say if I was to tell you that +Joshua knowed once they was a fella ridin' behind me, five miles back, and +out of sight--and told me, plain?"</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't say anything."</p> + +<p>"There's where you're wise. I can talk to you about such things. But +when I try to talk to the boys like that, they just josh, till I git mad +and quit. They ain't takin' me serious."</p> + +<p>"What is your plan?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119"></a>[pg +119]</span>Cheyenne reined up and dismounted. "Step down, and take a look," +he suggested.</p> + +<p>Bartley dismounted. Cheyenne pointed out horse-tracks on the trail along +the edge of the hills.</p> + +<p>"Five hosses," he asserted. "Two of 'em is mine. That leaves three that +are carryin' weight. But we're makin' a mistake for ourselves, trailin' +Panhandle direct. He figures mebby I'd do that. I got to outfigure him. I +don't want to git blowed out of my saddle by somebody in the brush, just +waitin' for me to ride up and git shot. I got the way he's headed, and by +to-morrow mornin' I'll know for sure.</p> + +<p>"If he'd been goin' to swing back, to fool me, he'd 'a' done it before +he hit the timber, up yonder. Once he gits in them hills he'll head +straight south, for they ain't no other trail to ride on them ridges. But +mebby he cut along the foothills, first. I got to make sure."</p> + +<p>Late that afternoon and close to the edge of the foothills, Cheyenne +lost the tracks. He spent over an hour finding them again. Bartley could +discern nothing definite, even when Cheyenne pointed to a queer, blurred +patch in some loose earth.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120"></a>[pg +120]</span>"It looks like the imprint of some coarse cloth," said +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Gunnysack. They pulled the shoes off my hosses and sacked their +feet."</p> + +<p>"How about their own horses?"</p> + +<p>"They been ridin' hard ground, and the tracks don't show, plain. +Panhandle figured, when I seen that only the tracks of three horses showed, +I'd think he had turned my hosses loose on the big mesa. He stops, pulls +their shoes, sacks their feet, and leads 'em over there. Whoever done it +was afoot, and steppin' careful. Hell, I could learn that yella-bellied +hoss-thief how to steal hosses right, if I was in the business."</p> + +<p>"Looks like a pretty stiff drill up those hills," remarked Bartley.</p> + +<p>"That's why he turned, right here. 'Tain't just the stealin' of my +hosses that's interestin' him. He's takin' trouble to run a whizzer on +me--get me guessin'. Here is where we quit trailin' him. I got my plan +workin' like a hen draggin' fence rails. We ain't goin' to trail Panhandle. +We're goin' to ride 'round and meet him."</p> + +<p>"Not a bad idea," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"It won't be--if I see him first."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121"></a>[pg +121]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> + +<h3><a name='JIMMY_AND_THE_LUGER_GUN'></a>JIMMY AND THE LUGER GUN</h3> + + +<p>Two days of riding toward the west, along the edge of the hills, and +Bartley and Cheyenne found themselves approaching the high country. The +trail ran up a wide valley, on either side of which were occasional ranches +reaching back toward the slopes. In reality they were gradually climbing +the range on an easy grade and making good time.</p> + +<p>Their course now paralleled the theoretical course of Panhandle and his +fellows. Dodging the rugged land to the south, Cheyenne had swung round in +a half-circle, hoping to head off Panhandle on the desert side of the +range. Since abandoning the tracks of the stolen horses, Cheyenne had +resumed his old habit of singing as he rode. He seemed to know the name of +every ranch, and of every person they met.</p> + +<p>Once or twice some acquaintance expressed surprise that Cheyenne did not +stop and spend the night with him. But Cheyenne jokingly declined all +invitations, explaining to Bartley <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" +id="Page_122"></a>[pg 122]</span>that in stopping to visit they would +necessarily waste hours in observing the formalities of arrival and +departure, although Cheyenne did not put it just that way.</p> + +<p>They found water and plenty of feed, made their camps early, broke camp +early, and rode steadily. With no visible incentive to keep going, Bartley +lost his first keen interest in the hunt, and contented himself with +listening to Cheyenne's yarns about the country and its folk, or +occasionally chatting with some wayfarer. But never once did Cheyenne hint, +to those they met, just why he was riding south.</p> + +<p>There were hours at a stretch, when the going was level, when Cheyenne +did nothing but roll his gun, throw down on different objects, toss up his +gun, and catch it by the handle; and once he startled Bartley by making a +quick fall from the saddle and shooting from the ground. Cheyenne explained +to Bartley that often, when riding alone, he had spent hour after hour +figuring out the possibilities of gun-play, till it became evident to the +Easterner that, aside from being naturally quick, there was a very good +reason for Cheyenne's proficiency with the six-gun. He practiced +continually. And yet, thought Bartley, one of the Box-S punchers had <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123"></a>[pg 123]</span>said +that Cheyenne had never killed anything bigger than a coyote, and never +would--intimating that he was too good-natured ever to take advantage of +his own proficiency with a gun.</p> + +<p>Bartley wondered just how things would break if they did happen to meet +Panhandle unexpectedly. Panhandle would no doubt dispose of the stolen +horses as soon as he could. What excuse would Cheyenne have to call +Panhandle to account? And when it came to a show-down, <i>would</i> +Cheyenne call him to account?</p> + +<p>Bartley was thinking of this when they made an early camp, the afternoon +of the third day out. After the horses were hobbled and the packs arranged, +Bartley decided to experiment a little with his new Luger automatic. +Cheyenne declined to experiment with the gun.</p> + +<p>"It's a mean gat," he asserted, "and it's fast. But I'll bet you a new +hat I can empty my old smoke-wagon quicker than you can that pocket machine +gun."</p> + +<p>For the fun of the thing, Bartley took him up. He selected as target a +juniper stump, and blazed away.</p> + +<p>"I'm leavin' the decision to you," said Cheyenne, as he braced his right +arm against his <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" +id="Page_124"></a>[pg 124]</span>body and fanned the Colt, emptying it +before Bartley could realize that he had fired three shots--and Cheyenne +had fired five.</p> + +<p>"I'll buy you that hat when we get to town," laughed Bartley. "You beat +me, hands down."</p> + +<p>"Hands down is right, old-timer. Fannin' a gun is show stuff, but it's +wicked, at close range."</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Bartley had been experimenting further with the Luger. When +he got through he had a hat full of pieces and Cheyenne was staring at what +seemed to be the wreck of a once potent weapon.</p> + +<p>"Why, you done pulled that little lead sprinkler all to bits!" exclaimed +Cheyenne, "and you didn't have no tools to do it with."</p> + +<p>"You can take down and assemble this gun without tools," stated Bartley. +"All you need is your fingers."</p> + +<p>"But what in Sam Hill did you pull her apart for?"</p> + +<p>"Just to see if I could put her together again."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne scratched his head, and stepped over to inspect the juniper +stump. He stooped, whistled, and turned to Bartley. "Man, you like to sawed +that stub in two. Why didn't you say you could shoot?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125"></a>[pg +125]</span>"I can't, in your class. But tell me why you Westerners always +seem to think it strange that an Easterner can sit a horse or shoot fairly +well? Is it because you consider that the average tourist represents the +entire East?"</p> + +<p>"I dunno. But, then, I've met up with Easterners that weren't just like +you."</p> + +<p>Bartley was busy, assembling the Luger, and Cheyenne was watching him, +when they glanced up simultaneously. A shadow drifted between them.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne hesitated and then stepped forward. "I'll be dinged if it ain't +Jimmy! What you doin' up here in the brush, anyhow?"</p> + +<p>The boy, who rode a well-mannered gray pony, kicked one foot out of the +stirrup and hooked his small leg over the horn. He nodded to Cheyenne, but +his interest was centered on Bartley and the Luger.</p> + +<p>"It's Jimmy--my boy," said Cheyenne. "His Aunt Jane lives over yonder, a +piece."</p> + +<p>"Why, hello!" exclaimed Bartley, laying the pistol aside. And he stepped +up and shook hands with the boy, who grinned.</p> + +<p>"How's the folks?" queried Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"All right. That there is a Luger gun, ain't it?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126"></a>[pg +126]</span>"Yes," said Bartley. "Would you like to try it?"</p> + +<p>The boy scrambled down from the saddle. "Honest?"</p> + +<p>"Ain't you goin' to say hello to your dad?" queried Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Sure! Only I was lookin' at that Luger gun--"</p> + +<p>Jimmy shook hands perfunctorily with his father and turned to Bartley, +expectancy in his gaze.</p> + +<p>Bartley reloaded the gun and handed it to the boy, who straightaway +selected the juniper stump and blazed away. Bartley watched him, a sturdy +youngster, brown-fisted, blue-eyed, with sandy hair, and dressed in jeans +and a rowdy--a miniature cow-puncher, even to his walk.</p> + +<p>"Ever shoot one before?" queried Bartley as the boy gave back the +pistol.</p> + +<p>"Nope. There's one like it, over to the store in San Andreas. It's in +the window. I never got to look at it right close."</p> + +<p>"Try it again," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>The boy grinned. "I reckon you're rich?"</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"'Cause you got a heap of ca'tridges. They cost money."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127"></a>[pg +127]</span>"Never mind. Go ahead and shoot."</p> + +<p>Jimmy blazed away again and ran to see where his bullets had hit the +stump. "She's a pretty fair gun," he said as he handed it back. "But I +reckon I'll have to stick to my ole twenty-two rifle. She's gettin' wore +out, but I can hit things with her, yet. I git rabbits."</p> + +<p>"Now, mebby you got time to tell us something about Aunt Jane and Uncle +Frank and Dorry," suggested Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Why, they're all right," said the boy. "Why didn't you stop by to our +place instead of bushin' way up here?"</p> + +<p>Cheyenne hesitated. "I reckon I'll be comin' over," he said finally.</p> + +<p>Bartley put the Luger away. The boy turned to his father. Cheyenne's +face expressed happiness, yet Bartley was puzzled. The boy was not what +could be termed indifferent in any sense, yet he had taken his father's +presence casually, showing no special interest in their meeting. And why +had Cheyenne never mentioned the boy? Bartley surmised that there was some +good reason for Cheyenne's silence on that subject--and because it was +obvious that there was a good reason, Bartley accepted the youngster's +presence in a matter-of-fact manner, <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_128" id="Page_128"></a>[pg 128]</span>as though he had known all +along that Cheyenne had a son. In fact, Cheyenne had not stopped to think +about it at all. If he had, he would have reasoned that Bartley had heard +about it. Almost every one in Arizona knew that Cheyenne had been married +and had separated from his wife.</p> + +<p>"That would be a pretty good gun to git hoss-thieves with," asserted the +boy, still thinking of the Luger.</p> + +<p>"What do you know about hoss-thieves?" queried Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"You think I didn't see you was ridin' different hosses!" said Jimmy. +"Mebby you think I don't know where Josh and Filaree are."</p> + +<p>"You quit joshin' your dad," said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"I ain't joshin' <i>nobody</i>. Ole 'Clubfoot' Sneed, over by the +re'savation's got Josh and Filaree. I seen 'em in his corral, yesterday. I +was up there, huntin'."</p> + +<p>"Did you talk to him?" queried Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Nope. He just come out of his cabin an' told me to fan it. I wasn't +doin' nothin'. He said it was against the law to be huntin' up there. Mebby +he don't hunt when he feels like it!"</p> + +<p>"Did you tell Uncle Frank?"</p> + +<p>"Yep. Wish I hadn't. He says for me to <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_129" id="Page_129"></a>[pg 129]</span>stay away from the high +country--and not to ride by Sneed's place any more."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne turned to Bartley. "I done made one guess right," he said.</p> + +<p>"You goin' to kill Sneed?" queried young Jim enthusiastically.</p> + +<p>"Nobody's goin' to get killed. But I aim to git my hosses."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne turned to Jimmy. "You ride over and tell Uncle Frank and Aunt +Jane that me and Mr. Bartley'll be over after we eat."</p> + +<p>"Will you sing that 'Git Along' song for me, dad?"</p> + +<p>"You bet!"</p> + +<p>"But why don't you come over and eat to our place? You always stop by, +every time you ride down this way," said Jimmy.</p> + +<p>"You ride right along, like I told you, or you'll be late for your +supper."</p> + +<p>Little Jim climbed into the saddle, and, turning to cast a lingering and +hopeful glance at Bartley,--a glance which suggested the possibilities of +further practice with the Luger gun,--he rode away, a manful figure, +despite his size.</p> + +<p>"They're bringin' my kid up right," said Cheyenne, as though in +explanation of something about which he did not care to talk.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130"></a>[pg +130]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> + +<h3><a name='AT_AUNT_JANES'></a>AT AUNT JANE'S</h3> + + +<p>Aunt Jane Lawrence was popular with the young folks of the district, not +alone because she was a good cook, but because she was a sort of foster +mother to the entire community. The young ladies of the community brought +to Aunt Jane their old hats and dresses, along with their love affairs, +petty quarrels, and youthful longings. A clever woman at needlework, she +was often able to remodel the hats and "turn" the dresses so that they +would serve a second season or maybe a third.</p> + +<p>The love affairs, petty quarrels, and youthful longings were not always +so easy to remodel, even when they needed it: but Aunt Jane managed well. +She had much patience and sympathy. She knew the community, and so was +often able to help her young friends without conflicting with paternal or +maternal views. Hat-trimming and dressmaking were really only incidental to +her real purpose in life, which was to help young folks realize their +ideals, when such <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" +id="Page_131"></a>[pg 131]</span>ideals did not lead too far from everyday +responsibilities.</p> + +<p>Yet, with all her capabilities, her gentle wisdom, and her unobtrusive +sympathy, she was unable to influence her Brother Jim--known by every one +as "Cheyenne"--toward a settled habit of life. So it became her fondest +desire to see that Cheyenne's boy, Little Jim, should be brought up in a +home that he would always cherish and respect. Aunt Jane's husband Frank +Lawrence, had no patience with Cheyenne's aimless meanderings. Frank +Lawrence was a hard-working, silent nonentity. Aunt Jane was the real +manager of the ranch, and incidentally of Little Jim, and her husband was +more than content that it should be so.</p> + +<p>Occasionally Aunt Jane gave a dance at her home. The young folks of the +valley came, had a jolly time, and departed, some of them on horseback, +some in buckboards, and one or two of the more well-to-do in that small but +aggressive vehicle which has since become a universal odor in the nostrils +of the world.</p> + +<p>Little Jim detested these functions which entailed his best clothes and +his best behavior. He did not like girls, and looked down with scorn upon +young men who showed any preference for <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_132" id="Page_132"></a>[pg 132]</span>the sex feminine. He made +but two exceptions to this hard-baked rule: his Aunt Jane, and her young +friend who lived on the neighboring ranch, Dorothy. Little Jim called her +Dorry because it sounded like a boy's name. And he liked Dorry because she +could ride, and shoot with a twenty-two rifle almost as well as he could. +Then, she didn't have a beau, which was the main thing. Once he told her +frankly that if she ever got a beau, he--Jimmy--was going to quit.</p> + +<p>"Quit what?" asked Dorothy, smiling.</p> + +<p>Little Jim did not know just what he was going to quit, but he had +imagination.</p> + +<p>"Why, quit takin' you out huntin' and campin' and showin' you how to +tell deer tracks from goat's tracks--and everything."</p> + +<p>"But I have a beau," said Dorothy teasingly.</p> + +<p>"Who is he?" demanded Little Jim.</p> + +<p>"Promise you won't tell?"</p> + +<p>Little Jim hesitated. He did not consider it quite the thing to promise +a girl anything. But he was curious. "Uh-huh," he said.</p> + +<p>"Jimmy Hastings!" said Dorothy, laughing at his expression.</p> + +<p>"That ain't fair!" blurted Little Jim. "I <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_133" id="Page_133"></a>[pg 133]</span>ain't nobody's beau. +Shucks! Now you gone and spoiled all the fun."</p> + +<p>"I was only teasing you, Jimmy." And she patted Little Jim's tousled +head. He wriggled away and smoothed down his hair.</p> + +<p>"I can beat you shootin' at tin cans," he said suddenly, to change the +subject.</p> + +<p>Shooting at tin cans was much more interesting than talking about +beaux.</p> + +<p>"I have to help Aunt Jane get supper," said Dorothy, who had been +invited to stay for supper that evening. In fact, she was often at the +Hastings ranch, a more than welcome guest.</p> + +<p>Jimmy scowled. Dorry was always helping Aunt Jane make dresses or trim +hats, or get supper. A few minutes later Little Jim was out back of the +barn, scowling over the sights of his twenty-two at a tomato can a few +yards away. He fired and punctured the can.</p> + +<p>"Plumb center!" he exclaimed. "You think you're her beau, do you? Well, +that's what you get. And if I see you around this here ranch, just even +<i>lookin'</i> at her, I'll plug you again." Jimmy was romancing, with the +recently discussed subject of beaux in mind.</p> + +<p>When Little Jim informed the household that his father and another man +were coming over, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" +id="Page_134"></a>[pg 134]</span>that evening, Uncle Frank asked who the +other man was. Little Jim described Bartley and told about the wonderful +Luger gun.</p> + +<p>"My dad is huntin' his hosses," he said. "And I know who's got 'em!"</p> + +<p>"Was the other man a deputy?" queried Uncle Frank.</p> + +<p>"He didn't have a badge on him. He kind of acted like everything was a +joke--shootin' at that stump, and everything. He wasn't mad at nobody. And +he looked kind of like a dude."</p> + +<p>Little Jim meanwhile amused himself by trying to rope the family cat +with a piece of clothesline. Uncle Frank, who took everything seriously, +asked Little Jim if he had told his father where the horses were.</p> + +<p>"Sure I told him. Wouldn't you? They're dad's hosses, Filaree and Josh. +I guess he'll make ole Clubfoot Sneed give 'em back!"</p> + +<p>"You want to be careful what you say about Mr. Sneed, Jimmy. And don't +you go to ridin' over that way again. We aim to keep out of trouble."</p> + +<p>Little Jim had succeeded in noosing the cat's neck. That sadly molested +animal jumped, rolled over, and clawed at the rope, and left <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135"></a>[pg +135]</span>hurriedly with the bit of clothesline trailing in its wake.</p> + +<p>"I got to git that cat afore he hangs himself," stated Little Jim, +diving out of the house and heading for the barn. Thus he avoided +acknowledging his uncle's command to stay away from Sneed's place.</p> + +<p>Supper was over and the dishes were washed and put away when Cheyenne +and Bartley appeared. Clean-shaven, his dark hair brushed smoothly, a +small, dark-blue, silk muffler knotted loosely about his throat, and in a +new flannel shirt and whipcord riding-breeches--which he wore under his +jeans when on the trail--Bartley pretty well approximated Little Jim's +description of him as a dude. And the word "dude" was commonly used rather +to differentiate an outlander from a native than in an exactly scornful +sense. Without a vestige of self-consciousness, Bartley made himself felt +as a distinct entity, physically fit and mentally alert. Cheyenne, with his +cow-puncher gait and his general happy-go-lucky attitude, furnished a +strong contrast to the trim and well-poised Easterner. Dorothy was quick to +appreciate this. She thought that she rather liked Bartley. He was +different from the young men <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" +id="Page_136"></a>[pg 136]</span>whom she knew. Bartley was pleased with +her direct and natural manner of answering his many questions about Western +life.</p> + +<p>Presently he found himself talking about his old home in Kentucky, and +the thorough-bred horses of the Blue Grass. The conversation drifted to +books and plays, but never once did it approach the subject of guns--and +Little Jim, who had hoped that the subject of horse-thieves might be +broached, felt altogether out of the running.</p> + +<p>He waited patiently, for a while. Then during a lull in the talk he +mentioned Sneed's name.</p> + +<p>"Jimmy!" reprimanded his Uncle Frank.</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir?"</p> + +<p>Uncle Frank merely gestured, significantly.</p> + +<p>Little Jim subsided, frowning, and making a face at Dorothy, who was +smiling at him. It seemed mighty queer that, when <i>he</i> "horned in," +his Aunt Jane or his uncle always said "Jimmy!" in that particular tone. +But when any of the grown-ups interrupted, no one said a word. However, +Bartley was not blind to Little Jim's attitude of forced silence, and +presently Bartley mentioned the subject of guns, much to Little Jim's joy. +Little Jim worked <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" +id="Page_137"></a>[pg 137]</span>round to the subject of twenty-two rifles, +intimating that his own single-shot rifle was about worn out.</p> + +<p>Uncle Frank heard and promptly changed the subject. Little Jim was +disgusted. A boy just wouldn't talk when other folks were talking, and he +couldn't talk when they were not. What was the use of living, anyhow, if +you had to go around without talking at all, except when somebody asked you +if you had forgotten to close the lane gate and had let the stock get into +the alfalfa--and you had to say that you had?</p> + +<p>However, Little Jim had his revenge. When Aunt Jane proffered apple pie, +later in the evening, Jimmy prefixed his demand for a second piece with the +statement that he knew there was another uncut pie in the kitchen, because +Aunt Jane had said maybe his dad would eat half a one, and then ask for +more.</p> + +<p>This gentle insinuation brought forth a sharp reprimand from Uncle +Frank. But Jimmy had looked before he leaped.</p> + +<p>"Well, Aunt Jane said so. Didn't you, Aunt Jane?"</p> + +<p>Whereat every one laughed, including the gentle Aunt Jane. And Jimmy got +his second piece of pie.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138"></a>[pg +138]</span>After the company had found itself, Uncle Frank, Cheyenne, and +Bartley forgathered out on the veranda and talked about the missing horses. +Little Jim sat silently on the steps, hoping that the talk would swing +round to where he could have his say. If he had not discovered the missing +horses, how would his father know where they were? It did not seem exactly +fair to Little Jim that he should be ignored in the matter.</p> + +<p>"I'd just ride over and talk with Sneed," suggested Uncle Frank.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'll do that, all right," asserted Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"But I'd go slow. You might talk like your stock had strayed and you +were looking for them. Sneed and Panhandle Sears are pretty thick. I'd +start easy, if I was in your boots."</p> + +<p>This from the cautious Uncle Frank.</p> + +<p>"But you'd go get 'em, if they happened to be your hosses," said +Cheyenne. "You're always tellin' me to step light and go slow. I reckon you +expect me to sing and laugh and josh and take all the grief that's comin' +and forget it."</p> + +<p>"No," said Uncle Frank deliberately. "If they was my hosses, I'd ride +over and get 'em. But I can't step into your tangle. If I did, <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139"></a>[pg 139]</span>Sneed +would just nacherally burn us out, some night. There's only two ways to +handle a man like Clubfoot Sneed: one is to kill him, and the other is to +leave him alone. And it's got to be one or the other when you live as close +to the hills as we do. I aim to leave him alone, unless he tries to ride +me."</p> + +<p>"Which means that you kind of think I ought to let the hosses go, for +fear of gettin' you in bad."</p> + +<p>Uncle Frank shook his head, but said nothing. Bartley smoked a cigar and +listened to the conversation that followed. Called upon by Uncle Frank for +his opinion, Bartley hesitated, and then said that, if the horses were his, +he would be tempted to go and get them, regardless of consequences. +Bartley's stock went up, with Little Jim, right there.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne turned to Uncle Frank. "I'm ridin' over to Clubfoot's wikiup +to-morrow mornin'. I'll git my hosses, or git him. And I'm ridin' +alone."</p> + +<p>Little Jim, meanwhile, had been raking his mind for an idea as to how he +might attract attention. He disappeared. Presently he appeared in front of +the veranda with the end of a long rope in his fist. He blinked and +grinned.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140"></a>[pg +140]</span>"What's on the other end of that rope?" queried Uncle Frank, +immediately suspicious.</p> + +<p>"Nothin' but High-Tail."</p> + +<p>"I thought I told you not to rope that calf," said Uncle Frank, +rising.</p> + +<p>"I didn't. I jest held my loop in front of some carrots and High-Tail +shoves his head into it. Then I says, 'Whoosh!' and he jumps back--and I +hung on."</p> + +<p>"How in Sam Hill did you get him here?" queried Uncle Frank.</p> + +<p>"Jest held a carrot to his nose--and he walked along tryin' to get +it."</p> + +<p>"Well you shake off that loop and haze him back into the corral."</p> + +<p>High-Tail, having eaten the carrot, decided to go elsewhere. He backed +away and blatted. Little Jim took a quick dally round a veranda post. +High-Tail plunged and fought the rope.</p> + +<p>"Turn him loose!" cried Uncle Frank.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter?" said Aunt Jane, appearing in the doorway.</p> + +<p>Little Jim eased off the dally, but clung to the rope. High-Tail whirled +and started for the corral. Little Jim set back on his heels, but Little +Jim was a mere item in High-Tail's wild career toward freedom. A patter of +hoofs <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141"></a>[pg +141]</span>in the dark, and Little Jim and the calf disappeared around the +corner of the barn.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne laughed and rose, following Uncle Frank to the corral. When +they arrived, High-Tail had made his third round of the corral, with Jimmy +still attached to the rope. Cheyenne managed to stop the calf and throw off +the noose.</p> + +<p>Little Jim rose and gazed wildly around. He was one color, from head to +foot--and it was a decidedly local color. His jeans were torn and his +cotton shirt was in rags, but his grit was unsifted.</p> + +<p>"D-didn't I hang to him, dad?" he inquired enthusiastically.</p> + +<p>"You sure did!" said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>With a pail of hot water, soap, and fresh raiment, Aunt Jane undertook +to make Little Jim's return to the heart of the family as agreeable as +possible to all concerned.</p> + +<p>"Isn't he hurt?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Not if he doesn't know it," stated Cheyenne.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142"></a>[pg +142]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> + +<h3><a name='ANOTHER_GAME'></a>ANOTHER GAME</h3> + + +<p>Cheyenne knew enough about Sneed, by reputation, to make him cautious. +He decided to play ace for ace--and, if possible, steal the stolen horses +from Sneed. The difficulty was to locate them without being seen. Little +Jim had said the horses were in Sneed's corral, somewhere up in the +mountain meadows. And because Cheyenne knew little about that particular +section of the mountains, he rolled a blanket and packed some provisions to +see him through. Bartley and he had returned to their camp after their +visit to the ranch, and next morning, as Cheyenne made preparation to ride, +Bartley offered to go with him.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne dissuaded Bartley from accompanying him, arguing that he could +travel faster and more cautiously alone. "One man ridin' in to Sneed's camp +wouldn't look as suspicious as two," said Cheyenne. "And if I thought you +could help any, I'd say to come along. That's on the square. Me and my +little old carbine will make out, I guess."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143"></a>[pg +143]</span>So Bartley, somewhat against his inclination, stayed in camp, +with the understanding that, if Cheyenne did not return in two days, he was +to report the circumstance to the authorities in San Andreas, the principal +town of the valley.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, the regular routine prevailed at the Lawrence ranch. Uncle +Frank had the irrigation plant to look after; and Aunt Jane was immersed in +the endless occupation of housekeeping. Little Jim had his regular light +tasks to attend to, and that morning he made short work of them. It was not +until noon that Aunt Jane missed him. He had disappeared completely, as had +his saddle-pony.</p> + +<p>At first, Jimmy had thought of riding over to his father's camp, but he +was afraid his father would guess his intent and send him back home. So he +tied his pony to a clump of junipers some distance from the camp, and, +crawling to a rise, he lay and watched Cheyenne saddle up and take the +trail that led into the high country. A half-hour later, Jimmy mounted his +pony and, riding wide of the camp, he cut into the hill trail and followed +it on up through the brush to the hillside timber. He planned to ride until +he got so far into the mountains that when he did overtake his father and +offer his assistance <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" +id="Page_144"></a>[pg 144]</span>in locating the stolen horses, it would +hardly seem worth while to send him back. Jimmy expected to be ordered +back, but he had his own argument ready in that event.</p> + +<p>Little Jim's pony carried him swiftly up the grade. Meanwhile, Cheyenne +had traveled rather slowly, saving his horse. At a bend in the trail he +drew rein to breathe the animal. On the lookout for any moving thing, he +glanced back and down--and saw an old black hat bobbing along through the +brush below. He leaned forward and peered down. "The little cuss!" he +exclaimed, grinning. Then his expression changed. "Won't do, a-tall! His +aunt will be havin' fits--and Miss Dorry'll be helpin' her to have 'em, if +she hears of it. Dog-gone that boy!"</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, Cheyenne was pleased. His boy had sand, and liked +adventure. Little Jim might have stayed in camp, with Bartley, and spent a +joyous day shooting at a mark, incidentally hinting to the Easterner that +"his ole twenty-two was about worn out." But Little Jim had chosen to +follow his father into the hills.</p> + +<p>"Reckon he figures to see what'll happen," <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_145" id="Page_145"></a>[pg 145]</span>muttered Cheyenne as he +led his horse off the trail and waited for Jimmy to come up.</p> + +<p>Little Jim's black hat bobbed steadily up the switchbacks. Presently he +was on the stretch of trail at the end of which his father waited, +concealed in the brush.</p> + +<p>As Little Jim's pony approached the bend it pricked its ears and +snorted. "Git along, you!" said Jimmy.</p> + +<p>"Where you goin'?" queried Cheyenne, stepping out on the trail.</p> + +<p>Little Jim gazed blankly at his father. "I'm just a-ridin'. I wa'n't +goin' no place."</p> + +<p>"Well, you took the wrong trail to get there. You fan it back to the +folks."</p> + +<p>"Aunt Jane is my boss!" said Jimmy defiantly. "'Course she is," agreed +Cheyenne. "You and me, we're just pardners. But, honest, Jimmy, you can't +do no good, doggin' along after me. Your Aunt Jane would sure stretch my +hide if she knowed I let you come along."</p> + +<p>"I won't tell her."</p> + +<p>"But she'd find out. You just ride back and wait down at my camp. I'll +find them hosses, all right."</p> + +<p>Little Jim hesitated, twisting his fingers in his pony's mane. +"Suppose," he ventured, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" +id="Page_146"></a>[pg 146]</span>"that a bunch of Sneed's riders was to run +on to you? You'd sure need help."</p> + +<p>"That's just it! Supposin' they did? And supposin' they took a crack at +us, they might git you--for you sure look man-size, a little piece +off."</p> + +<p>Jimmy grinned at the compliment, but compliments could not alter his +purpose. "I got my ole twenty-two loaded," he asserted hopefully.</p> + +<p>"Then you just ride back and help Mr. Bartley take care of the hosses. +He ain't much of a hand with stock."</p> + +<p>"Can't I go with you?"</p> + +<p>"Not this trip, son. But I'll tell you somethin'. Mr. Bartley, down +there, said to me this mornin' that he was goin' to buy you a brand-new +twenty-two rifle, one of these days: mebby after we locate the hosses. You +better have a talk with him about it."</p> + +<p>This <i>was</i> a temptation to ride back: yet Jimmy had set his heart +on going with his father. And his father had said that he was simply going +to ride up to Sneed's place and have a talk with him. Jimmy wanted to hear +that talk. He knew that his father meant business when he had told him to +go back.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147"></a>[pg +147]</span>"All right for you!" said Jimmy finally. And he reined his pony +round and rode back down the trail sullenly, his black hat pulled over his +eyes, and his small back very straight and stiff.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne watched him until the brush of the lower levels intervened. +Then Cheyenne began the ascent, his eye alert, his mind upon the task +ahead. When Little Jim realized that his father was so far into the timber +that the trail below was shut from view, he reined his pony round again and +began to climb the grade, slowly, this time, for fear that he might +overtake his father too soon.</p> + +<p>Riding the soundless upland trail that meandered among the spruce and +pine, skirting the edges of the mountain meadows and keeping within the +timber, Cheyenne finally reached the main ridge of the range. Occasionally +he dismounted and examined the tracks of horses.</p> + +<p>It was evident that Sneed had quite a bunch of horses running in the +meadows. Presently Cheyenne came to a narrow trail which crossed a meadow. +At the far end of the trail, close to the timber, was a spring, fenced with +poles. The spring itself was boxed, and roundabout were the marks of +high-heeled boots. Cheyenne realized <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_148" id="Page_148"></a>[pg 148]</span>that he must be close to +Sneed's cabin. He wondered if he had been seen.</p> + +<p>If he had, the only thing to do was to act natural. He was now too close +to a habitation--although he could see none--to do otherwise. So he +dismounted and, tying his horse to the spring fence, he stepped through the +gate and picked up the rusted tin cup and dipped it in the cold mountain +water. He had the cup halfway to his lips when his horse nickered. From +somewhere in the brush came an answering nicker. Cheyenne, kneeling, threw +the water from the cup as though he had discovered dirt in it, and dipped +the cup again.</p> + +<p>Behind him he heard his horse moving restlessly. As Cheyenne raised the +cup to drink, he half closed his eyes, and glancing sideways, caught a +glimpse of a figure standing near the upper end of the spring fence. +Cheyenne drank, set down the cup, and, rising, turned his back on the +figure, and, stretching his arms, yawned heartily. He strode to his horse, +untied the reins, mounted, and began to sing:</p> + +<blockquote> +Seems like I don't get anywhere<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along!<br /> +But we're leavin' here and--<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149"></a>[pg +149]</span>"What's your hurry?" came from behind him.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne turned and glanced back. "Hello, neighbor! Now, if I'd 'a' +knowed you was around, I'd 'a' asked you to have a drink with me."</p> + +<p>A tall, heavy-set mountain man, bearded, and limping noticeably, stepped +round the end of the spring fence and strode toward him. From Uncle Frank's +description, Cheyenne at once recognized the stranger as Sneed. Across +Sneed's left arm lay a rifle. Cheyenne saw him let down the hammer as he +drew near.</p> + +<p>"Where you headed?" queried Sneed.</p> + +<p>"Me, I'm lookin' for Bill Sneed's cabin. You ain't Sneed, are you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I'm Sneed."</p> + +<p>"Well, I'm in luck. I'm Cheyenne Hastings."</p> + +<p>"That don't buy you nothin' around here. What do you want to see me +about?"</p> + +<p>"Why, I done lost a couple of hosses the other night. I reckon somethin' +stampeded 'em, for they never strayed far from camp before. I trailed 'em +up to the hills and then lost their tracks on the rocks. Thought I'd ride +up and see if you had seen 'em--a little ole buckskin and a gray."</p> + +<p>Sneed waved his hand toward the east. "My <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_150" id="Page_150"></a>[pg 150]</span>corrals are over there. +You're welcome to look my stock over."</p> + +<p>"Thanks. This way, you said?"</p> + +<p>"Straight ahead."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne hesitated, hoping that Sneed would take the lead. But the +mountain man merely gestured again and followed Cheyenne through a patch of +timber, and across another meadow--and Cheyenne caught a glimpse of the +ridge of a cabin roof, and smoke above it. Close to the cabin was a large +pole corral. Cheyenne saw the backs of Filaree and Joshua, among the other +horses, long before he came to the corral. Yet, not wishing to appear too +eager, he said nothing until he arrived at the corner of the fence.</p> + +<p>Then he turned and pointed. "Them's my hosses--the gray and the +buckskin. I'm mighty glad you caught 'em up."</p> + +<p>Sneed nodded. "One of my boys found them in with a bunch of my stock and +run them in here."</p> + +<p>A few rods from the corral stood the cabin, larger than Cheyenne had +imagined, and built of heavy logs, with a wide-roofed porch running across +the entire front. On the veranda lay several saddles. Tied to the hitch +rail stood <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151"></a>[pg +151]</span>two chunky mountain ponies that showed signs of recent hard +use.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne smiled as he turned toward Sneed. "You got a mighty snug +homestead up here, neighbor."</p> + +<p>"Tie your horse and step in," invited Sneed.</p> + +<p>"He'll stand," said Cheyenne, dismounting and dropping the reins.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne was in the enemy's country. But he trusted to his ability to +play up to his reputation for an easy-going hobo to get him out again, +without trouble. He appeared unaware of the covert suspicion with which +Sneed watched his every movement.</p> + +<p>"Meet the boys," said Sneed as they entered the cabin.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne nodded to the four men who sat playing cards at a long table in +the main room. They returned his nod indifferently and went on with their +game. Cheyenne pretended an interest in the game, meanwhile studying the +visible characteristics of the players. One and all they were hard-boiled, +used to the open, rough-spoken, and indifferent to Cheyenne's presence.</p> + +<p>Sneed stepped to the kitchen and pulled the coffee-pot to the front of +the stove. Finally Cheyenne strolled out to the veranda and seated <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152"></a>[pg 152]</span>himself +on the long bench near the doorway. He picked up a stick and began to +whittle, and as he whittled his gaze traveled from the log stable to the +corral, and from there to the edge of the clearing. He heard Sneed speak to +one of the men in a low voice. Cheyenne slipped his knife into his pocket +and his fingers touched the pair of dice.</p> + +<p>He drew out the dice and rattled them. "Go 'way, you snake eyes!" he +chanted as he threw the dice along the bench. "Little Jo, where you bushin' +out? You sure are bashful!" He threw again. "Roll on, you box-car! I don't +like you, nohow! Nine? Nine? Five and a four! Six and a three! Just as +easy!"</p> + +<p>Sneed came to the doorway and glanced at Cheyenne, who continued +shooting craps with himself, oblivious to Sneed's muttered comment. Sneed +turned and stepped in. "Crazy as a hoot owl," he said as one of the +card-players glanced up.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne picked up the dice and listened. He heard Sneed stepping +heavily about the kitchen, and he heard an occasional and vivid exclamation +from one of the card-players. He glanced at the distant edge of timber. He +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153"></a>[pg +153]</span>shook his head. "Can't make it!" he declared, and again he threw +the dice.</p> + +<p>One of the cubes rolled off the bench. He stooped and picked it up. As +he straightened, he stared. Just at the edge of the timber he saw Little +Jim's pony, and Little Jim's black hat. Some one in the cabin pushed back a +chair. Evidently the card game was finished.</p> + +<p>Then Cheyenne heard Sneed's voice: "Just lay off that game, if you want +to eat. Come and get it."</p> + +<p>Wondering what Little Jim was up to, Cheyenne turned and walked into the +cabin. "Guess I'll wash up, first," he said, gazing about as though looking +for the wherewithal to wash. He knew well enough where the basin was. He +had noticed it out by the kitchen door, when he rode up to the cabin. Sneed +told him where to find the basin. Cheyenne stepped round the cabin. +Covertly he glanced toward the edge of the timber. Little Jim had +disappeared.</p> + +<p>Entering the cabin briskly, Cheyenne took his place at the table and ate +heartily.</p> + +<p>Lawson, who seemed to be Sneed's right-hand man, was the first to speak +to him. "Bill tells me you are huntin' hosses."</p> + +<p>"Yep! That little gray and the buckskin, <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_154" id="Page_154"></a>[pg 154]</span>out in your corral, are my +hosses. They strayed--"</p> + +<p>"Didn't see no brand on 'em," declared Lawson.</p> + +<p>"Nope. They never was branded. I raised 'em both, when I was workin' for +Senator Steve, over to the Box-S."</p> + +<p>"That sounds all right. But you got to show me. I bought them cayuses +from a Chola, down in the valley."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne suspected that Lawson was trying to create argument and, in so +doing, open up a way to make him back down and leave or take the +consequences of his act in demanding the horses.</p> + +<p>"Honest, they're my hosses," declared Cheyenne, turning to Sneed.</p> + +<p>"You'll have to talk to Lawson," said Sneed.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne frowned and scratched his head. Suddenly his face brightened. +"Tell you what I'll do! I'll shoot you craps for 'em."</p> + +<p>"That's all right, but what'll you put up against 'em?" asked +Lawson.</p> + +<p>"What did you pay for 'em?" queried Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Fifty bucks."</p> + +<p>"You got 'em cheap. They're worth that <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_155" id="Page_155"></a>[pg 155]</span>much to me." Cheyenne +pushed back his chair and, fishing in his jeans, dug up a purse. "Here's my +fifty. As soon as you get through eatin' we'll shoot for the ponies."</p> + +<p>Lawson, while finishing his meal, made up his mind that Cheyenne would +not get away with that fifty dollars, game or no game; and, also, that he +would not get the horses. Cheyenne knew this--knew the kind of man he was +dealing with. But he had a reason to keep the men in the cabin. Little Jim +was out there somewhere, and up to something. If any of the men happened to +catch sight of Little Jim, they would suspect Cheyenne of some trickery. +Moreover, if Little Jim were caught--but Cheyenne refused to let himself +think of what might happen in that event.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne threw the dice on the table as Lawson got up. "Go ahead and +shoot."</p> + +<p>"Show me what I got to beat," said Lawson.</p> + +<p>"All right. Watch 'em close."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne gathered up the dice and threw. Calling his point, he snapped +his fingers and threw again. The men crowded round, momentarily interested +in Cheyenne's sprightly monologue. Happening to glance through the doorway +as he gathered up the dice for another <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_156" id="Page_156"></a>[pg 156]</span>throw, Cheyenne noticed +that his horse had turned and was standing, with ears and eyes alert, +looking toward the corral.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne tossed up the dice, caught them and purposely made a wild +throw. One of the little cubes shot across the table and clattered on the +floor. Cheyenne barely had time to glance through the kitchen doorway and +the window beyond as he recovered the cube. But he had seen that the corral +bars were down and that the corral was empty. Quickly he resumed his place +at the table and threw again, meanwhile talking steadily. He had not made +his point nor had he thrown a seven. Sweat prickled on his forehead. Little +Jim had seen his father's horses and knew that the men were in the cabin. +With the rashness of boyhood he had sneaked up to the corral, dropped the +bars, and had then flung pine cones at the horses, starting them to milling +and finally to a dash through the gateway and out into the meadow.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne brushed his arm across his face. "Come on you, Filaree!" he +chanted.</p> + +<p>Somebody would be mightily surprised when the ownership of Filaree and +Joshua was finally decided. Unwittingly, Little Jim had placed his father +in a still more precarious position. <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_157" id="Page_157"></a>[pg 157]</span>Sneed and his men, finding +the corral empty, would naturally conclude that Cheyenne had kept them busy +while some friend had run off the horses. Cheyenne knew the risks he ran; +but, above all, he wanted to prolong the game until Little Jim got safely +beyond reach of Sneed's men. As for himself--</p> + +<p>Again Cheyenne threw, but he did not make his point, nor throw a seven. +He threw several times; and still he did not make his point. Finally he +made his point. Smiling, he gathered up his money and tucked it in his +pocket.</p> + +<p>"I reckon that settles it," he said cheerfully.</p> + +<p>Sneed and Lawson exchanged glances. Cheyenne, rolling a cigarette, drew +a chair toward them and sat down. He seemed at home, and altogether +friendly. One of the men picked up a deck of cards and suggested a game. +Sneed lighted his pipe and stepped to the kitchen to get a drink of water. +Cheyenne glanced casually round the cabin, drew his feet under himself, and +jumped for the doorway. He heard Sneed drop the dipper and knew that Sneed +would pick up something else, and quickly.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne made the saddle on the run, reined toward the corral, and, +passing it on the run, turned in the saddle to glance back. Sneed was <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158"></a>[pg 158]</span>in the +doorway. Cheyenne jerked his horse to one side and dug in the spurs. +Sneed's rifle barked and a bullet whined past Cheyenne's head. He crouched +in the saddle. Again a bullet whistled across the sunlit clearing. The +cow-horse was going strong. A tree flicked past, then another and +another.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne straightened in the saddle and glanced back through the timber. +He saw a jumble of men and horses in front of the cabin. "They got just two +hosses handy, and they're rode down," he muttered as he sped through the +shadows of the forest.</p> + +<p>Across another sun-swept meadow he rode, and into the timber again--and +before he realized it he was back on the mountain trail that led to the +valley. He took the first long, easy grade on the run, checked at the +switchback, and pounded down the succeeding grade, still under cover of the +hillside timber, but rapidly nearing the more open country of brush and +rock.</p> + +<p>As he reined in at the second switchback he saw, far below, and going at +a lively trot, seven or eight horses, and behind them, hazing them along as +fast as the trail would permit, Little Jim.</p> + +<p>"If Sneed's outfit gets to the rim before he <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_159" id="Page_159"></a>[pg 159]</span>makes the next turn, +they'll get him sure," reasoned Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>He thought of turning back and trying to stop Sneed's men. He thought of +turning his horse loose and ambushing the mountainmen, afoot. But Cheyenne +did not want to kill. His greatest fear was that Little Jim might get hurt. +As he hesitated, a rifle snarled from the rim above, and he saw Little +Jim's horse flinch and jump forward.</p> + +<p>"I reckon it's up to us, old Steel Dust," he said to his horse.</p> + +<p>Hoping to draw the fire of the men above, he eased his horse round the +next bend and then spurred him to a run. Below, Little Jim was jogging +along, within a hundred yards or so of the bend that would screen him from +sight. Realizing that he could never make the next turn on the run, +Cheyenne gripped with his knees, and leaned back to meet the shock as Steel +Dust plunged over the end of the turn and crashed through the brush below. +A slug whipped through the brush and clipped a twig in front of the +horse.</p> + +<p>Steel Dust swerved and lunged on down through the heavy brush. A naked +creek-bed showed white and shimmering at the bottom of <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160"></a>[pg 160]</span>the +slope. Again a slug whined through the sunlight and Cheyenne's hat spun +from his head and settled squarely on a low bush. It was characteristic of +Cheyenne that he grabbed for his hat--and got it as he dashed past.</p> + +<p>"Keep the change," said Cheyenne as he ducked beneath a branch and +straightened up again. He was almost to the creek-bed, naked to the +sunlight, and a bad place to cross with guns going from above. He pulled +up, slipped from his horse, and slapped him on the flank.</p> + +<p>The pony leaped forward, dashed across the creek-bed, and cut into the +trail beyond. A bullet flattened to a silver splash on a boulder. Another +bullet shot a spurt of sand into the air. Cheyenne crouched tense, and then +made a rush. A slug sang past his head. Heat palpitated in the narrow draw. +He gained the opposite bank, dropped, and crawled through the brush and lay +panting, close to the trail. From above him somewhere came the note of a +bird: <i>Chirr-up! Chirr-up!</i> Again a slug tore through the brush +scattering twigs and tiny leaves on Cheyenne's hat.</p> + +<p>"That one didn't say, 'Cheer up!'" murmured Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>When he had caught his breath he crawled out <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_161" id="Page_161"></a>[pg 161]</span>and into the narrow trail. +The shooting had ceased. Evidently the men were riding. Stepping round the +shoulder of the next bend, he peered up toward the rim of the range. A tiny +figure appeared riding down the first long grade, and then another figure. +Turning, he saw his own horse quietly nipping at the grass in the crevices +of the rocks along the trail.</p> + +<p>He walked down to the horse slowly and caught him up. Loosening his +carbine from the scabbard, and deeming himself lucky to have it, after that +wild ride down the mountain, he stepped back to the angle of the bend, +rested the carbine against a rocky shoulder and dropped a shot in front of +the first rider, who stopped suddenly and took to cover.</p> + +<p>"That'll hold 'em for a spell," said Cheyenne, stepping back. He mounted +and rode on down the trail, eyeing the tracks of the horses that Little Jim +was hazing toward the valley below. Cheyenne shook his head. "He's done run +off the whole dog-gone outfit! There's nothin' stingy about that kid."</p> + +<p>Striking to the lower level, Cheyenne cut across country to his camp. He +found Bartley leaning comfortably back against a saddle, reading aloud, and +opposite him sat Dorry, so <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" +id="Page_162"></a>[pg 162]</span>intent upon the reading that she did not +hear Cheyenne until he spoke.</p> + +<p>"Evenin', folks! Seen anything of Jimmy?"</p> + +<p>"Oh--Cheyenne! No, have you?" It was Dorothy who spoke, as Bartley +closed the book and got to his feet.</p> + +<p>"Was you lookin' for Jimmy's address in that there book?" queried +Cheyenne, grinning broadly.</p> + +<p>Dorothy flushed and glanced at Bartley, who immediately changed the +subject by calling attention to Cheyenne's hat. Cheyenne also changed the +subject by stating that Jimmy had recently ridden down the trail toward the +ranch--with some horses.</p> + +<p>"Then you got your horses?" said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"I reckon they're over to the ranch about now."</p> + +<p>"Jimmy has been gone all day," said Dorothy. "Aunt Jane is terribly +worried about him."</p> + +<p>"Jimmy and me took a little ride in the hills," said Cheyenne casually. +"But you needn't to tell Aunt Jane that Jimmy was with me. It turned out +all right."</p> + +<p>"I rode over to your camp to look for Jimmy," said Dorothy, "but Mr. +Bartley had not seen him."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne nodded and reined his horse round.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163"></a>[pg +163]</span>"Why, your shirt is almost ripped from your back!" said +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"My hoss shied, back yonder, and stepped off into the brush. We kept on +through the brush. It was shorter."</p> + +<p>Dorothy mounted her horse, and, nodding farewell to Bartley, accompanied +Cheyenne to the ranch. When they were halfway there, Dorothy, who had been +riding thoughtfully along, saying nothing, turned to her companion: +"Cheyenne, you had trouble up there. You might at least tell <i>me</i> +about it."</p> + +<p>"Well, Miss Dorry--" And Cheyenne told her how Jimmy had followed him, +how he had sent Jimmy back, and the unexpected appearance of that young +hopeful in the timber near Sneed's cabin. "I was in there, figurin' hard +how to get my hosses and get away, when, somehow, Jimmy got to the corral +and turned Sneed's stock loose and hazed 'em down the trail. But where he +run 'em to is the joke. I figured he would show up at our camp. It would be +just like him to run the whole bunch into the ranch corral. And I reckon he +done it."</p> + +<p>"But, Mr. Sneed!" exclaimed Dorothy. "If he finds out we had anything to +do with running off his horses--"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164"></a>[pg +164]</span>"He never saw Jimmy clost enough to tell who he was. 'Course, +Sneed knows Aunt Jane is my sister, and most he'll suspicion is that I got +help from <i>some</i> of my folks. But so far he don't know <i>who</i> +helped me turn the trick."</p> + +<p>"You don't seem to be very serious about it," declared Dorothy.</p> + +<p>"Serious? Me? Why, ain't most folks serious enough without everybody +bein' took that way?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps. But I knew something had happened the minute you rode into +camp."</p> + +<p>"So did I," asserted Cheyenne, and he spoke sharply to his horse.</p> + +<p>Dorothy flushed. "Cheyenne, I rode over to find Jimmy. You needn't--Oh, +there's Aunt Jane now! And there's Jimmy, and the corral is full of +horses!"</p> + +<p>"Reckon we better step along," and Cheyenne put Steel Dust to a +lope.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165"></a>[pg +165]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> + +<h3><a name='MORE_PONY_TRACKS'></a>MORE PONY TRACKS</h3> + + +<p>Summoned from the west end of the ranch, where he had been irrigating +the alfalfa, Uncle Frank arrived at the house just as Cheyenne and Dorothy +rode up. Little Jim was excitedly endeavoring to explain to Aunt Jane how +the corral came to be filled with strange horses.</p> + +<p>Uncle Frank nodded to Cheyenne and turned to Jimmy. "Where you +been?"</p> + +<p>"I was over on the mountain."</p> + +<p>"How did these horses get here?"</p> + +<p>Uncle Frank's eye was stern. Jimmy hesitated. He had been forbidden to +go near Sneed's place; and he knew that all that stood between a harness +strap and his small jeans was the presence of Dorothy and Cheyenne. It was +pretty tough to have recovered the stolen horses single-handed, and then to +take a licking for it.</p> + +<p>Little Jim gazed hopefully at his father.</p> + +<p>"Why, I was chousin' around up there," he explained, "and I seen dad's +hosses, and--and I started 'em down the trail and the whole blame <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166"></a>[pg 166]</span>bunch +followed 'em. They was travelin' so fast I couldn't cut 'em out, so I just +let 'em drift. Filaree and Josh just nacherally headed for the corral and +the rest followed 'em in."</p> + +<p>Uncle Frank gazed sternly at Jimmy. "Who told you to help your father +get his horses?"</p> + +<p>"Nobody."</p> + +<p>"Did your Aunt Jane tell you you could go over to the mountain?"</p> + +<p>"I never asked her."</p> + +<p>"You trot right into the house and stay there," said Uncle Frank.</p> + +<p>Little Jim cast an appealing glance at Cheyenne and walked slowly toward +the house, incidentally and unconsciously rubbing his hand across his jeans +with a sort of anticipatory movement. He bit his lip, and the tears started +to his eyes. But he shook them away, wondering what he might do to avert +the coming storm. Perhaps his father would interpose between him and the +dreaded harness strap. Yet Jimmy knew that his father had never interfered +when a question of discipline arose.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Little Jim's face brightened. He marched through the house to +the wash bench, and, unsolicited, washed his hands and face and soaped his +hair, after which he slicked it <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" +id="Page_167"></a>[pg 167]</span>down carefully, so that there might be no +mistake about his having brushed and combed it. He rather hoped that Uncle +Frank or Aunt Jane would come in just then and find him at this +unaccustomed task. It might help.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Cheyenne and his brother-in-law had a talk, outside. Dorothy +and Aunt Jane retired to the veranda, talking in low tones. Presently +Little Jim, who could stand the strain no longer,--the jury seemed a long +time at arriving at a verdict,--appeared on the front veranda, hatless, +washed, and his hair fearfully and wonderfully brushed and combed.</p> + +<p>"Why, Jimmy!" exclaimed Dorothy.</p> + +<p>Jimmy fidgeted and glanced away bashfully. Presently he stole to his +Aunt Jane's side.</p> + +<p>"Am I goin' to get a lickin'?" he queried.</p> + +<p>Aunt Jane shook her head, and patted his hand. Entrenched beside Aunt +Jane, Jimmy watched his father and Uncle Frank as they talked by the big +corral. Uncle Frank was gesturing toward the mountains. Cheyenne was +arguing quietly.</p> + +<p>"It ain't just the runnin' off of Sneed's hosses," said Uncle Frank. +"That's bad enough. But I told Jimmy to keep away from Sneed's."</p> + +<p>"So did I," declared Cheyenne. "And seein' <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_168" id="Page_168"></a>[pg 168]</span>as I'm his dad, it's up to +me to lick him if he's goin' to get licked."</p> + +<p>"Sneed is like to ride down some night and set fire to the barns," +asserted Uncle Frank.</p> + +<p>"Sneed don't know yet who run off his stock. And he can't say that I +did, and prove it. Now, Frank, you just hold your hosses. I'll ride over to +camp and get my outfit together and come over here. Then we'll throw Steve +Brown's hosses into your pasture, and I'll see that Sneed's stock is out of +here, pronto."</p> + +<p>"That's all right. But Sneed will trail his stock down here."</p> + +<p>"But he won't find 'em here. And he'll never know they was in your +corral."</p> + +<p>Uncle Frank shook his head doubtfully. He was a pessimist and always +argued the worst of a possible situation.</p> + +<p>"And before I'll see Jimmy take a lickin'--this trip--I'll ride back and +shoot it out with Sneed and his outfit," stated Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"I reckon you're fool enough to do it," said Uncle Frank.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>An hour later Bartley and Cheyenne were at the Lawrence ranch, where +they changed packs, saddled Filaree and Joshua, and turned the <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169"></a>[pg 169]</span>horses +borrowed from Steve Brown into Uncle Frank's back pasture.</p> + +<p>Little Jim watched these operations with keen interest. He wanted to +help, but refrained for fear that he would muss up his hair--and he wanted +Uncle Frank to notice his hair as it was.</p> + +<p>Aunt Jane hastily prepared a meal and Dorothy helped.</p> + +<p>In a few minutes Cheyenne and Bartley had eaten, and were ready for the +road. Cheyenne stepped up and shook hands with Jimmy, as though Jimmy were +a grown-up. Jimmy felt elated. There was no one just like his father, even +if folks did say that Cheyenne Hastings could do better than ride around +the country singing and joking with everybody.</p> + +<p>"And don't forget to stop by when you come back," said Aunt Jane, +bidding farewell to Bartley.</p> + +<p>Dorothy shook hands with the Easterner and wished him a pleasant +journey, rather coolly, Bartley thought. She was much more animated when +bidding farewell to Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"And I won't forget to send you that rifle," said Bartley as he nodded +to Little Jim.</p> + +<p>Uncle Frank helped them haze Sneed's horses <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_170" id="Page_170"></a>[pg 170]</span>out of the yard on to the +road, where Cheyenne waited to head them from taking the hill trail, +again.</p> + +<p>Just as he left, Bartley turned to Dorothy who stood twisting a +pomegranate bud in her fingers. "May I have it?" he asked, half in +jest.</p> + +<p>She tossed the bud to him and he caught it. Then he spurred out after +Cheyenne who was already hazing the horses down the road. Occasionally one +of the horses tried to break out and take to the hills, but Cheyenne always +headed it back to the bunch, determined, for some reason unknown to +Bartley, to keep the horses together and going south.</p> + +<p>The road climbed gradually, winding in and out among the foothills. As +the going became stiffer, the rock outcropped and the dust settled.</p> + +<p>The horses slowed to a walk. Bartley wondered why his companion seemed +determined to drive Sneed's stock south. He thought it would be just as +well to let them break for the hills, and not bother with them. But +Cheyenne offered no explanation. He evidently knew what he was about.</p> + +<p>To their right lay the San Andreas Valley across which the long, +slanting shadows of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" +id="Page_171"></a>[pg 171]</span>sunset crept slowly. Still Cheyenne kept +the bunch of horses going briskly, when the going permitted speed. Just +over a rise they came suddenly upon an Apache, riding a lean, active paint +horse. Cheyenne pulled up and talked with the Indian. The latter grinned, +nodded, and, jerking his pony round, rode after the horses as they drifted +ahead. Bartley saw the Apache bunch the animals again, and turn them off +the road toward the hills.</p> + +<p>"Didn't expect to meet up with luck, so soon," declared Cheyenne. "I +figured to turn Sneed's hosses loose when I'd got 'em far enough from the +ranch. But that Injun'll take care of 'em. Sneed ain't popular with the +Apaches. Sneed's cabin is right clost to the res'avation line."</p> + +<p>"What will the Indian do with the horses?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Most like trade 'em to his friends."</p> + +<p>Bartley gestured toward a spot of green far across the valley. "Looks +like a town," he said.</p> + +<p>"San Andreas--and that's where we stop, to-night. No campin' in the +brush for me while Sneed is ridin' the country lookin' for his stock. It +wouldn't be healthy."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172"></a>[pg +172]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> + +<h3><a name='SAN_ANDREAS_TOWN'></a>SAN ANDREAS TOWN</h3> + + +<p>A sleepy town, that paid little attention to the arrival or departure of +strangers, San Andreas in the valley merely rubbed its eyes and dozed again +as Cheyenne and Bartley rode in, put up their horses at the livery, and +strolled over to the adobe hotel where they engaged rooms for the +night.</p> + +<p>Bartley was taken by the picturesque simplicity of the place, and next +morning he suggested that they stay a few days and enjoy the advantage of +having some one other than themselves cook their meals and make their beds. +The hotel, a relic of old times, with its patio and long portal, its rooms +whose lower floors were on the ground level, its unpretentious +spaciousness, appealed strongly to Bartley as something unusual in the way +of a hostelry. It seemed restful, romantic, inviting. It was a place where +a man might write, dream, loaf, and smoke. Then, incidentally, it was not +far from the Lawrence ranch, which was not far from the <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173"></a>[pg 173]</span>home of +a certain young woman whom Little Jim called "Dorry."</p> + +<p>Bartley thought that Dorothy was rather nice--in fact, singularly +interesting. He had not imagined that a Western girl could be so thoroughly +domestic, natural, charming, and at the same time manage a horse so well. +He had visioned Western girls as hard-voiced horse-women, masculine, bold, +and rather scornful of a man who did not wear chaps and ride broncos. True, +Dorothy was not like the girls in the East. She seemed less +sophisticated--less inclined to talk small talk just for its own sake; yet, +concluded Bartley, she was utterly feminine and quite worth while.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne smiled as Bartley suggested that they stay in San Andreas a few +days; and Cheyenne nodded in the direction from which they had come.</p> + +<p>"I kinda like this part of the country, myself," he said, "but I hate to +spend all my money in one place."</p> + +<p>Bartley suddenly realized that his companion, was nothing more than a +riding hobo, a vagrant, without definite means of support, and disinclined +to stay in any one place long.</p> + +<p>"I'll take care of the expenses," said Bartley.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174"></a>[pg +174]</span>Cheyenne smiled, but shook his head. "It ain't that, right now. +Me, I got to shoot that there game of craps with Panhandle, and I figure he +won't ride this way."</p> + +<p>"But you have recovered your horses," argued Bartley.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne gestured toward the south. "I reckon I'll keep movin', pardner. +And that game of craps is as good a excuse as I want."</p> + +<p>"I had hoped that it would be plain sailing, from now on," declared +Bartley. "I thought of stopping here only three or four days. This sort of +town is new to me."</p> + +<p>"They's lots like it, between here and the border," said Cheyenne. "But +I don't want no 'dobe walls between me and the sky-line, reg'lar. I can +stand it for a day, mebby."</p> + +<p>"Well, perhaps we may agree to dissolve partnership temporarily," +suggested Bartley. "I think I'll stay here a few days, at least."</p> + +<p>"That's all right, pardner. I don't aim to tell no man how to live. But +me, I aim to live in the open."</p> + +<p>"Do you think that man Sneed will ride down this way?" queried Bartley, +struck by a sudden idea.</p> + +<p>"That ain't why I figure to keep movin'," <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_175" id="Page_175"></a>[pg 175]</span>said Cheyenne. "But seein' +as you figure to stay, I'll stick around to-day, and light out to-morrow +mornin'. Mebby you'll change your mind, and come along."</p> + +<p>Bartley spent the forenoon with Cheyenne, prowling about the old town, +interested in its quaint unusualness. The afternoon heat drove him to the +shade of the hotel veranda, and, feeling unaccountably drowsy, he finally +went to his room, and, stretching out on the bed, fell asleep. He was +awakened by Cheyenne's knock at the door. Supper was ready.</p> + +<p>After supper they strolled out to the street and watched the town wake +up. From down the street a ways came the sound of a guitar and singing. A +dog began to howl. Then came a startled yelp, and the howl died away in the +dusk. The singing continued. A young Mexican in a blue serge suit, tan +shoes, and with a black sombrero set aslant on his head, walked down the +street beside a Mexican girl, young, fat, and giggling. They passed the +hotel with all the self-consciousness of being attired in their holiday +raiment.</p> + +<p>A wagon rattled past and stopped at the saloon a few doors down the +street. Then a ragged Mexican, hazing two tired burros, appeared in <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176"></a>[pg 176]</span>the dim +light cast from a window--a quaint silhouette that merged in the farther +shadows. Cheyenne moved his feet restlessly.</p> + +<p>Bartley smiled. "The road for mine," he quoted.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne nodded. "Reckon I'll go see how the hosses are makin' it."</p> + +<p>"I'll walk over with you," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>As they came out of the livery barn again, Bartley happened to glance at +the lighted doorway of the cantina opposite. From within the saloon came +the sound of glasses clinking occasionally, and voices engaged in lazy +conversation. Cheyenne fingered the dice in his pocket and hummed a tune. +Slowly he moved toward the lighted doorway, and Bartley walked beside +him.</p> + +<p>"I got a thirst," stated Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Bartley laughed. "Well, as we are about to dissolve partnership, I don't +mind taking one myself."</p> + +<p>"Tough joint," declared Cheyenne as he stepped up to the doorway.</p> + +<p>"All the better," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>A young rancher, whose team stood at the hitch-rail, nodded pleasantly +as they entered.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177"></a>[pg +177]</span>"Mescal," said Cheyenne, and he laid a silver dollar on the +bar.</p> + +<p>Bartley glanced about the low-ceilinged room. The place, poorly lighted +with oil lamps, looked sinister enough to satisfy the most hardy +adventurer, although it was supposed to be a sort of social center for the +enjoyment of vino and talk. The bar was narrow, made of some kind of soft +wood, and painted blue. The top of it was almost paintless in patches.</p> + +<p>Back of the bar a narrow shelf, also painted blue, offered a lean choice +of liquors. Several Mexicans lounged at the side tables along the wall. The +young American rancher stood at the bar, drinking. The proprietor, a fat, +one-eyed Mexican whose face was deeply pitted from smallpox, served Bartley +and Cheyenne grudgingly. The mescal was fiery stuff. Bartley coughed as he +swallowed it.</p> + +<p>"Why not just whiskey, and have it over with?" he queried, grinning at +Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Whiskey ain't whiskey, here," Cheyenne replied. "But mescal is just +what she says she is. I like to know the kind of poison I'm drinkin'."</p> + +<p>Bartley began to experience an inner glow that was not unpleasant. Once +down, this <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178"></a>[pg +178]</span>native Mexican drink was not so bad. He laid a coin on the bar +and the glasses were filled again.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne nodded and drank Bartley's health. Bartley suggested that they +sit at one of the side tables and study the effects of mescal on the +natives present.</p> + +<p>"Let joy be unconfined," said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Where in the world did you get that?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I can read," declared Cheyenne. "Before I took to ramblin', I used +to read some, nights. I reckon that's where I got the idea of makin' up +po'try, later."</p> + +<p>"I really beg your pardon," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"The mescal must of told you."</p> + +<p>"I don't quite get that," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"No? Well, you ain't the first. Josh and Filaree is the only ones that +sabes me. Let's sit in this corner and watch the mescal work for a +livin'."</p> + +<p>It was a hot night. Sweat prickled on Bartley's forehead. His nose +itched. He lit a cigar. It tasted bitter, so he asked Cheyenne for tobacco +and papers, and rolled a cigarette. He inhaled a whiff, and felt more +comfortable. The Mexicans, who had ceased to talk when Bartley and Cheyenne +entered, were now at it again, making plenty of noise.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179"></a>[pg +179]</span>Cheyenne hummed to himself and tapped the floor with his +boot-heel. "She's a funny old world," he declared.</p> + +<p>Bartley nodded and blew a smoke-ring.</p> + +<p>"Miss Dorry's sure a interestin' girl," asserted Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Bartley nodded again.</p> + +<p>"Kind of young and innocent-like."</p> + +<p>Again Bartley nodded.</p> + +<p>"It ain't a bad country to settle down in, for folks that likes to +settle," said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Bartley glanced sharply at his companion. Cheyenne was gazing straight +ahead. His face was unreadable.</p> + +<p>"Now if I was the settlin' kind--" He paused and slowly turned toward +Bartley. "A man could raise alfalfa and chickens and kids."</p> + +<p>"Go ahead," laughed Bartley.</p> + +<p>"I'm goin'--to-morrow mornin'. And you say you figure to stay here a +spell?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, just a few days. I imagine I shall grow tired of it. But to-night, +I feel pretty well satisfied to stay right where I am."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne rose and strode to the bar. After a short argument with the +proprietor, he returned with a bottle and glasses. Bartley raised his +eyebrows questioningly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180"></a>[pg +180]</span>"Once in a while--" And Cheyenne gestured toward the bottle.</p> + +<p>"It's powerful stuff," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"We ain't far from the hotel," declared Cheyenne. And he filled their +glasses.</p> + +<p>"This ought to be the last, for me," said Bartley, drinking. "But don't +let that make any difference to you."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne drank and shrugged his shoulders. He leaned back and gazed at +the opposite wall. Bartley vaguely realized that the Mexicans were +chattering, that two or three persons had come in, and that the atmosphere +was heavy with tobacco smoke. He unbuttoned his shirt-collar.</p> + +<p>Presently Cheyenne twisted round in his chair. "Remember Little Jim, +back at the Hastings ranch?"</p> + +<p>"I should say so! It would be difficult to forget him."</p> + +<p>"Miss Dorry thinks a heap of that kid."</p> + +<p>"She seems to."</p> + +<p>"Now, I ain't drunk," Cheyenne declared solemnly. "I sure wish I was. +You know Little Jim is my boy. Well, his ma is livin' over to Laramie. She +writ to me to come back to her, onct. I reckon Sears got tired of <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181"></a>[pg 181]</span>her. +She lived with him a spell after she quit me. Folks say Sears treated her +like a dog. I guess I wasn't man enough, when I heard that--"</p> + +<p>"You mean Panhandle Sears--at Antelope?"</p> + +<p>"Him."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I see!" said Bartley slowly. "And that crap game, at Antelope--I +see!"</p> + +<p>"If Panhandle had a-jumped me, instead of you, that night, I'd 'a' +killed him. Do you know why Wishful stepped in and put Sears down? Wishful +did that so that there wouldn't be a killin'. That's the second time Sears +has had his chance to git me, but he won't take that chance. That's the +second time we met up since--since my wife left me. The third time it'll be +lights out for somebody. I ain't drunk."</p> + +<p>"Then Sears has got a yellow streak?"</p> + +<p>"Any man that uses a woman rough has. When Jimmy's ma left us, I reckon +I went loco. It wa'n't just her <i>leavin'</i> us. But when I heard she had +took up with Sears, and knowin' what he was--I just quit. I was workin' +down here at the ranch, then. I went up North, figurin' to kill him. Folks +thought I was yellow, for not killin' him. They think so right now. Mebby I +am.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182"></a>[pg +182]</span>"I worked up North a spell, but I couldn't stay. So I lit out +and come down South again. First time I met up with Sears was over on the +Tonto. He stepped up and slapped my face, in front of a crowd, in the Lone +Star. And I took it. But I told him I'd sure see him again, and give him +another chance to slap my face.</p> + +<p>"You see, Panhandle Sears is that kind--he's got to work himself up to +kill a man. And over there at Antelope, that night, he just about knowed +that if he lifted a finger, I'd git him. He figured to start a ruckus, and +then git me in the mix-up. Wishful was on, and he stopped that chance. +Folks think that because I come ridin' and singin' and joshin' that I ain't +no account. Mebby I ain't."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne poured another drink for himself. Bartley declined to drink +again. He was thinking of this squalid tragedy and of its possible outcome. +The erstwhile sprightly Cheyenne held a new significance for the Easterner. +That a man could ride up and down the trails singing, and yet carry beneath +it all the grim intent some day to kill a man--</p> + +<p>Bartley felt that Cheyenne had suddenly become a stranger, an unknown +quantity, a sinister <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" +id="Page_183"></a>[pg 183]</span>jester, in fact, a dangerous man. He +leaned forward and touched Cheyenne's arm.</p> + +<p>"Why not give up the idea of--er--getting Sears; and settle down, and +make a home for Little Jim?"</p> + +<p>"When Aunt Jane took him, the understandin' was that Jimmy was to be +raised respectable, which is the same as tellin' me that I don't have +nothin' to do with raisin' him. Me, I got to keep movin'."</p> + +<p>Bartley turned toward the doorway as a tall figure loomed through the +haze of tobacco smoke: a gaunt, heavy-boned man, bearded and limping +slightly. With him were several companions, booted and spurred; evidently +just in from a hard ride.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne turned to Bartley. "That's Bill Sneed--and his crowd. I ain't +popular with 'em--right now."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184"></a>[pg +184]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XVII</h2> + +<h3><a name='THAT_MESCAL'></a>THAT MESCAL</h3> + + +<p>"The man who had your horses?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne nodded. "The one at the end of the bar. The hombre next to him +is Lawson, who claims he bought my hosses from a Mexican, down here. Lawson +is the one that is huntin' trouble. Sneed don't care nothin' about a couple +of cayuses. He won't start anything. He's here just to back up Lawson if +things git interestin'."</p> + +<p>"But what can they do? We're here, in town, minding our own business. +They know well enough that Panhandle stole your horses. And you said the +people in San Andreas don't like Sneed a whole lot."</p> + +<p>"Because they're scared of him and his crowd. And we're strangers here. +It's just me and Lawson, this deal. Sneed is sizin' you up, back of his +whiskers, right now. He's tryin' to figure out who you are. Sneed ain't one +to run into the law when they's anybody lookin' on. He works different.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185"></a>[pg +185]</span>"Now, while he is figurin', you just git up easy and step out +and slip over to the barn and saddle up Joshua. I'm goin' to need him. Take +the tie-rope off Filaree and leave him loose in his stall. Just say 'Adios' +to me when you git up, like you was goin' back to the hotel. And if you'll +settle what we owe--"</p> + +<p>"That's all right. But my feet aren't cold, yet."</p> + +<p>"You figure to stay in town a spell, don't you? Well, I figure to leave, +right soon. I'm tryin' to dodge trouble. It's your chanct to help out."</p> + +<p>"Why can't we both walk out?"</p> + +<p>"'Cause they'd follow us. They won't follow you."</p> + +<p>Bartley glanced at the men ranged along the bar, rose, and, shaking +hands with Cheyenne, strode out, nodding pleasantly to the one-eyed +proprietor as he went.</p> + +<p>Sneed eyed the Easterner sharply, and nudged one of his men as Bartley +passed through the doorway.</p> + +<p>"Just step out and see where he goes, Hull," he ordered in an undertone. +"Keep him in sight."</p> + +<p>The man spoken to hitched up his chaps, <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_186" id="Page_186"></a>[pg 186]</span>and, turning to finish his +drink, strolled out casually.</p> + +<p>Bartley saw a row of saddle-horses tied at the rail. He noticed the +slickers on the saddles and the carbines under the stirrup leathers. It was +evident that the riders were not entirely on pleasure bent. He crossed the +street, wakened the stableman, paid the bill, and saddled Joshua. Then he +took the tie-rope off Filaree, as Cheyenne had directed. Bartley led Joshua +through the barn to the back, where he was tying him to a wagon wheel when +a figure loomed up in the semi-darkness.</p> + +<p>"Ridin', stranger?"</p> + +<p>The figure struck a match and lighted a cigarette. Bartley at once +recognized him as one of Sneed's men. Resenting the other's question and +his attitude of easy familiarity, Bartley ignored his presence.</p> + +<p>"Hard of hearin'?" queried Hull.</p> + +<p>"Rather."</p> + +<p>"I said: Was you ridin'?"</p> + +<p>"Yesterday," replied Bartley.</p> + +<p>Hull blew a whiff of smoke in Bartley's face. It seemed casual, but was +intended as an insult. Bartley flushed, and realizing that the other was +there to intercept any action on his part to <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_187" id="Page_187"></a>[pg 187]</span>aid Cheyenne, he dropped +Joshua's reins, and without the slightest warning of his intent--in fact, +Hull thought the Easterner was stooping to pick up the reins--Bartley +launched a haymaker that landed with a loud crack on Hull's unguarded chin, +and Hull's head snapped back. Bartley jumped forward and shot another one +to the same spot. Hull's head hit the edge of the doorway as he went +down.</p> + +<p>He lay there, inert, a queer blur in the half-light. Bartley licked his +skinned knuckles.</p> + +<p>"He may resent this, when he wakes up," he murmured. "I believe I'll tie +him."</p> + +<p>Bartley took Joshua's tie-rope and bound Mr. Hull's arms and legs, +amateurishly, but securely.</p> + +<p>Then he strode through to the front of the barn. He could hear loud +talking in the saloon opposite and thought he could distinguish Cheyenne's +voice. Bartley wondered what would happen in there, and when things would +begin to pop, if there was to be any popping. He felt foolishly helpless +and inefficient--rather a poor excuse for a partner, just then. Yet there +was that husky rider, back there in the straw. He was even more helpless +and inefficient. Bartley licked his knuckles, and grinned.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188"></a>[pg +188]</span>"There must have been a little mescal in that second punch," he +thought. "I never hit so hard in my life."</p> + +<p>The stableman had retired to his bunk--a habit of night stablemen. The +stable was dark and still, save for the munching of the horses. In the +saloon across the way Cheyenne was facing Sneed and his men, alone. Bartley +felt like a quitter. Indecision irritated him, and curiosity urged him to +do something other than to stand staring at the saloon front. He recalled +his plan to sojourn in San Andreas a few days, and incidently to ride over +to the Lawrence ranch--frankly, to have another visit with Dorothy. He +shrugged his shoulders. That idea now seemed insignificant, compared with +the present possibilities.</p> + +<p>"I'm a free agent," he soliloquized. "I think I'll take a hand in this, +myself."</p> + +<p>He snapped his fingers as he turned and hastened to Dobe's stall. He led +Dobe out to the stable floor, got his saddle from the office, told the +sleepy stableman that he was going to take a little ride, and saddled Dobe. +And he led Dobe back to where Joshua was tied. He had forgotten his victim +on the floor, for a moment, but was aware of him when he <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189"></a>[pg +189]</span>stumbled over him in the dark. The other mumbled and struggled +faintly.</p> + +<p>"I left your gun in the wagon-box," said Bartley. "I wouldn't move +around much, if I were you. One of the horses might step on your face and +hurt his foot."</p> + +<p>Mr. Hull was not pleased at this, and he said as much. Bartley tied Dobe +to the back of the wagon.</p> + +<p>"Just keep your eye on the horses a minute," he told Hull. "I'll be back +soon."</p> + +<p>Bartley felt unusually and inexplicably elated. He had not realized the +extreme potency of mescal. The proprietor of the hotel was mildly surprised +when Bartley, remarking that he had been called away unexpectedly, paid the +hotel bill. Bartley hastened back to the stable. Across the way the horses +of the mountain men drowsed in the faint lamplight. Turning, Bartley saw +Joshua and Dobe dimly silhouetted in the opening at the far end of the +stable. Cheyenne was still in the saloon.</p> + +<p>Bartley grinned. "It might help," he said as he stepped across the +street. Taking down the rope from the nearest horse, he tied the end of the +rope in the horse's bridle and threaded the end through the bridles of all +five horses, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190"></a>[pg +190]</span>tying the loose end to the last horse's bridle. "Just like +stringing fish!" he murmured soulfully. "When those gentlemen from the +interior try to mount, there'll be something doing."</p> + +<p>He had just turned to walk back to the stable when he heard a shot, and +the lighted doorway of the saloon became suddenly dark. Without waiting to +see what would happen next, Bartley ran to the rear of the stable and +untied the horses. Behind him he heard the quick trample of feet. He +turned. A figure appeared in the front doorway of the stable, a figure that +dashed toward him, and, with a leap and a swing, mounted Joshua and spurred +out and down the alley back of the building.</p> + +<p>Bartley grabbed for his own stirrup, missed it, grabbed again and swung +up. Dobe leaped after the other horse, turned at the end of the alley, and, +reaching into a long, swinging gallop, pounded across the night-black open. +San Andreas had but one street. The backs of its buildings opened to +space.</p> + +<p>Ahead, Cheyenne thundered across a narrow bridge over an arroyo. Dobe +lifted and leaped forward, as though in a race. From behind came the quick +patter of hoofs. One of Sneed's men had evidently managed to get his horse +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191"></a>[pg +191]</span>loose from the reata. A solitary house, far out on the level, +flickered past. Bartley glanced back. The house door opened. A ray of +yellow light shot across the road.</p> + +<p>"Hey, Cheyenne!" called Bartley.</p> + +<p>But Cheyenne's little buckskin was drumming down the night road at a +pace that astonished the Easterner. Dobe seemed to be doing his best, yet +he could not overtake the buckskin. Behind Bartley the patter of hoofs +sounded nearer. Bartley thought he heard Cheyenne call back to him. He +leaned forward, but the drumming of hoofs deadened all other sound.</p> + +<p>They were on a road, now--a road that ran south across the spaces, +unwinding itself like a tape flung from a reel. Suddenly Cheyenne pulled to +a stop. Bartley raced up, bracing himself as the big cow-horse set up in +two jumps.</p> + +<p>"I thought you was abidin' in San Andreas," said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"There's some one coming!" warned Bartley, breathing heavily.</p> + +<p>"And his name is Filaree," declared Cheyenne. "You sure done a good job. +Let's keep movin'." And Cheyenne let Joshua out as Filaree drew alongside +and nickered shrilly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192"></a>[pg +192]</span>"Now I reckon we better hold 'em in a little," said Cheyenne +after they had gone, perhaps, a half-mile. "We got a good start."</p> + +<p>They slowed the horses to a trot. Filaree kept close to Joshua's flank. +A gust of warm air struck their faces.</p> + +<p>"Ain't got time to shake hands, pardner," said Cheyenne. "Know where +you're goin'?"</p> + +<p>"South," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Correc'. And I don't hear no hosses behind us."</p> + +<p>"I strung them together on a rope," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"How's that?"</p> + +<p>"I tied Sneed's horses together, with a rope. Ran it through the +bridles--like stringing fish. Not according to Hoyle, but it seems to have +worked."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne shook his head. He did not quite get the significance of +Bartley's statement.</p> + +<p>"Any one get hurt?" queried Bartley presently.</p> + +<p>"Nope. I spoiled a lamp, and I reckon I hit somebody on the head, in the +dark, comin' through. Seems like I stepped on somethin' soft, out there +back of the barn. It grunted like a human. But I didn't stop to look."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193"></a>[pg +193]</span>"I had to do it," declared Bartley ambiguously.</p> + +<p>"Had to do what?"</p> + +<p>"Punch a fellow that wanted to know what I was doing with your horse. I +let him have it twice."</p> + +<p>"Then you didn't hit him with your gun?"</p> + +<p>"No. I wish I had. I've got a fist like a boiled ham. I can feel it +swell, right now."</p> + +<p>"That there mescal is sure pow'ful stuff."</p> + +<p>"Thanks!" said Bartley succinctly.</p> + +<p>"Got a kick like white lightin'," said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"And I paid our hotel bill," continued Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Well, that was mighty thoughtful. I plumb forgot it."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194"></a>[pg +194]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> + +<h3><a name='JOE_SCOTT'></a>JOE SCOTT</h3> + + +<p>Just before daybreak Cheyenne turned from the road and picked his way +through the scattered brush to a gulch in the western foothills. Cheyenne's +horses seemed to know the place, when they stopped at a narrow, pole gate +across the upper end of the gulch, for on beyond the gate the horses again +stopped of their own accord. Bartley could barely discern the outlines of a +cabin. Cheyenne hallooed.</p> + +<p>A muffled answer from the cabin, then a twinkle of light, then the open +doorway framing a gigantic figure.</p> + +<p>"That you, Shy?" queried the figure.</p> + +<p>"Me and a friend."</p> + +<p>"You're kind of early," rumbled the figure as the riders dismounted.</p> + +<p>"Shucks! You'd be gettin' up, anyway, right soon. We come early so as +not to delay your breakfast."</p> + +<p>In the cabin, Cheyenne and the big man shook hands. Bartley was +introduced. The man was a miner, named Joe Scott.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195"></a>[pg +195]</span>"Joe, here, is a minin' man--when he ain't runnin' a all-night +lunch-stand," explained Cheyenne. "He can't work his placer when it's dark, +but he sure can work a skillet and a coffee-mill."</p> + +<p>"What you been up to?" queried the giant slowly, as he made a fire in +the stove, and set about getting breakfast.</p> + +<p>"Up to Clubfoot Sneed's place, to get a couple of hosses that belonged +to me. He was kind of hostile. Followed us down to San Andreas and done +spoiled our night's rest. But I got the hosses."</p> + +<p>"Hosses seems to be his failin'," said the big man.</p> + +<p>"So some folks say. I'm one of 'em."</p> + +<p>"How are the folks up Antelope way?"</p> + +<p>"Kinda permanent, as usual. I hear Panhandle's drifted south again. +Wishful, he shoots craps, reg'lar."</p> + +<p>Scott nodded, shifted the coffee-pot and sat down on the edge of his +bunk. "Got any smokin'?" he queried presently.</p> + +<p>Bartley offered the miner a cigar. "I'm afraid it's broken," apologized +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"That's all right. I was goin' to town this mornin', to get some tobacco +and grub. But this will help." And doubling the cigar Scott <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196"></a>[pg 196]</span>thrust +it in his mouth and chewed it with evident satisfaction.</p> + +<p>The gray edge of dawn crept into the room. Scott blew out the light and +opened the door.</p> + +<p>Bartley felt suddenly sleepy and he drowsed and nodded, realizing that +Scott and Cheyenne were talking, and that the faint aroma of coffee drifted +toward him, mingling with the chill, fresh air of morning. He pulled +himself together and drank the coffee and ate some bacon. From time to time +he glanced at Scott, fascinated by the miner's tremendous forearms, his +mighty chest and shoulders. Even Cheyenne, who was a fair-sized man, +appeared like a boy beside the miner. Bartley wondered that such tremendous +strength should be isolated, hidden back there behind the foothills. Yet +Scott himself, easy-going and dryly humorous, was evidently content right +where he was.</p> + +<p>Later the miner showed Bartley about the diggings, quietly proud of his +establishment, and enthusiastic about the unfailing supply of water--in +fact, Scott talked more about water than he did about gold. Bartley +realized that the big miner would have been a misfit in town, that he +belonged in the rugged hills from which he <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_197" id="Page_197"></a>[pg 197]</span>wrested a scant six +dollars a day by herculean toil.</p> + +<p>In a past age, Scott would have been a master builder of castles or of +triremes or a maker of armor, but never a fighting man. It was evident that +the miner was, despite his great strength, a man of peace. Bartley rather +regretted, for some romantic reason or other, that the big miner was not a +fighting man.</p> + +<p>Yet when they returned to the shack, where Cheyenne sat smoking, Bartley +learned that Big Joe Scott had a reputation in his own country. That was +when Scott suggested that they needed sleep. He spread a blanket-roll on +the cabin floor for Cheyenne and offered Bartley his bunk. Then Scott +picked up his rifle and strode across to a shed. Cheyenne pulled off his +boots, stretched out on the blanket-roll, and sighed comfortably. Bartley +could see the big miner busily twisting something in his hands, something +that looked like a leather bag from which occasional tiny spurts of silver +gleamed and trickled. Bartley wondered what Scott was doing. He asked +Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"He's squeezin' 'quick.'" And Cheyenne explained the process of +squeezing quicksilver through a chamois skin. "And I'm glad it ain't <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198"></a>[pg 198]</span>my +neck," added Cheyenne. "Joe killed a man, with his bare hands, onct. That's +why he never gets in a fight, nowadays. He dassn't. 'Course, he had to kill +that man, or get killed."</p> + +<p>"I noticed he picked up his rifle," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Nobody'll disturb our sleep," said Cheyenne drowsily.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>The afternoon shadows were long when Bartley awakened. Through the +doorway he could see Cheyenne out in the shed, talking with Joe Scott.</p> + +<p>"Hello!" called Bartley, sitting up. "Lost any horses, Cheyenne?"</p> + +<p>Presently Scott and Cheyenne came over to the cabin.</p> + +<p>"I'm cook, this trip," stated Cheyenne as he bustled about the kitchen. +"I reckon Joe needs a rest. He ain't lookin' right strong."</p> + +<p>An early supper, and the three men forgathered outside the cabin and +smoked and talked until long after dark. Cheyenne had told Scott of the +happenings since leaving Antelope, and jokingly he referred to San Andreas +and Bartley's original plan of staying there awhile.</p> + +<p>Bartley nodded. "And now that the smoke <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_199" id="Page_199"></a>[pg 199]</span>has blown away, I think +I'll go back and finish my visit," he said.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne's face expressed surprise and disappointment. "Honest?" he +queried.</p> + +<p>"Why not?" asked Bartley, and it was a hard question to answer.</p> + +<p>After all, Bartley had stuck to him when trouble seemed inevitable, +reasoned Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Now the Easterner felt free to do as he pleased. And why shouldn't he? +There had been no definite or even tentative agreement as to when they +would dissolve partnership. And Bartley's evident determination to carry +out his original plan struck Cheyenne as indicative of considerable spirit. +It was plain that Sneed's unexpected presence in San Andreas had not +affected Bartley very much. With a tinge of malice, born of disappointment, +Cheyenne suggested to Bartley that the man he had knocked out, back of the +livery barn, would no doubt be glad to see him again.</p> + +<p>Bartley turned to Joe Scott. "He's trying to 'Out-West' me a bit, isn't +he?"</p> + +<p>Scott laughed heartily. "Cheyenne is getting tired of rambling up and +down the country alone. He wants a pardner. Seems he likes your <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200"></a>[pg +200]</span>company, from what he says. But you can't take him serious. +He'll be singin' that everlastin' trail song of his next."</p> + +<p>"He hasn't sung much, recently."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne bridled and snorted like a colt. "Huh! Just try this on your +piano." And seemingly improvising, he waved his arm toward the burro +corral.</p> + +<blockquote> +One time I had a right good pal,<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along;<br /> +But he quit me cold for a little ranch gal,<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along.<br /> +<br /> +And now he's took to pitchin' hay<br /> + On a rancho down San Andreas way;<br /> +He's done tied up and he's got to stay;<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along.<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p>"I was just learnin' him the ropes, and he quit me cold," complained +Cheyenne, appealing to Scott.</p> + +<p>"He aims to keep out of trouble," suggested Scott.</p> + +<p>"I ain't got no friends," said Cheyenne, grinning.</p> + +<p>"Thanks for that," said Scott.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201"></a>[pg +201]</span>Cheyenne reached in his pocket and drew out the dice. His eyes +brightened. He rattled the dice and shot them across the hardpacked ground +near the doorstep. Then he struck a match to see what he had thrown. "I'm +hittin' the road five minutes after six, to-morrow mornin'," he declared, +as he picked up the dice.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202"></a>[pg +202]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2> + +<h3><a name='DORRY_COMES_TO_TOWN'></a>DORRY COMES TO TOWN</h3> + + +<p>At six, next morning, Bartley and Scott were on their way to San +Andreas, Bartley riding Dobe and Scott hazing two pack-burros. They took a +hill trail, which, Scott explained, was shorter by miles than the valley +road which Cheyenne and Bartley had taken to the gulch. Cheyenne was forced +to stay at the miner's cabin until Scott returned with the pack-saddle and +outfit left in the livery. Scott was after supplies and tobacco.</p> + +<p>At first Cheyenne had thought of going along with them. But he +reconsidered. He did not care to risk being arrested in San Andreas for +having disturbed the peace. If the authorities should happen to detain him, +there would be one broken head, one broken lamp, and possibly five or six +witnesses as evidence that he had been the aggressor in the saloon. Sneed +and his men would swear to anything, and the owner of the saloon would add +his bit of evidence. Bartley himself was liable to arrest for assault and +battery <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203"></a>[pg +203]</span>should Hull lodge a complaint against him. Incidentally, Hull +had been found by the stableman, curiously roped and tied and his lower jaw +somewhat out of plumb.</p> + +<p>Bartley and Scott arrived in San Andreas about noon, saw to their stock +and had dinner together. Bartley engaged a room at the hotel. Scott bought +supplies. Then, unknown to Bartley, Scott hunted up the town marshal and +told him that the Easterner was a friend of his. The town marshal took the +hint. Scott assured the marshal that, if Sneed or his men made any trouble +in San Andreas, he would gladly come over and help the marshal establish +peace. Cheyenne's name was not mentioned.</p> + +<p>An hour later Scott appeared in front of the hotel with his burros +packed. Bartley, loafing on the veranda, rose and stepped out.</p> + +<p>"If you got time," said Scott, "you might walk along with me, out to the +edge of town."</p> + +<p>Bartley wondered what Scott had in mind, but he agreed to the suggestion +at once.</p> + +<p>Together they trudged through the sleepy town until they reached the +open.</p> + +<p>"I guess you can find your way back," said Scott, his eyes twinkling. +"And, say, it's a good <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" +id="Page_204"></a>[pg 204]</span>idea not to pack a shootin'-iron--and let +folks know you don't pack one."</p> + +<p>"I think I understand," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Ride over to my camp, any time, and if I'm not there, just make +yourself to home." And the big miner turned and started his burros toward +the hills.</p> + +<p>"Give my regards to Cheyenne," called Bartley.</p> + +<p>The miner nodded.</p> + +<p>On his way back through town, Bartley wondered why the miner had asked +him to take that walk. Then suddenly he thought of a reason. They had been +seen in San Andreas, walking and talking together. That would intimate that +they were friends. And a man would have to be blind, not to realize that it +would be a mistake to pick a quarrel with Scott, or one of his friends. Joe +Scott never quarreled; but he had the reputation of being a man of whom it +was safe to step around.</p> + +<p>With his sleeves rolled up, sitting in the quiet of his room, Bartley +spent the afternoon jotting down notes for a story. He thought he had +experienced enough adventure to make a good beginning. Of course, the love +element was lacking, yet he thought that might be supplied, <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205"></a>[pg 205]</span>later. +He had a heroine in mind. Bartley laid down his pencil, and sat back, +shaping daydreams. It was hot in the room. It would be cooler down on the +veranda. Well, he would finish his rough sketch of Cheyenne, and then step +down to the veranda. He caught himself drowsing over his work. He sat up, +scribbled a while, nodded sleepily, and, finally, with his head on his +arms, he fell asleep.</p> + +<p>The rattle of wagon wheels wakened him. A ranch team had just pulled up +to the hitch-rail in front of the hotel and a small boy was tying the +horses. The boy's hat seemed familiar to Bartley. Then Bartley heard a +voice. Suddenly he was wide awake. Little Jim was down there, talking to +some one. Bartley rose and peered down. Little Jim's companion was Dorothy. +Bartley could not see her face, because of her wide hat-brim. Stepping back +into the room, Bartley picked up his pencil and, leaning out of the window, +started it rolling down the gentle slope of the veranda roof. It dropped at +Dorothy's feet. She started and glanced up. Bartley waved a greeting and +disappeared from the window.</p> + +<p>Decently clothed, and, imagining that he was in his right mind, he +hastened downstairs.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206"></a>[pg +206]</span>Little Jim expressed no surprise at seeing Bartley, but the +youngster's eyes were eager.</p> + +<p>He shook hands, like a grown-up. "Got that twenty-two, yet?"</p> + +<p>"Haven't seen one, Jimmy. But I won't forget."</p> + +<p>"There's a brand-new twenty-two over to Hodges' store, in the window," +declared Little Jim.</p> + +<p>"That so? Then we'll have to walk over and look at it."</p> + +<p>"I done <i>looked</i> at it already," said Little Jim.</p> + +<p>"Well, then, let's go and price it."</p> + +<p>"I done priced it. It's twelve-fifty."</p> + +<p>"Well, what do you say to going over and buying it?"</p> + +<p>"Sure! Is dad gone?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. He left here last night. I thought Miss Gray was with you," said +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Sure! She had to come to town to buy some things. She's over to Hodges' +now."</p> + +<p>Dorothy had not waited for him to appear. Bartley was a bit piqued. But +he asked himself why should he be? They were the merest acquaintances. +True, they had spent several hours together, reading and discussing verse. +But no doubt that had been purely impersonal, <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_207" id="Page_207"></a>[pg 207]</span>on her part. With Little +Jim as his guide, Bartley entered Hodges' general store. Dorothy was at the +back of the store making purchases. Bartley watched her a moment. He felt a +tug at his sleeve.</p> + +<p>"The guns is over on this side," declared Little Jim.</p> + +<p>"We'll have to wait until Mr. Hodges gets through waiting on Miss Gray," +said Bartley.</p> + +<p>Little Jim scampered across the aisle and stood on tiptoe peering into a +showcase. There were pistols, cheap watches, and a pair of spurs.</p> + +<p>Little Jim gazed a moment and then shot over to Dorothy. "Say, Dorry, +can't you hurry up? Me and Mr. Bartley are waitin' to look at that +twenty-two in the window."</p> + +<p>"Now, Jimmy! Oh, how do you do!" And Dorothy greeted Bartley with +considerable poise for a young woman who was as interested in the Easterner +as she was.</p> + +<p>"Don't let us interrupt you," said Bartley. "Our business can wait."</p> + +<p>Little Jim scowled, and grimaced at Dorothy, who excused herself to +Bartley and went on making her purchases. They were really insignificant +purchases--some pins, some thread, and a roll of binding tape. +Insignificant as they <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" +id="Page_208"></a>[pg 208]</span>were, Bartley offered to carry them to the +wagon for her. Dorothy declined his offer and took them to the wagon +herself.</p> + +<p>"Now for that rifle," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>Little Jim, itching all over to get hold of that new and shining weapon, +squirmed as Hodges took it from the window and handed it to Bartley. +Bartley examined it and passed it over to Little Jim.</p> + +<p>"Is that the kind you wanted?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"This is her! Twenty-two, long or short, genuwine repeater." Jimmy +pretended to read the tags tied to the trigger guard. "Yep! This is +her."</p> + +<p>"And some cartridges," suggested Bartley.</p> + +<p>"How many?" queried the storekeeper.</p> + +<p>"All you got," said Little Jim.</p> + +<p>But Bartley's good nature was not to be imposed upon to that extent. +"Give us five boxes, Mr. Hodges."</p> + +<p>"That cleans me out of twenty-twos," declared Hodges.</p> + +<p>Jimmy grinned triumphantly. Dorothy had come in and was viewing the +purchase with some apprehension. She knew Little Jim.</p> + +<p>Bearing the rifle proudly, Jimmy marched from the store. Dorothy and +Bartley followed <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" +id="Page_209"></a>[pg 209]</span>him, and Bartley briefly outlined +Cheyenne's recent sprightly exodus from San Andreas.</p> + +<p>"I heard about it, from Mr. Hodges," said Dorothy. "And I also noticed +that you have hurt your hand."</p> + +<p>Bartley glanced at his right hand--and then at Dorothy, who was gazing +at him curiously. It had become common news in town that Cheyenne Hastings +and the Easterner had engaged in a free-for-all fight with the Sneed +outfit, and that two of the Sneed boys were laid up for repairs. That was +Mr. Hodges' version.</p> + +<p>"I also heard that you had left town," said Dorothy.</p> + +<p>Bartley's egoism was slightly deflated. Then Dorothy had come to town to +buy a few trinkets, and not to find out how it fared with him.</p> + +<p>"We have to get back before dark," she declared.</p> + +<p>"And you got to drive," said Little Jim. "I want to try my new gun!"</p> + +<p>"Did you thank Mr. Bartley for the gun?"</p> + +<p>Little Jim admitted that he had forgotten to do so. He stuck out his +small hand. "Thanks, pardner," he said heartily.</p> + +<p>Bartley laughed and patted Jimmy's shoulder--something <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210"></a>[pg 210]</span>that +Jimmy utterly detested, but suffered nobly, under the circumstances.</p> + +<p>"You earned that gun--and thank you for fetching Miss Dorry to +town."</p> + +<p>"Huh! I didn't fetch <i>her</i>. She fetched me. Uncle Frank was comin', +but Dorry said she just had to get some things--"</p> + +<p>"Jimmy, please don't point that gun at the horses."</p> + +<p>Bartley felt better. He didn't know just why he felt better. Yet he felt +more than grateful to Little Jim.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, Dorothy met Bartley's eyes frankly as he said farewell. "I +hope you will find time to ride over to the ranch," she said. "I'm sure +Aunt Jane would be glad to see you."</p> + +<p>"Thanks. Say, day after to-morrow?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, it doesn't matter. Aunt Jane is nearly always at home."</p> + +<p>"And I got lots of ca'tridges," chirruped Little Jim. "We can shoot all +day."</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't miss such an opportunity for anything," declared Bartley, +yet he was looking at Dorothy when he spoke.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211"></a>[pg +211]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XX</h2> + +<h3><a name='ALONG_THE_FOOTHILLS'></a>ALONG THE FOOTHILLS</h3> + + +<p>Bartley, enjoying his after-dinner smoke, felt that he wanted to know +more about the girl who had invited him to call at the Lawrence ranch +again. He told himself that he wanted to study her; to find out her +preferences, her ideals, her attitude toward life, and how the thought of +always living in the San Andreas Valley, shut away from the world, appealed +to her.</p> + +<p>With the unconscious intolerance of the city-bred man, he did not +realize that her world was quite as interesting to her as his world was to +him. Manlike, he also failed to realize that Dorothy was studying him quite +as much as he was studying her. While he did not feel in the least +superior, he did feel that he was more worldly-wise than this young woman +whose horizon was bounded by the hills edging the San Andreas Valley.</p> + +<p>True, she seemed to have read much, for one as isolated as she, and she +had evidently appreciated what she had read. And then there was something +about her that interested him, aside <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_212" id="Page_212"></a>[pg 212]</span>from her good looks. He +had known many girls far more beautiful. It was not her manner, which was a +bit constrained, at times. Her charm for him was indefinable. Somehow, she +seemed different from other girls he had met. Bartley was himself +responsible for this romantic hallucination. He saw her with eyes hungry +for the sympathetic companionship of youth, especially feminine youth, for +he could talk with her seriously about things which the genial Cheyenne +could hardly appreciate.</p> + +<p>In other words, Bartley, whose aim was to isolate himself from +convention, was unconsciously hungry for the very conventions he thought he +was fleeing from. And in a measure, Dorothy Gray represented the life he +had left behind. Had she been a boy, Bartley would have enjoyed talking +with her--or him; but she was a girl, and, concluded Bartley, just the type +of girl for the heroine of a Western romance. Bartley's egoism would not +allow him to admit that their tentative friendship could become anything +more than friendship. And it was upon that understanding with himself that +he saddled up, next morning,--why the hurry, with a week to spend in San +Andreas,--and set out for the Lawrence ranch, to call on Aunt Jane.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213"></a>[pg +213]</span>Purposely he timed his arrival to follow the dinner hour--dinner +was at noon in the ranch country--and was mildly lectured by Aunt Jane for +not arriving earlier. Uncle Frank was at the lower end of the ranch, +superintending the irrigating. Little Jim was on the veranda, needlessly +cleaning his new rifle, preparatory to a rabbit hunt that afternoon. +Bartley was at once invited to participate in the hunt, and he could think +of no reason to decline. Dorothy, however, was not at the ranch.</p> + +<p>Little Jim scrubbed his rifle with an oily rag, and scowled. "Got both +hosses saddled, and lots of ca'tridges--and Dorry ain't here yet! She +promised to be here right after dinner."</p> + +<p>"Was Miss Dorry going with you?"</p> + +<p>Jimmy nodded. "You bet! She's goin' to take my old twenty-two. It's only +a single-shot," added Jimmy scornfully. "But it's good enough for a +girl."</p> + +<p>"Isn't it early to hunt rabbits?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Sure! But we got to get there, clear over to the flats. If Dorry don't +come as soon as I get this gun cleaned, I'm goin' anyhow."</p> + +<p>But Dorothy appeared before Jimmy could carry out his threat of leaving +without her. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214"></a>[pg +214]</span>Jimmy, mounted on his pony, fretted to be gone, while Dorothy +chatted a minute or so with Aunt Jane and Bartley. Finally they rode off, +with Jimmy in the lead, explaining that there would be no rabbits on the +flat until at least five o'clock, and in the meantime they would ride over +to the spring and pretend they were starving. That is, Dorothy and Bartley +were to pretend they were starving, while Jimmy scouted for meat and +incidentally shot a couple of Indians and returned with a noble buck deer +hanging across the saddle.</p> + +<p>It was hot and they rode slowly. Far ahead, in the dim southern +distances, lay the hills that walled the San Andreas Valley from the +desert.</p> + +<p>Dorothy noticed that Bartley gazed intently at those hills. "Cheyenne?" +she queried, smiling.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon. I was dreaming. Yes, I was thinking of him, and--" +Bartley gestured toward Little Jim.</p> + +<p>"Then you know?"</p> + +<p>"Cheyenne told me, night before last, in San Andreas."</p> + +<p>"Of course, Jimmy is far better off right where he is," asserted +Dorothy, although Bartley had said nothing. "I don't think Cheyenne will +ever settle down. At least, not so long as that <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_215" id="Page_215"></a>[pg 215]</span>man Sears is alive. Of +course, if anything happens to Sears--"</p> + +<p>Dorothy was interrupted by Little Jim, who turned in the saddle to +address her. "Say, Dorry, if you keep on talkin' out loud, the Injuns is +like to jump us! Scoutin' parties don't keep talkin' when they're on the +trail."</p> + +<p>"Don't be silly, Jimmy," laughed Dorothy.</p> + +<p>"Well, they <i>used</i> to be Injuns in these hills, once."</p> + +<p>"We'll behave," said Bartley. "But can't we ride toward the foothills +and get in the shade?"</p> + +<p>"You just follow me," said Little Jim. "I know this country."</p> + +<p>It was Little Jim's day. It was his hunt. Dorothy and Bartley were +merely his guests. He had allowed them to come with him--possibly because +he wanted an audience. Presently Little Jim reined his horse to the left +and rode up a dim trail among the boulders. By an exceedingly devious route +he led the way to the spring, meanwhile playing the scout with intense +concentration on some cattle tracks which were at least a month old. +Bartley recognized the spot. Cheyenne and he had camped there upon their +quest for the stolen horses. Little Jim assured his charges that all was +safe, and he <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216"></a>[pg +216]</span>suggested that they "light down and rest a spell."</p> + +<p>The contrasting coolness of the shade was inviting. Jimmy explained that +there would be no rabbits visible until toward evening. Below and beyond +them stretched the valley floor, shimmering in the sun. Behind them the +hills rose and dipped, rose and dipped again, finally reaching up to the +long slope of the mother range. Far above a thin, dark line of timber +showed against the eastern sky.</p> + +<p>"Ole Clubfoot Sneed lives up there," asserted Jimmy, pointing toward the +distant ridge. "I been up there."</p> + +<p>"Yes. And your father saved you from a whipping. Uncle Frank was very +angry."</p> + +<p>"I got that new rifle, anyhow," declared Little Jim.</p> + +<p>"And they lived happily ever afterward," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Huh! That's just like them fairy stories that Dorry reads to me +sometimes. I like stories about Buffalo Bill and Injuns and fights. Fairy +stories make me tired."</p> + +<p>"Jimmy thinks he is quite grown up," teased Dorothy.</p> + +<p>"You ain't growed up yourself, anyhow," retorted <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217"></a>[pg 217]</span>Jimmy. +"Girls ain't growed up till they git married."</p> + +<p>Dorothy turned to Bartley and began to talk about books and writers. +Little Jim frowned. Why couldn't they talk about something worth listening +to? Jimmy examined his new rifle, sighting it at different objects, and +opening and closing the empty magazine. Finally he loaded it. His +companions of the hunt were deep in a discussion having to do with Western +stories. Jimmy fidgeted under the constant stress of keeping silent. He +would have interrupted Dorothy, willingly enough, but Bartley's presence +rather awed him.</p> + +<p>Jimmy felt that his afternoon was being wasted. However, there was the +solace of the new rifle, and plenty of ammunition. While he knew there was +no big game in those hills, he could pretend that there was. He debated +with himself as to whether he would hunt deer, bear, or mountain lion. +Finally he decided he would hunt bear. He waited for an opportunity to +leave without being noticed, and, carrying his trusty rifle at the ready, +he stealthily disappeared in the brush south of the spring. A young boy, +with a new gun and lots of brush to prowl through! Under such circumstances +the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218"></a>[pg +218]</span>optimist can imagine anything from rabbits to elephants.</p> + +<p>Some time passed before Dorothy missed him. She called. There was no +reply. "He won't go far," she assured Bartley who rose to go and look for +Jimmy.</p> + +<p>Bartley sat down by the spring again. He questioned Dorothy in regard to +ranch life, social conditions, local ambitions, and the like. Quite +impersonally she answered him, explaining that the folk in the valley were +quite content, so long as they were moderately successful. Of course, the +advent of that funny little machine, the automobile, would revolutionize +ranch life, eventually. Why, a wealthy rancher of San Andreas had actually +driven to Los Angeles and back in one of those little machines!</p> + +<p>Bartley smiled. "They've come to stay, no doubt. But I can't reconcile +automobiles with saddle-horses and buckboards. I shan't have an automobile +snorting and snuffing through my story."</p> + +<p>"Your story!"</p> + +<p>"I really didn't mean to speak about it. But the cat is out of the bag. +I'm making notes for a Western novel, Miss Gray. I confess it."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219"></a>[pg +219]</span>"Confession usually implies having done something wrong, doesn't +it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. But with you as the heroine of my story, I couldn't go very far +wrong."</p> + +<p>Dorothy flushed and bit her lip. So that was why Bartley had been so +attentive and polite? He had been studying her, questioning her, mentally +jotting down what she had said--and he had not told her, until that moment, +that he was writing a story. She had not known that he was a writer of +stories.</p> + +<p>"You might, at least, have asked me if I cared to be a Western heroine +in your story."</p> + +<p>"Oh, that would have spoiled it all! Can't you see? You would not have +been yourself, if you had known. And our visits--"</p> + +<p>"I don't think I care to be the heroine of your story, Mr. Bartley."</p> + +<p>"You really mean it?"</p> + +<p>Dorothy nodded thoughtfully. Bartley knew, intuitively, that she was +sincere--that she was not angling for flattery. He had thought that he was +rather paying her a compliment in making her the heroine of his first +Western book; or, at least, that she would take it as a compliment. He +frowned, twisting a spear of dry grass in his fingers.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220"></a>[pg +220]</span>"Of course--that needn't make any difference about your +calling--on Aunt Jane."</p> + +<p>"Thank you," laughed Bartley. "And because of the privilege which I +really appreciate, I'll agree to look for another heroine."</p> + +<p>Dorothy had not expected just such an answer. "In San Andreas?" she +queried.</p> + +<p>"I can't say. I'll be lucky if I find another, anywhere, to +compare--"</p> + +<p>"If you had asked me, first," interrupted Dorothy, "I might have said +'yes.'"</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry I didn't. Won't you reconsider?"</p> + +<p>Dorothy shook her head. Then she looked up at him frankly, steadily. "I +think you took me for granted. That is what I didn't like."</p> + +<p>"But--I didn't! It didn't occur to me to really begin my story until +after I had seen you. Of course I knew I would write a new story sooner or +later. I hope you will believe that."</p> + +<p>"Yes. But I think I know why you decided to stay in San Andreas, instead +of riding south, with Cheyenne. Aunt Jane and Little Jim and your heroine +were within easy riding distance."</p> + +<p>"I'll admit I intended to write about Aunt Jane and Jimmy. I actually +adore Aunt Jane. And Little Jim, he's what one might call an unknown +quantity--"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221"></a>[pg +221]</span>"He seems to be, just now."</p> + +<p>"Oh, he won't go far," said Bartley, smiling.</p> + +<p>Dorothy tossed her head. "And Cheyenne--"</p> + +<p>"Oh, he is the moving figure in the story. That is not a pun, if you +please. I had no idea that Cheyenne could actually hate any one, until the +other night when he told me about--Laramie, and that man Sears."</p> + +<p>"Did he talk much about Sears?"</p> + +<p>"Not much--but enough. Frankly, I think Cheyenne will kill Sears if he +happens to meet him again."</p> + +<p>"And that will furnish the climax for your story!" said Dorothy +scornfully.</p> + +<p>"Well, if it has to happen--" Bartley paused.</p> + +<p>Dorothy's face was troubled. Finally she rose and picked up her gloves +and hat.</p> + +<p>"I wish some one or something would stop him," she said slowly. "He +liked you. All the years he has been riding up and down the country he has +ridden alone, until he met you. I'm sorry you didn't go with him."</p> + +<p>"He did pretend that he was disappointed when I told him I was going to +stay in San Andreas for a while."</p> + +<p>"You thought he was joking, but he wasn't. <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_222" id="Page_222"></a>[pg 222]</span>We have all tried to get +him to settle down; but he would not listen. If I were a man--"</p> + +<p>"Then you think I could have influenced him?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"You might have tried, at least."</p> + +<p>"Well, he's gone. And I'll have to make the best of it--and also find +another heroine," said Bartley lightly, trying to make her smile.</p> + +<p>"I'll be the heroine of your story, upon one condition," Dorothy said, +finally.</p> + +<p>"And that is--"</p> + +<p>"If you will try and find Cheyenne and--and just be a friend to him. I +suppose it sounds silly, and I would not think of asking you to try and +keep him from doing anything he decided to do. But you might happen to be +able to say the right word at the right time."</p> + +<p>"I hardly took myself as seriously as that, in connection with +Cheyenne," declared Bartley. "I suppose, if I should saddle up and ride +south to-morrow, I might overtake him along the road, somewhere. He travels +slowly."</p> + +<p>"But you won't go, just because I spoke as I did?"</p> + +<p>"Not altogether because of that. I like Cheyenne."</p> + +<p>Impetuously Dorothy stepped close to Bartley <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_223" id="Page_223"></a>[pg 223]</span>and laid her hand on his +arm. "I knew you were like that! And what does writing about people amount +to, when you can really do something for them? It isn't just Cheyenne. +There's Little Jim--"</p> + +<p>"Yes. But where <i>is</i> Little Jim?"</p> + +<p>Dorothy called in her high, clear voice. There was no answering halloo. +"His horse is there. I can't understand--"</p> + +<p>"I'll look around a bit," said Bartley. "He's probably ambushing us, +somewhere, and expects us to be tremendously surprised."</p> + +<p>"I'll catch up my horse," said Dorothy. "No, you had better let me catch +him. He knows me."</p> + +<p>And Dorothy stepped from the clearing round the spring and walked toward +the horses. They were grazing quite a ways off, up the hillside.</p> + +<p>Bartley recalled having glimpsed Little Jim crawling through the brush +on the south side of the spring. No doubt Jimmy had grown tired of waiting, +and had dropped down to the mesa on foot to hunt rabbits. Once clear of the +hillside brush, Bartley was able to overlook the mesa below. Presently he +discerned a black hat moving along slowly. Evidently the young hunter was +stalking game.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224"></a>[pg +224]</span>Bartley hesitated to call out. He doubted that Jimmy could hear +him at that distance. Stepping down the gentle slope of the hillside to the +road, Bartley watched Jimmy for a while, hoping that he would turn and see +him. But Jimmy was busy. "Might as well go back and get the horses and ride +over to him," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>He had turned to cross the road, when he heard the sound of quick +hoof-beats. Surely Dorothy had not caught up the horses so soon? Bartley +turned toward the bend of the road. Presently a rider, his worn chaps +flapping, his shapeless hat pulled low, and his quirt swinging at every +jump of the horse, pounded up and had almost passed Bartley, when he set up +his horse and dismounted. Bartley did not recognize him until he spoke.</p> + +<p>"My name's Hull. I was lookin' for you."</p> + +<p>"All right, Mr. Hull. What do you want?"</p> + +<p>Hull's gaze traveled up and down the Easterner. Hull was looking to see +if the other carried a gun. Bartley expected argument and inwardly braced +himself. Meanwhile he wondered if he could find Hull's chin again, and as +easily as he had found it that night back of the livery barn. Hull loomed +big and heavy, and it <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" +id="Page_225"></a>[pg 225]</span>was evident from the minute he dismounted +that he meant business.</p> + +<p>Without a word, Hull swung at Bartley, smashing in with right and left, +fighting like a wild-cat, forcing his weight into the fight, and kicking +wickedly when he got a chance. Finally, after taking a straight blow in the +face, Hull clinched--and the minute Bartley felt those tough-sinewed arms +around him he knew that he was in for a licking.</p> + +<p>Bartley's only chance, and that a pretty slim one, lay in getting free +from the grip of those arms. He used his knee effectively. Hull grunted and +staggered back. Bartley jumped forward and bored in, knocking Hull off his +feet. The cow-puncher struck the ground, rolled over, and was up and coming +like a cyclone. It flashed through Bartley's mind that the only thing to do +was to stay with it till the finish. Hull was beating him down slowly, but +surely.</p> + +<p>Dully conscious that some one was calling, behind him, Bartley struck +out, straight and clean, but he might as well have tried to stop a runaway +freight with a whisk-broom. He felt the smashing impact of a blow--then +suddenly he was on his back in the road--and he had no desire to get up. +Free from the hammering of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" +id="Page_226"></a>[pg 226]</span>those heavy fists, he felt comparatively +comfortable.</p> + +<p>"You brute!" It was Dorothy's voice, tense with anger.</p> + +<p>Bartley heard another voice, thick with heavy breathing. "That's all +right, Miss Gray. But the dude had it comin'."</p> + +<p>Then Bartley heard the sound of hoof-beats--and somehow or other, +Dorothy was helping him to his feet. He tried to grin--but his lips would +not obey his will.</p> + +<p>"I'm all right," he mumbled.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps," said Dorothy, steady and cool. "But you'll want to wash your +face at the spring. I fetched your horse."</p> + +<p>"Lord, Miss Gray, let's walk. I'm more used to it."</p> + +<p>"It was that man Hull, from the mountain, wasn't it?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know his name. I <i>did</i> meet him once, in San Andreas, +after dark."</p> + +<p>"I'll just tie the horses, here. It's not far to the spring. Feel +dizzy?"</p> + +<p>"A little. But I can walk without help, thank you. Little Jim is down +there, stalking rabbits."</p> + +<p>At the spring Bartley knelt and washed the blood from his face and felt +tenderly of his half <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" +id="Page_227"></a>[pg 227]</span>closed eye, twisted his neck round and +felt a sharp click--and then his head became clearer. His light shirt was +half-torn from his shoulders, and he was scandalously mussed up, to put it +mildly. He got to his feet and faced Dorothy.</p> + +<p>"There's a formula for this sort of thing, in books," he said. "Just now +I can't recall it. First, however, you say you're 'all right,' if you are +alive. If you are not, it doesn't matter. Then you say, 'a mere scratch!' +But I'm certain of one thing. I never needed a heroine more than I did when +you arrived."</p> + +<p>Dorothy smiled in spite of herself. "You aren't pretending, are you? I +mean--about your condition?"</p> + +<p>"I should say not. My eye is closed. My right arm won't work, and my +head feels queer--and I am <i>not</i> hungry. But my soul goes marching +on."</p> + +<p>"Then we'll have to find Jimmy. It's getting late."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228"></a>[pg +228]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XXI</h2> + +<h3><a name='GIT_ALONG_CAYUSE'></a>"GIT ALONG CAYUSE"</h3> + + +<p>It was dark when Bartley arrived at his hotel in San Andreas. Not caring +to parade his black eye and his swollen mouth, he took his evening meal at +a little Mexican restaurant, and then went back to his room, where he spent +the evening adding a few more pertinent notes to his story; notes that were +fresh in his mind. He knew what it felt like to take a good licking. In +fact, the man is unfortunate who does not. Bartley thought he could write +effectively upon the subject.</p> + +<p>He had found Dorothy's quiet sympathy rather soothing. She had made no +fuss whatever about the matter. And she had not insisted that he stop at +the ranch and get doctored up. Little Jim had promptly asked Bartley, "Who +done it?" and Bartley had told him. Little Jim asked more questions and was +silenced only by a promise from Dorothy to buy him more cartridges. "That +is, if you promise not to say anything about it to Aunt Jane or Uncle <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229"></a>[pg 229]</span>Frank," +she stipulated. Little Jim gravely shook hands upon the agreement. Dorothy +knew that he would keep his word.</p> + +<p>This agreement had been made after Bartley had left them. Dorothy had +sworn Little Jim to silence, not so much on Bartley's account as on her +own. Should the news of the fight become public, there would be much +bucolic comment, wherein her name would be mentioned and the whole affair +interpreted to suit the crude imaginings of the community. Bartley also +realized this and, because of it, stuck close to his room for two days, +meanwhile making copious notes for the new story.</p> + +<p>But the making of notes for the story was a rather tame occupation +compared with the possibilities of actual adventure on the road. He had a +good saddle-horse, plenty of optimism, and enough money to pay his way +wherever he chose to go. Incidentally he had a notebook and pencil. What +more did a man need to make life worth while?</p> + +<p>And then, somewhere along the southern highway Cheyenne was jogging with +Filaree and Joshua:</p> + +<blockquote> +Seems like I don't git anywhere:<br /> + Git along, cayuse, git along.<br /> +</blockquote> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230"></a>[pg +230]</span>Bartley rose and stepped to the window. San Andreas drowsed in +the noon sun. Far to the north he could see a dot of fresh green--the +cottonwoods of the Lawrence rancho. Again he found himself in the grip of +indecision. After all, a fellow didn't have to journey up and down the land +to find material for a story. There was plenty of material right where he +was. All he had to do was to stop, look, and listen. "Hang the story!" he +exclaimed peevishly. "I'll just go out and <i>live</i>--and then write the +story."</p> + +<p>It did not take him long to pack his saddle-bags, nor to get together +the few articles of clothing he had had washed by a Mexican woman in town. +He wrote a brief note to Dorothy, stating that he was on his way. He paid +his hotel bill, stepped round to the livery and paid for Dobe's +entertainment, saddled up, and, literally shaking the dust of San Andreas +from his feet, rode down the long trail south, headed for Joe Scott's +placer, as his first stop.</p> + +<p>He would spend the night there and then head south again. The only +living thing that seemed interested in Bartley's exodus was a stray dog +that seemed determined to follow him. Turning from the road, Bartley took +the short cut to Scott's placer. Glancing back he saw that the <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231"></a>[pg 231]</span>dog was +still following. Bartley told him to go home. The dog, a very ordinary +yellow dog, didn't happen to have a home--and he was hungry. So he ignored +Bartley's command.</p> + +<p>Whether or not he imagined that Bartley was different from the run of +townsfolk is a question. Possibly he imagined Bartley might give him +something to eat. In any event, the dog stuck to the trail clear up to +Scott's placer.</p> + +<p>Scott was not at the cabin. Bartley hallooed, glanced round, and +dismounted. On the cabin door was a note: "Gone to Phoenix. J. Scott."</p> + +<p>Bartley turned from the cabin to find the dog gazing up at him +mournfully; his expression seemed to convey the idea that they were both in +hard luck. Nobody home and nothing to eat.</p> + +<p>"What, you here!" exclaimed Bartley.</p> + +<p>The yellow dog wagged his tail. He was young and as yet had some faith +in mankind.</p> + +<p>Bartley tied his horse and strode up the trail to the workings. +Everything had been put in order. The dog helped investigate, sniffing at +the wheelbarrow, the buckets, the empty sacks weighted down with rock to +keep them from blowing away, the row of tools, picks and shovels and bars. +Evidently the owner of the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" +id="Page_232"></a>[pg 232]</span>place was not concealed beneath any of +these things.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile the afternoon shadows warned Bartley that a camp with water +and feed was the next thing in order. He strode back to the cabin. There +was no problem to solve, although he thought there was. The yellow dog, an +old campaigner in the open, though young in years, solved his problem by a +suggestion. He was tired. There seemed to be no food in sight. He +philosophically trotted to the open shed opposite the cabin and made a bed +for himself in a pile of gunny-sacks. Bartley grinned. Why not?</p> + +<p>Experience had taught Bartley to carry something else, besides a +notebook and pencil, in his saddle-bags. Hence the crackers and can of +corned beef came in handy. The mountain water was cold and refreshing. +There was hay in the burro stable. Moreover, Bartley now had a happy +companion who licked his chops, wagged his tail, and grinned as he finished +a bit of corned beef. Bartley tossed him a cracker. The dog caught it and +it disappeared. This was something like it! Here was a man who rode a big +horse, didn't kick stray dogs, and even shared a meal with a fellow! Such a +man was worth following forever.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233"></a>[pg +233]</span>"It would seem that you have adopted me," declared Bartley. The +dog had shown no inclination to leave since being fed. There might possibly +be another meal coming, later.</p> + +<p>"But what am I going to do with you?" queried Bartley, as the dog curled +up on the pile of gunny-sacks. "You don't look as though you habitually +stopped at hotels, and I'll have to, until I catch up with Cheyenne. What's +the answer?"</p> + +<p>The yellow dog, all snuggled down in the sacks, peered at Bartley with +unblinking eyes. Bartley laughed. Then he made his own bed with +gunny-sacks, and after smoking a cigarette, turned in and slept well.</p> + +<p>He did not expect to find the dog there in the morning. But the dog was +there, most evidently waiting for breakfast, grinning his delight at not +being cursed or kicked at, and frisking round the cabin yard in a mad race +after nothing in particular, and indicating in every way possible that he +was the happiest dog that ever wagged a tail.</p> + +<p>Crackers and corned beef again, and spring water for breakfast. And +while Dobe munched his hay, Bartley smoked and roughly planned his +itinerary. He would travel south as far as <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_234" id="Page_234"></a>[pg 234]</span>Phoenix and then swing +back again, over the old Apache Trail--if he did not overtake Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>If he did overtake him, the plan might be changed. It did not matter. He +had set out to find his erstwhile traveling companion. If he found him, +they could just as well travel together. If he did not, Bartley determined +to see much of the country. In so far as influencing Cheyenne in any +way--that would have to be determined by chance. Bartley felt that his +influence with the sprightly Cheyenne weighed very little against +Cheyenne's hatred for Panhandle Sears.</p> + +<p>Once more upon the road, with the early morning shadows slanting across +the valley, Bartley felt that it was his own fault if he did not enjoy +himself. Swinging into an easy trot he turned to see if the yellow dog were +following him. At first Bartley thought the dog had shown wisdom and had +departed for San Andreas, but, happening to glance down on the other side +of his horse, he saw the dog trotting along, close to Dobe's heels.</p> + +<p>Bartley felt a pity for the dog's dumb, insistent attachment. Reining +in, Bartley told the dog he had better go home. For answer the dog lay down +in the horse's shadow, his head on <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" +id="Page_235"></a>[pg 235]</span>his paws, and his eyes fixed on Bartley's +face. He did not seem to know what the words meant. But he did know--only +pretended he did not. His rooftree was the Arizona sky, and his home the +place where his adopted master camped at night.</p> + +<p>"Oh, very well," said Bartley, smiling in spite of himself.</p> + +<p>That noon they stopped at a ranch where Bartley had dinner and fed his +horse. Cheyenne had passed that way several days ago, the ranch folk told +him. It was about twenty miles to the next town. Bartley was invited to +stop by and spend the night, but he declined the invitation, even as they +had declined to accept money for their hospitality. Meanwhile the dog had +disappeared. He had not followed Bartley into the ranch. And it was some +twenty minutes or so after Bartley was on the road again that he discovered +the dog, coming round a bend on the run. There was no getting rid of +him.</p> + +<p>The dog, who had often been chased from ranches by other dogs, had at +first waited patiently for Bartley to appear. Then, as Bartley did not +appear, the dog made a short scout through the near-by brush. Finally he +stirred up a rabbit. It was a long, hard chase, but the <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236"></a>[pg 236]</span>dog got +his dinner. Then, circling, he took up Bartley's trail from the ranch, +overtaking him with grim determination not to lose sight of him again.</p> + +<p>Arriving at the town of Stacey early that afternoon, Bartley arranged +with the local liveryman for the dog's keep that night. From that night on, +the dog never let Dobe out of his sight. It was evidently intended that he +should sleep in stalls and guard Dobe against the approach of any one save +his master.</p> + +<p>Bartley learned that Cheyenne had passed through Stacey headed south. He +had stopped at the local store to purchase provisions. Estimating roughly, +Bartley was making better time than had Cheyenne, yet it would be several +days before he could possibly overtake him.</p> + +<p>Next day Bartley had ridden better than forty miles, and that night he +stayed at a ranch, where he was made welcome. In fact, any one who rode a +good horse and appeared to be even halfway civil never suffered for want of +a meal or a bed in those days. Gasoline has somewhat diluted such +hospitality, yet there are sections of Arizona still unspoiled, where the +stranger is made to feel that the word "home" has retained its ancient and +honorable significance.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237"></a>[pg +237]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XXII</h2> + +<h3><a name='BOX_S_BUSINESS'></a>BOX-S BUSINESS</h3> + + +<p>A few days later, Bartley stopped at a small town to have his horse +shod. The blacksmith seemed unusually interested in the horse and +complimented Bartley upon owning such a good mount.</p> + +<p>"Comes from up San Andreas way," said the smith, noticing the brand on +Dobe's flank.</p> + +<p>"Yes. I picked him up at Antelope. I understand he was raised on Senator +Brown's ranch."</p> + +<p>"That's Steve Brown's brand, all right. Heard the news from up that +way?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing special."</p> + +<p>"Seems somebody run off a bunch of Senator Steve's horses, last week. +Thought mebby you'd heard."</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Well, thought I'd just tell you. I seen one posse ride through +yesterday. They'll be lookin' for strangers along the road."</p> + +<p>"Thanks. I bought this horse--and I happen to know Senator Brown."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238"></a>[pg +238]</span>"No offense, stranger. If I'd 'a' suspicioned you'd stole that +horse, you wouldn't take him out of here. Like I said to Cheyenne, last +week; he could fetch a whole carload of stock in here and take 'em out +again without trouble. He was tellin' me how he lost his horses, and we got +to talkin' about some folks bein' blind when they're facin' a brand on a +critter. Mebby you heard tell of Cheyenne Hastings?"</p> + +<p>"I have traveled with him. You say he stopped here a few days ago?"</p> + +<p>"Well, not just stopped; he kind of looked in to see how I was gettin' +along. He acted queerlike, for him. I've knowed Cheyenne for years. Said he +was feelin' all right. He ast me if I'd seen Panhandle Sears down this way, +recent. Seemed kind of disappointed when I told him no. Cheyenne used to be +a right-smart man, before he had trouble with that woman of his."</p> + +<p>"Yes? He told me about it," said Bartley, not caring to hear any more of +the details of Cheyenne's trouble.</p> + +<p>"'Most everybody knows it," stated the smith. "And if I was Sears I'd +sure leave this country."</p> + +<p>"So should I. I've seen Cheyenne handle a gun."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239"></a>[pg +239]</span>"You got the right idea!" exclaimed the blacksmith, evidently +pleased. "All Cheyenne's friends have been waitin' for years for him to +clean that slate and start fresh again. He used to be a right-smart hand, +before he had trouble."</p> + +<p>The blacksmith accompanied his conversation with considerable elbow +motion and the rattle and clang of shaping horseshoes. Presently Dobe was +new shod and ready for the road. Bartley paid the smith, thanked him for a +good job, and rode south. Evidently Cheyenne's open quarrel with Sears was +the talk of the countryside. It was expected of Cheyenne that he would +"clean the slate and start fresh" some day. And cleaning the slate meant +killing Sears. To Bartley it seemed strange that any one should be pleased +with the idea of one man killing another deliberately.</p> + +<p>In speaking of the recent horse-stealings, the blacksmith had mentioned +no names. But Bartley at once drew the conclusion that it had been Sneed's +men who had run off the Senator's horses. Sneed was known to be a +horse-thief. He had never been convicted, although he had been arrested and +tried several times. It was also known that Senator Steve had openly <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240"></a>[pg 240]</span>vowed +that he would rid the country of Sneed, sooner or later.</p> + +<p>Several times, during his journey south, Bartley was questioned, but +never interfered with. Thus far he heard of Cheyenne occasionally, but, +nearing Phoenix, he lost track of his erstwhile companion. However, he took +it for granted that Phoenix had been Cheyenne's destination. And Bartley +wanted to see the town for himself, in any event.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>Cheyenne, arriving in Phoenix, stabled his horses at the Top-Notch +livery, and took a room for himself directly opposite the Hole-in-the-Wall +gambling-house. He refused to drink with the occasional acquaintance he +met, not because he did not like liquor, but because Colonel Stevenson, the +city marshal, had told him that Panhandle Sears and his friends were in +town.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you tell me to go git him?" queried Cheyenne, looking the +marshal in the eye.</p> + +<p>"I didn't think it was necessary," said the marshal.</p> + +<p>"What? To git him?"</p> + +<p>The marshal smiled. Then casually: "I <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_241" id="Page_241"></a>[pg 241]</span>hear that Panhandle and +his friends are drinking heavy and spending considerable money. They must +have made a strike, somewhere."</p> + +<p>"I see by the paper somebody run off a bunch of the Box-S hosses," +remarked Cheyenne, also casually.</p> + +<p>Then, without further comment, he left the marshal wondering if +Panhandle's presence in town had any connection with the recent running-off +of the Box-S stock. The sheriff of Antelope had wired Colonel Stevenson to +be on the lookout for Bill Sneed and his gang, but had not mentioned +Panhandle's name in the telegram.</p> + +<p>The following day, Senator Brown and his foreman, Lon Pelly, arrived in +Phoenix and had a long talk with the marshal. That afternoon Lon Pelly took +the train south. Early in the evening Senator Brown received a telegram +from Pelly stating that Sneed and four men had left Tucson, headed north +and riding horses.</p> + +<p>The stolen horses had been trailed south as far as Phoenix. It was +evident that they had been driven to Tucson and disposed of somewhere in +that vicinity. Yet there was no conclusive proof that Sneed had stolen the +horses. As usual, he had managed to keep a few days <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242"></a>[pg 242]</span>ahead +of his pursuers. Sneed was known to have left his camp in the hills above +San Andreas. The first posse had found the camp abandoned. Sneed had not +been identified until Pelly got track of him in Tucson.</p> + +<p>During his talk with Senator Brown the marshal mentioned the fact that +Panhandle Sears was in Phoenix.</p> + +<p>"Did Panhandle come in from the south?" queried the Senator.</p> + +<p>"Nobody seems to know."</p> + +<p>"Well, if he did, we have got the link that's missing in this chain, +Colonel. Pelly is holdin' one end of the chain down in Tucson, and the +other end is layin' right here in Phoenix. If we can connect her up--"</p> + +<p>"But we haven't located the horses, Senator."</p> + +<p>"Colonel, I'll find those horses if I can. But I'm after Sneed, this +journey. He has been running things about ten years too long to suit me. +I've got a check-book with me. You have the men. I'm out to do a little +housecleanin' of my own. If we can get Panhandle to talk, we can find out +something."</p> + +<p>"He's been on a drunk for a week. I could run him in for disturbing the +peace and--"</p> + +<p>"And he'd suspect what we're after and <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_243" id="Page_243"></a>[pg 243]</span>freeze up, tight. No, let +him run loose, but keep your eye on him. He'll give the deal away, sooner +or later."</p> + +<p>"I hope it's sooner," said the Colonel. "Cheyenne is holed up down the +street, waiting for a chance to get Sears. Cheyenne didn't say so, but it +was in his eye. He's changed considerable since I saw him last."</p> + +<p>"Was there any one with him: a tall, dark-haired, kind of clean-cut boy, +for instance?"</p> + +<p>"No, not when I saw him. He rode in with his usual outfit."</p> + +<p>"Wonder where he lost young Bartley? Well, I'm glad the boy isn't here. +He might get hurt."</p> + +<p>"Wild?"</p> + +<p>"No. Quiet. Writes stories. He's out here to look at the West. Stayed at +the ranch a spell. Mrs. Brown likes him."</p> + +<p>Colonel Stevenson nodded and offered the Senator a cigar. "Let's step +over to the hotel, Steve. It's a long time since--"</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>That evening Bartley arrived in Phoenix, put up his horse, and, upon +inquiry, learned that the Grand Central was the best hotel in town. He was +registering when he noticed Senator <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_244" id="Page_244"></a>[pg 244]</span>Brown's name. He made +inquiry of the clerk. Yes, the Senator had arrived that morning. And would +Mr. Bartley prefer a front room? The front rooms on the north side were +cooler. No, the clerk knew nothing about a Mr. Cheyenne. There was no one +by that name registered at the hotel. It was past the regular dinner hour, +but the dining-room was not yet closed. There was a men's furnishings store +just across the street. They carried a complete stock. And did Mr. Bartley +wish to be called at any special hour in the morning? Breakfast was served +from six-thirty to nine-thirty.</p> + +<p>Bartley had dinner, and later strolled around to the Top-Notch livery to +see that Dobe was being well cared for. While talking with the stableman, +Bartley noticed a gray pony and in the next stall a buckskin--Cheyenne's +horses.</p> + +<p>"Those are Cheyenne's horses, aren't they?" he queried.</p> + +<p>"I dunno. Mebby that's his name. He left 'em here a few days ago. I only +seen him once, since then."</p> + +<p>"I'll be around in the morning. If a man called Cheyenne should happen +to come in, just tell him that Bartley is stopping at the Grand +Central."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245"></a>[pg +245]</span>"I'll tell him, all right," said the stableman.</p> + +<p>And as soon as Bartley was out of sight, that worthy called up the city +marshal and told him that a stranger had ridden in and stabled a horse +bearing the Box-S brand. A big reward had been offered for the stolen +horses.</p> + +<p>At the hotel Bartley learned that Senator Brown had gone out for the +evening. Tired from his long ride, Bartley went to his room. Senator Steve +and Cheyenne were in town. Bartley recalled the blacksmith's talk about the +stolen horses. No doubt that accounted for Senator Steve's presence in +Phoenix. As for Cheyenne--Bartley decided to hunt him up in the +morning.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246"></a>[pg +246]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XXIII</h2> + +<h3><a name='THE_HOLE_IN_THE_WALL'></a>THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL</h3> + + +<p>Panhandle Sears, in a back room in the Hole-in-the-Wall, was ugly drunk. +The Hole-in-the-Wall had the reputation of running a straight game. Whether +or not the game was straight, Panhandle had managed to drop his share of +the money from the sale of the Box-S horses. He had had nothing to do with +the actual stealing of them, but he had, with the assistance of his Mexican +companion Posmo, engineered the sale to a rancher living out of Tucson. It +was understood that the horses would find their way across the border.</p> + +<p>Now Panhandle was broke again. He stated that unpleasant fact to his +companions, Posmo and Shorty,--the latter a town loafer he had picked up in +Antelope. Shorty had nothing to say. Panhandle's drunken aggressive cowed +him. But Posmo, who had really found the market for the stolen stock, felt +that he had been cheated. Panhandle had promised him a third of his share +of the money. Panhandle <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" +id="Page_247"></a>[pg 247]</span>had kept on promising from day to day, +liquidating his promises with whiskey. And now there was no money.</p> + +<p>Posmo knew Panhandle well enough not to press the matter, just then. But +Panhandle, because neither of his companions had said anything when told +that he was broke, turned on Posmo.</p> + +<p>"What you got to say about it, anyway?" he asked with that curious +stubbornness born in liquor.</p> + +<p>"I say that you owe me a hundred dollar," declared Posmo.</p> + +<p>"Well, go ahead and collect!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, go ahead and collect," said Shorty, suddenly siding with +Panhandle. "We blowed her in. We're broke, but we ain't cryin' about +it."</p> + +<p>"That is all right," said Posmo quietly. "If the money is gone, she is +gone; yes?"</p> + +<p>"That's the way to say it!" asserted Panhandle, changing front and +slapping Posmo on the shoulder. "We're broke, and who the hell cares?"</p> + +<p>"Let's have a drink," suggested Shorty. "I got a couple of beans +left."</p> + +<p>They slouched out from the back room and <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_248" id="Page_248"></a>[pg 248]</span>stood at the bar. +Panhandle immediately became engaged in noisy argument with one of the +frequenters of the place. Senator Brown's name was mentioned by the other, +but mentioned casually, with no reference whatever to stolen horses.</p> + +<p>Panhandle laughed. "So old Steve is down here lookin' for his hosses, +eh?"</p> + +<p>"What horses?"</p> + +<p>The question, spoken by no one knew whom, chilled the group to +silence.</p> + +<p>Panhandle saw that he had made a blunder. "Who wants to know?" he +queried, gazing round the barroom.</p> + +<p>"Why, it's in all the papers," declared the bartender conciliatingly. +"The Box-S horses was run off a couple of weeks ago."</p> + +<p>Panhandle turned his back on the group and called for a drink.</p> + +<p>Shorty was tugging gently at his sleeve. "Posmo's beat it, Pan."</p> + +<p>"To hell with him! Beat it yourself if you feel like it."</p> + +<p>"I'll stick Pan," declared Shorty, yet his furtive eyes belied his +assertion.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>For three days Bartley had tried to find <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_249" id="Page_249"></a>[pg 249]</span>where Cheyenne was +staying, but without success, chiefly because Cheyenne kept close to his +room during the daytime, watching the entrance to the Hole-in-the-Wall, +waiting for Panhandle to step out into the daylight, when there would be +folk on the street who could witness that Panhandle had drawn his gun +first. Cheyenne determined to give his enemy that chance, and then kill +him. But thus far Panhandle had not appeared on the street in the daytime, +so far as Cheyenne knew.</p> + +<p>Incidentally, Senator Steve had warned Bartley to keep away from the +Hole-in-the-Wall district after dark, intimating that there was more in the +wind than Cheyenne's feud with Panhandle Sears. So Bartley contented +himself with acting as a sort of private secretary for the Senator, a duty +that was a pleasure. The hardest thing Bartley did was to refuse bottled +entertainment, at least once out of every three times it was offered.</p> + +<p>On the evening of the fourth day after Pelly had wired the Senator that +Sneed and his men had ridden north from Tucson, Posmo, hanging about the +eastern outskirts of Phoenix, saw a small band of horsemen against the +southern sky-line. Knowing the trail they would take, <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250"></a>[pg 250]</span>north, +Posmo had timed their arrival almost to the hour. They would pass to the +east of Phoenix, and take the old Apache Trail, North. Posmo had his horse +saddled and hidden in a draw. He mounted and rode directly toward the +oncoming horsemen.</p> + +<p>He sang as he rode. It was safer to do that, when it was growing dark. +The riders would know he was a Mexican, and that he did not wish to conceal +his identity on the road. He did not care to be mistaken for an enemy, +especially so near Phoenix.</p> + +<p>Sneed, a giant in the dusk, reined in as Posmo hailed the group. Sneed +asked his name. Posmo replied, and was told to ride up. Sneed, separating +himself from his men, rode a little ahead and met Posmo.</p> + +<p>"Panhandle is give the deal away," stated Posmo.</p> + +<p>"How?"</p> + +<p>"He drunk and spend all the money. He do not give me anything for that I +make the deal--over there," and Posmo gestured toward the south.</p> + +<p>"Double-crossed you, eh? And now you're sore and want his scalp."</p> + +<p>"He talk too much of the Box-S horses in <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_251" id="Page_251"></a>[pg 251]</span>that cantina," stated +Posmo deliberately. "He say that you owe him money." This was an +afterthought, and an invention.</p> + +<p>"Who did he say that to?" queried Sneed.</p> + +<p>"He tell everybody in that place that you turn the good trick and then +throw him hard."</p> + +<p>"Either you're lyin', or Panhandle's crazy." Sneed turned and called to +his men, a few paces off. They rode up on tired horses. "What do you say, +boys? Panhandle is talkin', over there in Phoenix. Posmo, here, says +Panhandle is talkin' about us. Now nobody's got a thing on us. We been +south lookin' at some stock we're thinkin' of buyin'. Want to ride over +with me and have a little talk with Panhandle?"</p> + +<p>"Ain't that kind of risky, Cap?"</p> + +<p>"Every time! But it ain't necessary to ride right into the marshal's +office. We put our little deal through clean. The horses we're ridin' +belong to us. And who's goin' to stop us from ridin' in, or out, of town? I +aim to talk to Panhandle into ridin' north with us. It's safer to have him +along. If you all don't want to ride with me, I'll go in alone."</p> + +<p>"We're with you, Cap," said one of the men.</p> + +<p>"Mebby it's safer to ride through the towns <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_252" id="Page_252"></a>[pg 252]</span>from now on than to keep +dodgin' 'em," suggested Lawson.</p> + +<p>"Come on, then," and Sneed indicated Posmo.</p> + +<p>"And don't make any mistakes," threatened Lawson, riding close to the +Mexican. "If you do--you won't last."</p> + +<p>Posmo had not counted on this turn of affairs. He had supposed that his +news would send Sneed and his men in to have it out with Panhandle, or that +one of them would ride in and persuade Panhandle to join them. But he now +knew that he would have to ride with Sneed, or he would be suspected of +double-dealing.</p> + +<p>At the fork of the road leading into Phoenix, Sneed reined in. "We're +ridin' tired horses, boys. And we ain't lookin' for trouble. All we want is +Panhandle. We'll get him."</p> + +<p>Sitting his big horse like a statue, his club foot concealed by the long +<i>tapadero</i>, his physical being dominating his followers, Sneed headed +the group that rode slowly down the long open stretch bordering on the east +of the town. They entered town quietly and stopped a few doors below the +lighted front of the Hole-in-the-Wall.</p> + +<p>"Just step in and tell Panhandle I want to see him," and Sneed indicated +one of his riders.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253"></a>[pg +253]</span>The man went in and came out again with the information that +Panhandle had left the saloon about an hour ago; that he had told the +bartender he was going out to get some money and come back and play the +wheel.</p> + +<p>"Get on your horse," said Sneed, who had been gazing up the street while +listening to the other. "Here comes Panhandle now. I'll do the +talking."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254"></a>[pg +254]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XXIV</h2> + +<h3><a name='CHEYENNE_PLAYS_BIG'></a>CHEYENNE PLAYS BIG</h3> + + +<p>Watching from his darkened window, Cheyenne had seen Panhandle leave the +Hole-in-the-Wall, and stride up the street alone. It was the first time +Cheyenne had seen Sears since he had taken the single room opposite the +gambling-house. Cheyenne stepped back, drew down the curtain, and turned on +the light. The bare board floor was littered with cigarette stubs. A pair +of saddle-bags hung on the iron bedstead. Other furniture was a chair, a +scratched and battered washstand, a cracked mirror. Standing by the +washstand Cheyenne took his gun from its holster, half-cocked it, and +punched out the loaded cartridges. He pulled the pin, pushed the cylinder +out with his thumb, and examined it against the light. Carefully he cleaned +and replaced the cylinder, reloaded it, held the hammer back, and spun the +cylinder with his hand. Finally he thrust the gun in the holster and, +striding to the bed, sat down, his chin in his hands.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255"></a>[pg +255]</span>Somewhere out there on the street, or in the Hole-in-the-Wall, +he would meet his enemy--in a few minutes, perhaps. There would be no wordy +argument. They understood each other, and had understood each other, since +that morning, long ago when they had passed each other on the +road--Panhandle riding in to Laramie and Cheyenne and Little Jim riding +from the abandoned home. Cheyenne thought of Little Jim, of his wife, and, +by some queer trick of mind, of Bartley. He knew that the Easterner was in +town. The stableman at the Top-Notch had told him. Well, he had seen +Panhandle. Now he would go out and meet him, or overtake him.</p> + +<p>Some one turned from the street into the hall below and rapidly climbed +the stairs. Cheyenne heard a knock at the door opposite his. That room was +unoccupied. Then came a brisk knock at his own door.</p> + +<p>"What do you want?"</p> + +<p>"Is that you, Cheyenne?"</p> + +<p>"Who wants to know?"</p> + +<p>"Bartley. I just found out from Colonel Stevenson where you were +camping."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne stepped to the door and unlocked it.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256"></a>[pg +256]</span>Bartley entered, glanced round the room, and then shook hands +with Cheyenne. "Been a week trying to find you. How are you and how are the +horses? Man, but it was a long, lonesome ride from San Andreas! If it +hadn't been for that dog that adopted me--by the way, Colonel Stevenson was +telling Senator Brown that Panhandle is in town. I suppose you know +it."</p> + +<p>"I seen him, this evenin'."</p> + +<p>"So did I. Just passed him as I came down here. The Colonel said you +were camping somewhere opposite the Hole-in-the-Wall. How is +everything?"</p> + +<p>"Quiet."</p> + +<p>"Were you going anywhere?"</p> + +<p>"No place in particular."</p> + +<p>Bartley sat down on the edge of the bed and lighted a cigarette. +Cheyenne stood as though waiting for him to leave. There was something +queer about Cheyenne. His eyes were somber, his manner stiff and unnatural. +His greeting had been cool.</p> + +<p>"About that man Panhandle--" Bartley began, but Cheyenne interrupted +with a gesture.</p> + +<p>"You say you saw him, on your way down here?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257"></a>[pg +257]</span>"Yes. He didn't seem to recognize me. He was walking fast."</p> + +<p>"How was Little Jim when you left?"</p> + +<p>"Just fine!"</p> + +<p>"And the folks?"</p> + +<p>"Same as ever. Miss Gray--"</p> + +<p>"Well, I reckon I'll be steppin' along. Glad I saw you again."</p> + +<p>"Going to leave town to-night?"</p> + +<p>"I aim to."</p> + +<p>Bartley could no longer ignore Cheyenne's attitude. He knew that +something had happened or was about to happen. Cheyenne's manner did not +invite question or suggestion. Yet Bartley had promised Dorothy that he +would exert what influence he had--and it seemed a critical time, just at +that moment.</p> + +<p>"I'd like to talk with you a minute, if you have time," said +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Won't do no good, pardner." And without waiting for Bartley to say +anything more, Cheyenne stepped up to him and held out his hand. "So long," +he said.</p> + +<p>"Well, good luck!" replied Bartley, and shook hands with him heartily. +"I hope you win."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne gestured toward the door. Bartley <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_258" id="Page_258"></a>[pg 258]</span>stepped out into the +hallway. The light in the room flickered out.</p> + +<p>"I reckon you'll be goin' back to your hotel," said Cheyenne. "Wait. +I'll just step down first."</p> + +<p>At the foot of the stairs Cheyenne paused and glanced up and down the +street. Directly across the way the Hole-in-the-Wall was ablaze with light. +A few doors east of the gambling-hall an indistinct group of riders sat +their horses as though waiting for some one. Cheyenne drew back into the +shadows of the hallway.</p> + +<p>Bartley peered out over Cheyenne's shoulder. From up the street in the +opposite direction came the distant click of boot-heels. A figure strode +swiftly toward the patch of white light in front of the gambling-hall.</p> + +<p>"Just stand back a little, pardner," said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Bartley felt his heart begin to thump as Cheyenne gently loosened his +gun in the holster.</p> + +<p>"It's Panhandle!" whispered Bartley, as the figure of Sears was +silhouetted against the lighted windows of the place opposite.</p> + +<p>Out of the shadows where the riders waited came a single, abrupt word, +peremptory, incisive: "Panhandle!"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259"></a>[pg +259]</span>Panhandle, about to turn into the lighted doorway, stopped +short.</p> + +<p>Sneed had called to Panhandle; but it was Posmo the Mexican who rode +forward to meet him. Sneed, close behind Posmo, watched to see that the +Mexican carried out his instructions, which were simply to tell Panhandle +to get his horse and leave town with them. Seeing the group behind the +Mexican, Panhandle's first thought was that Posmo had betrayed him to the +authorities. It <i>was</i> Posmo. Panhandle recognized the Mexican's pinto +horse.</p> + +<p>Enraged by what he thought was a trap, and with drunken contempt for the +man he had cheated, Panhandle jerked out his gun and fired at the Mexican; +fired again at the bulky figure behind Posmo, and staggered back as a slug +shattered his shoulder. Cursing, he swung round and emptied his gun into +the blur of riders that separated and spread across the street, returning +his fire from the vantage of the shadows. Flinging his empty gun at the +nearest rider, Panhandle lurched toward the doorway where Cheyenne and +Bartley stood watching. He had almost made the curb when he lunged and +fell. He rose and tried to crawl to the shelter of the doorway. One of +Sneed's <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260"></a>[pg +260]</span>men spurred forward and shot Panhandle in the back. He sank +down, his body twitching.</p> + +<p>Bartley gasped as he saw the rider deliberately throw another shot into +the dying man. Then Cheyenne's arm jerked up. The rider swerved and pitched +from the saddle. Another of Sneed's men crossed the patch of light, and a +splinter ripped from the door-casing where Cheyenne stood. Cheyenne's gun +came down again and the rider pitched forward and fell. His horse galloped +down the street. Again Cheyenne fired, and again. Then, in the sudden +stillness that followed, Cheyenne stepped out and dragged Panhandle into +the hallway. Some one shouted. A window above the saloon opposite was +raised. Doors opened and men came out, questioning each other, gathering in +a group in front of the Hole-in-the-Wall.</p> + +<p>Stunned by the sudden shock of events, the snakelike flash of guns in +the semi-darkness, and the realization that several men had been gravely +wounded, perhaps killed, Bartley heard Cheyenne's voice as though from a +distance.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne's hand was on Bartley's arm. "Come on. The game is closed for +the night."</p> + +<p>As they stepped from the doorway a man stopped them and asked what had +happened.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261"></a>[pg +261]</span>"We're goin' for a doctor," said Cheyenne. "Somebody got +hurt."</p> + +<p>Hastening along the shadowy wall of the building, they turned a corner +and by a roundabout way reached the city marshal's office.</p> + +<p>The marshal, who had been summoned in haste, was at his desk. "Sneed and +his bunch got Panhandle," stated Cheyenne quietly. "Mr. Bartley, here, saw +the row. Four of Sneed's men are down. One got away."</p> + +<p>"Sure it was Sneed?"</p> + +<p>"I reckon your men will fetch him in, right soon. Panhandle got Sneed +and a Mexican, before they stopped him."</p> + +<p>Colonel Stevenson glanced at Cheyenne's belt and holster. Cheyenne drew +his gun and handed it to the marshal. "She's fresh loaded," he said.</p> + +<p>"Cheyenne emptied his gun trying to fight off the men who killed +Panhandle," said Bartley, stepping forward.</p> + +<p>"And you're sure they were Sneed's men?" queried the marshal.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne nodded.</p> + +<p>"I am obliged to you," said the marshal. "But I'll have to detain you +both until after the inquest."</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262"></a>[pg +262]</span><hr /> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XXV</h2> + +<h3><a name='TWO_TRAILS_HOME'></a>TWO TRAILS HOME</h3> + + +<p>Bartley was the chief witness at the inquest. He told his story in a +manner that impressed the coroner's jury. Senator Brown was present, and +identified one of the dead outlaws as Sneed. Posmo, killed by Panhandle's +first shot, was known in Phoenix. Panhandle, riddled with bullets, was also +identified by the Senator, Cheyenne, and several habitués of the +gambling-hall. Bartley himself identified the body of one man as that of +Hull.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne was the last witness called. He admitted that he had had +trouble with Panhandle Sears, and that he was looking for him when the +fight started; that Sneed and his men had unexpectedly taken the quarrel +out of his hands, and that he had fired exactly five shots at the men who +had killed Panhandle and it had been close work, and easy. Panhandle had +put up a game fight. The odds had been heavily against him. He had been +standing in the light of the gambling-hall doorway <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_263" id="Page_263"></a>[pg 263]</span>while the men who had +killed him had been in the shadow. "He didn't have a chance," concluded +Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"You say you were looking for this man Sears, and yet you took his part +against Sneed's outfit?" queried the coroner.</p> + +<p>"I didn't just say so. Mr. Bartley said that."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Bartley seems to be the only disinterested witness of the +shooting," observed the coroner.</p> + +<p>"If there is any further evidence needed to convince the jury that Mr. +Bartley's statements are impartial and correct, you might read this," +declared the city marshal. "It is the antemortem statement of one of +Sneed's men, taken at the hospital at three-fifteen this morning. He died +at four o'clock."</p> + +<p>The coroner read the statement aloud. Ten minutes later the verdict was +given. The deceased, named severally, had met death by gunshot wounds, +<i>at the hands of parties unknown</i>.</p> + +<p>It was a caustic verdict, intended for the benefit of the cattle-and +horse-thieves of the Southwest. It conveyed the hint that the city of +Phoenix was prompt to resent the presence of such gentry within its +boundaries. One of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" +id="Page_264"></a>[pg 264]</span>the daily papers commented upon the fact +that "the parties unknown" must have been fast and efficient gunmen. +Cheyenne's name was not mentioned, and that was due to the influence of the +marshal, Senator Brown, and the mayor, which left readers of the papers to +infer that the police of Phoenix had handled the matter themselves.</p> + +<p>Through the evidence of the outlaw who had survived long enough to make +a statement, the Box-S horses were traced to a ranch in the neighborhood of +Tucson, identified, and finally returned to their owner.</p> + +<p>The day following the inquest, Bartley and Cheyenne left Phoenix, with +Fort Apache as their first tentative destination, and with the promise of +much rugged and wonderful country in between as an incentive to journey +again with his companion, although Bartley needed no special incentive. At +close range Bartley had beheld the killing of several men. And he could not +free himself from the vision of Panhandle crawling toward him in the patch +of white light, the flitting of horsemen back and forth, and the red flash +of six-guns. Bartley was only too anxious to leave the place.</p> + +<p>It was not until they were two days out of <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_265" id="Page_265"></a>[pg 265]</span>Phoenix that Cheyenne +mentioned the fight--and then he did so casually, as though seeking an +opinion from his comrade.</p> + +<p>Bartley merely said he was glad Cheyenne had not killed Panhandle. +Cheyenne pondered a while, riding loosely, and gazing down at the +trail.</p> + +<p>"I reckon I would 'a' killed him--if I'd 'a' got the chance," he said. +"I meant to. No, it wasn't me or Panhandle that settled that argument: it +was somethin' bigger than us. Folks that reads about the fight, knowin' I +was in Phoenix, will most like say that I got him. Let 'em say so. I know I +didn't; and you know I didn't--and that's good enough for me."</p> + +<p>"And Dorothy and Aunt Jane and Little Jim," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Meanin' Little Jim won't have to grow up knowin' that his father was a +killer."</p> + +<p>"I was thinking of that."</p> + +<p>"Well, right here is where I quit thinkin' about it and talkin' about +it. If that dog of yours there was to kill a coyote, in a fair fight, I +reckon he wouldn't think about it long."</p> + +<p>A few minutes later Cheyenne spoke of the country they were in.</p> + +<p>"She's rough and unfriendly, right here," <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_266" id="Page_266"></a>[pg 266]</span>he said. "But north a ways +she sure makes up for it. There's big spruce and high mesas and grass to +your pony's knees and water 'most anywhere you look for it. I ain't much on +huntin'. But there's plenty deer and wild turkey up that way, and some +bear. And with a bent pin and a piece of string a fella can catch all the +trout he wants. Arizona is a mighty surprisin' State, in spots. Most folks +from the East think she's sagebrush and sand, except the Grand +Cañon; but that's kind of rented out to tourists, most of the time. +I like the Painted Desert better."</p> + +<p>"Where haven't you been?" said Bartley, laughing.</p> + +<p>"Well, I ain't been North for quite a spell."</p> + +<p>And Cheyenne fell silent, thinking of Laramie, of the broad prairies of +Wyoming, of his old homestead, and the days when he was happy with his wife +and Little Jim. But he was not silent long. He visioned a plan that he +might work out, after he had seen Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank again. +Meanwhile, the sun was shining, the road wound among the ragged hills, and +Filaree and Joshua stepped along briskly, their hoof-beats suggesting the +rhythm of a song.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267"></a>[pg +267]</span>That night they camped in the hill country not far from a +crossroads store. In the morning they bought a few provisions and an extra +canteen.</p> + +<p>"There's a piece of country between here and the real hills that is like +to be dry," explained Cheyenne. "We're leavin' the road, this mornin', and +cuttin' north. She's some rough, the way we're headed, but you'll like +it."</p> + +<p>From the sagebrush of the southern slopes they climbed slowly up to a +country of scattered juniper. By noon they were among the piñons, +following a dim bridle trail that Cheyenne's horses seemed to know.</p> + +<p>"In a couple of days, I aim to spring a surprise on you," said Cheyenne +as they turned in that night. "I figure to show you somethin' you been +wantin' to see."</p> + +<p>"Bring on your bears," said Bartley, laughing.</p> + +<p>Cheyenne's moodiness had vanished. Frequently he hummed his old trail +song as they rode. Next day, as they nooned among the spruce of the high +country, Cheyenne suddenly drew the dice from his pocket and, turning them +in his hands, finally tossed them over the rim-rock of the cañon +edging their camp. "It's a fool game," he said. And Bartley knew, by <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268"></a>[pg 268]</span>the +otter's tone, that he did not alone refer to the game of dice.</p> + +<p>The air was thin, clear, and vital with a quality that the air of the +lower country lacked. Bartley felt an ambition to settle down and go to +writing. He thought that he now had material enough and to spare. They were +in a country, vast, fenceless, verdant--almost awesome in its timbered +silences. His imagination was stirred.</p> + +<p>From their noon camp they rode into the timber and from the timber into +a mountain meadow, knee-deep with lush grass. There was no visible trail +across the meadow but the horses seemed to know which way to go. After +crossing the meadow, Filaree, leading the cavalcade, turned and took a +steep trail down the side of a hidden cañon, a mighty chasm, +rock-walled and somber. At the bottom the horses drank, and, crossing the +stream, climbed the farther side. In an hour they were again on the rim, +plodding noiselessly through the sun-flecked shadows of the giant +spruce.</p> + +<p>"How about that surprise?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Ain't this good enough?" said Cheyenne, gesturing roundabout.</p> + +<p>"Gosh, yes! Lead on, Macduff."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269"></a>[pg +269]</span>About four that afternoon the horses pricked their ears and +quickened their pace. Filaree and Joshua especially seemed interested in +getting along the silent trail; and presently the trail merged with another +trail, more defined. A few hundred yards down this trail, and Bartley saw a +big log cabin; to the left and beyond it a corral, empty, and with the bars +down. Bartley had never seen the place before, and did not realize where he +was, yet he had noticed that the horses seemed to know the place.</p> + +<p>"We won't stop by," said Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>"Any one live there?"</p> + +<p>"Sneed used to," stated Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Then Bartley knew that they were not far from the San Andreas Valley +and--well, the Lawrence ranch.</p> + +<p>They dropped down a long trail into another cañon which finally +spread to a green valley dotted with ranches. The horses stepped briskly. +Presently, rounding a bend, they saw a ranch-house, far below, and sharply +defined squares of alfalfa.</p> + +<p>"That house with the red roof--" said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"That's her," asserted Cheyenne, a trifle ambiguously.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270"></a>[pg +270]</span>"Then we've swung round in a circle."</p> + +<p>"We done crossed the res'avation, pardner. And we didn't see a dog-gone +Injun."</p> + +<p>Little Jim was the first to catch sight of them as they jogged down the +last stretch of trail leaving the foothills. He recognized the horses long +before their riders were near enough to be identified as his father and +Bartley.</p> + +<p>Little Jim did not rush to Aunt Jane and tell her excitedly that they +were coming. Instead, he quietly saddled up his pony and rode out to meet +them. Part-way up the slope he waited.</p> + +<p>His greeting was not effusive. "I just thought I'd ride up and tell you +folks that--'that I seen you comin'."</p> + +<p>"How goes the hunting?" queried Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Fine! I got six rabbits yesterday. Dorry is gittin' so she can shoot +pretty good, too. How you makin' it, dad?"</p> + +<p>Cheyenne pushed back his hat and gazed at his young son. "Pretty fair, +for an old man," said Cheyenne presently. "You been behavin' yourself?"</p> + +<p>"Sure."</p> + +<p>"How would you like to ride a real hoss, once?"</p> + +<p>"You mean <i>your</i> hoss?"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271"></a>[pg +271]</span>"Uh-huh."</p> + +<p>"I'll trade you, even."</p> + +<p>"No, you won't, son. But you can ride him down to the ranch, if you +like."</p> + +<p>Little Jim almost tumbled from his pony in his eagerness to ride Joshua, +his father's horse, with the big saddle and rope and the carbine under the +stirrup leather.</p> + +<p>"You musta made a long ride," declared Jimmy, as he scrambled up on +Joshua. "Josh's shoes is worn thin. He'll be throwin' one, next."</p> + +<p>Jimmy called attention to the horse's shoes, that his father and Bartley +might not see how really pleased he was to ride a "real horse."</p> + +<p>"Yes, a long ride. How is Aunt Jane and Dorry?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, they're all right. Uncle Frank he cut twenty-two tons of alfalfa +off the lower field last week."</p> + +<p>Cheyenne sat sideways on Jimmy's pony as they rode down the last easy +slope and turned into the ranch gate. Aunt Jane, who was busy cooking,--it +seemed that Aunt Jane was always busy cooking something or other, when she +wasn't dressmaking or mending clothing or ironing,--greeted them warmly. +Frank was working down at the lower end. Dorry had <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_272" id="Page_272"></a>[pg 272]</span>gone to San Andreas. She +would be back 'most any time, now. And weren't they hungry?</p> + +<p>They were. And there was fresh milk and pie. But they put up the horses +first.</p> + +<p>Later, Cheyenne and Little Jim decided to walk down to the lower end of +the ranch and see Uncle Frank. Cheyenne had washed his hands and face +before eating, as had Bartley. But Bartley did not let it go at that. He +begged some hot water and again washed and shaved, brushed his clothes, and +changed his flannel shirt for a clean one. Then he strolled to the kitchen +and chatted with Aunt Jane, who had read of the killing of the outlaws in +Phoenix, and had many questions to ask. It had been a terrible tragedy. And +Mr. Bartley had actually seen the shooting?</p> + +<p>Aunt Jane was glad that Cheyenne had not been mixed up in it, especially +as that man Sears had been killed. But now that he had been killed, people +would talk less about her brother. It really had seemed an act of +Providence that Cheyenne had had nothing to do with the shooting. Of +course, Mr. Bartley knew about the trouble that her brother had had--and +why he had never settled down--</p> + +<p>"His name was not mentioned in the papers," <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_273" id="Page_273"></a>[pg 273]</span>said Bartley, thinking +that he must say something.</p> + +<p>"There's Dorry, now," said Aunt Jane, glancing through the kitchen +window.</p> + +<p>Bartley promptly excused himself and stepped out to the gate, which he +vaulted and opened as Dorothy waved a greeting. Bartley carried the +groceries in, and later helped unhitch the team. They chatted casually +neither referring to the subject uppermost in their minds.</p> + +<p>When Cheyenne returned, riding on a load of alfalfa with Uncle Frank and +Little Jim, Bartley managed to let Uncle Frank know that he was not +supposed to have had a hand in the Phoenix affair. Cheyenne thanked +him.</p> + +<p>"But you ain't talked with Dorry, yet, have you?" queried Cheyenne.</p> + +<p>Bartley shook his head.</p> + +<p>"She'll find out," stated Cheyenne. "You can't fool Dorry."</p> + +<p>That evening, while Uncle Frank and Cheyenne were discussing a matter +which seemed confidential to themselves, and while Aunt Jane was quietly +keeping an eye on Jimmy, who could hardly keep from interrupting his +seniors--Bartley and Dorry didn't count, just then, for <span +class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274"></a>[pg +274]</span><i>they</i> were also talking together--Dorothy intimated to +Bartley that she would like to talk with him alone. She did not say so, nor +make any gesture to indicate her wish, yet Bartley interpreted her +expression correctly.</p> + +<p>He suggested that they step out to the veranda, where it was cooler. +From the veranda they strolled to the big gate, and there she asked him, +point-blank, to tell her just what had happened in Phoenix. She had read +the papers, and she surmised that there was more to the affair than the +papers printed. For instance, Senator Brown, upon his return to the Box-S, +had kindly sent word to Aunt Jane that Cheyenne was all right. Bartley +thought that the thoughtful Senator had rather spilled the beans.</p> + +<p>"Did Cheyenne--" and Dorothy hesitated.</p> + +<p>"Cheyenne didn't kill Sears," stated Bartley.</p> + +<p>"You talked with Cheyenne, and got him to keep out of it?"</p> + +<p>"I tried to. He wouldn't listen. Then I wished him good luck and told +him I hoped he'd win."</p> + +<p>Dorothy was puzzled. "How do you know he didn't?"</p> + +<p>"Because I was standing beside him when it happened. I don't see why you +shouldn't know <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" +id="Page_275"></a>[pg 275]</span>about it. Cheyenne and I were just about +to cross the street, that night, when we saw Panhandle coming down the +opposite side. Sneed and his men, who were evidently waiting for him, +called to Panhandle. Panhandle must have thought it was the sheriff, or the +city marshal. It happened suddenly. Panhandle began firing at Sneed and his +riders. They shot him down just as he reached the curb in front of us. They +kept on shooting at him as he lay in the street. Cheyenne couldn't stand +that. He emptied his gun, trying to keep them off--and he emptied some +saddles."</p> + +<p>"Thank you for trying to--to give Cheyenne my message," said Dorothy. +And she shook hands with him.</p> + +<p>"Do you know this is the loveliest vista I have seen since leaving +Phoenix--this San Andreas Valley," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>"But you came through the Apache Forest," said Dorothy, not for the sake +of argument, but because Bartley was still holding her hand.</p> + +<p>"Yes. But you don't happen to live in the Apache Forest."</p> + +<p>"But, Mr. Bartley--"</p> + +<p>"John, please."</p> + +<p>"Cheyenne calls you Jack."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276"></a>[pg +276]</span>"Better still. Do you think Aunt Jane would mind if we walked up +the road as far as--well, as far as the spring?"</p> + +<p>"Hadn't you better ask her?"</p> + +<p>"No. But she wouldn't object. Would you?"</p> + +<p>Slowly Dorothy withdrew her hand and Bartley opened the big gate. As +they walked down the dim, starlit road they were startled by the advent of +a yellow dog that bounded from the brush and whined joyously.</p> + +<p>"And I had forgotten him," said Bartley. "Oh, he's mine! I can't get +away from the fact. He adopted me, and has followed me clear through. I had +forgotten that he is afraid to come into a ranch. And I am ashamed to say +that I forgot to feed him, to-night. He isn't at all beautiful, but he's +tremendously loyal."</p> + +<p>"And he shall have a good supper when we get back," declared +Dorothy.</p> + +<p>The yellow dog padded along behind them in the dusk, content to be with +his master again. Bartley talked with Dorothy about his plans, his hopes, +and her promise to become the heroine of his new story. Then he surprised +her by stating that he had decided to make a home in the San Andreas +Valley.</p> + +<p>"You really don't know anything about me, <span class="pagenum"><a +name="Page_277" id="Page_277"></a>[pg 277]</span>or my people," he said. +"And I want you to know. My only living relative is my sister, and she is +scandalously well-to-do. Her husband makes money manufacturing hooks and +eyes. He's not romantic, but he's solid. As for me--"</p> + +<p>And Bartley spoke of his own income, just what he could afford to spend +each month, and just how much he managed to save, and his ambition to earn +more. Dorothy realized that he was talking to her just as he would have +talked to a chum--a man friend, without reserve, and she liked him for it. +She had been curious about him, his vocation, and even about his plans; and +she felt a glow of affection because he had seemed so loyal to his +friendship with Cheyenne, and because he had been kind to Little Jim +Hastings. While doing so with no other thought than to please the boy, +Bartley had made no mistake in buying him that new rifle.</p> + +<p>As they came to the big rock by the roadside--a spot which Bartley had +good reason to remember--he paused and glanced at Dorothy. She was +laughing.</p> + +<p>"You looked so funny that day. You were the most dilapidated-looking +person--for a writer--"</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278"></a>[pg +278]</span>"I imagine I was, after Hull got through with me. Let's sit down +awhile. I want to tell you what I should like to do. Are you +comfortable?"</p> + +<p>Dorothy nodded.</p> + +<p>"Well," said Bartley, seating himself beside her, "I should like to rent +a small place in the valley, a place just big enough for two, and then +settle down and write this story. Then, if I sold it, I think I should lock +up, get a pack-horse and another saddle-horse, outfit for a long trip, and +then take the trail north and travel for, say, six months, seeing the +country, camping along the way, visiting with folks, and incidentally +gathering material for another story. It could be done."</p> + +<p>"But why rent a place, if you plan to leave it right away?"</p> + +<p>"Because I should want a home to come to, a place to think of when I was +on the trails. You know a fellow can't wander up and down the world +forever. I like to travel, but I think a chap ought to spend at least half +a year under a roof. Don't you?"</p> + +<p>"I was thinking of Cheyenne," said Dorothy musingly.</p> + +<p>"I think of him a great deal," declared Bartley.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279"></a>[pg +279]</span>Dorothy glanced up at him from her pondering.</p> + +<p>Bartley leaned toward her. "Dorothy, will you help me make that home, +here in the valley, and be my comrade on the trails?"</p> + +<p>"Hadn't you better ask Aunt Jane?" said Dorothy softly, yet with a touch +of humor.</p> + +<p>"Do you mean it?" Bartley's voice was boyishly enthusiastic, like the +voice of a chum, a hearty comrade. "But how about your own folks?"</p> + +<p>Dorothy's answer was not given then and there, in words. Nor yet by +gesture, nor in any visible way--there being no moon that early in the +evening. After a brief interval--or, at least, it seemed brief--they rose +and strolled back down the road, the yellow dog padding faithfully at their +heels. Presently--</p> + +<p>"Hey, Dorry!" came in a shrill voice.</p> + +<p>"It's the scout!" exclaimed Bartley, laughing.</p> + +<p>"We're coming, Jimmy," called Dorothy.</p> + +<p>"But before we're taken into custody--" said Bartley; and as mentioned +before, the moon had not appeared.</p> + +<p>Little Jim, astride of the ranch gate, querulously demanded where they +had been and why they had not told him they were going somewhere.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280"></a>[pg +280]</span>"And you left the gate open, and--everything!" concluded +Jimmy.</p> + +<p>"We just went for a walk," said Dorothy.</p> + +<p>"What's the use of walkin' up the old road in the dark?" queried Jimmy. +"You can't see anything."</p> + +<p>"What do you say to a rabbit hunt to-morrow morning early?" asked +Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Nope!" declared Little Jim decisively. "'Cause my dad was talkin' with +Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank, and dad says me and him are goin' back to +Laramie where ma is. And we're goin' on the <i>train</i>. Aunt Jane she +cried. But shucks! We ain't goin' to stay in Laramie all the time. Dad says +if things rib up right, me and ma and him are comin' back to live in the +valley. Don't you wish you was goin', Dorry?"</p> + +<p>"You run along and tell Aunt Jane we're coming," said Bartley.</p> + +<p>Little Jim hesitated. But then, Mr. Bartley had bought him that new +rifle. Jimmy pattered down the path to the lighted doorway, delivered his +message, and pattered back again toward the gate, wasting no time <i>en +route</i>. Halfway to the gate he stopped. Mr. Bartley was standing very +close to Dorry--in fact, Jimmy was <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" +id="Page_281"></a>[pg 281]</span>amazed to see him kiss her. Jimmy turned +and trotted back to the house.</p> + +<p>"Shucks!" he exclaimed. "I thought he liked guns and things more'n +girls!"</p> + +<p>But Jimmy was too loyal to tell what he had seen. After all, Dorry was +mighty fine, for a girl. She could ride and shoot, and she never told on +him when he had done wrong.</p> + +<p>With a skip and a hop Jimmy burst into the room. "We're goin' on the +<i>train</i>," he declared. "Ain't we, dad?"</p> + +<p>Dorothy and Bartley came in. Bartley glanced at Cheyenne, hesitated, and +then thrust out his hand.</p> + +<p>"Good luck to your new venture," he said heartily.</p> + +<p>"Same to you, pardner!" And Cheyenne included Dorry in his glance.</p> + +<p>"I want to ask Aunt Jane's advice," stated Bartley.</p> + +<p>"Then," said Cheyenne, "I reckon me and Frank and Jimmy'll step out and +take a look at the stars. She's a wonderful night."</p> + +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARTNERS OF CHANCE***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 14085-h.txt or 14085-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/0/8/14085">https://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/0/8/14085</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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For +example an eBook of filename 10234 would be found at: + +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/0/2/3/10234 + +or filename 24689 would be found at: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/4/6/8/24689 + +An alternative method of locating eBooks: +<a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/GUTINDEX.ALL">https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/GUTINDEX.ALL</a> + +*** END: FULL LICENSE *** +</pre> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/old/14085.txt b/old/14085.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f5aa6e3 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14085.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7355 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Partners of Chance, by Henry Herbert Knibbs + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Partners of Chance + +Author: Henry Herbert Knibbs + +Release Date: November 18, 2004 [eBook #14085] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARTNERS OF CHANCE*** + + +E-text prepared by Kevin Handy, John Hagerson, and the Project Gutenberg +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + +PARTNERS OF CHANCE + +by + +HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS + +Author of _The Ridin' Kid from Powder River_, _Sundown Slim_, +_Overland Red_, etc. + +Grosset & Dunlap +Publishers, New York + +1921 + + + + + + + +CONTENTS + + I. LITTLE JIM + II. PANHANDLE + III. A MINUTE TOO LATE + IV. "A LITTLE GREEN RIVER" + V. "TOP HAND ONCE" + VI. A HORSE-TRADE + VII. AT THE WATER-HOLE + VIII. HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS + IX. AT THE BOX-S + X. TO TRY HIM OUT + XI. PONY TRACKS + XII. JIMMY AND THE LUGER GUN + XIII. AT AUNT JANE'S + XIV. ANOTHER GAME + XV. MORE PONY TRACKS + XVI. SAN ANDREAS TOWN + XVII. THAT MESCAL + XVIII. JOE SCOTT + XIX. DORRY COMES TO TOWN + XX. ALONG THE FOOTHILLS + XXI. "GIT ALONG CAYUSE" + XXII. BOX-S BUSINESS + XXIII. THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL + XXIV. CHEYENNE PLAYS BIG + XXV. TWO TRAILS HOME + + + + + + +CHAPTER I + +LITTLE JIM + + +Little Jim knew that something strange had happened, because Big Jim, +his father, had sold their few head of cattle, the work team, and the +farm implements, keeping only the two saddle-horses and the pack-horse, +Filaree. When Little Jim asked where his mother had gone, Big Jim told +him that she had gone on a visit, and would be away a long time. Little +Jim wanted to know if his mother would ever come back. When Big Jim said +that she would not, Little Jim manfully suppressed his tears, and, being +of that frontier stock that always has an eye to the main chance, he +thrust out his hand. "Well, I'll stick with you, dad. I reckon we can +make the grade." + +Big Jim turned away and stood for a long time gazing out of the cabin +window toward town. Presently he felt a tug at his coat-sleeve. + +"Is ma gone to live in town?" + +"Yes." + +"Then why don't you go get her?" + +"She don't want to come back, Jimmy." + +Little Jim could not understand this. Yet he had often heard his mother +complain of their life on the homestead, and as often he had watched his +father sitting grimly at table, saying nothing in reply to his wife's +querulous complainings. The boy knew that his father had worked hard to +make a home. They had all worked hard. But, then, that had seemed the +only thing to do. + +Presently Big Jim swung round as though he had made a decision. He +lighted the lamp in the kitchen and made a fire. Little Jim scurried out +to the well with a bucket. Little Jim was a hustler, never waiting to be +told what to do. His mother was gone. He did not know why. But he knew +that folks had to eat and sleep and work. While his father prepared +supper, Little Jim rolled up his own shirt-sleeves and washed +vigorously. Then he filled the two glasses on the table, laid the plates +and knives and forks, and finding nothing else to do in the house, just +then, he scurried out again and returned with his small arms filled with +firewood. + +Big Jim glanced at him. "I guess we don't need any more wood, Jimmy. +We'll be leaving in the morning." + +"What? Leavin' here?" + +His father nodded. + +"Goin' to town, dad?" + +"No. South." + +"Just us two, all alone?" + +"Yes. Don't you want to go?" + +"Sure! But I wish ma was comin', too." + +Big Jim winced. "So do I, Jimmy. But I guess we can get along all right. +How would you like to visit Aunt Jane, down in Arizona?" + +"Where them horn toads and stingin' lizards are?" + +"Yes--and Gila monsters and all kinds of critters." + +"Gee! Has Aunt Jane got any of 'em on her ranch?" + +Big Jim forced a smile. "I reckon so." + +Little Jim's face was eager. "Then I say, let's go. Mebby I can get to +shoot one. Huntin' is more fun than workin' all the time. I guess ma got +tired of workin', too. She said that was all she ever expected to do, +'long as we lived out here on the ranch. But she never told _me_ she was +goin' to quit." + +"She didn't tell me, either, Jimmy. But you wouldn't understand." + +Jimmy puckered his forehead. "I guess ma kind of throwed us down, didn't +she, dad?" + +"We'll have to forget about it," said Big Jim slowly. "Down at Aunt +Jane's place in--" + +"Somethin' 's burnin', dad!" + +Big Jim turned to the stove. Little Jim gazed at his father's back +critically. There was something in the stoop of the broad shoulders that +was unnatural, strange--something that caused Little Jim to hesitate in +his questioning. Little Jim idolized his father, and, with unfailing +intuition, believed in him to the last word. As for his mother, who had +left without explanation and would never return--Little Jim missed her, +but more through habit of association than with actual grief. + +He knew that his mother and father had not gotten along very well for +some time. And now Little Jim recalled something that his mother had +said: "He's as much your boy as he is mine, Jim Hastings, and, if you +are set on sending him to school, for goodness' sake get him some decent +clothes, which is more than I have had for many a year." + +Until then Jimmy had not realized that his clothing or his mother's was +other than it should be. Moreover, he did not want to go to school. He +preferred to work on the ranch with his father. But it was chiefly the +tone of his mother's voice that had impressed him. For the first time in +his young life, Little Jim felt that he was to blame for something which +he could not understand. He was accustomed to his mother's sudden fits +of unreasonable anger, often followed by a cuff, or sharp reprimand. But +she had never mentioned his need of better clothing before, nor her own +need. + +As for being as much his father's boy as his mother's--Little Jim felt +that he quite agreed to that, and, if anything, that he belonged more to +his father, who was kind to him, than to any one else in the world. +Little Jim, trying to reason it out, now thought that he knew why his +mother had left home. She had gone to live in town that she might have +better clothes and be with folks and not wear her fingers to the bone +simply for a bed and three meals a day, as Little Jim had heard her say +more than once. + +But the trip to Aunt Jane's, down in Arizona, was too vivid in his +imagination to allow room for pondering. Big Jim had said they were to +leave in the morning. So, while supper was cooking, Little Jim slipped +into his bedroom and busied himself packing his own scant belongings. +Presently his father called him. Little Jim plodded out bearing his few +spare clothes corded in a neat bundle, with an old piece of canvas for +the covering. His father had taught him to pack. + +Big Jim stared. Then a peculiar expression flitted across his face. +Little Jim was always for the main chance. + +"I'm all hooked up to hit the trail, dad." + +In his small blue overalls and jumper, in his alert and manful attitude, +Little Jim was a pocket edition of his father. + +"Where's your shootin'-iron?" queried Big Jim jokingly. + +"Why, she's standin' in the corner, aside of yours. A man don't pack his +shootin'-iron in his bed-roll when he hits the trail. He keeps her +handy." + +"For stingin' lizards, eh?" + +"For 'most anything. Stingin' lizards, Injuns, or hoss-thieves, or +anything that we kin shoot. We ain't takin' no chances on this here +trip." + +Big Jim gestured toward the table and pulled up his chair. Little Jim +was too heartily interested in the meal to notice that his father gazed +curiously at him from time to time. Until then, Big Jim had thought of +his small son as a chipper, sturdy, willing boy--his boy. But now, +Little Jim seemed suddenly to have become an actual companion, a +partner, a sharer in things as they were and were to be. + +Hard work and inherent industry had developed in Little Jim an +independence that would have been considered precocious in the East. Big +Jim was glad that the mother's absence did not seem to affect the boy +much. Little Jim seemed quite philosophical about it. Yet, deep in his +heart, Little Jim missed his mother, more than his father realized. The +house seemed strangely empty and quiet. And it had seemed queer that Big +Jim should cook the supper, and, later, wash the dishes. + +That evening, just before they went to bed, Big Jim ransacked the +bureau, sorting out his own things, and laying aside a few things that +his wife had left: a faded pink ribbon, an old pair of high-heeled +slippers, a torn and unmended apron, and an old gingham dress. Gathering +these things together, Big Jim stuffed them in the kitchen stove. Little +Jim watched him silently. + +But when his father came from the stove and sat down, Little Jim slipped +over to him. "Dad, are you mad at ma for leavin' us?" he queried. + +Big Jim shook his head. "No, Jimmy. Just didn't want to leave her things +around, after we had gone. Benson'll be movin' in sometime this week. I +sold our place to him." + +"The stove and beds and everything?" + +"Everything." + +Little Jim wrinkled his nose and sniffed. "Them things you put in the +stove smell just like brandin' a critter," he said, gesturing toward the +kitchen. + +Big Jim gazed hard at his young son. Then he smiled to himself, and +shook his head. "Just like brandin' a critter," he repeated, half to +himself. "Just like brandin' a critter." + + + + + + +CHAPTER II + +PANHANDLE + + +While his friends and neighbors called Jim Hastings "Big Jim," he was no +more than average size--compact, vigorous, reared in the Wyoming cattle +lands, and typical of the country. He was called Big Jim simply to +distinguish him from Little Jim, who was as well known in Laramie as his +father. Little Jim, when but five years of age, rode his own pony, +jogging alongside his father when they went to town, where he was +decidedly popular with the townsfolk because of his sturdy independence +and humorous grin. + +Little Jim talked horses and cattle and ranching with the grown-ups and +took their good-natured joshing philosophically. He seldom retorted +hastily, but, rather, blinked his eyes and wrinkled his forehead as he +digested this or that pleasantry, and either gave it the indifferent +acknowledgment of "Shucks! Think you can josh _me_?" or, if the occasion +and the remark seemed to call for more serious consideration, he rose to +it manfully, and often to the embarrassment of the initial speaker. + +Little Jim liked to go to town with his father, yet he considered town +really a sort of suburb to his real world, the homestead, which he had +seen change from a prairie level of unfenced space to a small--and to +him--complete kingdom of pasture lot, hayfield, garden, corrals, stable, +and house. Town was simply a place to which you went to buy things, get +the mail, exchange views on the weather and grazing, and occasionally +help the hands load a shipment of cattle. Little Jim helped by sitting +on the top rail of the pens and commenting on the individual +characteristics of the cattle, and, sometimes, of the men loading them. +In such instances he found opportunity to pay off old scores. +Incidentally he kept the men in good humor by his lively comment. + +Little Jim was six years of age when his mother left to resume her +former occupation of waitress in the station restaurant of Laramie, +where she had been popular because of her golden hair, her blue eyes, +and her ability to "talk back" to the regular customers in a manner +which they seemed to enjoy. Big Jim married her when he was not much +more than a boy--twenty, in fact; and during the first few years they +were happy together. But homesteading failed to supply more than their +immediate needs. + +Occasional trips to town at first satisfied the wife's craving for the +attention and admiration that most men paid to her rather superficial +good looks. But as the years slipped by, with no promise of easier +conditions, she became dissatisfied, shrewish, and ashamed of her lack +of pretty things to wear. Little Jim was, of course, as blind to all +this as he was to his need for anything other than his overalls, shoes, +and jumper. He thought his mother was pretty and he often told her so. + +Meanwhile, Big Jim tried to blind himself to his wife's growing +dissatisfaction. He was too much of a man to argue her own short-comings +as against his inability to do more for her than he was doing. But when +she did leave, with simply a brief note saying that she was tired of it +all, and would take care of herself, what hit Big Jim the hardest was +the fact that she could give up Little Jim without so much as a word +about him. Every one liked Little Jim, and the mother's going proved +something that Big Jim had tried to ignore for several years--that his +wife cared actually nothing for the boy. When Big Jim finally realized +this, his indecision evaporated. He would sell out and try his fortunes +in Arizona, where his sister Jane lived, the sister who had never seen +Little Jim, but who had often written to Big Jim, inviting him to come +and bring his family for a visit. + +Big Jim had enough money from the sale of his effects to make the +journey by train, even after he had deposited half of the proceeds at +the local bank, in his wife's name. But being a true son of the open, he +wanted to see the country; so he decided to travel horseback, with a +pack-animal. Little Jim, used to the saddle, would find the journey a +real adventure. They would take it easy. There was no reason for haste. + +It had seemed the simplest thing to do, to sell out, leave that part of +the country, and forget what had happened. There was nothing to be +gained by staying where they were. Big Jim had lost his interest in the +ranch. Moreover, there had been some talk of another man, in Laramie, a +man who had "kept company" with Jenny Simpson, before she became Mrs. +Jim Hastings. Mrs. Hastings was still young and quite good-looking. + +It had seemed a simple thing to do--to leave and begin life over again +in another land. But Big Jim had forgotten Smiler. Smiler was a dog of +vague ancestry, a rough-coated, yellow dog that belonged solely to +Little Jim. Smiler stuck so closely to Little Jim that their shadows +were veritably one. Smiler was a sort of chuckle-headed, good-natured +animal, meek, so long as Little Jim's prerogatives were not infringed +upon, but a cyclone of yellow wrath if Little Jim were approached by any +one in other than a friendly spirit. Even when Big Jim "roughed" his +small son, in fun, Smiler grew nervous and bristled, and once, when the +mother had smacked Little Jim for some offense or other, Smiler had +taken sides to the extent of jumping between the mother and the boy, +ready to do instant battle if his young partner were struck again. + +"I'm afraid we can't take Smiler with us," said Big Jim, as Little Jim +scurried about next morning, getting ready for the great adventure. + +Little Jim stopped as though he had run against a rope. He had not even +dreamed but that Smiler would go with them. + +Now, Little Jim had not forgathered with punchers and townsfolk for +nothing. He was naturally shrewd, and he did not offer or controvert +opinions hastily. He stood holding a bit of old tie-rope in his hand, +pondering this last unthinkable development of the situation. Smiler was +to be left behind. Jimmy wanted to ask why Smiler could not go. He +wanted to assure his father that Smiler would be a help rather than a +hindrance to the expedition. + +Little Jim knew that if he wept, his father might pay some attention to +that sort of plea. But Little Jim did not intend to weep, nor ask +questions, nor argue. Smiler stood expectantly watching the +preparations. He knew that something important was about to happen, and, +with the loyalty of his kind, he was ready to follow, no matter where. +Smiler had sniffed the floor of the empty house, the empty stables, the +corral. His folks were going somewhere. Well, he was ready. + +Little Jim, who had been gazing wistfully at Smiler, suddenly strode to +his pack and sat down. He bit his lips. Tears welled to his eyes and +drifted slowly down his cheeks. He had not intended to let himself +weep--but there was Smiler, wagging his thick tail, waiting to go. + +"I g-g-guess you better go ahead and hit the trail, dad." + +"Why, that's what we're going to do. What--" Big Jim glanced at his boy. +"What's the matter?" + +Little Jim did not answer, but his attitude spoke for itself. He had +decided to stay with Smiler. + +Big Jim frowned. It was the first time that the boy had ever openly +rebelled. And because it was the first time, Big Jim realized its +significance. Yet, such loyalty, even to a dog, was worth while. + +Big Jim put his hand on Little Jim's shoulder. "Smiler'll get sore feet +on the trails, Jimmy. And there won't be a whole lot to eat." + +Little Jim blinked up at his father. "Well, he can have half of my grub, +and I reckon I can pack him on the saddle with me if his feet get +tender." + +"All right. But don't blame me if Smiler peters out on the trip." + +"Smiler's tough, he is!" stated Little Jim. "He's so tough he bites barb +wire. Anyhow, you said we was goin' to take it easy. And he can catch +rabbits, I guess." + +"Perhaps he won't want to come along," suggested Big Jim as he pulled up +a cincha and slipped the end through the ring. + +Little Jim beckoned to Smiler who had stood solemnly listening to the +controversy about himself as though he understood. Smiler trotted over +to Jimmy. + +"You want to take it plumb easy on this trip," said Little Jim, "and not +go to chasin' around and runnin' yourself ragged gettin' nowhere. If you +get sore feet, we'll just have to beef you and hang your hide on the +fence." + +Smiler grinned and wagged his tail. He pushed up and suddenly licked +Little Jim's face. Little Jim promptly cuffed him. Smiler came back for +more. + +Big Jim turned and watched the boy and the dog in their rough-and-tumble +about the yard. He blinked and turned back to the horses. "Come on, +Jimmy. We're all set." + +"Got to throw my pack on ole Lazy, dad. Gimme a hand, will you?" + +Little Jim never would admit that he could not do anything there was to +be done. When he was stuck he simply asked his father to help him. + +Big Jim slung up the small pack and drew down the hitch. Little Jim +ducked under Lazy and took the rope on the other side, passing the end +to his father. + +"Reckon that pack'll ride all right," said the boy, surveying the +outfit. "Got the _morrals_ and everything, dad?" + +"All set, Jimmy." + +"Then let's go. I got my ole twenty-two loaded. If we run on to one of +them stingin' lizards, he's sure a sconer. Does dogs eat lizards?" + +Big Jim swung to the saddle and hazed the old pack-horse ahead. "Don't +know, Jimmy. Sometimes the Indians eat them." + +"Eat stingin' lizards?" + +"Yep." + +"Well, I guess Smiler can, then. Come on, ole-timer!" + +Suddenly Little Jim thought of his mother. It seemed that she ought to +be with them. Little Jim had wept when Smiler was in question. Now he +gazed with clear-eyed faith at his father. + +"It ain't our fault ma ain't goin' with us, is it?" he queried timidly. + +Big Jim shrugged his shoulders. + +"Say, dad, we're headed west. Thought you said we was goin' to Arizona?" + +"We'll turn south, after a while." + +Little Jim asked no more questions. His father knew everything--why they +were going and where. Little Jim glanced back to where Smiler padded +along, his tongue out and his eyes already rimmed with dust, for he +would insist upon traveling tight to Lazy's heels. + +Little Jim leaned back. "Stick it out, ole-timer! But don't you go to +cuttin' dad's trail till he gets kind of used to seein' you around. +Sabe?" + +Smiler grinned through a dust-begrimed countenance. He wagged his tail. + +Little Jim plunked his horse in the ribs and drew up beside his father. +Little Jim felt big and important riding beside his dad. There had been +some kind of trouble at home--and they were leaving it behind. It would +be a long trail, and his father sure would need help. + +Little Jim drew a deep breath. He wanted to express his unwavering +loyalty to his father. He wanted to talk of his willingness to go +anywhere and share any kind of luck. But his resolve to speak evaporated +in a sigh of satisfaction. This was a real holiday, an adventure. +"Smiler's makin' it fine, dad." + +But Big Jim did not seem to hear. He was gazing ahead, where in the +distance loomed an approaching figure on horseback. Little Jim knew who +it was, and was about to say so when his father checked him with a +gesture. Little Jim saw his father shift his belt round so that his gun +hung handy. He said nothing and showed by no other sign that he had +recognized the approaching rider, who came on swiftly, his high-headed +pinto fighting the bit. + +Within twenty yards of them, the rider reined his horse to a walk. +Little Jim saw the two men eye each other closely. The man on the pinto +rode past. Little Jim turned to his father. + +"I guess Panhandle is goin' to town," said the boy, not knowing just +what to say, yet feeling that the occasion called for some remark. + +"Panhandle" Sears and his father knew each other. They had passed on the +road, neither speaking to the other. And Little Jim was not blind to the +significant movement of shifting a belt that a gun might hang ready to +hand. + +Yet he soon forgot the incident in visioning the future. Arizona, Aunt +Jane, and stingin' lizards! + +Big Jim rode with head bowed. He was thinking of the man who had just +passed them. If it had not been for the boy, Big Jim and that man would +have had it out, there on the road. And Jenny Hastings would have been +the cause of their quarrel. "Panhandle" Sears had "kept company" with +Jenny before she became Big Jim's wife. Now that she had left him-- + +Big Jim turned and gazed back along the road. A far-away cloud of dust +rolled toward the distant town of Laramie. + + + + + + +CHAPTER III + +A MINUTE TOO LATE + + +The Overland, westbound, was late. Nevertheless, it had to stop at +Antelope, but it did so grudgingly and left with a snort of disdain for +the cow-town of the high mesa. Curious-eyed tourists had a brief glimpse +of a loading-chute, cattle-pens, a puncher or two, and an Indian +freighter's wagon just pulling in from the spaces, and accompanied by a +plodding cavalcade of outriders on paint ponies. + +Incidentally the westbound left one of those momentarily interested +Easterners on the station platform, without baggage, sense of direction, +or companion. He had stepped off the train to send a telegram to a +friend in California. He discovered that he had left his address book in +his grip. Meanwhile the train had moved forward some sixty yards, to +take water. Returning for his address book, he boarded the wrong +Pullman, realized his mistake, and hastened on through to his car. Out +to the station again--delay in getting the attention of the telegraph +operator, the wire finally written--and the Easterner heard the rumble +of the train as it pulled out. + +Even then he would have made it had it not been for a portly individual +in shirt-sleeves who inadvertently blocked the doorway of the telegraph +office. Bartley bumped into this portly person, tried to squeeze past, +did so, and promptly caromed off the station agent whom he met head on, +halfway across the platform. Gazing at the departing train, Bartley +reached in his pocket for a cigar which he lighted casually. + +The portly individual touched him on the shoulder. "'Nother one, this +afternoon." + +"Thanks. But my baggage is on that one." + +"You're lucky it ain't two sections behind, this time of year. Travel is +heavy." + +Bartley's quick glance took in the big man from his high-heeled boots to +his black Stetson. A cattleman, evidently well to do, and quite +evidently not flustered by the mishaps of other folks. + +"There's a right comfortable little hotel, just over there," stated the +cattleman. "Wishful runs her. It ain't a bad place to wait for your +train." + +Bartley smiled in spite of his irritation. + +The cattleman's eyes twinkled. "You'll be sending a wire to have 'em +take care of your war bag. Well, come on in and send her. You can catch +Number Eight about Winslow." + +The cattleman forged ahead, and in the telegraph office, got the +immediate attention of the operator, who took Bartley's message. + +The cattleman paid for it. "'Tain't the first time my size has cost me +money," he said, as Bartley protested. "Now, let's go over and get +another cigar. Then we can mill around and see Wishful. You'll like +Wishful. He's different." + +They strode down the street and stopped in at a saloon where the +cattleman called for cigars. Bartley noticed that the proprietor of the +place addressed the big cattleman as "Senator." + +"This here is a dry climate, and a cigar burns up right quick, if you +don't moisten it a little," said the cattleman. "I 'most always moisten +mine." + +Bartley grinned. "I think the occasion calls for it, Senator." + +"Oh, shucks! Just call me Steve--Steve Brown. And just give us a little +Green River Tom." + +A few minutes later Bartley and his stout companion were seated on the +veranda of the hotel, gazing out across the mesas. They were both +comfortable, and quite content to watch the folk go past, out there in +the heat. Bartley wondered if the title "Senator" were a nickname, or if +the portly gentleman placidly smoking his cigar and gazing into space +was really a politician. + +A dusty cow-puncher drifted past the hotel, waving his hand to the +Senator, who replied genially. A little later a Navajo buck rode up on a +quick-stepping pony. He grunted a salutation and said something in his +native tongue. The Senator replied in kind. Bartley was interested. +Presently the Navajo dug his heels into his pony's ribs, and clattered +up the road. + +The Senator turned to Bartley. "Politics and cattle," he said, smiling. + +Having learned the Senator's vocation, Bartley gave his own as briefly. +The Senator nodded. + +"It is as obvious as all that, then?" queried Bartley. + +"I wouldn't say that," stated the Senator carefully. "But after you +bumped into me, and then stepped into the agent, and then turned around +and took in my scenery, noticin' the set of my legs, I says to myself, +'painter-man or writer.' It was kind of in your eye. I figured you +wa'n't no painter-man when you looked at the oil paintin' over the bar. + +"A painter-man would 'a' looked sad or said somethin', for that there +paintin' is the most gosh-awful picture of what a puncher might look +like after a cyclone had hit him. I took a painter-man in there once, to +get a drink. He took one look at that picture, and then he says, kind of +sorrowful: 'Is this the only place in town where they serve liquor?' I +told him it was. 'Let's go over and tackle the pump,' he says. But we +had our drink. I told him just to turn his back on that picture when he +took his." + +"I might be anything but a writer," said Bartley. + +"That's correct. But you ain't." + +"You hit the nail on the head. However, I can't just follow your line of +reasoning it out." + +"Easy. Elimination. Now a tourist, regular, stares at folks and things. +But a painter or writer he takes things in without starin'. There's some +difference. I knew you were a man who did things. It's in your eye." + +"Well," laughed Bartley, "I took you for a cattleman the minute I saw +you." + +"Which was a minute too late, eh?" + +"I don't know about that. Since I've been sitting here looking at the +mesa and those wonderful buttes over there, and watching the natives +come and go, I have begun to feel that I don't care so much about that +train, after all. I like this sort of thing. You see, I planned to visit +California, but there was nothing definite about the plan. I chose +California because I had heard so much about it. It doesn't matter much +where I go. By the way, my name is Bartley." + +"I'm Steve Brown--cattle and politics. I tell you, Mr. Bartley--" + +"Suppose you say just Bartley?" + +The Senator chuckled. "Suppose I said 'Green River'?" + +"I haven't an objection in the world," laughed Bartley. + +"Wishful, here, don't keep liquor," explained the Senator. "And he's +right about that. Folks that stay at this hotel want to sleep nights." + +The Senator heaved himself out of his chair, stood up, and stretched. + +"I reckon you'll be wantin' to see all you can of this country. My ranch +lays just fifty miles south of the railroad, and not a fence from here +to there. Then, there's them Indians, up north a piece. And over yonder +is where they dig up them prehistoric villages. And those buttes over +there used to be volcanoes, before they laid off the job. To the west is +the petrified forest. I made a motion once, when the Legislature was in +session, to have that forest set aside as a buryin'-ground for +politicians,--State Senators and the like,--but they voted me down. They +said I didn't specify _dead_ politicians. + +"South of my place is the Apache reservation. There's good huntin' in +that country. 'Course, Arizona ain't no Garden of Eden to some folks. +Two kinds of folks don't love this State a little bit'--homesteaders and +tourists. But when it comes to cattle and sheep and mines, you can't +beat her. She sure is the Tiger Lily of the West. But let's step over +and see Tom. Excuse me a minute. There's a constituent who has somethin' +on his chest. I'll meet you at the station." + +The Senator stepped out and talked with his constituent. Meanwhile, +Bartley turned to gaze down the street. A string of empty freight +wagons, followed by a lazy cloud of dust, rolled slowly toward town. +Here and there a bit of red showed in the dun mass of riders that +accompanied the wagons. A gay-colored blanket flickered in the sun. The +mesas radiated keen dry heat. + +Bartley turned and crossed over to the station. He blinked the effects +of the white light from his eyes as he entered the telegraph office. The +operator, in shirt-sleeves, and smoking a brown-paper cigarette, nodded +and handed Bartley a service message stating that his effects would be +carried to Los Angeles and held for further orders. + +"It's sure hot," said the operator. "Did you want to send another wire?" + +Bartley shook his head. "Who is that stout man I bumped into trying to +catch my train?" + +"That's Senator Steve Brown--State Senator. Thought you knew him." + +"No. I just met him to-day." + +The operator slumped down in his chair. + +Bartley strode to the door and blinked in the Arizona sunshine. "By +George!" he murmured, "I always thought they wore those big Stetsons for +show. But all day in this sun--guess I'll have to have one." + + + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +"A LITTLE GREEN RIVER" + + +To suddenly stop off at a cow-town station, without baggage or definite +itinerary, was unconventional, to say the least. Bartley was amused and +interested. Hitherto he had written more or less conventional +stuff--acceptable stories of the subway, the slums, the docks, and the +streets of Eastern cities. But now, as he strode over to the saloon, he +forgot that he was a writer of stories. A boyish longing possessed him +to see much of the life roundabout, even to the farthest, faint range of +hills--and beyond. + +He felt that while he still owed something to his original plan of +visiting California, he could do worse than stay right where he was. He +had thought of wiring to have his baggage sent back. Then it occurred to +him that, aside from his shaving-kit and a few essentials, his baggage +comprised but little that he could use out here in the mesa country. And +he felt a certain relief in not having trunks to look after. Outing +flannels and evening clothes would hardly fit into the present scheme of +things. The local store would furnish him all that he needed. In this +frame of mind he entered the Blue Front Saloon where he found Senator +Steve and his foreman seated at a side table discussing the merits of +"Green River." + +"Hello!" called the Senator. "Mr. Bartley, meet my foreman, Lon Pelly." + +They shook hands. + +"Lon says the source of Green River is Joy in the Hills," asserted the +Senator, smiling. + +The long, lean cow-puncher grinned. "Steve, here, says the source of +Green River is trouble." + +"Now, as a writin' man, what would you say?" queried the Senator. + +Bartley gazed at the label on the bottle under discussion. "Well, as a +writer, I might say that it depends how far you travel up or down Green +River. But as a mere individual enjoying the blessings of companionship, +I should say, let's experiment, judiciously." + +"Fetch a couple more glasses, Tom," called the Senator. + +After the essential formalities, Bartley pushed back his chair, crossed +one leg over the other, and lighted a cigar. "I'm rather inclined toward +that Joy in the Hills theory, just now," he asserted. + +"That's all right," said Lon Pelly. "Bein' a little inclined don't hurt +any. But if you keep on reachin' for Joy, your foot is like to slip. +Then comes Trouble." + +"Lon's qualified for the finals once or twice," said the Senator. "Now, +take _me_, for a horrible example. I been navigatin' Green River, off +and on, for quite a spell, and I never got hung up bad." + +"Speaking of rivers, they're rather scarce in this country, I believe," +said Bartley. + +"Yes. But some of 'em are noticeable in the rainy season," stated +Senator Steve. "But you ain't seen Arizona. You've only been peekin' +through your fingers at her. Wait till you get on a cayuse and hit the +trail for a few hundred miles--that's the only way to see the country. +Now, take 'Cheyenne.' He rides this here country from Utah to the +border, and he can tell you somethin' about Arizona. + +"Cheyenne is a kind of hobo puncher that rides the country with his +little old pack-horse, stoppin' by to work for a grubstake when he has +to, but ramblin' most of the time. He used to be a top-hand once. Worked +for me a spell. But he can't stay in one place long. Wish you could meet +him sometime. He can tell you more about this State than any man I know. +He's what you might call a character for a story. He stops by regular, +at the ranch, mebby for a day or two, and then takes the trail, singin' +his little old song. He's kind of a outdoor poet. Makes up his own +songs." + +"What was that one about Arizona that you gave 'em over to the State +House onct?" queried Lon Pelly. + +"Oh, that wa'n't Cheyenne's own po'try. It was one he read in a magazine +that he gave me. Let's see-- + + "Arizona! The tramp of cattle, + The biting dust and the raw, red brand: + Shuffling sheep and the smoke of battle: + The upturned face--and the empty hand. + + "Dawn and dusk, and the wide world singing, + Songs that thrilled with the pulse of life, + As we clattered down with our rein chains ringing + To woo you--but never to make you wife." + +The Senator smiled a trifle apologetically. "There's more of it. But +po'try ain't just in my line. Once in a while I bust loose on +po'try--that is, my kind of po'try. And I want to say that we sure +clattered down from the Butte and the Blue in the old days, with our +rein chains jinglin', thinkin'--some of us--that Arizona was ours to +fare-ye-well. + +"But we old-timers lived to find out that Arizona was too young to get +married yet; so we just had to set back and kind of admire her, after +havin' courted her an amazin' lot, in our young days." The Senator +chuckled. "Now, Lon, here, he'll tell you that there ain't no po'try in +this here country. And I never knew they was till I got time to set back +and think over what we unbranded yearlin's used to do." + +"For instance?" queried Bartley. + +Senator Steve waved his pudgy hand as though shooing a flock of chickens +off a front lawn. "If I was to tell you some of the things that +happened, you would think I was a heap sight bigger liar than I am. +Seein' some of them yarns in print, folks around this country would say: +'Steve Brown's corralled some tenderfoot and loaded him to the muzzle +with shin tangle and ancient history!' Things that would seem amazin' to +you would never ruffle the hair of the mavericks that helped make this +country." + +"This country ain't all settled yet," said the foreman, rising. "Reckon +I'll step along, Steve." + +After the foreman had departed, Bartley turned to the Senator. "Are +there many more like him, out here?" + +"Who, Lon? Well, a few. He's been foreman for me quite a spell. Lon he +thinks. And that's more than I ever did till after I was thirty. And Lon +ain't twenty-six, yet." + +"I think I'll step over to the drug-store and get a few things," said +Bartley. + +"So you figure to bed down at the hotel, eh?" + +"Yes. For a few days, at least. I want to get over the idea that I have +to take the next train West before I make any further plans." + +The Senator accompanied Bartley to the drug-store. The Easterner bought +what he needed in the way of shaving-kit and brush and comb. The Senator +excused himself and crossed the street to talk to a friend. The +afternoon sun slanted across the hot roofs, painting black shadows on +the dusty street. Bartley found Wishful, the proprietor, and told him +that he would like to engage a room with a bath. + +Wishful smiled never a smile as he escorted Bartley to a room. + +"I'll fetch your bath up, right soon," he said solemnly. + +Presently Wishful appeared with a galvanized iron washtub and a kettle +of boiling water. Bartley thanked him. + +"You can leave 'em out in the hall when you're through," said Wishful. + +Bartley enjoyed a refreshing bath and rub-down. Later he set the kettle +and tub out in the dim hallway. Then he sat down and wrote a letter to +his friend in California, explaining his change of plan. The afternoon +sunlight waned. Bartley gazed out across the vast mesas, lavender-hued +and wonderful, as they darkened to blue, then to purple that was shot +with strange half-lights from the descending sun. + +Suddenly a giant hand seemed to drop a canopy over the vista, and it was +night. Bartley lighted the oil lamp and sat staring out into the +darkness. From below came the rattle of dishes. Presently Bartley heard +heavy, deliberate footsteps ascending the stairway. Then a clanging +crash and a thud, right outside his door. He flung the door open. +Senator Steve was rising from the flattened semblance of a washtub and +feeling of himself tenderly. The Senator blinked, surveyed the wrecked +tub and the kettle silently, and then without comment he stepped back +and kicked the kettle. It soared and dropped clanging into the hall +below. + +Wishful appeared at the foot of the stairs. "Did you ring, Senator?" + +"Yes, I did! And I'm goin' to ring again." + +"Hold on!" said Wishful, "I'll come up and get the tub. I got the +kettle." + +The Senator puffed into Bartley's room and sat on the edge of the bed. +He wiped his bald head, smiling cherubically. "Did you hear him, askin' +me, a member of the Society for the Prevention of Progress, if I rang +for him! That's about all the respect I command in this community. I +sure want to apologize for not stoppin' to knock," added the Senator. + +Bartley grinned. "It was hardly necessary. I heard you." + +"I just came up to see if you would take dinner with me and my missus. +We're goin' to eat right soon. You see, my missus never met up with a +real, live author." + +"Thanks, Senator. I'll be glad to meet your family. But suppose you +forget that author stuff and just take me as a tenderfoot out to see the +sights. I'll like it better." + +"Why, sure! And while the House is in session, I might rise to remark +that I can't help bein' called 'Senator,' because I'm guilty. But, +honest, I always feel kinder toward my fellow-bein's who call me just +plain 'Steve.'" + +"All right. I'll take your word for it." + +"Don't you take my word for anything. How do you know but I might be +tryin' to sell you a gold mine?" + +"I think the risk would be about even," said Bartley. + +The Senator chuckled. "I just heard Wishful lopin' down the hall with +his bathin' outfit, so I guess the right of way is clear again. And +there goes the triangle--sounds like the old ranch, that triangle. You +see, Wishful used to be a cow-hand, and lots of cow-hands stop at this +hotel when they're in town. That triangle sounds like home to 'em. I'm +stoppin' here myself. But I got a real bathroom out to the ranch. Let's +go down and look at some beef on the plate." + + + + + + +CHAPTER V + +"TOP HAND ONCE" + + +Bartley happened to be alone on the veranda of the Antelope House that +evening. Senator Brown and his "missus" had departed for their ranch. +Mrs. Senator Brown had been a bit diffident when first meeting Bartley, +but he soon put her at her ease with some amusing stories of Eastern +experiences. The dinner concluded with an invitation from Mrs. Brown +that anticipated Bartley visiting the ranch and staying as long as he +wished. The day following the Senator's departure Bartley received a +telegram from his friend in California, wishing him good luck and a +pleasant journey in the Arizona country. The friend would see to +Bartley's baggage, as Bartley had forwarded the claim checks in his +letter. + +The town was quiet and the stars were serenely brilliant. The dusty, +rutted road past the hotel, dim gray in the starlight, muffled the tread +of an occasional Navajo pony passing in the faint glow of light from the +doorway. Bartley was content with things as he found them, just then. +But he knew that he would eventually go away from there--from the untidy +town, the railroad, the string of box-cars on the siding, and seek the +new, the unexpected, an experience to be had only by kicking loose from +convention and stepping out for himself. He thought of writing a Western +story. He realized that all he knew of the West was from hearsay, and a +brief contact with actual Westerners. He would do better to go out in +the fenceless land and live a story, and then write it. And better +still, he would let chance decide where and when he would go. + +His first intimation that chance was in his vicinity was the distant, +faint cadence of a song that floated over the night-black mesa from the +north. Presently he heard the soft, muffled tread of horses and a +distinct word or two of the song. He leaned forward, interested, amused, +alert. The voice was a big voice, mellowed by distance. There was a +take-it-or-leave-it swing to the melody that suggested the singer's +absolute oblivion to anything but the joy of singing. Again the plod, +plod of the horses, and then: + + I was top-hand once for the T-Bar-T, + In the days of long ago, + But I took to seein' the scenery + Where the barbed-wire fence don't grow. + + I was top-hand once--but the trail for mine, + And plenty of room to roam; + So now I'm ridin' the old chuck line, + And any old place is home ... for me ... + And any old place is home. + +Bartley grinned. Whoever he was, drifting in from the northern spaces, +he had evidently lost the pack-horse that bore his troubles. Suddenly, +out of the wall of dusk that edged the strip of road loomed a horse's +head, and then another. The lead horse bore a pack. The second horse was +ridden by an individual who leaned slightly forward, his hands clasped +comfortably over the saddle horn. The horses stopped in the light of the +doorway. + +"Well, I reckon we're here," said a voice. "But hotels and us ain't in +the same class. I stop at the Antelope House, take a look at her, and +then spread my roll in the brush, same as always. Nobody to home? They +don't know what they're missin'." + +Bartley struck a match and lighted his cigar. The pack-horse jerked its +head up. + +"Hello, stranger! Now I didn't see you settin' there." + +"Good-evening! But why 'stranger' when you say you can't see me?" + +"Why? 'Cause everybody knows _me_, and you didn't whoop when I rode up. +Me, I'm Cheyenne, from no place, and likewise that's where I'm goin'. +This here town of Antelope got in the way--towns is always gittin' in my +way--but nobody can help that. Is Wishful bedded down for the night or +is he over to the Blue Front shootin' craps?" + +"I couldn't say. I seem to be the only one around here, just now." + +"That sure excuses me and the hosses. Wishful is down to the Blue Front, +all right. It's the only exercise he gets, regular." Cheyenne pushed +back the brim of his faded black Stetson and sighed heavily. Bartley +caught a glimpse of a face as care-free as that of a happy child--the +twinkle of humorous eyes and a flash of white teeth as the other +grinned. "Reckon you never heard tell of me," said the rider, hooking +his leg over the horn. + +I just arrived yesterday. I have not heard of you--but I heard you down +the road, singing. I like that song." + +"One of my own. Yes, I come into town singin' and I go out singin'. +'Course, we eat, when it's handy. Singin' sure keeps a fellow's appetite +from goin' to sleep. Guess I'll turn the hosses into Wishful's corral +and go find him. Reckon you had your dinner." + +"Several hours ago." + +"Well, I had mine this mornin'. The dinner I had this mornin' was the +one I ought to had day before yesterday. But I aim to catch up--and +mebby get ahead a couple of eats, some day. But the hosses get theirs, +regular. Come on, Filaree, we'll go prospect the sleepin'-quarters." + +Bartley sat back and smiled to himself as Cheyenne departed for the +corral. This wayfarer, breezing in from the spaces, suggested +possibilities as a character for a story No doubt the song was more or +less autobiographical. "A top-hand once, but the trail for mine," seemed +to explain the singer's somewhat erratic dinner schedule. Bartley +thought that he would like to see more of this strange itinerant, who +sang both coming into and going out of town. + +Presently Cheyenne was back, singing something about a Joshua tree as he +came. + +He stopped at the veranda rail. His smile was affable. "Guess I'll go +over and hunt up Wishful. I reckon you'll have to excuse me for not +refusin' to accompany you to the Blue Front to get a drink." + +Bartley was puzzled. "Would you mind saying that again?" + +"Sure I don't mind. I thought, mebby, you bein' a stranger, settin' +there alone and lookin' at the dark, that you was kind of lonesome. I +said I reckoned you'd have to excuse me for not refusin' to go over to +the Blue Front and take a drink." + +"I think I get you. I'll buy. I'll try anything, once." + +Cheyenne grinned. "I kind of hate to drink alone, 'specially when I'm +broke." + +Bartley grinned in turn. "So do I. I suppose it is all right to leave. +The door is wide open and there doesn't seem to be any one in charge. + +"She sure is an orphan, to-night. But, honest, Mr.--" + +"Bartley." + +"Mr. Bartley, nobody'd ever think of stealin' anything from Wishful. +Everybody likes Wishful 'round here. And strangers wouldn't last long +that tried to lift anything from his tepee. That is, not any longer than +it would take Wishful to pull a gun--and that ain't long." + +"If he caught them." + +"Caught 'em? Say, stranger, how far do you think a man could travel out +of here, before somebody'd get him? Anyhow, Wishful ain't got nothin' in +his place worth stealin'." + +"Wishful doesn't look very warlike," said Bartley. + +"Nope. That's right. He looks kind of like he'd been hit on the roof and +hadn't come to, yet. But did you ever see him shoot craps?" + +"No." + +"Then you've got somethin' comin', besides buyin' me a drink." + +Bartley laughed as he stepped down to the road. Bartley, a fair-sized +man, was surprised to realize that the other was all of a head taller +than himself. Cheyenne had not looked it in the saddle. + +"Are you acquainted with Senator Brown?" queried Bartley as he strode +along beside the stiff-gaited outlander. + +Cheyenne stopped and pushed back his hat. "Senator Steve Brown? Say, +pardner, me and Steve put this here country on the map. If kings was in +style, Steve would be wearin' a crown. Why, last election I wore out a +pair of jeans lopin' around this here country campaignin' for Steve. See +this hat? Steve give me this hat--a genuwine J.B., the best they make. +Inside he had printed on the band, in gold, 'From Steve to Cheyenne, +hoping it will always fit.' Do I know Steve Brown? Next time you see him +just ask him about Cheyenne Hastings." + +"I met the Senator, yesterday. Come to think of it, he did mention your +name--'Cheyenne--and said you knew the country." + +"Was you lookin' for a guide, mebby?" + +"Well, not exactly. But I hope to see something of Arizona." + +"Uh-huh. Well, I travel alone, mostly. But right now I'm flat broke. If +you was headin' south--" + +"I expect to visit Mr. and Mrs. Brown some day. Their ranch is south of +here, I believe." + +"Yep. Plumb south, on the Concho road. I'm ridin' down that way." + +"Well, we will talk about it later," said Bartley as they entered the +saloon. + +With a few exceptions, the men in the place were grouped round a long +table, in the far end of the room, at the head of which stood Wishful +evidently about to make a throw with the dice. No one paid the slightest +attention to the arrival of Bartley and his companion, with the +exception of the proprietor, who nodded to Bartley and spoke a word of +greeting to Cheyenne. + +Bartley did the honors which included a sandwich and a glass of beer for +Cheyenne, who leaned with his elbow on the bar gazing at the men around +the table. Out of the corner of his eye Bartley saw the proprietor touch +Cheyenne's arm and, leaning across the bar, whisper something to him. +Cheyenne straightened up and seemed to be adjusting his belt. Bartley +caught a name: "Panhandle." He turned and glanced at Cheyenne. + +The humorous expression had faded from Cheyenne's face and in its stead +there was a sort of grim, speculative line to the mouth, and no twinkle +in the blue eyes. Bartley stepped over to the long table and watched the +game. Craps, played by these free-handed sons of the open, had more of a +punch than he had imagined possible. A pile of silver and bills lay on +the table--a tidy sum--no less than two hundred dollars. + +Wishful, the sad-faced, seemed to be importuning some one by the name of +"Jimmy Hicks" to make himself known, as the dice rattled across the +board. The players laughed as Wishful relinquished the dice. A lean +outlander, with a scarred face, took up the dice and made a throw. He +evidently did not want to locate an individual called "Little Joe," whom +he importuned incessantly to stay away. + +Side bets were made and bills and silver withdrawn or added to the pile +with a rapidity which amazed Bartley. Hitherto craps had meant to him +three or four newsboys in an alley and a little pile of nickels and +pennies. But this game was of robust proportions. It had pep and speed. + +Bartley became interested. His fingers itched to grasp the dice and try +his luck. But he realized that his amateurish knowledge of the game +would be an affront to those free-moving sons of the mesa. So he +contented himself with watching the game and the faces of the men as +they won or lost. Bartley felt that some one was close behind him +looking over his shoulder. Cheyenne's eyes were fixed on the player +known as "Panhandle," and on no other person at that table. Bartley +turned back to the game. + +Just then some one recognized Cheyenne and spoke his name. The game +stopped and Bartley saw several of the men glance curiously from +Cheyenne to the man known as "Panhandle." Then the game was resumed, but +it was a quieter game. One or two of the players withdrew. + +"Play a five for me," said Bartley, turning to Cheyenne. + +"I'll do that--fifty-fifty," said Cheyenne as Bartley stepped back and +handed him a bill. + +Cheyenne straightway elbowed deeper into the group and finally secured +the dice. Wishful, for some unknown reason, remarked that he would back +Cheyenne to win--"shootin' with either hand," Wishful concluded. Bartley +noticed that again one or two players withdrew and strolled to the bar. +Meanwhile, Cheyenne threw and sang a little song to himself. + +His throws were wild, careless, and lucky. Slowly he accumulated easy +wealth. His forehead was beaded with sweat. His eyes glistened. He +forgot his song. Bartley stepped over to the bar and chatted for a few +minutes with the proprietor, mentioning Senator Steve and his wife. + +When Bartley returned to the game the players had dwindled to a small +group--'Wishful, the man called "Panhandle," a fat Mexican, a railroad +engineer, and Cheyenne. + +Bartley turned to a bystander. + +"Cheyenne seems to be having all the luck," he said. + +"Is he a friend of yours?" + +"Never saw him until to-night." + +"He ain't as lucky as you think," stated the other significantly. + +"How is that?" + +"Panhandle, the man with the scar on his face, ain't no friend of +Cheyenne's." + +"Oh, I see." + +Bartley turned from the man, and watched the players. Wishful had +withdrawn from the game, but he stood near the table, watching closely. +Presently the fat Mexican quit playing and left. Cheyenne threw and won. +He played as though the dice were his and he was giving an exhibition +for the benefit of the other players. Finally the engineer quit, and +counted his winnings. Cheyenne and the man, Panhandle, faced each other, +with Bartley standing close to Cheyenne and Wishful, who had moved +around the table, standing close to Panhandle. + +Panhandle took up the dice. There was no joy in his play. He shot the +dice across the table viciously. Every throw was a, sort of insidious +insult to his competitor, Cheyenne. Bartley was more interested in the +performance than the actual winning or losing, although he realized that +Cheyenne was still a heavy winner. + +Presently Wishful stepped over to Bartley and touched his arm. Panhandle +and Cheyenne were intent upon their game. + +"You kin see better from that side of the table," said Wishful mildly, +yet with a peculiar significance. + +Bartley glanced up, his face expressing bewilderment. + +"I seen you slip Cheyenne a bill," murmured Wishful. "Accordin' to that, +you're backin' him. Thought I'd just mention it." + +"I don't understand what you're driving at," said Bartley. + +"That's just why I spoke to you." And Wishful's face expressed a sort of +sad wonder. But then, the Easterner had not been in town long and he did +not know Panhandle. + +Wishful turned away casually. Bartley noticed that he again took up his +position near Panhandle. + +This time Panhandle glanced up and asked Wishful if he didn't want to +come into the game. + +Wishful shook his head. "No use tryin' to bust his luck," he said, +indicating Cheyenne. + +"Oh, I don't know," said Panhandle. + +"And he's got good backin'," continued Wishful. + +Panhandle slanted a narrow glance toward Bartley, and Bartley felt that +the other had somehow or other managed to convey an insult and a +challenge in that glance, which suggested the contempt of the tough +Westerner for the supposedly tender Easterner. + +Bartley did not know just what was on the boards, aside from dice and +money, but he took Wishful's hint and moved around to Panhandle's side +of the table, leaving Cheyenne facing his competitor alone. Bartley +happened to catch Cheyenne's eye. The happy-go-lucky expression was +gone. Cheyenne's face seemed troubled, yet he played with his former +vigor and luck. + +Panhandle posed insolently, his thumb in his belt, watching the dice. He +was all but broke. Cheyenne kept rolling the bones, but now he evoked no +aid from the gods of African golf. His lips were set in a thin line. + +Suddenly he tossed up the dice, caught them and transferred them to his +right hand. Hitherto he had been shooting with his left. "I'll shoot +you, either hand," he said. + +"And win," murmured Wishful. + +Panhandle whirled and confronted Wishful. "I don't see any of your money +on the table," he snarled. + +"I'll come in--on the next game," stated Wishful mildly. + +Panhandle's last dollar was on the table. He reached forward and drew a +handful of bills from the pile and counted them. "Fifty," he said; +"fifty against the pot that you don't make your next throw." + +"Suits me," said Cheyenne, picking up the dice and shaking them. + +Cheyenne threw and won on the third try. Panhandle reached toward the +pile of money again. + +Cheyenne, who had not picked up the dice, stopped him. "You can't play +on that money," he stated tensely. "Half of it belongs to Mr. Bartley, +there." + +"What have you got to say about it," challenged Panhandle, turning to +Bartley. + +"Half of the money on the table is mine, according to agreement. I +backed Cheyenne to win." + +"No dam' tenderfoot can tell me where to head in!" exclaimed Panhandle. +"Go on and shoot, you yella-bellied waddie!" And Panhandle reached +toward the money. + +"Just a minute," said Bartley quietly. "The game is finished." + +"Take your mouth out of this, you dam' dude!" + +"Put your gun on the table--and then tell me that," said Bartley. + +Panhandle lowered his hand to his gun, hesitated, and then whirling, +slapped Bartley's face. + +Wishful, the silent, jerked out his own gun and rapped Panhandle on the +head. Panhandle dropped in a heap. + +It had happened so quickly that Bartley hardly realized what had +happened. Panhandle was on the floor, literally down and out. Bartley +was surprised that such an apparently light tap on the head should put a +man out. + +"Get him out of here," said Tom, the proprietor. "I don't want any rough +stuff in here. And if I were in your boots, Cheyenne, I'd leave town for +a while." + +"I'm leavin' to-morrow mornin'." Cheyenne was coolly counting his +winnings. + +Wishful, the silent, doused a glass of water in Panhandle's face. +Presently Panhandle was revived and helped from the saloon. His former +attitude of belligerency had entirely evaporated. Wishful followed him +to the hitch-rail and saw him mount his horse. + +"Your best bet is to fan it back where you come from, and stay there," +said Wishful softly. "You don't belong in this town, and you can't go +slappin' any of my guests in the face and get away with it. And when you +git so you can think it over, just figure that if I hadn't 'a' slowed +you down, Cheyenne would 'a' killed you." + +Panhandle did not feel like discussing the question just then. He left +without even turning to glance back. If he had glanced back, he would +have seen that Wishful had disappeared. Wishful, familiar with the ways +of Panhandle and his kind, immediately sought the shadows, leaving the +lighted doorway a blank. He entered the saloon from the rear. + +Cheyenne was endeavoring to make Bartley take half of the winnings. "You +staked me--and it's fifty-fifty, pardner," insisted Cheyenne. + +Finally Bartley accepted his share of the money and stuffed it into his +pocket. + +"Now I can get back at you," stated Cheyenne, gesturing toward the bar. + +His gesture included both Wishful and Bartley. Bartley, a bit shaken, +accepted the invitation. Wishful, not at all shaken, but rather a bit +more silent and melancholy than heretofore, also accepted. + +Alone in his room at the hotel, Bartley wondered what would have +happened if Wishful had not rapped Panhandle on the head. Bartley +recalled the fact that he had drawn back his arm, intending to take one +good punch at Panhandle, even if it were his last. But Panhandle had +crumpled down suddenly, silently, and Wishful had stood over him, gazing +down speculatively and swinging his gun back and forth before he +returned it to the holster. "They move quick, in this country," thought +Bartley. "And speaking of material for a story--" Then he smiled. + +Somewhere out on the mesa Cheyenne had spread his bed-roll and was no +doubt sleeping peacefully. Bartley shook his head. He had been in +Antelope but two days and yet it seemed that months had passed since he +had stepped from the westbound train to telegraph to his friend in +California. Incidentally, he decided to purchase an automatic pistol. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +A HORSE-TRADE + + +When Bartley came down to breakfast next morning he noticed two horses +tied at the hitch-rail in front of the hotel. One of the horses, a +rather stocky gray, bore a pack. The other, a short-coupled, sturdy +buckskin, was saddled. Evidently Cheyenne was trying to catch up with +his dinner schedule, for as Bartley entered the dining-room he saw him, +sitting face to face with a high stack of flapjacks, at the base of +which reposed two fried eggs among some curled slivers of bacon. + +Two railroad men, a red-eyed Eastern tourist who looked as though he had +not slept for a week, a saturnine cattleman in from the mesas, and two +visiting ladies from an adjacent town comprised the tale of guests that +morning. As Bartley came in the guests glanced at him curiously. They +had heard of the misunderstanding at the Blue Front. + +Cheyenne immediately rose and offered Bartley a chair at his table. The +two women, alone at their table, immediately became subdued and +watchful. They were gazing their first upon an author. Wishful had made +the fact known, with some pride. The ladies, whom Cheyenne designated as +"cow-bunnies,"---or wives of ranchers,--were dressed in their "best +clothes," and were trying to live up to them. They had about finished +breakfast, and shortly after Bartley was seated they rose. On their way +out they stopped at Cheyenne's table. + +"Don't forget to stop by when you ride our way," said one of the women. + +Bartley noticed the toil-worn hands, and the lines that hard work and +worry had graven in her face. Her "best clothes" rather accentuated +these details. But back of it all he sensed the resolute spirit of the +West, resourceful, progressive, large-visioned. + +"Meet Mr. Bartley," said Cheyenne unexpectedly. + +Which was just what the two women had been itching to do. Bartley rose +and shook hands with them. + +"A couple of lady friends of mine," said Cheyenne when they had gone. + +Cheyenne made no mention of the previous evening's game, or its climax. +Yet Bartley had gathered from Wishful that Panhandle Sears and Cheyenne +had an unsettled quarrel between them. + +In the hotel office Cheyenne purchased cigars and proffered Bartley a +half-dozen. Bartley took one. Cheyenne seemed disappointed. When cigars +were going round, it seemed strange not to take full advantage of the +circumstance. As they stepped out to the veranda, the horses recognized +Cheyenne and nickered gently. + +"Going south?" queried Bartley. + +"That's me. I got the silver changed to bills and some of the bills +changed to grub. I reckon I'll head south. Kind of wish you was headed +that way." + +Bartley bit the end from his cigar and lighted it, as he gazed out +across the morning mesa. A Navajo buck loped past and jerked his little +paint horse to a stop at the drug-store. + +Cheyenne, pulling up a cinch, smiled at Bartley. + +"That Injun was in a hurry till he got here. And he'll be in a hurry, +leavin'. But you notice how easy he takes it right now. Injuns has got +that dignity idea down fine." + +"Did he come in for medicine, perhaps?" + +"Mebby. But most like he's after chewin'-gum for his squaw, and +cigarettes for himself, with a bottle of red pop on the side. Injuns +always buy red pop." + +"Cigarettes and chewing-gum?" + +"Sure thing! Didn't you ever see a squaw chew gum and smoke a +tailor-made cigarette at the same time? You didn't, eh? Well, then, you +got somethin' comin'." + +"Romance!" laughed Bartley. + +"Ever sleep in a Injun hogan?" queried Cheyenne as he busied himself +adjusting the pack. + +"No. This is my first trip West." + +"I was forgettin'. Well, I ain't what you'd call a dude, but, honest, if +I was prospectin' round lookin' for Injun romance I'd use a pair of +field-glasses. Injuns is all right if you're far enough up wind from +'em." + +"When do you start?" asked Bartley. + +"Oh, 'most any time. And that's when I'll get there." + +"Well, give my regards to Senator Brown and his wife, if you happen to +see them." + +"Sure thing! I'm on my way. You know-- + + "I was top-hand once--but the trail for mine: + Git along, cayuse, git along! + But now I'm ridin' the old chuck line, + Feedin' good and a-feelin' fine: + Oh, some folks eat and some folks dine, + Git along, cayuse, git along!" + +Bartley smiled. Here was the real hobo, the irrepressible absolute. +Cheyenne stepped up and swung to the saddle with the effortless ease of +the old hand. Bartley noticed that the pack-horse had no lead-rope, nor +had he been tied. Bartley did not know that Filaree, the pack-horse, +would never let Joshua, the saddle-horse, out of his sight. They had +traveled the Arizona trails together for years. + +In spite of his happy-go-lucky indifference to persons and events, +Cheyenne had a sort of intuitive shrewdness in reading humans. And he +read in Bartley's glance a half-awakened desire to outfit and hit the +trail himself. But Cheyenne departed without suggesting any such idea. +Every man for himself was his motto. "And as for me," he added, aloud: + + Seems like I don't git anywhere, + Git along, cayuse, git along; + But we're leavin' here and we're goin' there: + Git along, cayuse, git along! + + With little ole Josh that steps right free, + And my ole gray pack-hoss, Filaree, + The world ain't got no rope on me: + Git along, cayuse, git along! + +Bartley watched him as he crossed the railroad tracks and turned down a +side street. + +Back in his room Bartley paced up and down, keeping time to the tune of +Cheyenne's trail song. The morning sun poured down upon the station roof +opposite, and danced flickering across the polished tracks of the +railroad. Presently Bartley stopped pacing his room and stood at the +window. Far out across the mesa he saw a rider, drifting along in the +sunshine, followed by a gray pack-horse. + +"By George!" exclaimed Bartley. "He may be a sort of wandering joke to +the citizens of this State, but he's doing what he wants to do, and +that's more than I'm doing. Just fifty miles to Senator Brown's ranch. +Drop in and see us. As the chap in Denver said when he wrote to his +friend in El Paso: 'Drop into Denver some evening and I'll show you the +sights.' Distance? Negligible. Time? An inconsequent factor. Big stuff! +As for me, I think I'll go downstairs and interview the pensive +Wishful." + +Wishful had the Navajo blankets and chairs piled up in the middle of the +hotel office and was thoughtfully sweeping out cigar ashes, cigarette +stubs, and burned matches. Wishful, besides being proprietor of the +Antelope House, was chambermaid, baggage-wrangler, clerk, advertising +manager, and, upon occasion, waiter in his own establishment. And he +kept a neat place. + +Bartley walked over to the desk. Wishful kept on sweeping. Bartley +glanced at the signatures on the register. Near the bottom of the page +he found Cheyenne's name, and opposite it "Arizona." + +"Where does Cheyenne belong, anyway?" queried Bartley. + +Wishful stopped sweeping and leaned on his broom. "Wherever he happens +to be." And Wishful sighed and began sweeping again. + +"What sort of traveling companion would he make?" + +Wishful stopped sweeping. His melancholy gaze was fixed on a defunct +cigar. "Never heard either of his hosses object to his company," he +replied. + +Bartley grinned and glanced up and down the register. Wishful dug into a +corner with his broom. Something shot rattling across the floor. Wishful +laid down the broom and upon hands and knees began a search. Presently +he rose. A slow smile illumined his face. He had found a pair of dice in +the litter on the floor. He made a throw, shook his head, and picked up +the dice. His sweeping became more sprightly. Amused by the +preoccupation of the lank and cautiously humorous Wishful, Bartley +touched the bell on the desk. Wishful promptly stood his broom against +the wall, rolled down his sleeves, and stepped behind the counter. + +"I think I'll pay my bill," said Bartley. + +Wishful promptly named the amount. Bartley proffered a ten-dollar bill. + +Wishful searched in the till for change. He shook his head. "You got two +dollars comin'," he stated. + +"I'll shake you for that two dollars," said Bartley. + +Wishful's tired eyes lighted up. "You said somethin'." And he produced +the dice. + +Just then the distant "Zoom" of the westbound Overland shook the +silence. Wishful hesitated, then gestured magnificently toward space. +What was the arrival of a mere train, with possibly a guest or so for +the hotel, compared with a game of craps? + +While they played, the train steamed in and was gone. Wishful won the +two dollars. + +Bartley escaped to the veranda and his reflections. Presently he rose +and strolled round to the corral. Wishful's three saddle-animals were +lazying in the heat. Bartley was not unfamiliar with the good points of +a horse. He rejected the sorrel with the Roman nose, as stubborn and +foolish. The flea-bitten gray was all horse, but he had a white-rimmed +eye. The chestnut bay was a big, hardy animal, but he appeared rather +slow and deliberate. Yet he had good, solid feet, plenty of bone, deep +withers, and powerful hindquarters. + +Bartley stepped round to the hotel. "Have you a minute to spare?" he +queried as Wishful finished rearranging the furniture of the lobby. + +Wishful had. He followed Bartley round to the corral. + +"I'm thinking of buying a saddle-horse," stated Bartley. + +Wishful leaned his elbows on the corral bar. "Why don't you rent +one--and turn him in when you're through with him." + +"I'd rather own one, and I may use him a long time." + +"I ain't sufferin' to sell any of my hosses, Mr. Bartley. But I wouldn't +turn down a fair offer." + +"Set a price on that sorrel," said Bartley. + +Now, Wishful was willing to part with the sorrel, which was showy and +looked fast. Bartley did not want the animal. He merely wanted to arrive +at a basis from which to work. + +"Well," drawled Wishful, "I'd let him go for a hundred." + +"What will you take for the gray?" + +"Him? Well, he's the best hoss I got. I don't think he's your kind of a +hoss." + +"The best, eh? And a hundred for the sorrel." Bartley appeared to +reflect. + +Wishful really wanted to sell the gray, describing him as the best horse +he owned to awaken Bartley's interest. The best horse in the corral was +the big bay cow-horse; but Wishful had no idea that Bartley knew that. + +"Would you put a price on the gray?" queried Bartley. + +"Why, sure! You can have him, for a hundred and twenty-five." + +"A hundred for the sorrel--and a hundred and twenty-five for the gray; +is that correct?" + +"Yep." + +"And you say the gray is the best horse in the corral?" + +"He sure is!" + +"All right. I'll give you a hundred for that big bay, there. I don't +want to rob you of your best horse, Wishful." + +Wishful saw that he was cornered. He had cornered himself, premising +that the Easterner didn't know horses. "That bay ain't much account, Mr. +Bartley. He's slow--nothin' but a ole cow-hoss I kind of keep around for +odd jobs of ropin' and such." + +"Well, he's good enough for me. I'll give you a hundred for him." + +Wishful scratched his head. He did not want to sell the bay for that +sum, yet he was too good a sport to go back on his word. + +"Say, where was you raised?" he queried abruptly. + +"In Kentucky." + +"Hell, I thought you was from New York?" + +"I lived in Kentucky until I was twenty-five." + +"Was your folks hoss-traders?" + +"Not exactly," laughed Bartley. "My father always kept a few good +saddle-horses, however." + +"Uh-huh? I reckon he did. And you ain't forgot what a real hoss looks +like, either." Wishful's pensive countenance lighted suddenly. "You'll +be wantin' a rig--saddle and bridle and slicker and saddle-bags. Now I +got just what you want." + +Bartley stepped to the stable and inspected the outfit. It was old and +worn, and worth, Bartley estimated, about thirty dollars, all told. + +"I'll let you have the whole outfit--hoss and rig and all, for two +hundred," stated Wishful unblushingly. + +"I priced a saddle, over in the shop across from the station, this +morning," said Bartley. + +"With bridle and blanket and saddle-pockets it would only stand me +ninety dollars. If the bay is the poorest horse you own, then at your +figure this outfit would come rather high." + +"I might 'a' knowed it!" stated Wishful. "Say, Mr. Bartley, give me a +hundred and fifty for the hoss and I'll throw in the rig." + +"No. I know friendship ceases when a horse-trade begins; but I am only +taking you at your word." + +"I sure done overlooked a bet, this trip," said Wishful. "Say, I reckon +you must 'a' cut your first tooth on a cinch-ring. I done learnt +somethin' this mornin'. Private eddication comes high, but I'm game. +Write your check for a hundred--and take the bay. By rights I ought to +give him to you, seein as how you done roped and branded me for a +blattin' yearlin' the first throw; and you been out West just three +days! You'll git along in this country." + +"I hope so," laughed Bartley. "Speaking of getting along, I plan to +visit Senator Brown. How long will it take me to get there, riding the +bay?" + +"He's got a runnin' walk that is good for six miles an hour. He's a +walkin' fool. And anything you git your rope on, he'll hold it till +you're gray-headed and got whiskers. That ole hoss is the best cow-hoss +in Antelope County--and I'm referrin' you to Steve Brown to back me up. +I bought that hoss from Steve. Any time you see the Box-S brand on a +hoss, you can figure he's a good one." + +"I suppose I'd have to camp on the mesa two or three nights," said +Bartley. + +"Nope! Ole Dobe'll make it in two days. He don't look fast, but the +trail sure fades behind him when he's travelin'. I'm kind of glad you +didn't try to buy the Antelope House. You'd started in pricin' the +stable, and kind of milled around and ast me what I'd sell the kitchen +for, and afore I knowed it, you'd 'a' had me selling the hotel for less +than the stable. I figure you'd made a amazin' hand at shootin' craps." + +"Let's step over and buy that saddle, and the rest of it. Will you +engineer the deal? I don't know much about Western saddlery." + +"Shucks! You can take that ole rig I was showin' you. She ain't much on +looks, but she's all there." + +"Thanks. But I'd rather buy a new outfit." + +"When do you aim to start?" + +"Right away. I suppose I'll need a blanket and some provisions." + +"Yes. But you'll catch up with Cheyenne, if you keep movin'. He won't +travel fast with a pack-hoss along. He'll most like camp at the first +water, about twenty-five miles south. But you can pack some grub in your +saddle-bags, and play safe. And take a canteen along." + +Wishful superintended the purchasing of the new outfit, and seemed +unusually keen about seeing Bartley well provided for at the minimum +cost. Wishful's respect for the Easterner had been greatly enhanced by +the recent horse-deal. When it came to the question of clothing, Wishful +wisely suggested overalls and a rowdy, as being weather and brush proof. +Incidentally Wishful asked Bartley why he had paid his bill before he +had actually prepared to start on the journey. Bartley told Wishful that +he would not have prepared to start had he not paid the bill on impulse. + +"Well, some folks git started on impulse, afore they pay their bills, +and keep right on fannin' it," asserted Wishful. + +An hour later Bartley was ready for the trail. With some food in the +saddle-pockets, a blanket tied behind the cantle, and a small canteen +hung on the horn, he felt equipped to make the journey. Wishful +suggested that he stay until after the noon hour, but Bartley declined. +He would eat a sandwich or two on the way. + +"And ole Dobe knows the trail to Steve's ranch," said Wishful, as he +walked around horse and rider, giving them a final inspection. "And you +don't have to cinch ole Dobe extra tight," he advised. "He carries a +saddle good. 'Course that new leather will stretch some." + +"How old _is_ Dobe?" queried Bartley. "You keep calling him 'old.'" + +"I seen you mouthin' him, after you had saddled him. How old would _you_ +say?" + +"Seven, going on eight." + +"Git along! And if anybody gits the best of you in a hoss-trade, wire me +collect. It'll sure be news!" + +Bartley settled himself in the saddle and touched Dobe with the spurs. + +"Give my regards to Senator Steve--and Cheyenne," called Wishful. + +Wishful stood gazing after his recent guest until he had disappeared +around a corner. + +Then Wishful strode into the hotel office and marked a blue cross on the +big wall calendar. A humorous smile played about his mouth. It was a +mark to indicate the day and date that an Eastern tenderfoot had got the +best of him in a horse-deal. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +AT THE WATER-HOLE + + +Before Bartley had been riding an hour he knew that he had a good horse +under him. Dobe "followed his head" and did not flirt with his shadow, +although he was grain-fed and ready to go. When Dobe trotted--an easy, +swinging trot that ate into the miles--Bartley tried to post, English +style. But Dobe did not understand that style of riding a trot. Each +time Bartley raised in the stirrups, Dobe took it for a signal to lope. +Finally Bartley caught the knack of leaning forward and riding a trot +with a straight leg, and to his surprise he found it was a mighty +satisfactory method and much easier than posting. + +The mesa trail was wide--in reality a cross-country road, so Bartley had +opportunity to try Dobe's different gaits. The running walk was a joy to +experience, the trot was easy, and the lope as regular and smooth as the +swing of a pendulum. Finally Bartley settled to the best long-distance +gait of all, the running walk, and began to enjoy the vista; the +wide-sweeping, southern reaches dotted with buttes, the line of the far +hills crowded against the sky, and the intense light in which there was +no faintest trace of blur or moisture. Everything within normal range of +vision stood out clean-edged and definite. + +Unaccustomed to riding a horse that neck-reined at the merest touch, and +one that stopped at the slightest tightening of the rein, Bartley had to +learn through experience that a spade bit requires delicate handling. He +was jogging along easily when he turned to glance back at the town--now +a far, huddled group of tiny buildings. Inadvertently he tightened rein. +Dobe stopped short. Bartley promptly went over the fork and slid to the +ground. + +Dobe gazed down at his rider curiously, ears cocked forward, as though +trying to understand just what his rider meant to do next. Bartley +expected to see the horse whirl and leave for home. But Dobe stood +patiently until his rider had mounted. Bartley glanced round covertly, +wondering if any one had witnessed his impromptu descent. Then he +laughed, realizing that it was a long way to Central Park, flat saddles +and snaffles. + +A little later he ate two of the sandwiches Wishful had thoughtfully +provided, and drank from the canteen. Gradually the shadows of the +buttes lengthened. The afternoon heat ebbed away in little, infrequent +puffs of wind. The western reaches of the great mesa seemed to expand, +while the southern horizon drew nearer. + +Presently Bartley noticed pony tracks on the road, and either side of +the tracks the mark of wheels. Here the wagon had swung aside to avoid a +bit of bad going, yet the tracks of two horses still kept the middle of +the road. "Senator Brown--and Cheyenne," thought Bartley, studying the +tracks. He became interested in them. Here, again, Cheyenne had +dismounted, possibly to tighten a cinch. There was the stub of a +cigarette. Farther along the tracks were lost in the rocky ground of the +petrified forest. He had made twenty miles without realizing it. + +Winding in and out among the shattered and fallen trunks of those +prehistoric trees, Bartley forgot where he was until he passed the +bluish-gray sweep of burned earth edging the forest. Presently a few +dwarf junipers appeared. He was getting higher, although the mesa seemed +level. Again he discovered the tracks of the horses in the powdered red +clay of the road. + +He crossed a shallow arroyo, sandy and wide. Later he came suddenly upon +a red clay cutbank, and a hint of water where the bank shadowed the +mud-smeared rocks. He rode slowly, preoccupied in studying the country. +The sun showed close to the rim of the world when he finally realized +that, if he meant to get anywhere, he had better be about it. Dobe +promptly caught the change of his rider's mental attitude and stepped +out briskly. Bartley patted the horse's neck. + +It was a pleasure to ride an animal that seemed to want to work with a +man and not against him. The horse had cost one hundred dollars--a fair +price for such a horse in those days. Yet Bartley thought it a very +reasonable price. And he knew he had a bargain. He felt clearly +confident that the big cow-pony would serve him in any circumstance or +hazard. + +As a long, undulating stretch of road appeared, softly brown in the +shadows, Bartley began to look about for the water-hole which Wishful +had spoken about. The sun slipped from sight. The dim, gray road reached +on and on, shortening in perspective as the quick night swept down. + +Beyond and about was a dusky wall through which loomed queer shapes that +seemed to move and change until, approached, they became junipers. +Bartley's gaze became fixed upon the road. That, at least, was a +reality. He reached back and untied his coat and swung into it. An early +star flared over the southern hills. He wondered if he had passed the +water-hole. He had a canteen, but Dobe would need water. But Dobe was +thoroughly familiar with the trail from Antelope to the White Hills. And +Dobe smelled the presence of his kind, even while Bartley, peering ahead +in the dusk, rode on, not aware that some one was camped within calling +distance of the trail. A cluster of junipers hid the faint glow of the +camp-fire. + +Dobe stopped suddenly. Bartley urged him on. For the first time the big +horse showed an inclination to ignore the rein. Bartley gazed round, saw +nothing in particular, and spoke to the horse, urging him forward. Dobe +turned and marched deliberately away from the road, heading toward the +west, and nickered. From behind the screen of junipers came an answering +nicker. Bartley hallooed. No one answered him. Yet Dobe seemed to know +what he was about. He plodded on, down a slight grade. Suddenly the soft +glow of a camp-fire illumined the hollow. + +A blanket-roll, a saddle, a coil of rope, and a battered canteen and the +fire--but no habitant of the camp. + +"Hello!" shouted Bartley. + +Dobe shied and snorted as a figure loomed in the dusk, and Cheyenne was +peering up at him. + +"Is this the water-hole?" Bartley asked inanely. + +"This is her. I'm sure glad to see you! I feel like a plumb fool for +standin' you up that way--but I didn't quite get you till I seen your +face. I thought I knowed your voice, but I never did see you in jeans, +and ridin' a hoss before. And that hat ain't like the one you wore in +Antelope." + +"Then you didn't know just what to expect?" + +"I wa'n't sure. But say, I got some coffee goin'--and some bacon. Light +down and give your saddle a rest." + +"I'll just water my horse and stake him out and--" + +"I'll show you where. I see you're ridin' Dobe. Wishful rent him to +you?" + +"No. I bought him." + +"If you don't mind tellin' me--how much?" + +"A hundred." + +"Was Wishful drunk?" + +"No." + +"Well, you got a real hoss, there. The water is right close. Old Dobe +knows where it is. Just lift off your saddle and turn him loose--or +mebby you better hobble him the first night. He ain't used to travelin' +with you, yet." + +"I have a stake-rope," said Bartley. + +"A hoss would starve on a stake-rope out here. I'll make you a pair of +hobbles, pronto. Then he'll stick with my hosses." + +"Where are they?" + +"Runnin' around out there somewhere. They never stray far from camp." + +Bartley watched Cheyenne untwist a piece of soft rope and make a pair of +serviceable hobbles. + +"Now he'll travel easy and git enough grass to keep him in shape. And +them hobbles won't burn him. Any time you're shy of hobbles, that's how +to make 'em." + +Later, as Bartley sat by the fire and ate, Cheyenne asked him if +Panhandle had been seen in town since the night of the crap game. +Bartley told him that he had seen nothing of Panhandle. + +"He's ridin' this country, somewhere," said Cheyenne. "You're headed for +Steve's ranch?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, Steve'll sure give you the time of your life." + +"I think I'll stay there a few days, if the Senator can make room for +me." + +"Room! Wait till you see Steve's place. And say, if you want to get wise +to how they run a cattle outfit, just throw in with the boys, tell 'em +you're a plumb tenderfoot and can't ride a bronc, nohow, and that you +never took down a rope in your life, and that all you know about cattle +is what you've et, and then the boys will use you white. There's nothin' +puts a fella in wrong with the boys quicker than for him to let on he is +a hand when he ain't. 'Course the boys won't mind seem' you top a bronc +and get throwed, just to see if you got sand." + +Meanwhile Cheyenne manipulated the coffee-pot and skillet most +effectively. And while Bartley ate his supper, Cheyenne talked, +seemingly glad to have a companion to talk to. + +"You see," he began, apropos of nothing in particular, "entertainin' +folks with the latest news is my long suit. I'm kind of a travelin' +show, singin' and packin' the news around to everybody. 'Course folks +read the paper and hear about somebody gettin' married, or gettin' shot +or leavin' the country, and then they ask me the how of it. I been +ramblin' so long that I know the pedigrees of 'most everybody down this +way. + +"Newspapers is all right, but folks get plumb hungry to git their news +with human trimmin's. I recollec' I come mighty near gettin' in trouble, +onct. Steve had some folks visitin' down to his ranch. They was new to +the country, and seems they locked horns with a outfit runnin' sheep +just south of Springerville. Now, I hadn't been down that way for about +six months, but I had heard of that ruckus. So after Steve lets me sing +a couple of songs, and I got to feelin' comfortable with them new folks, +I set to and tells 'em about the ruckus down near Springerville. I guess +the fella that told me must 'a' got his reins crossed, for pretty soon +Steve starts to laugh and turns to them visitors and says: 'How about +it, Mr. Smith?' + +"Now, Smith was the fella that had the ruckus, and I'd been tellin' how +that sheep outfit had run _him_ out of the country. He was a young, +long, spindlin' hombre from Texas--a reg'lar Whicker-bill, with that +drawlin' kind of a voice that hosses and folks listen to. I knowed he +was from Texas the minute I seen him, but I sure didn't know he was the +man I was talkin' about. + +"Everybody laughed but him and his wife. I reckon she was feelin' her +oats, visitin' at the Senator's house. I don't know what she said to her +husband, but, anyhow, afore I left for the bunk-house that evenin', he +says, slow and easy, that if I was around there next mornin', he would +explain all about that ruckus to me, when the ladies weren't present, so +I wouldn't get it wrong, next time. I seen I had made a mistake for +myself, and I didn't aim to make another, so I just kind of eased off +and faded away, bushin' down that night a far piece from Senator Steve's +ranch. I know them Whicker-bills and I didn't want to tangle with any of +'em." + +"Afraid you'd get shot?" queried Bartley, laughing. + +"Shot? Me? No, pardner. I was afraid that Texas gent would get shot. You +see, he was married--and I--ain't." + +Bartley lay back on his saddle and gazed up at the stars. The little +fire had died down to a dot of red. A coyote yelped in the far dusk. +Another coyote replied. Cheyenne rose and threw some wood on the fire. +Then he stepped down to the water-hole and washed the plates and cups. +Bartley could hear the peculiar thumping sound of hobbled horses moving +about on the mesa. Cheyenne returned to the fire, picked up his +bed-roll, and marched off into the bushes. Bartley wondered why he +should take the trouble to move his bed-roll such a distance from the +water-hole. + +"Pack your saddle and blanket over, when you feel like turnin' in," said +Cheyenne. "And you might throw some dirt on that fire. I ain't lookin' +for visitors down this way, but you can't tell." + +Bartley carried his saddle out to the distant clump of junipers. + +"Just shed your coat and boots and turn in," invited Cheyenne. + +Bartley was not sleepy, and for a long time he lay gazing up at the +stars. Presently he heard Cheyenne snore. The Big Dipper grew dim. Then +a coyote yelped--a shrill cadence of mocking laughter. "I wonder what +the joke is?" Bartley thought drowsily. + +Sometime during the night he was awakened by the tramping of horses, a +sound that ran along the ground and diminished in the distance. + +Cheyenne was sitting up. He touched Bartley. "Five or six of 'em," +whispered Cheyenne. + +"Our horses?" + +"Too many. Mebby some strays." + +"Or cowboys," suggested Bartley. + +"Night-ridin' ain't so popular out here." + +Bartley turned over and fell asleep. It seemed but a moment later that +he was wide awake and Cheyenne was standing over him. It was daylight. + +"They got our hosses," said Cheyenne. + +"Who?" + +"I dunno." + +"What? _Our_ horses? Great Scott, how far is it to Senator Brown's +ranch?" + +"About twenty-five miles, by road. I know a short cut." + +Bartley jumped up and pulled on his boots. From the far hills came the +faint yelp of a coyote, shrill and derisive. + +"The joke is on us," said Bartley. + +"This here ain't no joke," stated Cheyenne. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS + + +Bartley suggested that, perhaps, the horses had strayed. + +Cheyenne shook his head. "My hosses ain't leavin' good feed, or leavin' +me. They know this here country." + +"Perhaps Dobe left for home and the rest followed him," said Bartley. + +"Nope. Our hosses was roped and led south." + +Bartley stared at Cheyenne, whose usually placid countenance expressed +indecision and worry. Cheyenne seemed positive about the missing horses. +Then Bartley saw an expression in Cheyenne's eyes that indicated more +sternness of spirit than he had given Cheyenne credit for. + +"Roped and led south," reiterated Cheyenne. + +"How do you know it?" + +"I been scoutin' around. The bunch that rode by last night was leadin' +hosses. I could tell by the way the hosses was travelin'. They was goin' +steady. If they'd been drivin' our hosses ahead, they would 'a' gone +faster, tryin' to keep 'em from turnin' back. I don't see nothin' around +camp to show who's been here." + +"I'll make a fire," said Bartley. + +"You got the right idea. We can eat. Then I aim to look around." + +Cheyenne was over in the bushes rolling his bed when Bartley called to +him, and he found Bartley pointing at a pair of dice on a flat rock +beside the fire. + +Cheyenne stooped and picked up the dice. "Was you rattlin' the bones to +see if you could beat yourself?" + +"I found them here. Are they yours?" + +"Nope. And they weren't here last evenin'." + +Cheyenne turned and strode out to the road while Bartley made breakfast. +Cheyenne was gone a long time, examining the tracks of horses. When he +returned he squatted down and ate. + +Presently he rose. "First off, I thought they might 'a' been some stray +Apaches or Cholas. But they don't pack dice. And the bunch that rode by +last night was ridin' shod bosses." + +Bartley turned slowly toward his companion. "Panhandle?" he queried. + +"And these here dice? Looks like it. It's like him to leave them dice +for us to play with while he trails south with our stack. I reckon it +was that Dobe hoss he was after. But he must 'a' knowed who was campin' +around here. You see, when Wishful kind of hinted to Panhandle to leave +town, Panhandle figured that meant to stay out of Antelope quite a +spell. First off he steals some hosses. Next thing, he'll sell 'em or +trade 'em, down south of here. He'll travel nights, mostly." + +"I can't see why he should especially pick us out as his victims," said +Bartley. + +"I don't say he did. But it would make no difference to him. He'd steal +any man's stock. Only, I figure some of his friends must 'a' told him +about you--that seen you ridin' down this way. He would know our camp +would be somewhere near this water-hole. What kind of matches you got +with you?" + +"Why--this kind." And Bartley produced a few blue-top matches. + +"This here is a old-timer sulphur match, cut square. It was right here, +by the rock. Somebody lit a match and laid them dice there--sixes up. No +reg'lar hoss-thief would take that much trouble to advertise himself. +Panhandle done it--and he wanted me to know he done it." + +"You've had trouble with him before, haven't you?" + +"Yes--and no man can say I ever trailed him. But I never stepped out of +his way." + +"Then that crap game in Antelope meant more than an ordinary crap game?" +said Bartley. + +"He had his chance," stated Cheyenne. + +"Well, we're in a fix," asserted Bartley. + +"Yes; we're afoot. But we'll make it. And right here I'm tellin' you +that I aim to shoot a game of craps with Panhandle, usin' these here +dice, that'll be fast and won't last long." + +"How about the law?" + +"The law is all right, in spots. But they's a whole lot of country +between them spots." + +Cheyenne cached the bed-roll, saddles, and cooking-outfit back in the +brush, taking only a canteen and a little food. He proffered a pair of +moccasins, parfleche-soled and comfortable, to Bartley. + +"You wear these. Them new ridin'-boots'll sure kill you dead, walkin'. +You can pack 'em along with you." + +"How about your feet?" + +"Say, you wouldn't call me a tenderfoot, would you?" + +"Not exactly." + +"Then slip on them moccasins. But first I aim to make a circle and see +just where they caught up our stock." + +Bartley drew on the moccasins and, tying his boots together, rolled them +in his blanket. Meanwhile, Cheyenne circled the camp far out, examining +the scattered tracks of horses. When he returned the morning sun was +beginning to make itself felt. + +"I'll toss up to see who wears the moccasins," said Bartley. "I'm more +used to hiking than you are." + +"Spin her!" + +As Bartley tossed the coin, Cheyenne called. The half-dollar dropped and +stuck edge-up in the sand. + +"You wear 'em the first fifteen miles and then we'll swap," said +Cheyenne. + +Bartley filled the canteen and scraped dirt over the fire. Cheyenne took +a last look around, and turned toward the south. + +"You didn't say nothin' about headin' back to Antelope," said Cheyenne. + +"Why, no. I started out to visit Senator Brown's ranch." + +Cheyenne laughed. "Well, you're out to see the country, anyhow. We'll +see lots, to-day." + +Once more upon the road Cheyenne's manner changed. He seemed to ignore +the fact that he was afoot, in country where there was little prospect +of getting a lift from a passing rancher or freighter. And he said +nothing about his horses, Filaree and Joshua, although Bartley knew that +their loss must have hit him hard. + +A mile down the road, and Cheyenne was singing his trail song, +bow-legging ahead as though he were entirely alone and indifferent to +the journey: + + Seems like I don't git anywhere: + Git along, cayuse, git along! + But I'm leavin' here and I'm goin' there, + Git along, cayuse, git along-- + +He stopped suddenly, pulled his faded black Stetson over one eye, and +then stepped out again, singing on: + + They ain't no water and they ain't no shade: + They ain't no beer or lemonade, + But I reckon most like we'll make the grade + Git along, cayuse, git along. + +"That's the stuff!" laughed Bartley. "A stanza or two of that every few +miles, and we'll make the grade all right. That last was improvised, +wasn't it?" + +"Nope. Just naturalized. I make 'em up when I'm ridin' along, to kind of +fit into the scenery. Impervisin' gets my wind." + +"Well, if you are singing when we finish, you're a wonder," stated +Bartley. + +"Oh, I'm a wonder, all right! And mebby I don't feel like a plumb fool, +footin' it into Steve's ranch with no hosses and no bed-roll and no +reputation. And I sure lose mine this trip. Why, folks all over the +country will josh me to death when they hear Panhandle Sears set me +afoot on the big mesa. I reckon I'll have to kind of change my route +till somethin' happens to make folks forget this here bobble." + +Another five miles of hot and monotonous plodding, and Cheyenne stopped +and sat down. He pulled off his boots. + +Bartley offered the moccasins, but Cheyenne waved the offer aside. + +"Just coolin' my feet," he explained. "It ain't so much the kind of +boots, because these fit. It's scaldin' your feet that throws you." + +They smoked and drank from the canteen. Five minutes' rest, and they +were on the road again. The big mesa reached on and on toward the south, +seemingly limitless, without sign of fence or civilization save for the +narrow road that swung over each slight, rounded rise and ran away into +the distance, narrowing to a gray line that disappeared in space. + +Occasionally singing, Cheyenne strode along, Bartley striding beside +him. + +"You got a stride like a unbroke yearlin'," said; Cheyenne, as Bartley +unconsciously drew ahead. + +Bartley stopped and turned into step as Cheyenne caught up. He held +himself to a slower pace, realizing that, while his companion could have +outridden him by days and miles, the other was not used to walking. + +As they topped a low rise a coyote sprang up and floated away. Bartley +flinched as Cheyenne whipped up his gun and fired. The coyote +jack-knifed and lay still. Cheyenne punched the empty shell from his +gun, slipped in a cartridge, and strode on. + +"Pretty fast work," remarked Bartley. + +"Huh! I just throwed down on him to see if I was gettin' slow." + +"It seems to me that if I could shoot like that, I wouldn't let any man +back me down," said Bartley. + +"Mebby so. But you're wrong, old-timer. Bein' fast with a gun is just +like advertisin' for the coroner. Me, I'm plumb peaceful." + +A few miles farther along they nooned in the shade of a pinion. When +they started down the road again, Bartley noticed that Cheyenne limped +slightly. But Cheyenne still refused to put on the moccasins. Bartley +argued that his own feet were getting tender. He was unaccustomed to +moccasins. Cheyenne turned this argument aside by singing a stanza of +his trail song. + +Also, incidentally, Cheyenne had been keeping his eye on the +horse-tracks; and just before they left the main road taking a short +cut, he pointed to them. "There's Filaree's tracks, and there's +Joshua's. Your hoss has been travelin' over here, on the edge. Them +hoss-thieves figure to hit into the White Hills and cut down through the +Apache forest, most like." + +"Will they sell the horses?" + +"Yes. Or trade 'em for whiskey. Panhandle's got friends up in them +hills." + +"How far is it to the ranch?" queried Bartley. + +"We done reached her. We're on Steve's ranch, right now. It's about five +miles from that first fence over there to his house, by trail. It's +fifteen by road." + +"Then here is where you take the moccasins." + +"Nope. My feet are so swelled you couldn't start my boots with a fence +stretcher. They's no use both of us gettin' cripped up." + +Bartley's own feet ached from the constant bruising of pebbles. + +Presently Cheyenne dropped back and asked Bartley to set the pace. + +"I'll just tie to your shadow," said Cheyenne. "Keeps me interested. +When I'm drillin' along ahead I can't think of nothin' but my feet." + +Because there was now no road and scarcely a trail, Bartley began to +choose his footing, dodging the rougher places. The muscles of his +calves ached under the unaccustomed strain of walking without heels. +Cheyenne dogged along behind, suffering keenly from blistered feet, but +centering his attention on Bartley's bobbing shadow. They had made about +two miles across country when the faint trail ran round a butte and +dipped into a shallow arroyo. + +The arroyo deepened to a gulch, narrow and rocky. Up the gulch a few +hundred yards they came suddenly upon a bunch of Hereford cattle headed +by a magnificent bull. The trail ran in the bottom of the gulch. On +either side the walls were steep and rocky. Angling junipers stuck out +from the walls in occasional dots of green. + +"That ole white-face sure looks hostile," Cheyenne remarked. "Git along, +you ole Mormon; curl your tail and drift." + +Cheyenne heaved a stone which took the bull fairly between the eyes. The +bull shook his head and snapped his tail, but did not move. The cattle +behind the bull stared blandly at the invaders of their domain. The +bull, being an aristocrat, gave warning of his intent to charge by +shaking his head and bellowing. Then he charged. + +Cheyenne stooped for another stone, but Bartley had no intention of +playing ping-pong with a roaring red avalanche. Bartley made for the +side of the gulch and, catching hold of the bole of a juniper, drew +himself up. Cheyenne stood to his guns, shied a third stone, scored a +bull's-eye, and then decided to evacuate in favor of the enemy. His feet +were sore, but he managed to keep a good three jumps ahead of the bull, +up the precipitous bank of the gulch. There was no time to swing into +the tree where Bartley had taken refuge, so Cheyenne backed into a +shallow depression beneath the roots of the juniper. + +The bull shook his head and butted at Cheyenne. Cheyenne slapped the +bull's nose with his hat. The bull backed part-way down the grade, +snapped his tail, and bellowed. Up the grade he charged again. He could +not quite reach Cheyenne, who slapped at the bull with his hat and spake +eloquently. + +Bartley, clinging to his precarious perch, gazed down upon the scene, +wondering if he had not better take a shot at the bull. "Shall I let him +have it?" he queried. + +"Have what?" came the muffled voice of Cheyenne. "He's 'most got what +he's after, right now." + +"Shall I shoot him?" + +"Hell, no! No use beefin' twelve hundred dollars' worth of meat. We +don't need that much." + +"Look out! He's coming again!" called Bartley. + +Cheyenne had suddenly poked his head out of the shallow cave. The bull +charged, backed down, and amused himself by tossing dirt over his +shoulders and grumbling like distant thunder. + +"Perhaps if you stay in that cave and don't show yourself, he'll leave," +suggested Bartley. + +"Stay nothin'!" answered Cheyenne. "There's a rattler in this here cave. +I can hear him singin'. I'm comin' out, right now!" + +Bartley leaned forward and glanced down. The branch on which he was +straddled snapped. + +"Look out below!" he shouted as he felt himself going. + +Bartley's surprising evolution was too much for his majesty the bull, +who whirled and galloped clumsily down the slope. Bartley rolled to the +bottom, still holding to a broken branch of the tree. Cheyenne was also +at the bottom of the gulch. The bull was trotting heavily toward his +herd. + +"Is there anything hooked to the back of my jeans?" queried Cheyenne. + +"No. They're torn; that's all." + +"Huh! I thought mebby that ole snake had hooked on to my jeans. He +sounded right mad, singin' lively, back in there. My laigs feel kind of +limp, right now." + +Cheyenne felt of his torn overalls, shook his head, and then a slow +smile illumined his face. "How do you like this here country, anyhow?" + +"Great!" said Bartley. + + + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +AT THE BOX-S + + +When they emerged from the western end of the gulch, they paused to +rest. Not over a half-mile south stood the ranch-house, just back of a +row of giant cottonwoods. + +Cheyenne pointed out the stables, corrals, and bunk-house. "A mighty +neat little outfit," he remarked, as they started on again. + +"Little?" + +"Senator Steve's only got about sixty thousand acres under fence." + +"Then I'd like to see a big ranch," laughed Bartley. + +"You can't. They ain't nothin' to see more'n you see right now. Why, I +know a outfit down in Texas that would call this here ranch their north +pasture--and they got three more about the same size, besides the +regular range. But standin' in any one place you can't see any more than +you do right now. Steve just keeps up this here ranch so he can have +elbow-room. Yonder comes one of his boys. Reckon he seen us." + +A rider had just reined his horse round and was loping toward them. + +"He seen we was afoot," said Cheyenne. + +"Mighty decent of him--" began Bartley, but Cheyenne waved the +suggestion aside. "Decent nothin'! A man afoot looks as queer to a +waddie as we did to that ole bull." + +The puncher loped up, recognized Cheyenne, nodded to Bartley, and seemed +to hesitate. Cheyenne made no explanation of their plight, so the +puncher simply turned back and loped toward the ranch-house. + +"Just steppin' over to tell Steve we're here," said Cheyenne, as +Bartley's face expressed astonishment. + +They plodded on, came to a gate, limped down a long lane, came to +another gate, and there Senator Steve met them. + +"I'd 'a' sent a man with a buckboard if I had known you planned to walk +over from Antelope," he asserted, and his eyes twinkled. + +Cheyenne frowned prodigiously. "Steve," he said slowly, "you can +lovin'ly and trustfully go plumb to hell!" + +Cheyenne turned and limped slowly toward the bunk-house. + +Mrs. Brown welcomed Bartley as the Senator ushered him into the +living-room. The Senator half-filled a tumbler from a cold, dark bottle +and handed it to Bartley. + +"'Green River,'" he said. + +"Mrs. Brown," said Bartley as he bowed. + +Then the Senator escorted Bartley to the bathroom. The tub was already +filled with steaming water. A row of snow-white towels hung on the rack. +The Senator waved his hand and, stepping out, closed the door. + +A few minutes later he knocked at the bathroom door. "There's a spare +razor in the cabinet, and all the fixings. And when you're ready there's +a pair of clean socks on the doorknob." + +Bartley heard the Senator's heavy, deliberate step as he passed down the +hallway. + +"A little 'Green River,' a hot bath, and clean socks," murmured Bartley. +"Things might be worse." + +His tired muscles relaxed under the beneficent warmth of the bath. He +shaved, dressed, and stepped out into the hall. He sniffed. "Chicken!" +he murmured soulfully. + +Mrs. Senator Brown was supervising the cooking of a dinner that Bartley +never forgot. Boiled chicken, dumplings, rich gravy, mashed potatoes, +creamed carrots, sliced tomatoes--to begin with. And then the pie! +Bartley furnished the appetite. + +But that was not until after the Senator had returned from the +bunk-house. He had seen to it that Cheyenne had had a bucket of hot +water, soap, and towels and grease for his sore feet. In direct and +effectual kindliness, without obviously expressed sympathy, the +Westerner is peculiarly supreme. + +Back in the living-room Bartley made himself comfortable, admiring the +generous proportions of the house, the choice Indian blankets, the wide +fireplace, and the general solidity of everything, which reflected the +personality of his hosts. + +Presently the Senator came in. "Cheyenne tells me that somebody set you +afoot, down at the water-hole." + +"Did he also tell you about your bull?" + +"No! Is that how he came to tear his jeans?" + +Bartley nodded. And he told the Senator of their recent experience in +the gulch. + +The Senator chuckled. "Don't say a word to Mrs. Brown about it. I'll +have Cheyenne in, after dinner, and sweat it out of him. You see, +Cheyenne won't eat with us. He always eats with the boys. No use asking +him to eat in here. And, say, Bartley, we've got a little surprise for +you. One of my boys caught up your horse, old Dobe. Dobe was dragging a +rope. Looks like he broke away from some one. I had him turned into the +corral. Dobe was raised on this range." + +"Broke loose and came back!" exclaimed Bartley. "That's good news, +Senator. I like that horse." + +"But Cheyenne is out of luck," said the Senator. "He thought more of +those horses, Filaree and Joshua, than he did of anything on earth. I'll +send one of the boys back to the water-hole to-morrow, for your saddles +and outfit. But now you're here, how do you like the country?" + +"Almost as much as I like some of the people living in it," stated +Bartley. + +"Not including Panhandle Sears, eh?" + +"I'm pretty well fed up on walking," and Bartley smiled. + +"Sears is a worthless hombre," stated the Senator. "He's one of a gang +that steal stock, and generally live by their wits and never seem to get +caught. But he made a big mistake when he lifted Cheyenne's horses. +Cheyenne already has a grievance against Sears. Some day Cheyenne will +open up--and that will be the last of Mr. Sears." + +"I had an idea there was something like that in the wind," said Bartley. +"Cheyenne hasn't said much about Sears, but I was present at that crap +game." + +The Senator chuckled. "I heard about it. Heard you offered to take on +Sears if he would put his gun on the table." + +Bartley flushed. "I must have been excited." + +The Senator leaned forward in his big, easy-chair. "Cheyenne wants me to +let him take a couple of horses to trail Panhandle. And, judging from +what Cheyenne said, he thinks you are going along with him. There's lots +of country right round here to see, without taking any unnecessary +risks." + +"I understand," said Bartley. + +"And this is your headquarters, as long as you want to stay," continued +the Senator. + +"Thank you. It's a big temptation to stay, Senator." + +"How?" + +"Well, it was rather understood, without anything being said, that I +would help Cheyenne find his horses and mine. Dobe came back; but that +hardly excuses me from going with Cheyenne." + +"But your horse is here; and you seem to be in pretty fair health, right +now." + +"I appreciate the hint, Senator." + +"But you don't agree with me a whole lot." + +"Well, not quite. Chance rather chucked us together, Cheyenne and me, +and I think I'll travel with him for a while. I like to hear him sing." + +"He likes to hear him sing!" scoffed the Senator, frowning. He sat back +in his chair, blew smoke-rings, puffed out his cheeks, and presently +rose. "Bartley, I see that you're set on chousin' around the country +with that warbling waddie--just to hear him sing, as you say. I say +you're a dam' fool. + +"But you're the kind of a dam' fool I want to shake hands with. You +aren't excited and you don't play to the gallery; so if there's anything +you want on this ranch, from a posse to a pack-outfit, it's yours. And +if either of you get Sears, I'll sure chip in my share to buy his +headstone." + +"I wouldn't have it inscribed until we get back," laughed Bartley. + +"No; I don't think I will. Trailin' horse-thieves on their own stamping +ground ain't what an insurance company would call a good risk." + + + + + + +CHAPTER X + +TO TRY HIM OUT + + +Two days later Cheyenne was able to get his feet into his boots, but +even then he walked as though he did not care to let his left foot know +what his right foot was doing. Lon Pelly, just in from a ride out to the +line shack, remarked to the boys in the bunk-house that Cheyenne walked +as though his brains were in his feet and he didn't want to get stone +bruises stepping on them. + +Cheyenne made no immediate retort, but later he delivered himself of a +new stanza of his trail song, wherein the first line ended with "Pelly" +followed by the rhymed assertion that the gentleman who bore that +peculiar name had slivers in his anatomy due to a fondness for leaning +against the bar of the Blue Front Saloon. + +The boys were mightily pleased with the stanza, and they also improvised +until, according to their versions, Long Lon bore a marked resemblance +to a porcupine. Lon, being a real person, felt that Cheyenne's +retaliation was just. Moreover, Lon, who never did anything hastily, let +it be known casually that he had seen three riders west of the line +shack some two days past, and that the riders were leading two horses, a +buckskin and a gray. They were too far away to be distinguished +absolutely, but he could tell the color of the horses. + +"Panhandle?" queried a puncher. + +"And two riders with him," said Long Lon. + +"Goin' to trail him, Cheyenne?" came presently. + +"That's me." + +"Then let's pass the hat," suggested the first speaker. + +"Wait!" said Cheyenne, drawing a pair of dice from his pocket. "Somehow, +and sometime, I aim to shoot Panhandle a little game. Then you guys can +pass the hat for the loser. Panhandle left them dice on the flat rock, +by the water-hole. My pardner, Bartley, found them." + +"Kind of sign talk that Pan pulled one on you," said Lon Pelly. + +"He sure left his brains behind him when he left them dice," asserted +Cheyenne. "I suspicioned that it was him--but the dice told me, plain." + +"So you figure to walk up to Pan and invite him to shoot a little game, +when you meet up with him?" queried a puncher. + +"That's me." + +"The tenderfoot"--he referred to Bartley--"is he goin' along with you?" + +"He ain't so tender as you might think," said Cheyenne. "He's green, but +not so dam' tender." + +"Well, it's right sad. He looks like a pretty decent hombre." + +"What's sad?" queried Cheyenne belligerently. + +"Why, gettin' that tenderfoot all shot up, trailin' a couple of +twenty-dollar cayuses. They ain't worth it." + +"They ain't, eh?" + +"Course, they make a right good audience, when you're singin'. They do +all the listenin'," said another puncher. + +"Huh! They ain't one of you got a hoss that can listen to you, without +blushin'. You fellas think you're a hard-ridin'--" + +"Ridin' beats walkin'," suggested Long Lon. + +"Keep a-joshin'. I like it. Shows how much you don't know. I--hello, Mr. +Bartley! Shake hands with Lon Pelly--but I guess you met him, over to +Antelope. You needn't to mind the rest of these guys. They're harmless." + +"I don't want to interrupt--" began Bartley. + +"Set right in!" they invited in chorus. "We're just listenin' to +Cheyenne preachin' his own funeral sermon." + +Bartley seated himself in the doorway of the bunk-house. The joshing +ceased. Cheyenne, who could never keep his hands still, toyed with the +dice. Presently one of the boys suggested that Cheyenne show them some +fancy work with a six-gun--"just to keep your wrist limber," he +concluded. + +Cheyenne shook his head. But, when Bartley intimated that he would like +to see Cheyenne shoot, Cheyenne rose. + +"All right. I'll shoot any fella here for ten bucks--him to name the +target." + +"No, you don't," said a puncher. "We ain't givin' our dough away, just +to git rid of it." + +"And right recent they was talkin' big," said Cheyenne. "I'll shoot the +spot of a playin'-card, if you'll hold it," he asserted, indicating +Bartley. + +The boys glanced at Bartley and then lowered their eyes, wondering what +the Easterner would do. Bartley felt that this was a test of his nerve, +and, while he didn't like the idea of engaging in a William Tell +performance he realized that Cheyenne must have had a reason for +choosing him, out of the men present, and that Cheyenne knew his +business. + +"Cheyenne wants to git out of shootin'," suggested a puncher. + +That settled it with Bartley. "He won't disappoint you," he stated +quietly. "Give me the card." + +One of the boys got up and fetched an old deck of cards. Bartley chose +the ace of spades. Back of the corrals, with nothing but mesa in sight, +he took up his position, while Cheyenne stepped off fifteen paces. +Bartley's hand trembled a little. Cheyenne noticed it and turned to the +group, saying something that made them laugh. Bartley's fingers tensed. +He forgot his nervousness. Cheyenne whirled and shot, apparently without +aim. Bartley drew a deep breath, and glanced at the card. The black pip +was cut clean from the center. + +"That's easy," asserted Cheyenne. Then he took a silver dollar from his +pocket, laid it in the palm of his right hand, hung the gun, by its +trigger guard on his right forefinger, lowered his hand and tossed the +coin up. As the coin went up the gun whirled over. Then came the whiz of +the coin as it cut through space. + +"About seventy-five shots like that and I'm broke," laughed Cheyenne. +"Anybody's hat need ventilatin'?" + +"Not this child's," asserted Lon Pelly. "I sailed my hat for him onct. +It was a twenty-dollar J.B., when I sailed it. When it hit it sure +wouldn't hold water. Six holes in her--and three shots." + +"Six?" exclaimed Bartley. + +"The three shots went clean through both sides," said Lon. + +Cheyenne reloaded his gun and dropped it into the holster. + +Later, Bartley had a talk with Cheyenne about the proposed trailing of +the stolen horses. Panhandle's name was mentioned. And the name of +another man--Sneed. Cheyenne seemed to know just where he would look, +and whom he might expect to meet. + +Bartley and Cheyenne were in the living-room that evening talking with +the Senator and his wife. Out in the bunk-house those of the boys who +had not left for the line shack were discussing horse-thieves in general +and Panhandle and Sneed in particular. Bill Smalley, a saturnine member +of the outfit, who seldom said anything, and who was a good hand but a +surly one, made a remark. + +"That there Cheyenne is the fastest gun artist--and the biggest coward +that ever come out of Wyoming. Ain't that right, Lon?" + +"I never worked in Wyoming," said Long Lon. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +PONY TRACKS + + +Mrs. Senator Brown did not at all approve of Bartley's determination to +accompany Cheyenne in search of the stolen horses. Late that night, long +after Cheyenne had ceased to sing for the boys in the bunk-house, and +while Bartley was peacefully slumbering in a comfortable bed, Mrs. Brown +took the Senator to task for not having discouraged the young Easterner +from attempting such a wild-goose chase. The Senator, whose diameter +made the task of removing his boots rather difficult, puffed, and tugged +at a tight riding-boot, but said nothing. + +"Steve!" + +"Yes'm. I 'most got it off. Wild-goose chase? Madam, the wild goose is a +child that shuns this element. You mean wild-horse chase." + +"That sort of talk may amuse your constituents, but you are talking to +me." + +Off came the stubborn boot. The Senator puffed, and tugged at the other +boot. + +"No, ma'am. You're talking to me. There! Now go ahead and I'll listen." + +"Why didn't you discourage Mr. Bartley's idea of making such a journey?' + +"I did, Nelly. I told him he was a dam' fool." + +Mrs. Senator Brown, who knew her husband's capabilities in dodging +issues when he was cornered,--both at home and abroad,--peered at him +over her glasses. "What else did you tell him?" + +"Well, your honor," chuckled the Senator, "I also told him he was the +kind of dam' fool I liked to shake hands with." + +"I knew it! And what else?" + +"I challenge the right of the attorney for the plaintiff to introduce +any evidence that may--" + +"The attorney for the defense may proceed," said Mrs. Brown, smiling. + +"Why, shucks, Nelly! When you smile like that--why, I told Bartley he +could have anything on this ranch that would help him get a rope on +Sears." + +"I knew it!" + +"Then why did you ask me?" + +Mrs. Brown ignored the question. "Very well, Stephen. Mr. Bartley gave +me his sister's address, in case anything happened. She is his only +living relative and I'm going to write to her at once and tell her what +her brother is up to." + +"And most like she'll head right for this ranch." + +"Well, suppose she does? If she is anything like her brother she will be +welcome." + +"You bet! Just leave that to me!" + +"It's a shame!" asserted Mrs. Brown. + +"It is! With her good looks and inexperience she'll sure need somebody +to look after her." + +"How do you know she is good-looking?" + +"I don't. I was just hoping." + +"I shall write, just the same." + +"I reckon you will. I'm going to bed." + +Just as the sun rounded above the mesa next morning, Bartley stepped out +to the veranda. He was surprised to find the Senator up and about, +inspecting the details of Cheyenne's outfit, for Cheyenne had the horses +saddled and packed. Bartley was still more surprised to find that Mrs. +Brown had breakfast ready. Evidently the good Senator and his wife had a +decided interest in the welfare of the expedition. + +After breakfast the Senator's wife came out to the bunk-house with a +mysterious parcel which she gave to Bartley. He sniffed at it. + +"Cold chicken sandwiches!" he said, smiling broadly. + +"And some doughnuts. It will save you boys fussing with a lunch." + +Long Lon Pelly was also up and ready to start. The air was still cool +and the horses were a bit snuffy. Lon mounted and rode toward the west +gate where he waited for Cheyenne and Bartley. + +"Now don't forget where you live," said the Senator as Bartley mounted. + +With a cheery farewell to their hosts, Cheyenne and Bartley rode away. +The first warmth of the sun touched them as they headed into the western +spaces. Long Lon closed the big gate, stepped up on his horse, and +jogged along beside them. + +Bartley felt as though he had suddenly left the world of reality and was +riding in a sort of morning dream. He could feel the pleasant warmth of +the sun on his back. He sniffed the thin dust cast up by the horses. On +either side of him the big mesa spread to the sky-line. Cattle were +scattered in the brush, some of them lying down, some of them grazing +indolently. + +Presently Cheyenne began to sing, and his singing seemed to fit into the +mood of the morning. He ceased, and nothing but the faint jingle of rein +chains and the steady plod of hoofs disturbed the vast silence. A +flicker of smoke drifted back as Cheyenne lighted a cigarette. Long Lon +drilled on, wrapped in his reflections. Their moving shadows shortened. +Occasionally a staring-eyed cow strayed directly in their way and stood +until Long Lon struck his chaps with his quirt, when the cow, swinging +its head, would whirl and bounce off to one side, stiff-legged and +ridiculous. + +Bartley unbuttoned his shirt-collar and pushed back his hat. Far across +the mesa a dust devil spun up and writhed away toward the distant hills. +As the horses slowed to cross a sandy draw, Bartley turned and glanced +back. The ranch buildings--a dot of white in a clump of green--shimmered +vaguely in the morning sunlight. + +Thus far, Bartley felt that he had been leaving the ranch and the +cheerful companionship of the Senator and his wife. But as Lon Pelly +reined up--it was something like two hours since they had started--and +pointed to a cross-trail leading south, Bartley's mental attitude +changed instantly. Hitherto he had been leaving a pleasant habitation. +Now he was going somewhere. He felt the distinction keenly. Cheyenne's +verse came back to him. + + Seems like I don't git anywhere, + Git along, cayuse, git along; + But we're leavin' here and we're goin' there, + Git along, cayuse, git along-- + +"Just drop a line when you get there," said Long Lon as he reined round +and set off toward the far western sky-line. That was his casual +farewell. + +Cheyenne now turned directly toward the south and a range of hills that +marked the boundary of the mesa level. Occasionally he got off his horse +and stooped to examine tracks. Once he made a wide circle, leaving +Bartley to haze the pack-horse along. Slowly they drew nearer to the +hills. During the remainder of that forenoon, Cheyenne said nothing, but +rode, slouched forward, his hand on the horn, his gaze on the ground. + +They nooned in the foothills. The horses grazed along the edge of a tiny +stream while Cheyenne and Bartley ate the cold chicken sandwiches. In +half an hour they were riding again, skirting the foothills, and, it +seemed to Bartley, simply meandering about the country, for now they +were headed west again. + +Presently Cheyenne spoke. "I been makin' a plan." + +"I didn't say a word," laughed Bartley. + +"You didn't need to. I kind of got what you were thinkin'. This here is +big country. When you're ridin' this kind of country with some fella, +you can read his mind almost as good as a horse can. You was thinkin' I +was kind of twisted and didn't know which way to head. Now take that +there hoss, Joshua. Plenty times I've rode him up to a fork in the +trail, and kep' sayin' to myself, 'We'll take the right-hand fork.' And +Joshua always took the fork I was thinkin' about. You try it with Dobe, +sometime." + +"I have read of such things," said Bartley. + +"Well, I _know_ 'em. What would you say if I was to tell you that Joshua +knowed once they was a fella ridin' behind me, five miles back, and out +of sight--and told me, plain?" + +"I wouldn't say anything." + +"There's where you're wise. I can talk to you about such things. But +when I try to talk to the boys like that, they just josh, till I git mad +and quit. They ain't takin' me serious." + +"What is your plan?" queried Bartley. + +Cheyenne reined up and dismounted. "Step down, and take a look," he +suggested. + +Bartley dismounted. Cheyenne pointed out horse-tracks on the trail along +the edge of the hills. + +"Five hosses," he asserted. "Two of 'em is mine. That leaves three that +are carryin' weight. But we're makin' a mistake for ourselves, trailin' +Panhandle direct. He figures mebby I'd do that. I got to outfigure him. +I don't want to git blowed out of my saddle by somebody in the brush, +just waitin' for me to ride up and git shot. I got the way he's headed, +and by to-morrow mornin' I'll know for sure. + +"If he'd been goin' to swing back, to fool me, he'd 'a' done it before +he hit the timber, up yonder. Once he gits in them hills he'll head +straight south, for they ain't no other trail to ride on them ridges. +But mebby he cut along the foothills, first. I got to make sure." + +Late that afternoon and close to the edge of the foothills, Cheyenne +lost the tracks. He spent over an hour finding them again. Bartley could +discern nothing definite, even when Cheyenne pointed to a queer, blurred +patch in some loose earth. + +"It looks like the imprint of some coarse cloth," said Bartley. + +"Gunnysack. They pulled the shoes off my hosses and sacked their feet." + +"How about their own horses?" + +"They been ridin' hard ground, and the tracks don't show, plain. +Panhandle figured, when I seen that only the tracks of three horses +showed, I'd think he had turned my hosses loose on the big mesa. He +stops, pulls their shoes, sacks their feet, and leads 'em over there. +Whoever done it was afoot, and steppin' careful. Hell, I could learn +that yella-bellied hoss-thief how to steal hosses right, if I was in the +business." + +"Looks like a pretty stiff drill up those hills," remarked Bartley. + +"That's why he turned, right here. 'Tain't just the stealin' of my +hosses that's interestin' him. He's takin' trouble to run a whizzer on +me--get me guessin'. Here is where we quit trailin' him. I got my plan +workin' like a hen draggin' fence rails. We ain't goin' to trail +Panhandle. We're goin' to ride 'round and meet him." + +"Not a bad idea," said Bartley. + +"It won't be--if I see him first." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +JIMMY AND THE LUGER GUN + + +Two days of riding toward the west, along the edge of the hills, and +Bartley and Cheyenne found themselves approaching the high country. The +trail ran up a wide valley, on either side of which were occasional +ranches reaching back toward the slopes. In reality they were gradually +climbing the range on an easy grade and making good time. + +Their course now paralleled the theoretical course of Panhandle and his +fellows. Dodging the rugged land to the south, Cheyenne had swung round +in a half-circle, hoping to head off Panhandle on the desert side of the +range. Since abandoning the tracks of the stolen horses, Cheyenne had +resumed his old habit of singing as he rode. He seemed to know the name +of every ranch, and of every person they met. + +Once or twice some acquaintance expressed surprise that Cheyenne did not +stop and spend the night with him. But Cheyenne jokingly declined all +invitations, explaining to Bartley that in stopping to visit they would +necessarily waste hours in observing the formalities of arrival and +departure, although Cheyenne did not put it just that way. + +They found water and plenty of feed, made their camps early, broke camp +early, and rode steadily. With no visible incentive to keep going, +Bartley lost his first keen interest in the hunt, and contented himself +with listening to Cheyenne's yarns about the country and its folk, or +occasionally chatting with some wayfarer. But never once did Cheyenne +hint, to those they met, just why he was riding south. + +There were hours at a stretch, when the going was level, when Cheyenne +did nothing but roll his gun, throw down on different objects, toss up +his gun, and catch it by the handle; and once he startled Bartley by +making a quick fall from the saddle and shooting from the ground. +Cheyenne explained to Bartley that often, when riding alone, he had +spent hour after hour figuring out the possibilities of gun-play, till +it became evident to the Easterner that, aside from being naturally +quick, there was a very good reason for Cheyenne's proficiency with the +six-gun. He practiced continually. And yet, thought Bartley, one of the +Box-S punchers had said that Cheyenne had never killed anything bigger +than a coyote, and never would--intimating that he was too good-natured +ever to take advantage of his own proficiency with a gun. + +Bartley wondered just how things would break if they did happen to meet +Panhandle unexpectedly. Panhandle would no doubt dispose of the stolen +horses as soon as he could. What excuse would Cheyenne have to call +Panhandle to account? And when it came to a show-down, _would_ Cheyenne +call him to account? + +Bartley was thinking of this when they made an early camp, the afternoon +of the third day out. After the horses were hobbled and the packs +arranged, Bartley decided to experiment a little with his new Luger +automatic. Cheyenne declined to experiment with the gun. + +"It's a mean gat," he asserted, "and it's fast. But I'll bet you a new +hat I can empty my old smoke-wagon quicker than you can that pocket +machine gun." + +For the fun of the thing, Bartley took him up. He selected as target a +juniper stump, and blazed away. + +"I'm leavin' the decision to you," said Cheyenne, as he braced his right +arm against his body and fanned the Colt, emptying it before Bartley +could realize that he had fired three shots--and Cheyenne had fired +five. + +"I'll buy you that hat when we get to town," laughed Bartley. "You beat +me, hands down." + +"Hands down is right, old-timer. Fannin' a gun is show stuff, but it's +wicked, at close range." + +Meanwhile, Bartley had been experimenting further with the Luger. When +he got through he had a hat full of pieces and Cheyenne was staring at +what seemed to be the wreck of a once potent weapon. + +"Why, you done pulled that little lead sprinkler all to bits!" exclaimed +Cheyenne, "and you didn't have no tools to do it with." + +"You can take down and assemble this gun without tools," stated Bartley. +"All you need is your fingers." + +"But what in Sam Hill did you pull her apart for?" + +"Just to see if I could put her together again." + +Cheyenne scratched his head, and stepped over to inspect the juniper +stump. He stooped, whistled, and turned to Bartley. "Man, you like to +sawed that stub in two. Why didn't you say you could shoot?" + +"I can't, in your class. But tell me why you Westerners always seem to +think it strange that an Easterner can sit a horse or shoot fairly well? +Is it because you consider that the average tourist represents the +entire East?" + +"I dunno. But, then, I've met up with Easterners that weren't just like +you." + +Bartley was busy, assembling the Luger, and Cheyenne was watching him, +when they glanced up simultaneously. A shadow drifted between them. + +Cheyenne hesitated and then stepped forward. "I'll be dinged if it ain't +Jimmy! What you doin' up here in the brush, anyhow?" + +The boy, who rode a well-mannered gray pony, kicked one foot out of the +stirrup and hooked his small leg over the horn. He nodded to Cheyenne, +but his interest was centered on Bartley and the Luger. + +"It's Jimmy--my boy," said Cheyenne. "His Aunt Jane lives over yonder, a +piece." + +"Why, hello!" exclaimed Bartley, laying the pistol aside. And he stepped +up and shook hands with the boy, who grinned. + +"How's the folks?" queried Cheyenne. + +"All right. That there is a Luger gun, ain't it?" + +"Yes," said Bartley. "Would you like to try it?" + +The boy scrambled down from the saddle. "Honest?" + +"Ain't you goin' to say hello to your dad?" queried Cheyenne. + +"Sure! Only I was lookin' at that Luger gun--" + +Jimmy shook hands perfunctorily with his father and turned to Bartley, +expectancy in his gaze. + +Bartley reloaded the gun and handed it to the boy, who straightaway +selected the juniper stump and blazed away. Bartley watched him, a +sturdy youngster, brown-fisted, blue-eyed, with sandy hair, and dressed +in jeans and a rowdy--a miniature cow-puncher, even to his walk. + +"Ever shoot one before?" queried Bartley as the boy gave back the +pistol. + +"Nope. There's one like it, over to the store in San Andreas. It's in +the window. I never got to look at it right close." + +"Try it again," said Bartley. + +The boy grinned. "I reckon you're rich?" + +"Why?" + +"'Cause you got a heap of ca'tridges. They cost money." + +"Never mind. Go ahead and shoot." + +Jimmy blazed away again and ran to see where his bullets had hit the +stump. "She's a pretty fair gun," he said as he handed it back. "But I +reckon I'll have to stick to my ole twenty-two rifle. She's gettin' wore +out, but I can hit things with her, yet. I git rabbits." + +"Now, mebby you got time to tell us something about Aunt Jane and Uncle +Frank and Dorry," suggested Cheyenne. + +"Why, they're all right," said the boy. "Why didn't you stop by to our +place instead of bushin' way up here?" + +Cheyenne hesitated. "I reckon I'll be comin' over," he said finally. + +Bartley put the Luger away. The boy turned to his father. Cheyenne's +face expressed happiness, yet Bartley was puzzled. The boy was not what +could be termed indifferent in any sense, yet he had taken his father's +presence casually, showing no special interest in their meeting. And why +had Cheyenne never mentioned the boy? Bartley surmised that there was +some good reason for Cheyenne's silence on that subject--and because it +was obvious that there was a good reason, Bartley accepted the +youngster's presence in a matter-of-fact manner, as though he had known +all along that Cheyenne had a son. In fact, Cheyenne had not stopped to +think about it at all. If he had, he would have reasoned that Bartley +had heard about it. Almost every one in Arizona knew that Cheyenne had +been married and had separated from his wife. + +"That would be a pretty good gun to git hoss-thieves with," asserted the +boy, still thinking of the Luger. + +"What do you know about hoss-thieves?" queried Cheyenne. + +"You think I didn't see you was ridin' different hosses!" said Jimmy. +"Mebby you think I don't know where Josh and Filaree are." + +"You quit joshin' your dad," said Cheyenne. + +"I ain't joshin' _nobody_. Ole 'Clubfoot' Sneed, over by the +re'savation's got Josh and Filaree. I seen 'em in his corral, yesterday. +I was up there, huntin'." + +"Did you talk to him?" queried Cheyenne. + +"Nope. He just come out of his cabin an' told me to fan it. I wasn't +doin' nothin'. He said it was against the law to be huntin' up there. +Mebby he don't hunt when he feels like it!" + +"Did you tell Uncle Frank?" + +"Yep. Wish I hadn't. He says for me to stay away from the high +country--and not to ride by Sneed's place any more." + +Cheyenne turned to Bartley. "I done made one guess right," he said. + +"You goin' to kill Sneed?" queried young Jim enthusiastically. + +"Nobody's goin' to get killed. But I aim to git my hosses." + +Cheyenne turned to Jimmy. "You ride over and tell Uncle Frank and Aunt +Jane that me and Mr. Bartley'll be over after we eat." + +"Will you sing that 'Git Along' song for me, dad?" + +"You bet!" + +"But why don't you come over and eat to our place? You always stop by, +every time you ride down this way," said Jimmy. + +"You ride right along, like I told you, or you'll be late for your +supper." + +Little Jim climbed into the saddle, and, turning to cast a lingering and +hopeful glance at Bartley,--a glance which suggested the possibilities +of further practice with the Luger gun,--he rode away, a manful figure, +despite his size. + +"They're bringin' my kid up right," said Cheyenne, as though in +explanation of something about which he did not care to talk. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +AT AUNT JANE'S + + +Aunt Jane Lawrence was popular with the young folks of the district, not +alone because she was a good cook, but because she was a sort of foster +mother to the entire community. The young ladies of the community +brought to Aunt Jane their old hats and dresses, along with their love +affairs, petty quarrels, and youthful longings. A clever woman at +needlework, she was often able to remodel the hats and "turn" the +dresses so that they would serve a second season or maybe a third. + +The love affairs, petty quarrels, and youthful longings were not always +so easy to remodel, even when they needed it: but Aunt Jane managed +well. She had much patience and sympathy. She knew the community, and so +was often able to help her young friends without conflicting with +paternal or maternal views. Hat-trimming and dressmaking were really +only incidental to her real purpose in life, which was to help young +folks realize their ideals, when such ideals did not lead too far from +everyday responsibilities. + +Yet, with all her capabilities, her gentle wisdom, and her unobtrusive +sympathy, she was unable to influence her Brother Jim--known by every +one as "Cheyenne"--toward a settled habit of life. So it became her +fondest desire to see that Cheyenne's boy, Little Jim, should be brought +up in a home that he would always cherish and respect. Aunt Jane's +husband Frank Lawrence, had no patience with Cheyenne's aimless +meanderings. Frank Lawrence was a hard-working, silent nonentity. Aunt +Jane was the real manager of the ranch, and incidentally of Little Jim, +and her husband was more than content that it should be so. + +Occasionally Aunt Jane gave a dance at her home. The young folks of the +valley came, had a jolly time, and departed, some of them on horseback, +some in buckboards, and one or two of the more well-to-do in that small +but aggressive vehicle which has since become a universal odor in the +nostrils of the world. + +Little Jim detested these functions which entailed his best clothes and +his best behavior. He did not like girls, and looked down with scorn +upon young men who showed any preference for the sex feminine. He made +but two exceptions to this hard-baked rule: his Aunt Jane, and her young +friend who lived on the neighboring ranch, Dorothy. Little Jim called +her Dorry because it sounded like a boy's name. And he liked Dorry +because she could ride, and shoot with a twenty-two rifle almost as well +as he could. Then, she didn't have a beau, which was the main thing. +Once he told her frankly that if she ever got a beau, he--Jimmy--was +going to quit. + +"Quit what?" asked Dorothy, smiling. + +Little Jim did not know just what he was going to quit, but he had +imagination. + +"Why, quit takin' you out huntin' and campin' and showin' you how to +tell deer tracks from goat's tracks--and everything." + +"But I have a beau," said Dorothy teasingly. + +"Who is he?" demanded Little Jim. + +"Promise you won't tell?" + +Little Jim hesitated. He did not consider it quite the thing to promise +a girl anything. But he was curious. "Uh-huh," he said. + +"Jimmy Hastings!" said Dorothy, laughing at his expression. + +"That ain't fair!" blurted Little Jim. "I ain't nobody's beau. Shucks! +Now you gone and spoiled all the fun." + +"I was only teasing you, Jimmy." And she patted Little Jim's tousled +head. He wriggled away and smoothed down his hair. + +"I can beat you shootin' at tin cans," he said suddenly, to change the +subject. + +Shooting at tin cans was much more interesting than talking about beaux. + +"I have to help Aunt Jane get supper," said Dorothy, who had been +invited to stay for supper that evening. In fact, she was often at the +Hastings ranch, a more than welcome guest. + +Jimmy scowled. Dorry was always helping Aunt Jane make dresses or trim +hats, or get supper. A few minutes later Little Jim was out back of the +barn, scowling over the sights of his twenty-two at a tomato can a few +yards away. He fired and punctured the can. + +"Plumb center!" he exclaimed. "You think you're her beau, do you? Well, +that's what you get. And if I see you around this here ranch, just even +_lookin'_ at her, I'll plug you again." Jimmy was romancing, with the +recently discussed subject of beaux in mind. + +When Little Jim informed the household that his father and another man +were coming over, that evening, Uncle Frank asked who the other man was. +Little Jim described Bartley and told about the wonderful Luger gun. + +"My dad is huntin' his hosses," he said. "And I know who's got 'em!" + +"Was the other man a deputy?" queried Uncle Frank. + +"He didn't have a badge on him. He kind of acted like everything was a +joke--shootin' at that stump, and everything. He wasn't mad at nobody. +And he looked kind of like a dude." + +Little Jim meanwhile amused himself by trying to rope the family cat +with a piece of clothesline. Uncle Frank, who took everything seriously, +asked Little Jim if he had told his father where the horses were. + +"Sure I told him. Wouldn't you? They're dad's hosses, Filaree and Josh. +I guess he'll make ole Clubfoot Sneed give 'em back!" + +"You want to be careful what you say about Mr. Sneed, Jimmy. And don't +you go to ridin' over that way again. We aim to keep out of trouble." + +Little Jim had succeeded in noosing the cat's neck. That sadly molested +animal jumped, rolled over, and clawed at the rope, and left hurriedly +with the bit of clothesline trailing in its wake. + +"I got to git that cat afore he hangs himself," stated Little Jim, +diving out of the house and heading for the barn. Thus he avoided +acknowledging his uncle's command to stay away from Sneed's place. + +Supper was over and the dishes were washed and put away when Cheyenne +and Bartley appeared. Clean-shaven, his dark hair brushed smoothly, a +small, dark-blue, silk muffler knotted loosely about his throat, and in +a new flannel shirt and whipcord riding-breeches--which he wore under +his jeans when on the trail--Bartley pretty well approximated Little +Jim's description of him as a dude. And the word "dude" was commonly +used rather to differentiate an outlander from a native than in an +exactly scornful sense. Without a vestige of self-consciousness, Bartley +made himself felt as a distinct entity, physically fit and mentally +alert. Cheyenne, with his cow-puncher gait and his general +happy-go-lucky attitude, furnished a strong contrast to the trim and +well-poised Easterner. Dorothy was quick to appreciate this. She thought +that she rather liked Bartley. He was different from the young men whom +she knew. Bartley was pleased with her direct and natural manner of +answering his many questions about Western life. + +Presently he found himself talking about his old home in Kentucky, and +the thorough-bred horses of the Blue Grass. The conversation drifted to +books and plays, but never once did it approach the subject of guns--and +Little Jim, who had hoped that the subject of horse-thieves might be +broached, felt altogether out of the running. + +He waited patiently, for a while. Then during a lull in the talk he +mentioned Sneed's name. + +"Jimmy!" reprimanded his Uncle Frank. + +"Yes, sir?" + +Uncle Frank merely gestured, significantly. + +Little Jim subsided, frowning, and making a face at Dorothy, who was +smiling at him. It seemed mighty queer that, when _he_ "horned in," his +Aunt Jane or his uncle always said "Jimmy!" in that particular tone. But +when any of the grown-ups interrupted, no one said a word. However, +Bartley was not blind to Little Jim's attitude of forced silence, and +presently Bartley mentioned the subject of guns, much to Little Jim's +joy. Little Jim worked round to the subject of twenty-two rifles, +intimating that his own single-shot rifle was about worn out. + +Uncle Frank heard and promptly changed the subject. Little Jim was +disgusted. A boy just wouldn't talk when other folks were talking, and +he couldn't talk when they were not. What was the use of living, anyhow, +if you had to go around without talking at all, except when somebody +asked you if you had forgotten to close the lane gate and had let the +stock get into the alfalfa--and you had to say that you had? + +However, Little Jim had his revenge. When Aunt Jane proffered apple pie, +later in the evening, Jimmy prefixed his demand for a second piece with +the statement that he knew there was another uncut pie in the kitchen, +because Aunt Jane had said maybe his dad would eat half a one, and then +ask for more. + +This gentle insinuation brought forth a sharp reprimand from Uncle +Frank. But Jimmy had looked before he leaped. + +"Well, Aunt Jane said so. Didn't you, Aunt Jane?" + +Whereat every one laughed, including the gentle Aunt Jane. And Jimmy got +his second piece of pie. + +After the company had found itself, Uncle Frank, Cheyenne, and Bartley +forgathered out on the veranda and talked about the missing horses. +Little Jim sat silently on the steps, hoping that the talk would swing +round to where he could have his say. If he had not discovered the +missing horses, how would his father know where they were? It did not +seem exactly fair to Little Jim that he should be ignored in the matter. + +"I'd just ride over and talk with Sneed," suggested Uncle Frank. + +"Oh, I'll do that, all right," asserted Cheyenne. + +"But I'd go slow. You might talk like your stock had strayed and you +were looking for them. Sneed and Panhandle Sears are pretty thick. I'd +start easy, if I was in your boots." + +This from the cautious Uncle Frank. + +"But you'd go get 'em, if they happened to be your hosses," said +Cheyenne. "You're always tellin' me to step light and go slow. I reckon +you expect me to sing and laugh and josh and take all the grief that's +comin' and forget it." + +"No," said Uncle Frank deliberately. "If they was my hosses, I'd ride +over and get 'em. But I can't step into your tangle. If I did, Sneed +would just nacherally burn us out, some night. There's only two ways to +handle a man like Clubfoot Sneed: one is to kill him, and the other is +to leave him alone. And it's got to be one or the other when you live as +close to the hills as we do. I aim to leave him alone, unless he tries +to ride me." + +"Which means that you kind of think I ought to let the hosses go, for +fear of gettin' you in bad." + +Uncle Frank shook his head, but said nothing. Bartley smoked a cigar and +listened to the conversation that followed. Called upon by Uncle Frank +for his opinion, Bartley hesitated, and then said that, if the horses +were his, he would be tempted to go and get them, regardless of +consequences. Bartley's stock went up, with Little Jim, right there. + +Cheyenne turned to Uncle Frank. "I'm ridin' over to Clubfoot's wikiup +to-morrow mornin'. I'll git my hosses, or git him. And I'm ridin' +alone." + +Little Jim, meanwhile, had been raking his mind for an idea as to how he +might attract attention. He disappeared. Presently he appeared in front +of the veranda with the end of a long rope in his fist. He blinked and +grinned. + +"What's on the other end of that rope?" queried Uncle Frank, immediately +suspicious. + +"Nothin' but High-Tail." + +"I thought I told you not to rope that calf," said Uncle Frank, rising. + +"I didn't. I jest held my loop in front of some carrots and High-Tail +shoves his head into it. Then I says, 'Whoosh!' and he jumps back--and I +hung on." + +"How in Sam Hill did you get him here?" queried Uncle Frank. + +"Jest held a carrot to his nose--and he walked along tryin' to get it." + +"Well you shake off that loop and haze him back into the corral." + +High-Tail, having eaten the carrot, decided to go elsewhere. He backed +away and blatted. Little Jim took a quick dally round a veranda post. +High-Tail plunged and fought the rope. + +"Turn him loose!" cried Uncle Frank. + +"What's the matter?" said Aunt Jane, appearing in the doorway. + +Little Jim eased off the dally, but clung to the rope. High-Tail whirled +and started for the corral. Little Jim set back on his heels, but Little +Jim was a mere item in High-Tail's wild career toward freedom. A patter +of hoofs in the dark, and Little Jim and the calf disappeared around the +corner of the barn. + +Cheyenne laughed and rose, following Uncle Frank to the corral. When +they arrived, High-Tail had made his third round of the corral, with +Jimmy still attached to the rope. Cheyenne managed to stop the calf and +throw off the noose. + +Little Jim rose and gazed wildly around. He was one color, from head to +foot--and it was a decidedly local color. His jeans were torn and his +cotton shirt was in rags, but his grit was unsifted. + +"D-didn't I hang to him, dad?" he inquired enthusiastically. + +"You sure did!" said Cheyenne. + +With a pail of hot water, soap, and fresh raiment, Aunt Jane undertook +to make Little Jim's return to the heart of the family as agreeable as +possible to all concerned. + +"Isn't he hurt?" queried Bartley. + +"Not if he doesn't know it," stated Cheyenne. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +ANOTHER GAME + + +Cheyenne knew enough about Sneed, by reputation, to make him cautious. +He decided to play ace for ace--and, if possible, steal the stolen +horses from Sneed. The difficulty was to locate them without being seen. +Little Jim had said the horses were in Sneed's corral, somewhere up in +the mountain meadows. And because Cheyenne knew little about that +particular section of the mountains, he rolled a blanket and packed some +provisions to see him through. Bartley and he had returned to their camp +after their visit to the ranch, and next morning, as Cheyenne made +preparation to ride, Bartley offered to go with him. + +Cheyenne dissuaded Bartley from accompanying him, arguing that he could +travel faster and more cautiously alone. "One man ridin' in to Sneed's +camp wouldn't look as suspicious as two," said Cheyenne. "And if I +thought you could help any, I'd say to come along. That's on the square. +Me and my little old carbine will make out, I guess." + +So Bartley, somewhat against his inclination, stayed in camp, with the +understanding that, if Cheyenne did not return in two days, he was to +report the circumstance to the authorities in San Andreas, the principal +town of the valley. + +Meanwhile, the regular routine prevailed at the Lawrence ranch. Uncle +Frank had the irrigation plant to look after; and Aunt Jane was immersed +in the endless occupation of housekeeping. Little Jim had his regular +light tasks to attend to, and that morning he made short work of them. +It was not until noon that Aunt Jane missed him. He had disappeared +completely, as had his saddle-pony. + +At first, Jimmy had thought of riding over to his father's camp, but he +was afraid his father would guess his intent and send him back home. So +he tied his pony to a clump of junipers some distance from the camp, +and, crawling to a rise, he lay and watched Cheyenne saddle up and take +the trail that led into the high country. A half-hour later, Jimmy +mounted his pony and, riding wide of the camp, he cut into the hill +trail and followed it on up through the brush to the hillside timber. He +planned to ride until he got so far into the mountains that when he did +overtake his father and offer his assistance in locating the stolen +horses, it would hardly seem worth while to send him back. Jimmy +expected to be ordered back, but he had his own argument ready in that +event. + +Little Jim's pony carried him swiftly up the grade. Meanwhile, Cheyenne +had traveled rather slowly, saving his horse. At a bend in the trail he +drew rein to breathe the animal. On the lookout for any moving thing, he +glanced back and down--and saw an old black hat bobbing along through +the brush below. He leaned forward and peered down. "The little cuss!" +he exclaimed, grinning. Then his expression changed. "Won't do, a-tall! +His aunt will be havin' fits--and Miss Dorry'll be helpin' her to have +'em, if she hears of it. Dog-gone that boy!" + +Nevertheless, Cheyenne was pleased. His boy had sand, and liked +adventure. Little Jim might have stayed in camp, with Bartley, and spent +a joyous day shooting at a mark, incidentally hinting to the Easterner +that "his ole twenty-two was about worn out." But Little Jim had chosen +to follow his father into the hills. + +"Reckon he figures to see what'll happen," muttered Cheyenne as he led +his horse off the trail and waited for Jimmy to come up. + +Little Jim's black hat bobbed steadily up the switchbacks. Presently he +was on the stretch of trail at the end of which his father waited, +concealed in the brush. + +As Little Jim's pony approached the bend it pricked its ears and +snorted. "Git along, you!" said Jimmy. + +"Where you goin'?" queried Cheyenne, stepping out on the trail. + +Little Jim gazed blankly at his father. "I'm just a-ridin'. I wa'n't +goin' no place." + +"Well, you took the wrong trail to get there. You fan it back to the +folks." + +"Aunt Jane is my boss!" said Jimmy defiantly. "'Course she is," agreed +Cheyenne. "You and me, we're just pardners. But, honest, Jimmy, you +can't do no good, doggin' along after me. Your Aunt Jane would sure +stretch my hide if she knowed I let you come along." + +"I won't tell her." + +"But she'd find out. You just ride back and wait down at my camp. I'll +find them hosses, all right." + +Little Jim hesitated, twisting his fingers in his pony's mane. +"Suppose," he ventured, "that a bunch of Sneed's riders was to run on to +you? You'd sure need help." + +"That's just it! Supposin' they did? And supposin' they took a crack at +us, they might git you--for you sure look man-size, a little piece off." + +Jimmy grinned at the compliment, but compliments could not alter his +purpose. "I got my ole twenty-two loaded," he asserted hopefully. + +"Then you just ride back and help Mr. Bartley take care of the hosses. +He ain't much of a hand with stock." + +"Can't I go with you?" + +"Not this trip, son. But I'll tell you somethin'. Mr. Bartley, down +there, said to me this mornin' that he was goin' to buy you a brand-new +twenty-two rifle, one of these days: mebby after we locate the hosses. +You better have a talk with him about it." + +This _was_ a temptation to ride back: yet Jimmy had set his heart on +going with his father. And his father had said that he was simply going +to ride up to Sneed's place and have a talk with him. Jimmy wanted to +hear that talk. He knew that his father meant business when he had told +him to go back. + +"All right for you!" said Jimmy finally. And he reined his pony round +and rode back down the trail sullenly, his black hat pulled over his +eyes, and his small back very straight and stiff. + +Cheyenne watched him until the brush of the lower levels intervened. +Then Cheyenne began the ascent, his eye alert, his mind upon the task +ahead. When Little Jim realized that his father was so far into the +timber that the trail below was shut from view, he reined his pony round +again and began to climb the grade, slowly, this time, for fear that he +might overtake his father too soon. + +Riding the soundless upland trail that meandered among the spruce and +pine, skirting the edges of the mountain meadows and keeping within the +timber, Cheyenne finally reached the main ridge of the range. +Occasionally he dismounted and examined the tracks of horses. + +It was evident that Sneed had quite a bunch of horses running in the +meadows. Presently Cheyenne came to a narrow trail which crossed a +meadow. At the far end of the trail, close to the timber, was a spring, +fenced with poles. The spring itself was boxed, and roundabout were the +marks of high-heeled boots. Cheyenne realized that he must be close to +Sneed's cabin. He wondered if he had been seen. + +If he had, the only thing to do was to act natural. He was now too close +to a habitation--although he could see none--to do otherwise. So he +dismounted and, tying his horse to the spring fence, he stepped through +the gate and picked up the rusted tin cup and dipped it in the cold +mountain water. He had the cup halfway to his lips when his horse +nickered. From somewhere in the brush came an answering nicker. +Cheyenne, kneeling, threw the water from the cup as though he had +discovered dirt in it, and dipped the cup again. + +Behind him he heard his horse moving restlessly. As Cheyenne raised the +cup to drink, he half closed his eyes, and glancing sideways, caught a +glimpse of a figure standing near the upper end of the spring fence. +Cheyenne drank, set down the cup, and, rising, turned his back on the +figure, and, stretching his arms, yawned heartily. He strode to his +horse, untied the reins, mounted, and began to sing: + + Seems like I don't get anywhere + Git along, cayuse, git along! + But we're leavin' here and-- + +"What's your hurry?" came from behind him. + +Cheyenne turned and glanced back. "Hello, neighbor! Now, if I'd 'a' +knowed you was around, I'd 'a' asked you to have a drink with me." + +A tall, heavy-set mountain man, bearded, and limping noticeably, stepped +round the end of the spring fence and strode toward him. From Uncle +Frank's description, Cheyenne at once recognized the stranger as Sneed. +Across Sneed's left arm lay a rifle. Cheyenne saw him let down the +hammer as he drew near. + +"Where you headed?" queried Sneed. + +"Me, I'm lookin' for Bill Sneed's cabin. You ain't Sneed, are you?" + +"Yes, I'm Sneed." + +"Well, I'm in luck. I'm Cheyenne Hastings." + +"That don't buy you nothin' around here. What do you want to see me +about?" + +"Why, I done lost a couple of hosses the other night. I reckon somethin' +stampeded 'em, for they never strayed far from camp before. I trailed +'em up to the hills and then lost their tracks on the rocks. Thought I'd +ride up and see if you had seen 'em--a little ole buckskin and a gray." + +Sneed waved his hand toward the east. "My corrals are over there. You're +welcome to look my stock over." + +"Thanks. This way, you said?" + +"Straight ahead." + +Cheyenne hesitated, hoping that Sneed would take the lead. But the +mountain man merely gestured again and followed Cheyenne through a patch +of timber, and across another meadow--and Cheyenne caught a glimpse of +the ridge of a cabin roof, and smoke above it. Close to the cabin was a +large pole corral. Cheyenne saw the backs of Filaree and Joshua, among +the other horses, long before he came to the corral. Yet, not wishing to +appear too eager, he said nothing until he arrived at the corner of the +fence. + +Then he turned and pointed. "Them's my hosses--the gray and the +buckskin. I'm mighty glad you caught 'em up." + +Sneed nodded. "One of my boys found them in with a bunch of my stock and +run them in here." + +A few rods from the corral stood the cabin, larger than Cheyenne had +imagined, and built of heavy logs, with a wide-roofed porch running +across the entire front. On the veranda lay several saddles. Tied to the +hitch rail stood two chunky mountain ponies that showed signs of recent +hard use. + +Cheyenne smiled as he turned toward Sneed. "You got a mighty snug +homestead up here, neighbor." + +"Tie your horse and step in," invited Sneed. + +"He'll stand," said Cheyenne, dismounting and dropping the reins. + +Cheyenne was in the enemy's country. But he trusted to his ability to +play up to his reputation for an easy-going hobo to get him out again, +without trouble. He appeared unaware of the covert suspicion with which +Sneed watched his every movement. + +"Meet the boys," said Sneed as they entered the cabin. + +Cheyenne nodded to the four men who sat playing cards at a long table in +the main room. They returned his nod indifferently and went on with +their game. Cheyenne pretended an interest in the game, meanwhile +studying the visible characteristics of the players. One and all they +were hard-boiled, used to the open, rough-spoken, and indifferent to +Cheyenne's presence. + +Sneed stepped to the kitchen and pulled the coffee-pot to the front of +the stove. Finally Cheyenne strolled out to the veranda and seated +himself on the long bench near the doorway. He picked up a stick and +began to whittle, and as he whittled his gaze traveled from the log +stable to the corral, and from there to the edge of the clearing. He +heard Sneed speak to one of the men in a low voice. Cheyenne slipped his +knife into his pocket and his fingers touched the pair of dice. + +He drew out the dice and rattled them. "Go 'way, you snake eyes!" he +chanted as he threw the dice along the bench. "Little Jo, where you +bushin' out? You sure are bashful!" He threw again. "Roll on, you +box-car! I don't like you, nohow! Nine? Nine? Five and a four! Six and a +three! Just as easy!" + +Sneed came to the doorway and glanced at Cheyenne, who continued +shooting craps with himself, oblivious to Sneed's muttered comment. +Sneed turned and stepped in. "Crazy as a hoot owl," he said as one of +the card-players glanced up. + +Cheyenne picked up the dice and listened. He heard Sneed stepping +heavily about the kitchen, and he heard an occasional and vivid +exclamation from one of the card-players. He glanced at the distant edge +of timber. He shook his head. "Can't make it!" he declared, and again he +threw the dice. + +One of the cubes rolled off the bench. He stooped and picked it up. As +he straightened, he stared. Just at the edge of the timber he saw Little +Jim's pony, and Little Jim's black hat. Some one in the cabin pushed +back a chair. Evidently the card game was finished. + +Then Cheyenne heard Sneed's voice: "Just lay off that game, if you want +to eat. Come and get it." + +Wondering what Little Jim was up to, Cheyenne turned and walked into the +cabin. "Guess I'll wash up, first," he said, gazing about as though +looking for the wherewithal to wash. He knew well enough where the basin +was. He had noticed it out by the kitchen door, when he rode up to the +cabin. Sneed told him where to find the basin. Cheyenne stepped round +the cabin. Covertly he glanced toward the edge of the timber. Little Jim +had disappeared. + +Entering the cabin briskly, Cheyenne took his place at the table and ate +heartily. + +Lawson, who seemed to be Sneed's right-hand man, was the first to speak +to him. "Bill tells me you are huntin' hosses." + +"Yep! That little gray and the buckskin, out in your corral, are my +hosses. They strayed--" + +"Didn't see no brand on 'em," declared Lawson. + +"Nope. They never was branded. I raised 'em both, when I was workin' for +Senator Steve, over to the Box-S." + +"That sounds all right. But you got to show me. I bought them cayuses +from a Chola, down in the valley." + +Cheyenne suspected that Lawson was trying to create argument and, in so +doing, open up a way to make him back down and leave or take the +consequences of his act in demanding the horses. + +"Honest, they're my hosses," declared Cheyenne, turning to Sneed. + +"You'll have to talk to Lawson," said Sneed. + +Cheyenne frowned and scratched his head. Suddenly his face brightened. +"Tell you what I'll do! I'll shoot you craps for 'em." + +"That's all right, but what'll you put up against 'em?" asked Lawson. + +"What did you pay for 'em?" queried Cheyenne. + +"Fifty bucks." + +"You got 'em cheap. They're worth that much to me." Cheyenne pushed back +his chair and, fishing in his jeans, dug up a purse. "Here's my fifty. +As soon as you get through eatin' we'll shoot for the ponies." + +Lawson, while finishing his meal, made up his mind that Cheyenne would +not get away with that fifty dollars, game or no game; and, also, that +he would not get the horses. Cheyenne knew this--knew the kind of man he +was dealing with. But he had a reason to keep the men in the cabin. +Little Jim was out there somewhere, and up to something. If any of the +men happened to catch sight of Little Jim, they would suspect Cheyenne +of some trickery. Moreover, if Little Jim were caught--but Cheyenne +refused to let himself think of what might happen in that event. + +Cheyenne threw the dice on the table as Lawson got up. "Go ahead and +shoot." + +"Show me what I got to beat," said Lawson. + +"All right. Watch 'em close." + +Cheyenne gathered up the dice and threw. Calling his point, he snapped +his fingers and threw again. The men crowded round, momentarily +interested in Cheyenne's sprightly monologue. Happening to glance +through the doorway as he gathered up the dice for another throw, +Cheyenne noticed that his horse had turned and was standing, with ears +and eyes alert, looking toward the corral. + +Cheyenne tossed up the dice, caught them and purposely made a wild +throw. One of the little cubes shot across the table and clattered on +the floor. Cheyenne barely had time to glance through the kitchen +doorway and the window beyond as he recovered the cube. But he had seen +that the corral bars were down and that the corral was empty. Quickly he +resumed his place at the table and threw again, meanwhile talking +steadily. He had not made his point nor had he thrown a seven. Sweat +prickled on his forehead. Little Jim had seen his father's horses and +knew that the men were in the cabin. With the rashness of boyhood he had +sneaked up to the corral, dropped the bars, and had then flung pine +cones at the horses, starting them to milling and finally to a dash +through the gateway and out into the meadow. + +Cheyenne brushed his arm across his face. "Come on you, Filaree!" he +chanted. + +Somebody would be mightily surprised when the ownership of Filaree and +Joshua was finally decided. Unwittingly, Little Jim had placed his +father in a still more precarious position. Sneed and his men, finding +the corral empty, would naturally conclude that Cheyenne had kept them +busy while some friend had run off the horses. Cheyenne knew the risks +he ran; but, above all, he wanted to prolong the game until Little Jim +got safely beyond reach of Sneed's men. As for himself-- + +Again Cheyenne threw, but he did not make his point, nor throw a seven. +He threw several times; and still he did not make his point. Finally he +made his point. Smiling, he gathered up his money and tucked it in his +pocket. + +"I reckon that settles it," he said cheerfully. + +Sneed and Lawson exchanged glances. Cheyenne, rolling a cigarette, drew +a chair toward them and sat down. He seemed at home, and altogether +friendly. One of the men picked up a deck of cards and suggested a game. +Sneed lighted his pipe and stepped to the kitchen to get a drink of +water. Cheyenne glanced casually round the cabin, drew his feet under +himself, and jumped for the doorway. He heard Sneed drop the dipper and +knew that Sneed would pick up something else, and quickly. + +Cheyenne made the saddle on the run, reined toward the corral, and, +passing it on the run, turned in the saddle to glance back. Sneed was in +the doorway. Cheyenne jerked his horse to one side and dug in the spurs. +Sneed's rifle barked and a bullet whined past Cheyenne's head. He +crouched in the saddle. Again a bullet whistled across the sunlit +clearing. The cow-horse was going strong. A tree flicked past, then +another and another. + +Cheyenne straightened in the saddle and glanced back through the timber. +He saw a jumble of men and horses in front of the cabin. "They got just +two hosses handy, and they're rode down," he muttered as he sped through +the shadows of the forest. + +Across another sun-swept meadow he rode, and into the timber again--and +before he realized it he was back on the mountain trail that led to the +valley. He took the first long, easy grade on the run, checked at the +switchback, and pounded down the succeeding grade, still under cover of +the hillside timber, but rapidly nearing the more open country of brush +and rock. + +As he reined in at the second switchback he saw, far below, and going at +a lively trot, seven or eight horses, and behind them, hazing them along +as fast as the trail would permit, Little Jim. + +"If Sneed's outfit gets to the rim before he makes the next turn, +they'll get him sure," reasoned Cheyenne. + +He thought of turning back and trying to stop Sneed's men. He thought of +turning his horse loose and ambushing the mountainmen, afoot. But +Cheyenne did not want to kill. His greatest fear was that Little Jim +might get hurt. As he hesitated, a rifle snarled from the rim above, and +he saw Little Jim's horse flinch and jump forward. + +"I reckon it's up to us, old Steel Dust," he said to his horse. + +Hoping to draw the fire of the men above, he eased his horse round the +next bend and then spurred him to a run. Below, Little Jim was jogging +along, within a hundred yards or so of the bend that would screen him +from sight. Realizing that he could never make the next turn on the run, +Cheyenne gripped with his knees, and leaned back to meet the shock as +Steel Dust plunged over the end of the turn and crashed through the +brush below. A slug whipped through the brush and clipped a twig in +front of the horse. + +Steel Dust swerved and lunged on down through the heavy brush. A naked +creek-bed showed white and shimmering at the bottom of the slope. Again +a slug whined through the sunlight and Cheyenne's hat spun from his head +and settled squarely on a low bush. It was characteristic of Cheyenne +that he grabbed for his hat--and got it as he dashed past. + +"Keep the change," said Cheyenne as he ducked beneath a branch and +straightened up again. He was almost to the creek-bed, naked to the +sunlight, and a bad place to cross with guns going from above. He pulled +up, slipped from his horse, and slapped him on the flank. + +The pony leaped forward, dashed across the creek-bed, and cut into the +trail beyond. A bullet flattened to a silver splash on a boulder. +Another bullet shot a spurt of sand into the air. Cheyenne crouched +tense, and then made a rush. A slug sang past his head. Heat palpitated +in the narrow draw. He gained the opposite bank, dropped, and crawled +through the brush and lay panting, close to the trail. From above him +somewhere came the note of a bird: _Chirr-up! Chirr-up!_ Again a slug +tore through the brush scattering twigs and tiny leaves on Cheyenne's +hat. + +"That one didn't say, 'Cheer up!'" murmured Cheyenne. + +When he had caught his breath he crawled out and into the narrow trail. +The shooting had ceased. Evidently the men were riding. Stepping round +the shoulder of the next bend, he peered up toward the rim of the range. +A tiny figure appeared riding down the first long grade, and then +another figure. Turning, he saw his own horse quietly nipping at the +grass in the crevices of the rocks along the trail. + +He walked down to the horse slowly and caught him up. Loosening his +carbine from the scabbard, and deeming himself lucky to have it, after +that wild ride down the mountain, he stepped back to the angle of the +bend, rested the carbine against a rocky shoulder and dropped a shot in +front of the first rider, who stopped suddenly and took to cover. + +"That'll hold 'em for a spell," said Cheyenne, stepping back. He mounted +and rode on down the trail, eyeing the tracks of the horses that Little +Jim was hazing toward the valley below. Cheyenne shook his head. "He's +done run off the whole dog-gone outfit! There's nothin' stingy about +that kid." + +Striking to the lower level, Cheyenne cut across country to his camp. He +found Bartley leaning comfortably back against a saddle, reading aloud, +and opposite him sat Dorry, so intent upon the reading that she did not +hear Cheyenne until he spoke. + +"Evenin', folks! Seen anything of Jimmy?" + +"Oh--Cheyenne! No, have you?" It was Dorothy who spoke, as Bartley +closed the book and got to his feet. + +"Was you lookin' for Jimmy's address in that there book?" queried +Cheyenne, grinning broadly. + +Dorothy flushed and glanced at Bartley, who immediately changed the +subject by calling attention to Cheyenne's hat. Cheyenne also changed +the subject by stating that Jimmy had recently ridden down the trail +toward the ranch--with some horses. + +"Then you got your horses?" said Bartley. + +"I reckon they're over to the ranch about now." + +"Jimmy has been gone all day," said Dorothy. "Aunt Jane is terribly +worried about him." + +"Jimmy and me took a little ride in the hills," said Cheyenne casually. +"But you needn't to tell Aunt Jane that Jimmy was with me. It turned out +all right." + +"I rode over to your camp to look for Jimmy," said Dorothy, "but Mr. +Bartley had not seen him." + +Cheyenne nodded and reined his horse round. + +"Why, your shirt is almost ripped from your back!" said Bartley. + +"My hoss shied, back yonder, and stepped off into the brush. We kept on +through the brush. It was shorter." + +Dorothy mounted her horse, and, nodding farewell to Bartley, accompanied +Cheyenne to the ranch. When they were halfway there, Dorothy, who had +been riding thoughtfully along, saying nothing, turned to her companion: +"Cheyenne, you had trouble up there. You might at least tell _me_ about +it." + +"Well, Miss Dorry--" And Cheyenne told her how Jimmy had followed him, +how he had sent Jimmy back, and the unexpected appearance of that young +hopeful in the timber near Sneed's cabin. "I was in there, figurin' hard +how to get my hosses and get away, when, somehow, Jimmy got to the +corral and turned Sneed's stock loose and hazed 'em down the trail. But +where he run 'em to is the joke. I figured he would show up at our camp. +It would be just like him to run the whole bunch into the ranch corral. +And I reckon he done it." + +"But, Mr. Sneed!" exclaimed Dorothy. "If he finds out we had anything to +do with running off his horses--" + +"He never saw Jimmy clost enough to tell who he was. 'Course, Sneed +knows Aunt Jane is my sister, and most he'll suspicion is that I got +help from _some_ of my folks. But so far he don't know _who_ helped me +turn the trick." + +"You don't seem to be very serious about it," declared Dorothy. + +"Serious? Me? Why, ain't most folks serious enough without everybody +bein' took that way?" + +"Perhaps. But I knew something had happened the minute you rode into +camp." + +"So did I," asserted Cheyenne, and he spoke sharply to his horse. + +Dorothy flushed. "Cheyenne, I rode over to find Jimmy. You needn't--Oh, +there's Aunt Jane now! And there's Jimmy, and the corral is full of +horses!" + +"Reckon we better step along," and Cheyenne put Steel Dust to a lope. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +MORE PONY TRACKS + + +Summoned from the west end of the ranch, where he had been irrigating +the alfalfa, Uncle Frank arrived at the house just as Cheyenne and +Dorothy rode up. Little Jim was excitedly endeavoring to explain to Aunt +Jane how the corral came to be filled with strange horses. + +Uncle Frank nodded to Cheyenne and turned to Jimmy. "Where you been?" + +"I was over on the mountain." + +"How did these horses get here?" + +Uncle Frank's eye was stern. Jimmy hesitated. He had been forbidden to +go near Sneed's place; and he knew that all that stood between a harness +strap and his small jeans was the presence of Dorothy and Cheyenne. It +was pretty tough to have recovered the stolen horses single-handed, and +then to take a licking for it. + +Little Jim gazed hopefully at his father. + +"Why, I was chousin' around up there," he explained, "and I seen dad's +hosses, and--and I started 'em down the trail and the whole blame bunch +followed 'em. They was travelin' so fast I couldn't cut 'em out, so I +just let 'em drift. Filaree and Josh just nacherally headed for the +corral and the rest followed 'em in." + +Uncle Frank gazed sternly at Jimmy. "Who told you to help your father +get his horses?" + +"Nobody." + +"Did your Aunt Jane tell you you could go over to the mountain?" + +"I never asked her." + +"You trot right into the house and stay there," said Uncle Frank. + +Little Jim cast an appealing glance at Cheyenne and walked slowly toward +the house, incidentally and unconsciously rubbing his hand across his +jeans with a sort of anticipatory movement. He bit his lip, and the +tears started to his eyes. But he shook them away, wondering what he +might do to avert the coming storm. Perhaps his father would interpose +between him and the dreaded harness strap. Yet Jimmy knew that his +father had never interfered when a question of discipline arose. + +Suddenly Little Jim's face brightened. He marched through the house to +the wash bench, and, unsolicited, washed his hands and face and soaped +his hair, after which he slicked it down carefully, so that there might +be no mistake about his having brushed and combed it. He rather hoped +that Uncle Frank or Aunt Jane would come in just then and find him at +this unaccustomed task. It might help. + +Meanwhile, Cheyenne and his brother-in-law had a talk, outside. Dorothy +and Aunt Jane retired to the veranda, talking in low tones. Presently +Little Jim, who could stand the strain no longer,--the jury seemed a +long time at arriving at a verdict,--appeared on the front veranda, +hatless, washed, and his hair fearfully and wonderfully brushed and +combed. + +"Why, Jimmy!" exclaimed Dorothy. + +Jimmy fidgeted and glanced away bashfully. Presently he stole to his +Aunt Jane's side. + +"Am I goin' to get a lickin'?" he queried. + +Aunt Jane shook her head, and patted his hand. Entrenched beside Aunt +Jane, Jimmy watched his father and Uncle Frank as they talked by the big +corral. Uncle Frank was gesturing toward the mountains. Cheyenne was +arguing quietly. + +"It ain't just the runnin' off of Sneed's hosses," said Uncle Frank. +"That's bad enough. But I told Jimmy to keep away from Sneed's." + +"So did I," declared Cheyenne. "And seein' as I'm his dad, it's up to me +to lick him if he's goin' to get licked." + +"Sneed is like to ride down some night and set fire to the barns," +asserted Uncle Frank. + +"Sneed don't know yet who run off his stock. And he can't say that I +did, and prove it. Now, Frank, you just hold your hosses. I'll ride over +to camp and get my outfit together and come over here. Then we'll throw +Steve Brown's hosses into your pasture, and I'll see that Sneed's stock +is out of here, pronto." + +"That's all right. But Sneed will trail his stock down here." + +"But he won't find 'em here. And he'll never know they was in your +corral." + +Uncle Frank shook his head doubtfully. He was a pessimist and always +argued the worst of a possible situation. + +"And before I'll see Jimmy take a lickin'--this trip--I'll ride back and +shoot it out with Sneed and his outfit," stated Cheyenne. + +"I reckon you're fool enough to do it," said Uncle Frank. + + * * * * * + +An hour later Bartley and Cheyenne were at the Lawrence ranch, where +they changed packs, saddled Filaree and Joshua, and turned the horses +borrowed from Steve Brown into Uncle Frank's back pasture. + +Little Jim watched these operations with keen interest. He wanted to +help, but refrained for fear that he would muss up his hair--and he +wanted Uncle Frank to notice his hair as it was. + +Aunt Jane hastily prepared a meal and Dorothy helped. + +In a few minutes Cheyenne and Bartley had eaten, and were ready for the +road. Cheyenne stepped up and shook hands with Jimmy, as though Jimmy +were a grown-up. Jimmy felt elated. There was no one just like his +father, even if folks did say that Cheyenne Hastings could do better +than ride around the country singing and joking with everybody. + +"And don't forget to stop by when you come back," said Aunt Jane, +bidding farewell to Bartley. + +Dorothy shook hands with the Easterner and wished him a pleasant +journey, rather coolly, Bartley thought. She was much more animated when +bidding farewell to Cheyenne. + +"And I won't forget to send you that rifle," said Bartley as he nodded +to Little Jim. + +Uncle Frank helped them haze Sneed's horses out of the yard on to the +road, where Cheyenne waited to head them from taking the hill trail, +again. + +Just as he left, Bartley turned to Dorothy who stood twisting a +pomegranate bud in her fingers. "May I have it?" he asked, half in jest. + +She tossed the bud to him and he caught it. Then he spurred out after +Cheyenne who was already hazing the horses down the road. Occasionally +one of the horses tried to break out and take to the hills, but Cheyenne +always headed it back to the bunch, determined, for some reason unknown +to Bartley, to keep the horses together and going south. + +The road climbed gradually, winding in and out among the foothills. As +the going became stiffer, the rock outcropped and the dust settled. + +The horses slowed to a walk. Bartley wondered why his companion seemed +determined to drive Sneed's stock south. He thought it would be just as +well to let them break for the hills, and not bother with them. But +Cheyenne offered no explanation. He evidently knew what he was about. + +To their right lay the San Andreas Valley across which the long, +slanting shadows of sunset crept slowly. Still Cheyenne kept the bunch +of horses going briskly, when the going permitted speed. Just over a +rise they came suddenly upon an Apache, riding a lean, active paint +horse. Cheyenne pulled up and talked with the Indian. The latter +grinned, nodded, and, jerking his pony round, rode after the horses as +they drifted ahead. Bartley saw the Apache bunch the animals again, and +turn them off the road toward the hills. + +"Didn't expect to meet up with luck, so soon," declared Cheyenne. "I +figured to turn Sneed's hosses loose when I'd got 'em far enough from +the ranch. But that Injun'll take care of 'em. Sneed ain't popular with +the Apaches. Sneed's cabin is right clost to the res'avation line." + +"What will the Indian do with the horses?" queried Bartley. + +"Most like trade 'em to his friends." + +Bartley gestured toward a spot of green far across the valley. "Looks +like a town," he said. + +"San Andreas--and that's where we stop, to-night. No campin' in the +brush for me while Sneed is ridin' the country lookin' for his stock. It +wouldn't be healthy." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +SAN ANDREAS TOWN + + +A sleepy town, that paid little attention to the arrival or departure of +strangers, San Andreas in the valley merely rubbed its eyes and dozed +again as Cheyenne and Bartley rode in, put up their horses at the +livery, and strolled over to the adobe hotel where they engaged rooms +for the night. + +Bartley was taken by the picturesque simplicity of the place, and next +morning he suggested that they stay a few days and enjoy the advantage +of having some one other than themselves cook their meals and make their +beds. The hotel, a relic of old times, with its patio and long portal, +its rooms whose lower floors were on the ground level, its unpretentious +spaciousness, appealed strongly to Bartley as something unusual in the +way of a hostelry. It seemed restful, romantic, inviting. It was a place +where a man might write, dream, loaf, and smoke. Then, incidentally, it +was not far from the Lawrence ranch, which was not far from the home of +a certain young woman whom Little Jim called "Dorry." + +Bartley thought that Dorothy was rather nice--in fact, singularly +interesting. He had not imagined that a Western girl could be so +thoroughly domestic, natural, charming, and at the same time manage a +horse so well. He had visioned Western girls as hard-voiced horse-women, +masculine, bold, and rather scornful of a man who did not wear chaps and +ride broncos. True, Dorothy was not like the girls in the East. She +seemed less sophisticated--less inclined to talk small talk just for its +own sake; yet, concluded Bartley, she was utterly feminine and quite +worth while. + +Cheyenne smiled as Bartley suggested that they stay in San Andreas a few +days; and Cheyenne nodded in the direction from which they had come. + +"I kinda like this part of the country, myself," he said, "but I hate to +spend all my money in one place." + +Bartley suddenly realized that his companion, was nothing more than a +riding hobo, a vagrant, without definite means of support, and +disinclined to stay in any one place long. + +"I'll take care of the expenses," said Bartley. + +Cheyenne smiled, but shook his head. "It ain't that, right now. Me, I +got to shoot that there game of craps with Panhandle, and I figure he +won't ride this way." + +"But you have recovered your horses," argued Bartley. + +Cheyenne gestured toward the south. "I reckon I'll keep movin', pardner. +And that game of craps is as good a excuse as I want." + +"I had hoped that it would be plain sailing, from now on," declared +Bartley. "I thought of stopping here only three or four days. This sort +of town is new to me." + +"They's lots like it, between here and the border," said Cheyenne. "But +I don't want no 'dobe walls between me and the sky-line, reg'lar. I can +stand it for a day, mebby." + +"Well, perhaps we may agree to dissolve partnership temporarily," +suggested Bartley. "I think I'll stay here a few days, at least." + +"That's all right, pardner. I don't aim to tell no man how to live. But +me, I aim to live in the open." + +"Do you think that man Sneed will ride down this way?" queried Bartley, +struck by a sudden idea. + +"That ain't why I figure to keep movin'," said Cheyenne. "But seein' as +you figure to stay, I'll stick around to-day, and light out to-morrow +mornin'. Mebby you'll change your mind, and come along." + +Bartley spent the forenoon with Cheyenne, prowling about the old town, +interested in its quaint unusualness. The afternoon heat drove him to +the shade of the hotel veranda, and, feeling unaccountably drowsy, he +finally went to his room, and, stretching out on the bed, fell asleep. +He was awakened by Cheyenne's knock at the door. Supper was ready. + +After supper they strolled out to the street and watched the town wake +up. From down the street a ways came the sound of a guitar and singing. +A dog began to howl. Then came a startled yelp, and the howl died away +in the dusk. The singing continued. A young Mexican in a blue serge +suit, tan shoes, and with a black sombrero set aslant on his head, +walked down the street beside a Mexican girl, young, fat, and giggling. +They passed the hotel with all the self-consciousness of being attired +in their holiday raiment. + +A wagon rattled past and stopped at the saloon a few doors down the +street. Then a ragged Mexican, hazing two tired burros, appeared in the +dim light cast from a window--a quaint silhouette that merged in the +farther shadows. Cheyenne moved his feet restlessly. + +Bartley smiled. "The road for mine," he quoted. + +Cheyenne nodded. "Reckon I'll go see how the hosses are makin' it." + +"I'll walk over with you," said Bartley. + +As they came out of the livery barn again, Bartley happened to glance at +the lighted doorway of the cantina opposite. From within the saloon came +the sound of glasses clinking occasionally, and voices engaged in lazy +conversation. Cheyenne fingered the dice in his pocket and hummed a +tune. Slowly he moved toward the lighted doorway, and Bartley walked +beside him. + +"I got a thirst," stated Cheyenne. + +Bartley laughed. "Well, as we are about to dissolve partnership, I don't +mind taking one myself." + +"Tough joint," declared Cheyenne as he stepped up to the doorway. + +"All the better," said Bartley. + +A young rancher, whose team stood at the hitch-rail, nodded pleasantly +as they entered. + +"Mescal," said Cheyenne, and he laid a silver dollar on the bar. + +Bartley glanced about the low-ceilinged room. The place, poorly lighted +with oil lamps, looked sinister enough to satisfy the most hardy +adventurer, although it was supposed to be a sort of social center for +the enjoyment of vino and talk. The bar was narrow, made of some kind of +soft wood, and painted blue. The top of it was almost paintless in +patches. + +Back of the bar a narrow shelf, also painted blue, offered a lean choice +of liquors. Several Mexicans lounged at the side tables along the wall. +The young American rancher stood at the bar, drinking. The proprietor, a +fat, one-eyed Mexican whose face was deeply pitted from smallpox, served +Bartley and Cheyenne grudgingly. The mescal was fiery stuff. Bartley +coughed as he swallowed it. + +"Why not just whiskey, and have it over with?" he queried, grinning at +Cheyenne. + +"Whiskey ain't whiskey, here," Cheyenne replied. "But mescal is just +what she says she is. I like to know the kind of poison I'm drinkin'." + +Bartley began to experience an inner glow that was not unpleasant. Once +down, this native Mexican drink was not so bad. He laid a coin on the +bar and the glasses were filled again. + +Cheyenne nodded and drank Bartley's health. Bartley suggested that they +sit at one of the side tables and study the effects of mescal on the +natives present. + +"Let joy be unconfined," said Cheyenne. + +"Where in the world did you get that?" + +"Oh, I can read," declared Cheyenne. "Before I took to ramblin', I used +to read some, nights. I reckon that's where I got the idea of makin' up +po'try, later." + +"I really beg your pardon," said Bartley. + +"The mescal must of told you." + +"I don't quite get that," said Bartley. + +"No? Well, you ain't the first. Josh and Filaree is the only ones that +sabes me. Let's sit in this corner and watch the mescal work for a +livin'." + +It was a hot night. Sweat prickled on Bartley's forehead. His nose +itched. He lit a cigar. It tasted bitter, so he asked Cheyenne for +tobacco and papers, and rolled a cigarette. He inhaled a whiff, and felt +more comfortable. The Mexicans, who had ceased to talk when Bartley and +Cheyenne entered, were now at it again, making plenty of noise. + +Cheyenne hummed to himself and tapped the floor with his boot-heel. +"She's a funny old world," he declared. + +Bartley nodded and blew a smoke-ring. + +"Miss Dorry's sure a interestin' girl," asserted Cheyenne. + +Bartley nodded again. + +"Kind of young and innocent-like." + +Again Bartley nodded. + +"It ain't a bad country to settle down in, for folks that likes to +settle," said Cheyenne. + +Bartley glanced sharply at his companion. Cheyenne was gazing straight +ahead. His face was unreadable. + +"Now if I was the settlin' kind--" He paused and slowly turned toward +Bartley. "A man could raise alfalfa and chickens and kids." + +"Go ahead," laughed Bartley. + +"I'm goin'--to-morrow mornin'. And you say you figure to stay here a +spell?" + +"Oh, just a few days. I imagine I shall grow tired of it. But to-night, +I feel pretty well satisfied to stay right where I am." + +Cheyenne rose and strode to the bar. After a short argument with the +proprietor, he returned with a bottle and glasses. Bartley raised his +eyebrows questioningly. + +"Once in a while--" And Cheyenne gestured toward the bottle. + +"It's powerful stuff," said Bartley. + +"We ain't far from the hotel," declared Cheyenne. And he filled their +glasses. + +"This ought to be the last, for me," said Bartley, drinking. "But don't +let that make any difference to you." + +Cheyenne drank and shrugged his shoulders. He leaned back and gazed at +the opposite wall. Bartley vaguely realized that the Mexicans were +chattering, that two or three persons had come in, and that the +atmosphere was heavy with tobacco smoke. He unbuttoned his shirt-collar. + +Presently Cheyenne twisted round in his chair. "Remember Little Jim, +back at the Hastings ranch?" + +"I should say so! It would be difficult to forget him." + +"Miss Dorry thinks a heap of that kid." + +"She seems to." + +"Now, I ain't drunk," Cheyenne declared solemnly. "I sure wish I was. +You know Little Jim is my boy. Well, his ma is livin' over to Laramie. +She writ to me to come back to her, onct. I reckon Sears got tired of +her. She lived with him a spell after she quit me. Folks say Sears +treated her like a dog. I guess I wasn't man enough, when I heard +that--" + +"You mean Panhandle Sears--at Antelope?" + +"Him." + +"Oh, I see!" said Bartley slowly. "And that crap game, at Antelope--I +see!" + +"If Panhandle had a-jumped me, instead of you, that night, I'd 'a' +killed him. Do you know why Wishful stepped in and put Sears down? +Wishful did that so that there wouldn't be a killin'. That's the second +time Sears has had his chance to git me, but he won't take that chance. +That's the second time we met up since--since my wife left me. The third +time it'll be lights out for somebody. I ain't drunk." + +"Then Sears has got a yellow streak?" + +"Any man that uses a woman rough has. When Jimmy's ma left us, I reckon +I went loco. It wa'n't just her _leavin'_ us. But when I heard she had +took up with Sears, and knowin' what he was--I just quit. I was workin' +down here at the ranch, then. I went up North, figurin' to kill him. +Folks thought I was yellow, for not killin' him. They think so right +now. Mebby I am. + +"I worked up North a spell, but I couldn't stay. So I lit out and come +down South again. First time I met up with Sears was over on the Tonto. +He stepped up and slapped my face, in front of a crowd, in the Lone +Star. And I took it. But I told him I'd sure see him again, and give him +another chance to slap my face. + +"You see, Panhandle Sears is that kind--he's got to work himself up to +kill a man. And over there at Antelope, that night, he just about knowed +that if he lifted a finger, I'd git him. He figured to start a ruckus, +and then git me in the mix-up. Wishful was on, and he stopped that +chance. Folks think that because I come ridin' and singin' and joshin' +that I ain't no account. Mebby I ain't." + +Cheyenne poured another drink for himself. Bartley declined to drink +again. He was thinking of this squalid tragedy and of its possible +outcome. The erstwhile sprightly Cheyenne held a new significance for +the Easterner. That a man could ride up and down the trails singing, and +yet carry beneath it all the grim intent some day to kill a man-- + +Bartley felt that Cheyenne had suddenly become a stranger, an unknown +quantity, a sinister jester, in fact, a dangerous man. He leaned forward +and touched Cheyenne's arm. + +"Why not give up the idea of--er--getting Sears; and settle down, and +make a home for Little Jim?" + +"When Aunt Jane took him, the understandin' was that Jimmy was to be +raised respectable, which is the same as tellin' me that I don't have +nothin' to do with raisin' him. Me, I got to keep movin'." + +Bartley turned toward the doorway as a tall figure loomed through the +haze of tobacco smoke: a gaunt, heavy-boned man, bearded and limping +slightly. With him were several companions, booted and spurred; +evidently just in from a hard ride. + +Cheyenne turned to Bartley. "That's Bill Sneed--and his crowd. I ain't +popular with 'em--right now." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +THAT MESCAL + + +"The man who had your horses?" queried Bartley. + +Cheyenne nodded. "The one at the end of the bar. The hombre next to him +is Lawson, who claims he bought my hosses from a Mexican, down here. +Lawson is the one that is huntin' trouble. Sneed don't care nothin' +about a couple of cayuses. He won't start anything. He's here just to +back up Lawson if things git interestin'." + +"But what can they do? We're here, in town, minding our own business. +They know well enough that Panhandle stole your horses. And you said the +people in San Andreas don't like Sneed a whole lot." + +"Because they're scared of him and his crowd. And we're strangers here. +It's just me and Lawson, this deal. Sneed is sizin' you up, back of his +whiskers, right now. He's tryin' to figure out who you are. Sneed ain't +one to run into the law when they's anybody lookin' on. He works +different. + +"Now, while he is figurin', you just git up easy and step out and slip +over to the barn and saddle up Joshua. I'm goin' to need him. Take the +tie-rope off Filaree and leave him loose in his stall. Just say 'Adios' +to me when you git up, like you was goin' back to the hotel. And if +you'll settle what we owe--" + +"That's all right. But my feet aren't cold, yet." + +"You figure to stay in town a spell, don't you? Well, I figure to leave, +right soon. I'm tryin' to dodge trouble. It's your chanct to help out." + +"Why can't we both walk out?" + +"'Cause they'd follow us. They won't follow you." + +Bartley glanced at the men ranged along the bar, rose, and, shaking +hands with Cheyenne, strode out, nodding pleasantly to the one-eyed +proprietor as he went. + +Sneed eyed the Easterner sharply, and nudged one of his men as Bartley +passed through the doorway. + +"Just step out and see where he goes, Hull," he ordered in an undertone. +"Keep him in sight." + +The man spoken to hitched up his chaps, and, turning to finish his +drink, strolled out casually. + +Bartley saw a row of saddle-horses tied at the rail. He noticed the +slickers on the saddles and the carbines under the stirrup leathers. It +was evident that the riders were not entirely on pleasure bent. He +crossed the street, wakened the stableman, paid the bill, and saddled +Joshua. Then he took the tie-rope off Filaree, as Cheyenne had directed. +Bartley led Joshua through the barn to the back, where he was tying him +to a wagon wheel when a figure loomed up in the semi-darkness. + +"Ridin', stranger?" + +The figure struck a match and lighted a cigarette. Bartley at once +recognized him as one of Sneed's men. Resenting the other's question and +his attitude of easy familiarity, Bartley ignored his presence. + +"Hard of hearin'?" queried Hull. + +"Rather." + +"I said: Was you ridin'?" + +"Yesterday," replied Bartley. + +Hull blew a whiff of smoke in Bartley's face. It seemed casual, but was +intended as an insult. Bartley flushed, and realizing that the other was +there to intercept any action on his part to aid Cheyenne, he dropped +Joshua's reins, and without the slightest warning of his intent--in +fact, Hull thought the Easterner was stooping to pick up the +reins--Bartley launched a haymaker that landed with a loud crack on +Hull's unguarded chin, and Hull's head snapped back. Bartley jumped +forward and shot another one to the same spot. Hull's head hit the edge +of the doorway as he went down. + +He lay there, inert, a queer blur in the half-light. Bartley licked his +skinned knuckles. + +"He may resent this, when he wakes up," he murmured. "I believe I'll tie +him." + +Bartley took Joshua's tie-rope and bound Mr. Hull's arms and legs, +amateurishly, but securely. + +Then he strode through to the front of the barn. He could hear loud +talking in the saloon opposite and thought he could distinguish +Cheyenne's voice. Bartley wondered what would happen in there, and when +things would begin to pop, if there was to be any popping. He felt +foolishly helpless and inefficient--rather a poor excuse for a partner, +just then. Yet there was that husky rider, back there in the straw. He +was even more helpless and inefficient. Bartley licked his knuckles, and +grinned. + +"There must have been a little mescal in that second punch," he thought. +"I never hit so hard in my life." + +The stableman had retired to his bunk--a habit of night stablemen. The +stable was dark and still, save for the munching of the horses. In the +saloon across the way Cheyenne was facing Sneed and his men, alone. +Bartley felt like a quitter. Indecision irritated him, and curiosity +urged him to do something other than to stand staring at the saloon +front. He recalled his plan to sojourn in San Andreas a few days, and +incidently to ride over to the Lawrence ranch--frankly, to have another +visit with Dorothy. He shrugged his shoulders. That idea now seemed +insignificant, compared with the present possibilities. + +"I'm a free agent," he soliloquized. "I think I'll take a hand in this, +myself." + +He snapped his fingers as he turned and hastened to Dobe's stall. He led +Dobe out to the stable floor, got his saddle from the office, told the +sleepy stableman that he was going to take a little ride, and saddled +Dobe. And he led Dobe back to where Joshua was tied. He had forgotten +his victim on the floor, for a moment, but was aware of him when he +stumbled over him in the dark. The other mumbled and struggled faintly. + +"I left your gun in the wagon-box," said Bartley. "I wouldn't move +around much, if I were you. One of the horses might step on your face +and hurt his foot." + +Mr. Hull was not pleased at this, and he said as much. Bartley tied Dobe +to the back of the wagon. + +"Just keep your eye on the horses a minute," he told Hull. "I'll be back +soon." + +Bartley felt unusually and inexplicably elated. He had not realized the +extreme potency of mescal. The proprietor of the hotel was mildly +surprised when Bartley, remarking that he had been called away +unexpectedly, paid the hotel bill. Bartley hastened back to the stable. +Across the way the horses of the mountain men drowsed in the faint +lamplight. Turning, Bartley saw Joshua and Dobe dimly silhouetted in the +opening at the far end of the stable. Cheyenne was still in the saloon. + +Bartley grinned. "It might help," he said as he stepped across the +street. Taking down the rope from the nearest horse, he tied the end of +the rope in the horse's bridle and threaded the end through the bridles +of all five horses, tying the loose end to the last horse's bridle. +"Just like stringing fish!" he murmured soulfully. "When those gentlemen +from the interior try to mount, there'll be something doing." + +He had just turned to walk back to the stable when he heard a shot, and +the lighted doorway of the saloon became suddenly dark. Without waiting +to see what would happen next, Bartley ran to the rear of the stable and +untied the horses. Behind him he heard the quick trample of feet. He +turned. A figure appeared in the front doorway of the stable, a figure +that dashed toward him, and, with a leap and a swing, mounted Joshua and +spurred out and down the alley back of the building. + +Bartley grabbed for his own stirrup, missed it, grabbed again and swung +up. Dobe leaped after the other horse, turned at the end of the alley, +and, reaching into a long, swinging gallop, pounded across the +night-black open. San Andreas had but one street. The backs of its +buildings opened to space. + +Ahead, Cheyenne thundered across a narrow bridge over an arroyo. Dobe +lifted and leaped forward, as though in a race. From behind came the +quick patter of hoofs. One of Sneed's men had evidently managed to get +his horse loose from the reata. A solitary house, far out on the level, +flickered past. Bartley glanced back. The house door opened. A ray of +yellow light shot across the road. + +"Hey, Cheyenne!" called Bartley. + +But Cheyenne's little buckskin was drumming down the night road at a +pace that astonished the Easterner. Dobe seemed to be doing his best, +yet he could not overtake the buckskin. Behind Bartley the patter of +hoofs sounded nearer. Bartley thought he heard Cheyenne call back to +him. He leaned forward, but the drumming of hoofs deadened all other +sound. + +They were on a road, now--a road that ran south across the spaces, +unwinding itself like a tape flung from a reel. Suddenly Cheyenne pulled +to a stop. Bartley raced up, bracing himself as the big cow-horse set up +in two jumps. + +"I thought you was abidin' in San Andreas," said Cheyenne. + +"There's some one coming!" warned Bartley, breathing heavily. + +"And his name is Filaree," declared Cheyenne. "You sure done a good job. +Let's keep movin'." And Cheyenne let Joshua out as Filaree drew +alongside and nickered shrilly. + +"Now I reckon we better hold 'em in a little," said Cheyenne after they +had gone, perhaps, a half-mile. "We got a good start." + +They slowed the horses to a trot. Filaree kept close to Joshua's flank. +A gust of warm air struck their faces. + +"Ain't got time to shake hands, pardner," said Cheyenne. "Know where +you're goin'?" + +"South," said Bartley. + +"Correc'. And I don't hear no hosses behind us." + +"I strung them together on a rope," said Bartley. + +"How's that?" + +"I tied Sneed's horses together, with a rope. Ran it through the +bridles--like stringing fish. Not according to Hoyle, but it seems to +have worked." + +Cheyenne shook his head. He did not quite get the significance of +Bartley's statement. + +"Any one get hurt?" queried Bartley presently. + +"Nope. I spoiled a lamp, and I reckon I hit somebody on the head, in the +dark, comin' through. Seems like I stepped on somethin' soft, out there +back of the barn. It grunted like a human. But I didn't stop to look." + +"I had to do it," declared Bartley ambiguously. + +"Had to do what?" + +"Punch a fellow that wanted to know what I was doing with your horse. I +let him have it twice." + +"Then you didn't hit him with your gun?" + +"No. I wish I had. I've got a fist like a boiled ham. I can feel it +swell, right now." + +"That there mescal is sure pow'ful stuff." + +"Thanks!" said Bartley succinctly. + +"Got a kick like white lightin'," said Cheyenne. + +"And I paid our hotel bill," continued Bartley. + +"Well, that was mighty thoughtful. I plumb forgot it." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +JOE SCOTT + + +Just before daybreak Cheyenne turned from the road and picked his way +through the scattered brush to a gulch in the western foothills. +Cheyenne's horses seemed to know the place, when they stopped at a +narrow, pole gate across the upper end of the gulch, for on beyond the +gate the horses again stopped of their own accord. Bartley could barely +discern the outlines of a cabin. Cheyenne hallooed. + +A muffled answer from the cabin, then a twinkle of light, then the open +doorway framing a gigantic figure. + +"That you, Shy?" queried the figure. + +"Me and a friend." + +"You're kind of early," rumbled the figure as the riders dismounted. + +"Shucks! You'd be gettin' up, anyway, right soon. We come early so as +not to delay your breakfast." + +In the cabin, Cheyenne and the big man shook hands. Bartley was +introduced. The man was a miner, named Joe Scott. + +"Joe, here, is a minin' man--when he ain't runnin' a all-night +lunch-stand," explained Cheyenne. "He can't work his placer when it's +dark, but he sure can work a skillet and a coffee-mill." + +"What you been up to?" queried the giant slowly, as he made a fire in +the stove, and set about getting breakfast. + +"Up to Clubfoot Sneed's place, to get a couple of hosses that belonged +to me. He was kind of hostile. Followed us down to San Andreas and done +spoiled our night's rest. But I got the hosses." + +"Hosses seems to be his failin'," said the big man. + +"So some folks say. I'm one of 'em." + +"How are the folks up Antelope way?" + +"Kinda permanent, as usual. I hear Panhandle's drifted south again. +Wishful, he shoots craps, reg'lar." + +Scott nodded, shifted the coffee-pot and sat down on the edge of his +bunk. "Got any smokin'?" he queried presently. + +Bartley offered the miner a cigar. "I'm afraid it's broken," apologized +Bartley. + +"That's all right. I was goin' to town this mornin', to get some tobacco +and grub. But this will help." And doubling the cigar Scott thrust it in +his mouth and chewed it with evident satisfaction. + +The gray edge of dawn crept into the room. Scott blew out the light and +opened the door. + +Bartley felt suddenly sleepy and he drowsed and nodded, realizing that +Scott and Cheyenne were talking, and that the faint aroma of coffee +drifted toward him, mingling with the chill, fresh air of morning. He +pulled himself together and drank the coffee and ate some bacon. From +time to time he glanced at Scott, fascinated by the miner's tremendous +forearms, his mighty chest and shoulders. Even Cheyenne, who was a +fair-sized man, appeared like a boy beside the miner. Bartley wondered +that such tremendous strength should be isolated, hidden back there +behind the foothills. Yet Scott himself, easy-going and dryly humorous, +was evidently content right where he was. + +Later the miner showed Bartley about the diggings, quietly proud of his +establishment, and enthusiastic about the unfailing supply of water--in +fact, Scott talked more about water than he did about gold. Bartley +realized that the big miner would have been a misfit in town, that he +belonged in the rugged hills from which he wrested a scant six dollars a +day by herculean toil. + +In a past age, Scott would have been a master builder of castles or of +triremes or a maker of armor, but never a fighting man. It was evident +that the miner was, despite his great strength, a man of peace. Bartley +rather regretted, for some romantic reason or other, that the big miner +was not a fighting man. + +Yet when they returned to the shack, where Cheyenne sat smoking, Bartley +learned that Big Joe Scott had a reputation in his own country. That was +when Scott suggested that they needed sleep. He spread a blanket-roll on +the cabin floor for Cheyenne and offered Bartley his bunk. Then Scott +picked up his rifle and strode across to a shed. Cheyenne pulled off his +boots, stretched out on the blanket-roll, and sighed comfortably. +Bartley could see the big miner busily twisting something in his hands, +something that looked like a leather bag from which occasional tiny +spurts of silver gleamed and trickled. Bartley wondered what Scott was +doing. He asked Cheyenne. + +"He's squeezin' 'quick.'" And Cheyenne explained the process of +squeezing quicksilver through a chamois skin. "And I'm glad it ain't my +neck," added Cheyenne. "Joe killed a man, with his bare hands, onct. +That's why he never gets in a fight, nowadays. He dassn't. 'Course, he +had to kill that man, or get killed." + +"I noticed he picked up his rifle," said Bartley. + +"Nobody'll disturb our sleep," said Cheyenne drowsily. + + * * * * * + +The afternoon shadows were long when Bartley awakened. Through the +doorway he could see Cheyenne out in the shed, talking with Joe Scott. + +"Hello!" called Bartley, sitting up. "Lost any horses, Cheyenne?" + +Presently Scott and Cheyenne came over to the cabin. + +"I'm cook, this trip," stated Cheyenne as he bustled about the kitchen. +"I reckon Joe needs a rest. He ain't lookin' right strong." + +An early supper, and the three men forgathered outside the cabin and +smoked and talked until long after dark. Cheyenne had told Scott of the +happenings since leaving Antelope, and jokingly he referred to San +Andreas and Bartley's original plan of staying there awhile. + +Bartley nodded. "And now that the smoke has blown away, I think I'll go +back and finish my visit," he said. + +Cheyenne's face expressed surprise and disappointment. "Honest?" he +queried. + +"Why not?" asked Bartley, and it was a hard question to answer. + +After all, Bartley had stuck to him when trouble seemed inevitable, +reasoned Cheyenne. + +Now the Easterner felt free to do as he pleased. And why shouldn't he? +There had been no definite or even tentative agreement as to when they +would dissolve partnership. And Bartley's evident determination to carry +out his original plan struck Cheyenne as indicative of considerable +spirit. It was plain that Sneed's unexpected presence in San Andreas had +not affected Bartley very much. With a tinge of malice, born of +disappointment, Cheyenne suggested to Bartley that the man he had +knocked out, back of the livery barn, would no doubt be glad to see him +again. + +Bartley turned to Joe Scott. "He's trying to 'Out-West' me a bit, isn't +he?" + +Scott laughed heartily. "Cheyenne is getting tired of rambling up and +down the country alone. He wants a pardner. Seems he likes your company, +from what he says. But you can't take him serious. He'll be singin' that +everlastin' trail song of his next." + +"He hasn't sung much, recently." + +Cheyenne bridled and snorted like a colt. "Huh! Just try this on your +piano." And seemingly improvising, he waved his arm toward the burro +corral. + + One time I had a right good pal, + Git along, cayuse, git along; + But he quit me cold for a little ranch gal, + Git along, cayuse, git along. + + And now he's took to pitchin' hay + On a rancho down San Andreas way; + He's done tied up and he's got to stay; + Git along, cayuse, git along. + +"I was just learnin' him the ropes, and he quit me cold," complained +Cheyenne, appealing to Scott. + +"He aims to keep out of trouble," suggested Scott. + +"I ain't got no friends," said Cheyenne, grinning. + +"Thanks for that," said Scott. + +Cheyenne reached in his pocket and drew out the dice. His eyes +brightened. He rattled the dice and shot them across the hardpacked +ground near the doorstep. Then he struck a match to see what he had +thrown. "I'm hittin' the road five minutes after six, to-morrow +mornin'," he declared, as he picked up the dice. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +DORRY COMES TO TOWN + + +At six, next morning, Bartley and Scott were on their way to San +Andreas, Bartley riding Dobe and Scott hazing two pack-burros. They took +a hill trail, which, Scott explained, was shorter by miles than the +valley road which Cheyenne and Bartley had taken to the gulch. Cheyenne +was forced to stay at the miner's cabin until Scott returned with the +pack-saddle and outfit left in the livery. Scott was after supplies and +tobacco. + +At first Cheyenne had thought of going along with them. But he +reconsidered. He did not care to risk being arrested in San Andreas for +having disturbed the peace. If the authorities should happen to detain +him, there would be one broken head, one broken lamp, and possibly five +or six witnesses as evidence that he had been the aggressor in the +saloon. Sneed and his men would swear to anything, and the owner of the +saloon would add his bit of evidence. Bartley himself was liable to +arrest for assault and battery should Hull lodge a complaint against +him. Incidentally, Hull had been found by the stableman, curiously roped +and tied and his lower jaw somewhat out of plumb. + +Bartley and Scott arrived in San Andreas about noon, saw to their stock +and had dinner together. Bartley engaged a room at the hotel. Scott +bought supplies. Then, unknown to Bartley, Scott hunted up the town +marshal and told him that the Easterner was a friend of his. The town +marshal took the hint. Scott assured the marshal that, if Sneed or his +men made any trouble in San Andreas, he would gladly come over and help +the marshal establish peace. Cheyenne's name was not mentioned. + +An hour later Scott appeared in front of the hotel with his burros +packed. Bartley, loafing on the veranda, rose and stepped out. + +"If you got time," said Scott, "you might walk along with me, out to the +edge of town." + +Bartley wondered what Scott had in mind, but he agreed to the suggestion +at once. + +Together they trudged through the sleepy town until they reached the +open. + +"I guess you can find your way back," said Scott, his eyes twinkling. +"And, say, it's a good idea not to pack a shootin'-iron--and let folks +know you don't pack one." + +"I think I understand," said Bartley. + +"Ride over to my camp, any time, and if I'm not there, just make +yourself to home." And the big miner turned and started his burros +toward the hills. + +"Give my regards to Cheyenne," called Bartley. + +The miner nodded. + +On his way back through town, Bartley wondered why the miner had asked +him to take that walk. Then suddenly he thought of a reason. They had +been seen in San Andreas, walking and talking together. That would +intimate that they were friends. And a man would have to be blind, not +to realize that it would be a mistake to pick a quarrel with Scott, or +one of his friends. Joe Scott never quarreled; but he had the reputation +of being a man of whom it was safe to step around. + +With his sleeves rolled up, sitting in the quiet of his room, Bartley +spent the afternoon jotting down notes for a story. He thought he had +experienced enough adventure to make a good beginning. Of course, the +love element was lacking, yet he thought that might be supplied, later. +He had a heroine in mind. Bartley laid down his pencil, and sat back, +shaping daydreams. It was hot in the room. It would be cooler down on +the veranda. Well, he would finish his rough sketch of Cheyenne, and +then step down to the veranda. He caught himself drowsing over his work. +He sat up, scribbled a while, nodded sleepily, and, finally, with his +head on his arms, he fell asleep. + +The rattle of wagon wheels wakened him. A ranch team had just pulled up +to the hitch-rail in front of the hotel and a small boy was tying the +horses. The boy's hat seemed familiar to Bartley. Then Bartley heard a +voice. Suddenly he was wide awake. Little Jim was down there, talking to +some one. Bartley rose and peered down. Little Jim's companion was +Dorothy. Bartley could not see her face, because of her wide hat-brim. +Stepping back into the room, Bartley picked up his pencil and, leaning +out of the window, started it rolling down the gentle slope of the +veranda roof. It dropped at Dorothy's feet. She started and glanced up. +Bartley waved a greeting and disappeared from the window. + +Decently clothed, and, imagining that he was in his right mind, he +hastened downstairs. + +Little Jim expressed no surprise at seeing Bartley, but the youngster's +eyes were eager. + +He shook hands, like a grown-up. "Got that twenty-two, yet?" + +"Haven't seen one, Jimmy. But I won't forget." + +"There's a brand-new twenty-two over to Hodges' store, in the window," +declared Little Jim. + +"That so? Then we'll have to walk over and look at it." + +"I done _looked_ at it already," said Little Jim. + +"Well, then, let's go and price it." + +"I done priced it. It's twelve-fifty." + +"Well, what do you say to going over and buying it?" + +"Sure! Is dad gone?" + +"Yes. He left here last night. I thought Miss Gray was with you," said +Bartley. + +"Sure! She had to come to town to buy some things. She's over to Hodges' +now." + +Dorothy had not waited for him to appear. Bartley was a bit piqued. But +he asked himself why should he be? They were the merest acquaintances. +True, they had spent several hours together, reading and discussing +verse. But no doubt that had been purely impersonal, on her part. With +Little Jim as his guide, Bartley entered Hodges' general store. Dorothy +was at the back of the store making purchases. Bartley watched her a +moment. He felt a tug at his sleeve. + +"The guns is over on this side," declared Little Jim. + +"We'll have to wait until Mr. Hodges gets through waiting on Miss Gray," +said Bartley. + +Little Jim scampered across the aisle and stood on tiptoe peering into a +showcase. There were pistols, cheap watches, and a pair of spurs. + +Little Jim gazed a moment and then shot over to Dorothy. "Say, Dorry, +can't you hurry up? Me and Mr. Bartley are waitin' to look at that +twenty-two in the window." + +"Now, Jimmy! Oh, how do you do!" And Dorothy greeted Bartley with +considerable poise for a young woman who was as interested in the +Easterner as she was. + +"Don't let us interrupt you," said Bartley. "Our business can wait." + +Little Jim scowled, and grimaced at Dorothy, who excused herself to +Bartley and went on making her purchases. They were really insignificant +purchases--some pins, some thread, and a roll of binding tape. +Insignificant as they were, Bartley offered to carry them to the wagon +for her. Dorothy declined his offer and took them to the wagon herself. + +"Now for that rifle," said Bartley. + +Little Jim, itching all over to get hold of that new and shining weapon, +squirmed as Hodges took it from the window and handed it to Bartley. +Bartley examined it and passed it over to Little Jim. + +"Is that the kind you wanted?" he asked. + +"This is her! Twenty-two, long or short, genuwine repeater." Jimmy +pretended to read the tags tied to the trigger guard. "Yep! This is +her." + +"And some cartridges," suggested Bartley. + +"How many?" queried the storekeeper. + +"All you got," said Little Jim. + +But Bartley's good nature was not to be imposed upon to that extent. +"Give us five boxes, Mr. Hodges." + +"That cleans me out of twenty-twos," declared Hodges. + +Jimmy grinned triumphantly. Dorothy had come in and was viewing the +purchase with some apprehension. She knew Little Jim. + +Bearing the rifle proudly, Jimmy marched from the store. Dorothy and +Bartley followed him, and Bartley briefly outlined Cheyenne's recent +sprightly exodus from San Andreas. + +"I heard about it, from Mr. Hodges," said Dorothy. "And I also noticed +that you have hurt your hand." + +Bartley glanced at his right hand--and then at Dorothy, who was gazing +at him curiously. It had become common news in town that Cheyenne +Hastings and the Easterner had engaged in a free-for-all fight with the +Sneed outfit, and that two of the Sneed boys were laid up for repairs. +That was Mr. Hodges' version. + +"I also heard that you had left town," said Dorothy. + +Bartley's egoism was slightly deflated. Then Dorothy had come to town to +buy a few trinkets, and not to find out how it fared with him. + +"We have to get back before dark," she declared. + +"And you got to drive," said Little Jim. "I want to try my new gun!" + +"Did you thank Mr. Bartley for the gun?" + +Little Jim admitted that he had forgotten to do so. He stuck out his +small hand. "Thanks, pardner," he said heartily. + +Bartley laughed and patted Jimmy's shoulder--something that Jimmy +utterly detested, but suffered nobly, under the circumstances. + +"You earned that gun--and thank you for fetching Miss Dorry to town." + +"Huh! I didn't fetch _her_. She fetched me. Uncle Frank was comin', but +Dorry said she just had to get some things--" + +"Jimmy, please don't point that gun at the horses." + +Bartley felt better. He didn't know just why he felt better. Yet he felt +more than grateful to Little Jim. + +Nevertheless, Dorothy met Bartley's eyes frankly as he said farewell. "I +hope you will find time to ride over to the ranch," she said. "I'm sure +Aunt Jane would be glad to see you." + +"Thanks. Say, day after to-morrow?" + +"Oh, it doesn't matter. Aunt Jane is nearly always at home." + +"And I got lots of ca'tridges," chirruped Little Jim. "We can shoot all +day." + +"I wouldn't miss such an opportunity for anything," declared Bartley, +yet he was looking at Dorothy when he spoke. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +ALONG THE FOOTHILLS + + +Bartley, enjoying his after-dinner smoke, felt that he wanted to know +more about the girl who had invited him to call at the Lawrence ranch +again. He told himself that he wanted to study her; to find out her +preferences, her ideals, her attitude toward life, and how the thought +of always living in the San Andreas Valley, shut away from the world, +appealed to her. + +With the unconscious intolerance of the city-bred man, he did not +realize that her world was quite as interesting to her as his world was +to him. Manlike, he also failed to realize that Dorothy was studying him +quite as much as he was studying her. While he did not feel in the least +superior, he did feel that he was more worldly-wise than this young +woman whose horizon was bounded by the hills edging the San Andreas +Valley. + +True, she seemed to have read much, for one as isolated as she, and she +had evidently appreciated what she had read. And then there was +something about her that interested him, aside from her good looks. He +had known many girls far more beautiful. It was not her manner, which +was a bit constrained, at times. Her charm for him was indefinable. +Somehow, she seemed different from other girls he had met. Bartley was +himself responsible for this romantic hallucination. He saw her with +eyes hungry for the sympathetic companionship of youth, especially +feminine youth, for he could talk with her seriously about things which +the genial Cheyenne could hardly appreciate. + +In other words, Bartley, whose aim was to isolate himself from +convention, was unconsciously hungry for the very conventions he thought +he was fleeing from. And in a measure, Dorothy Gray represented the life +he had left behind. Had she been a boy, Bartley would have enjoyed +talking with her--or him; but she was a girl, and, concluded Bartley, +just the type of girl for the heroine of a Western romance. Bartley's +egoism would not allow him to admit that their tentative friendship +could become anything more than friendship. And it was upon that +understanding with himself that he saddled up, next morning,--why the +hurry, with a week to spend in San Andreas,--and set out for the +Lawrence ranch, to call on Aunt Jane. + +Purposely he timed his arrival to follow the dinner hour--dinner was at +noon in the ranch country--and was mildly lectured by Aunt Jane for not +arriving earlier. Uncle Frank was at the lower end of the ranch, +superintending the irrigating. Little Jim was on the veranda, needlessly +cleaning his new rifle, preparatory to a rabbit hunt that afternoon. +Bartley was at once invited to participate in the hunt, and he could +think of no reason to decline. Dorothy, however, was not at the ranch. + +Little Jim scrubbed his rifle with an oily rag, and scowled. "Got both +hosses saddled, and lots of ca'tridges--and Dorry ain't here yet! She +promised to be here right after dinner." + +"Was Miss Dorry going with you?" + +Jimmy nodded. "You bet! She's goin' to take my old twenty-two. It's only +a single-shot," added Jimmy scornfully. "But it's good enough for a +girl." + +"Isn't it early to hunt rabbits?" queried Bartley. + +"Sure! But we got to get there, clear over to the flats. If Dorry don't +come as soon as I get this gun cleaned, I'm goin' anyhow." + +But Dorothy appeared before Jimmy could carry out his threat of leaving +without her. Jimmy, mounted on his pony, fretted to be gone, while +Dorothy chatted a minute or so with Aunt Jane and Bartley. Finally they +rode off, with Jimmy in the lead, explaining that there would be no +rabbits on the flat until at least five o'clock, and in the meantime +they would ride over to the spring and pretend they were starving. That +is, Dorothy and Bartley were to pretend they were starving, while Jimmy +scouted for meat and incidentally shot a couple of Indians and returned +with a noble buck deer hanging across the saddle. + +It was hot and they rode slowly. Far ahead, in the dim southern +distances, lay the hills that walled the San Andreas Valley from the +desert. + +Dorothy noticed that Bartley gazed intently at those hills. "Cheyenne?" +she queried, smiling. + +"I beg your pardon. I was dreaming. Yes, I was thinking of him, and--" +Bartley gestured toward Little Jim. + +"Then you know?" + +"Cheyenne told me, night before last, in San Andreas." + +"Of course, Jimmy is far better off right where he is," asserted +Dorothy, although Bartley had said nothing. "I don't think Cheyenne will +ever settle down. At least, not so long as that man Sears is alive. Of +course, if anything happens to Sears--" + +Dorothy was interrupted by Little Jim, who turned in the saddle to +address her. "Say, Dorry, if you keep on talkin' out loud, the Injuns is +like to jump us! Scoutin' parties don't keep talkin' when they're on the +trail." + +"Don't be silly, Jimmy," laughed Dorothy. + +"Well, they _used_ to be Injuns in these hills, once." + +"We'll behave," said Bartley. "But can't we ride toward the foothills +and get in the shade?" + +"You just follow me," said Little Jim. "I know this country." + +It was Little Jim's day. It was his hunt. Dorothy and Bartley were +merely his guests. He had allowed them to come with him--possibly +because he wanted an audience. Presently Little Jim reined his horse to +the left and rode up a dim trail among the boulders. By an exceedingly +devious route he led the way to the spring, meanwhile playing the scout +with intense concentration on some cattle tracks which were at least a +month old. Bartley recognized the spot. Cheyenne and he had camped there +upon their quest for the stolen horses. Little Jim assured his charges +that all was safe, and he suggested that they "light down and rest a +spell." + +The contrasting coolness of the shade was inviting. Jimmy explained that +there would be no rabbits visible until toward evening. Below and beyond +them stretched the valley floor, shimmering in the sun. Behind them the +hills rose and dipped, rose and dipped again, finally reaching up to the +long slope of the mother range. Far above a thin, dark line of timber +showed against the eastern sky. + +"Ole Clubfoot Sneed lives up there," asserted Jimmy, pointing toward the +distant ridge. "I been up there." + +"Yes. And your father saved you from a whipping. Uncle Frank was very +angry." + +"I got that new rifle, anyhow," declared Little Jim. + +"And they lived happily ever afterward," said Bartley. + +"Huh! That's just like them fairy stories that Dorry reads to me +sometimes. I like stories about Buffalo Bill and Injuns and fights. +Fairy stories make me tired." + +"Jimmy thinks he is quite grown up," teased Dorothy. + +"You ain't growed up yourself, anyhow," retorted Jimmy. "Girls ain't +growed up till they git married." + +Dorothy turned to Bartley and began to talk about books and writers. +Little Jim frowned. Why couldn't they talk about something worth +listening to? Jimmy examined his new rifle, sighting it at different +objects, and opening and closing the empty magazine. Finally he loaded +it. His companions of the hunt were deep in a discussion having to do +with Western stories. Jimmy fidgeted under the constant stress of +keeping silent. He would have interrupted Dorothy, willingly enough, but +Bartley's presence rather awed him. + +Jimmy felt that his afternoon was being wasted. However, there was the +solace of the new rifle, and plenty of ammunition. While he knew there +was no big game in those hills, he could pretend that there was. He +debated with himself as to whether he would hunt deer, bear, or mountain +lion. Finally he decided he would hunt bear. He waited for an +opportunity to leave without being noticed, and, carrying his trusty +rifle at the ready, he stealthily disappeared in the brush south of the +spring. A young boy, with a new gun and lots of brush to prowl through! +Under such circumstances the optimist can imagine anything from rabbits +to elephants. + +Some time passed before Dorothy missed him. She called. There was no +reply. "He won't go far," she assured Bartley who rose to go and look +for Jimmy. + +Bartley sat down by the spring again. He questioned Dorothy in regard to +ranch life, social conditions, local ambitions, and the like. Quite +impersonally she answered him, explaining that the folk in the valley +were quite content, so long as they were moderately successful. Of +course, the advent of that funny little machine, the automobile, would +revolutionize ranch life, eventually. Why, a wealthy rancher of San +Andreas had actually driven to Los Angeles and back in one of those +little machines! + +Bartley smiled. "They've come to stay, no doubt. But I can't reconcile +automobiles with saddle-horses and buckboards. I shan't have an +automobile snorting and snuffing through my story." + +"Your story!" + +"I really didn't mean to speak about it. But the cat is out of the bag. +I'm making notes for a Western novel, Miss Gray. I confess it." + +"Confession usually implies having done something wrong, doesn't it?" + +"Yes. But with you as the heroine of my story, I couldn't go very far +wrong." + +Dorothy flushed and bit her lip. So that was why Bartley had been so +attentive and polite? He had been studying her, questioning her, +mentally jotting down what she had said--and he had not told her, until +that moment, that he was writing a story. She had not known that he was +a writer of stories. + +"You might, at least, have asked me if I cared to be a Western heroine +in your story." + +"Oh, that would have spoiled it all! Can't you see? You would not have +been yourself, if you had known. And our visits--" + +"I don't think I care to be the heroine of your story, Mr. Bartley." + +"You really mean it?" + +Dorothy nodded thoughtfully. Bartley knew, intuitively, that she was +sincere--that she was not angling for flattery. He had thought that he +was rather paying her a compliment in making her the heroine of his +first Western book; or, at least, that she would take it as a +compliment. He frowned, twisting a spear of dry grass in his fingers. + +"Of course--that needn't make any difference about your calling--on Aunt +Jane." + +"Thank you," laughed Bartley. "And because of the privilege which I +really appreciate, I'll agree to look for another heroine." + +Dorothy had not expected just such an answer. "In San Andreas?" she +queried. + +"I can't say. I'll be lucky if I find another, anywhere, to compare--" + +"If you had asked me, first," interrupted Dorothy, "I might have said +'yes.'" + +"I'm sorry I didn't. Won't you reconsider?" + +Dorothy shook her head. Then she looked up at him frankly, steadily. "I +think you took me for granted. That is what I didn't like." + +"But--I didn't! It didn't occur to me to really begin my story until +after I had seen you. Of course I knew I would write a new story sooner +or later. I hope you will believe that." + +"Yes. But I think I know why you decided to stay in San Andreas, instead +of riding south, with Cheyenne. Aunt Jane and Little Jim and your +heroine were within easy riding distance." + +"I'll admit I intended to write about Aunt Jane and Jimmy. I actually +adore Aunt Jane. And Little Jim, he's what one might call an unknown +quantity--" + +"He seems to be, just now." + +"Oh, he won't go far," said Bartley, smiling. + +Dorothy tossed her head. "And Cheyenne--" + +"Oh, he is the moving figure in the story. That is not a pun, if you +please. I had no idea that Cheyenne could actually hate any one, until +the other night when he told me about--Laramie, and that man Sears." + +"Did he talk much about Sears?" + +"Not much--but enough. Frankly, I think Cheyenne will kill Sears if he +happens to meet him again." + +"And that will furnish the climax for your story!" said Dorothy +scornfully. + +"Well, if it has to happen--" Bartley paused. + +Dorothy's face was troubled. Finally she rose and picked up her gloves +and hat. + +"I wish some one or something would stop him," she said slowly. "He +liked you. All the years he has been riding up and down the country he +has ridden alone, until he met you. I'm sorry you didn't go with him." + +"He did pretend that he was disappointed when I told him I was going to +stay in San Andreas for a while." + +"You thought he was joking, but he wasn't. We have all tried to get him +to settle down; but he would not listen. If I were a man--" + +"Then you think I could have influenced him?" queried Bartley. + +"You might have tried, at least." + +"Well, he's gone. And I'll have to make the best of it--and also find +another heroine," said Bartley lightly, trying to make her smile. + +"I'll be the heroine of your story, upon one condition," Dorothy said, +finally. + +"And that is--" + +"If you will try and find Cheyenne and--and just be a friend to him. I +suppose it sounds silly, and I would not think of asking you to try and +keep him from doing anything he decided to do. But you might happen to +be able to say the right word at the right time." + +"I hardly took myself as seriously as that, in connection with +Cheyenne," declared Bartley. "I suppose, if I should saddle up and ride +south to-morrow, I might overtake him along the road, somewhere. He +travels slowly." + +"But you won't go, just because I spoke as I did?" + +"Not altogether because of that. I like Cheyenne." + +Impetuously Dorothy stepped close to Bartley and laid her hand on his +arm. "I knew you were like that! And what does writing about people +amount to, when you can really do something for them? It isn't just +Cheyenne. There's Little Jim--" + +"Yes. But where _is_ Little Jim?" + +Dorothy called in her high, clear voice. There was no answering halloo. +"His horse is there. I can't understand--" + +"I'll look around a bit," said Bartley. "He's probably ambushing us, +somewhere, and expects us to be tremendously surprised." + +"I'll catch up my horse," said Dorothy. "No, you had better let me catch +him. He knows me." + +And Dorothy stepped from the clearing round the spring and walked toward +the horses. They were grazing quite a ways off, up the hillside. + +Bartley recalled having glimpsed Little Jim crawling through the brush +on the south side of the spring. No doubt Jimmy had grown tired of +waiting, and had dropped down to the mesa on foot to hunt rabbits. Once +clear of the hillside brush, Bartley was able to overlook the mesa +below. Presently he discerned a black hat moving along slowly. Evidently +the young hunter was stalking game. + +Bartley hesitated to call out. He doubted that Jimmy could hear him at +that distance. Stepping down the gentle slope of the hillside to the +road, Bartley watched Jimmy for a while, hoping that he would turn and +see him. But Jimmy was busy. "Might as well go back and get the horses +and ride over to him," said Bartley. + +He had turned to cross the road, when he heard the sound of quick +hoof-beats. Surely Dorothy had not caught up the horses so soon? Bartley +turned toward the bend of the road. Presently a rider, his worn chaps +flapping, his shapeless hat pulled low, and his quirt swinging at every +jump of the horse, pounded up and had almost passed Bartley, when he set +up his horse and dismounted. Bartley did not recognize him until he +spoke. + +"My name's Hull. I was lookin' for you." + +"All right, Mr. Hull. What do you want?" + +Hull's gaze traveled up and down the Easterner. Hull was looking to see +if the other carried a gun. Bartley expected argument and inwardly +braced himself. Meanwhile he wondered if he could find Hull's chin +again, and as easily as he had found it that night back of the livery +barn. Hull loomed big and heavy, and it was evident from the minute he +dismounted that he meant business. + +Without a word, Hull swung at Bartley, smashing in with right and left, +fighting like a wild-cat, forcing his weight into the fight, and kicking +wickedly when he got a chance. Finally, after taking a straight blow in +the face, Hull clinched--and the minute Bartley felt those tough-sinewed +arms around him he knew that he was in for a licking. + +Bartley's only chance, and that a pretty slim one, lay in getting free +from the grip of those arms. He used his knee effectively. Hull grunted +and staggered back. Bartley jumped forward and bored in, knocking Hull +off his feet. The cow-puncher struck the ground, rolled over, and was up +and coming like a cyclone. It flashed through Bartley's mind that the +only thing to do was to stay with it till the finish. Hull was beating +him down slowly, but surely. + +Dully conscious that some one was calling, behind him, Bartley struck +out, straight and clean, but he might as well have tried to stop a +runaway freight with a whisk-broom. He felt the smashing impact of a +blow--then suddenly he was on his back in the road--and he had no desire +to get up. Free from the hammering of those heavy fists, he felt +comparatively comfortable. + +"You brute!" It was Dorothy's voice, tense with anger. + +Bartley heard another voice, thick with heavy breathing. "That's all +right, Miss Gray. But the dude had it comin'." + +Then Bartley heard the sound of hoof-beats--and somehow or other, +Dorothy was helping him to his feet. He tried to grin--but his lips +would not obey his will. + +"I'm all right," he mumbled. + +"Perhaps," said Dorothy, steady and cool. "But you'll want to wash your +face at the spring. I fetched your horse." + +"Lord, Miss Gray, let's walk. I'm more used to it." + +"It was that man Hull, from the mountain, wasn't it?" + +"I don't know his name. I _did_ meet him once, in San Andreas, after +dark." + +"I'll just tie the horses, here. It's not far to the spring. Feel +dizzy?" + +"A little. But I can walk without help, thank you. Little Jim is down +there, stalking rabbits." + +At the spring Bartley knelt and washed the blood from his face and felt +tenderly of his half closed eye, twisted his neck round and felt a sharp +click--and then his head became clearer. His light shirt was half-torn +from his shoulders, and he was scandalously mussed up, to put it mildly. +He got to his feet and faced Dorothy. + +"There's a formula for this sort of thing, in books," he said. "Just now +I can't recall it. First, however, you say you're 'all right,' if you +are alive. If you are not, it doesn't matter. Then you say, 'a mere +scratch!' But I'm certain of one thing. I never needed a heroine more +than I did when you arrived." + +Dorothy smiled in spite of herself. "You aren't pretending, are you? I +mean--about your condition?" + +"I should say not. My eye is closed. My right arm won't work, and my +head feels queer--and I am _not_ hungry. But my soul goes marching on." + +"Then we'll have to find Jimmy. It's getting late." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +"GIT ALONG CAYUSE" + + +It was dark when Bartley arrived at his hotel in San Andreas. Not caring +to parade his black eye and his swollen mouth, he took his evening meal +at a little Mexican restaurant, and then went back to his room, where he +spent the evening adding a few more pertinent notes to his story; notes +that were fresh in his mind. He knew what it felt like to take a good +licking. In fact, the man is unfortunate who does not. Bartley thought +he could write effectively upon the subject. + +He had found Dorothy's quiet sympathy rather soothing. She had made no +fuss whatever about the matter. And she had not insisted that he stop at +the ranch and get doctored up. Little Jim had promptly asked Bartley, +"Who done it?" and Bartley had told him. Little Jim asked more questions +and was silenced only by a promise from Dorothy to buy him more +cartridges. "That is, if you promise not to say anything about it to +Aunt Jane or Uncle Frank," she stipulated. Little Jim gravely shook +hands upon the agreement. Dorothy knew that he would keep his word. + +This agreement had been made after Bartley had left them. Dorothy had +sworn Little Jim to silence, not so much on Bartley's account as on her +own. Should the news of the fight become public, there would be much +bucolic comment, wherein her name would be mentioned and the whole +affair interpreted to suit the crude imaginings of the community. +Bartley also realized this and, because of it, stuck close to his room +for two days, meanwhile making copious notes for the new story. + +But the making of notes for the story was a rather tame occupation +compared with the possibilities of actual adventure on the road. He had +a good saddle-horse, plenty of optimism, and enough money to pay his way +wherever he chose to go. Incidentally he had a notebook and pencil. What +more did a man need to make life worth while? + +And then, somewhere along the southern highway Cheyenne was jogging with +Filaree and Joshua: + + Seems like I don't git anywhere: + Git along, cayuse, git along. + +Bartley rose and stepped to the window. San Andreas drowsed in the noon +sun. Far to the north he could see a dot of fresh green--the cottonwoods +of the Lawrence rancho. Again he found himself in the grip of +indecision. After all, a fellow didn't have to journey up and down the +land to find material for a story. There was plenty of material right +where he was. All he had to do was to stop, look, and listen. "Hang the +story!" he exclaimed peevishly. "I'll just go out and _live_--and then +write the story." + +It did not take him long to pack his saddle-bags, nor to get together +the few articles of clothing he had had washed by a Mexican woman in +town. He wrote a brief note to Dorothy, stating that he was on his way. +He paid his hotel bill, stepped round to the livery and paid for Dobe's +entertainment, saddled up, and, literally shaking the dust of San +Andreas from his feet, rode down the long trail south, headed for Joe +Scott's placer, as his first stop. + +He would spend the night there and then head south again. The only +living thing that seemed interested in Bartley's exodus was a stray dog +that seemed determined to follow him. Turning from the road, Bartley +took the short cut to Scott's placer. Glancing back he saw that the dog +was still following. Bartley told him to go home. The dog, a very +ordinary yellow dog, didn't happen to have a home--and he was hungry. So +he ignored Bartley's command. + +Whether or not he imagined that Bartley was different from the run of +townsfolk is a question. Possibly he imagined Bartley might give him +something to eat. In any event, the dog stuck to the trail clear up to +Scott's placer. + +Scott was not at the cabin. Bartley hallooed, glanced round, and +dismounted. On the cabin door was a note: "Gone to Phoenix. J. Scott." + +Bartley turned from the cabin to find the dog gazing up at him +mournfully; his expression seemed to convey the idea that they were both +in hard luck. Nobody home and nothing to eat. + +"What, you here!" exclaimed Bartley. + +The yellow dog wagged his tail. He was young and as yet had some faith +in mankind. + +Bartley tied his horse and strode up the trail to the workings. +Everything had been put in order. The dog helped investigate, sniffing +at the wheelbarrow, the buckets, the empty sacks weighted down with rock +to keep them from blowing away, the row of tools, picks and shovels and +bars. Evidently the owner of the place was not concealed beneath any of +these things. + +Meanwhile the afternoon shadows warned Bartley that a camp with water +and feed was the next thing in order. He strode back to the cabin. There +was no problem to solve, although he thought there was. The yellow dog, +an old campaigner in the open, though young in years, solved his problem +by a suggestion. He was tired. There seemed to be no food in sight. He +philosophically trotted to the open shed opposite the cabin and made a +bed for himself in a pile of gunny-sacks. Bartley grinned. Why not? + +Experience had taught Bartley to carry something else, besides a +notebook and pencil, in his saddle-bags. Hence the crackers and can of +corned beef came in handy. The mountain water was cold and refreshing. +There was hay in the burro stable. Moreover, Bartley now had a happy +companion who licked his chops, wagged his tail, and grinned as he +finished a bit of corned beef. Bartley tossed him a cracker. The dog +caught it and it disappeared. This was something like it! Here was a man +who rode a big horse, didn't kick stray dogs, and even shared a meal +with a fellow! Such a man was worth following forever. + +"It would seem that you have adopted me," declared Bartley. The dog had +shown no inclination to leave since being fed. There might possibly be +another meal coming, later. + +"But what am I going to do with you?" queried Bartley, as the dog curled +up on the pile of gunny-sacks. "You don't look as though you habitually +stopped at hotels, and I'll have to, until I catch up with Cheyenne. +What's the answer?" + +The yellow dog, all snuggled down in the sacks, peered at Bartley with +unblinking eyes. Bartley laughed. Then he made his own bed with +gunny-sacks, and after smoking a cigarette, turned in and slept well. + +He did not expect to find the dog there in the morning. But the dog was +there, most evidently waiting for breakfast, grinning his delight at not +being cursed or kicked at, and frisking round the cabin yard in a mad +race after nothing in particular, and indicating in every way possible +that he was the happiest dog that ever wagged a tail. + +Crackers and corned beef again, and spring water for breakfast. And +while Dobe munched his hay, Bartley smoked and roughly planned his +itinerary. He would travel south as far as Phoenix and then swing back +again, over the old Apache Trail--if he did not overtake Cheyenne. + +If he did overtake him, the plan might be changed. It did not matter. He +had set out to find his erstwhile traveling companion. If he found him, +they could just as well travel together. If he did not, Bartley +determined to see much of the country. In so far as influencing Cheyenne +in any way--that would have to be determined by chance. Bartley felt +that his influence with the sprightly Cheyenne weighed very little +against Cheyenne's hatred for Panhandle Sears. + +Once more upon the road, with the early morning shadows slanting across +the valley, Bartley felt that it was his own fault if he did not enjoy +himself. Swinging into an easy trot he turned to see if the yellow dog +were following him. At first Bartley thought the dog had shown wisdom +and had departed for San Andreas, but, happening to glance down on the +other side of his horse, he saw the dog trotting along, close to Dobe's +heels. + +Bartley felt a pity for the dog's dumb, insistent attachment. Reining +in, Bartley told the dog he had better go home. For answer the dog lay +down in the horse's shadow, his head on his paws, and his eyes fixed on +Bartley's face. He did not seem to know what the words meant. But he did +know--only pretended he did not. His rooftree was the Arizona sky, and +his home the place where his adopted master camped at night. + +"Oh, very well," said Bartley, smiling in spite of himself. + +That noon they stopped at a ranch where Bartley had dinner and fed his +horse. Cheyenne had passed that way several days ago, the ranch folk +told him. It was about twenty miles to the next town. Bartley was +invited to stop by and spend the night, but he declined the invitation, +even as they had declined to accept money for their hospitality. +Meanwhile the dog had disappeared. He had not followed Bartley into the +ranch. And it was some twenty minutes or so after Bartley was on the +road again that he discovered the dog, coming round a bend on the run. +There was no getting rid of him. + +The dog, who had often been chased from ranches by other dogs, had at +first waited patiently for Bartley to appear. Then, as Bartley did not +appear, the dog made a short scout through the near-by brush. Finally he +stirred up a rabbit. It was a long, hard chase, but the dog got his +dinner. Then, circling, he took up Bartley's trail from the ranch, +overtaking him with grim determination not to lose sight of him again. + +Arriving at the town of Stacey early that afternoon, Bartley arranged +with the local liveryman for the dog's keep that night. From that night +on, the dog never let Dobe out of his sight. It was evidently intended +that he should sleep in stalls and guard Dobe against the approach of +any one save his master. + +Bartley learned that Cheyenne had passed through Stacey headed south. He +had stopped at the local store to purchase provisions. Estimating +roughly, Bartley was making better time than had Cheyenne, yet it would +be several days before he could possibly overtake him. + +Next day Bartley had ridden better than forty miles, and that night he +stayed at a ranch, where he was made welcome. In fact, any one who rode +a good horse and appeared to be even halfway civil never suffered for +want of a meal or a bed in those days. Gasoline has somewhat diluted +such hospitality, yet there are sections of Arizona still unspoiled, +where the stranger is made to feel that the word "home" has retained its +ancient and honorable significance. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +BOX-S BUSINESS + + +A few days later, Bartley stopped at a small town to have his horse +shod. The blacksmith seemed unusually interested in the horse and +complimented Bartley upon owning such a good mount. + +"Comes from up San Andreas way," said the smith, noticing the brand on +Dobe's flank. + +"Yes. I picked him up at Antelope. I understand he was raised on Senator +Brown's ranch." + +"That's Steve Brown's brand, all right. Heard the news from up that +way?" + +"Nothing special." + +"Seems somebody run off a bunch of Senator Steve's horses, last week. +Thought mebby you'd heard." + +"No." + +"Well, thought I'd just tell you. I seen one posse ride through +yesterday. They'll be lookin' for strangers along the road." + +"Thanks. I bought this horse--and I happen to know Senator Brown." + +"No offense, stranger. If I'd 'a' suspicioned you'd stole that horse, +you wouldn't take him out of here. Like I said to Cheyenne, last week; +he could fetch a whole carload of stock in here and take 'em out again +without trouble. He was tellin' me how he lost his horses, and we got to +talkin' about some folks bein' blind when they're facin' a brand on a +critter. Mebby you heard tell of Cheyenne Hastings?" + +"I have traveled with him. You say he stopped here a few days ago?" + +"Well, not just stopped; he kind of looked in to see how I was gettin' +along. He acted queerlike, for him. I've knowed Cheyenne for years. Said +he was feelin' all right. He ast me if I'd seen Panhandle Sears down +this way, recent. Seemed kind of disappointed when I told him no. +Cheyenne used to be a right-smart man, before he had trouble with that +woman of his." + +"Yes? He told me about it," said Bartley, not caring to hear any more of +the details of Cheyenne's trouble. + +"'Most everybody knows it," stated the smith. "And if I was Sears I'd +sure leave this country." + +"So should I. I've seen Cheyenne handle a gun." + +"You got the right idea!" exclaimed the blacksmith, evidently pleased. +"All Cheyenne's friends have been waitin' for years for him to clean +that slate and start fresh again. He used to be a right-smart hand, +before he had trouble." + +The blacksmith accompanied his conversation with considerable elbow +motion and the rattle and clang of shaping horseshoes. Presently Dobe +was new shod and ready for the road. Bartley paid the smith, thanked him +for a good job, and rode south. Evidently Cheyenne's open quarrel with +Sears was the talk of the countryside. It was expected of Cheyenne that +he would "clean the slate and start fresh" some day. And cleaning the +slate meant killing Sears. To Bartley it seemed strange that any one +should be pleased with the idea of one man killing another deliberately. + +In speaking of the recent horse-stealings, the blacksmith had mentioned +no names. But Bartley at once drew the conclusion that it had been +Sneed's men who had run off the Senator's horses. Sneed was known to be +a horse-thief. He had never been convicted, although he had been +arrested and tried several times. It was also known that Senator Steve +had openly vowed that he would rid the country of Sneed, sooner or +later. + +Several times, during his journey south, Bartley was questioned, but +never interfered with. Thus far he heard of Cheyenne occasionally, but, +nearing Phoenix, he lost track of his erstwhile companion. However, he +took it for granted that Phoenix had been Cheyenne's destination. And +Bartley wanted to see the town for himself, in any event. + + * * * * * + +Cheyenne, arriving in Phoenix, stabled his horses at the Top-Notch +livery, and took a room for himself directly opposite the +Hole-in-the-Wall gambling-house. He refused to drink with the occasional +acquaintance he met, not because he did not like liquor, but because +Colonel Stevenson, the city marshal, had told him that Panhandle Sears +and his friends were in town. + +"Why don't you tell me to go git him?" queried Cheyenne, looking the +marshal in the eye. + +"I didn't think it was necessary," said the marshal. + +"What? To git him?" + +The marshal smiled. Then casually: "I hear that Panhandle and his +friends are drinking heavy and spending considerable money. They must +have made a strike, somewhere." + +"I see by the paper somebody run off a bunch of the Box-S hosses," +remarked Cheyenne, also casually. + +Then, without further comment, he left the marshal wondering if +Panhandle's presence in town had any connection with the recent +running-off of the Box-S stock. The sheriff of Antelope had wired +Colonel Stevenson to be on the lookout for Bill Sneed and his gang, but +had not mentioned Panhandle's name in the telegram. + +The following day, Senator Brown and his foreman, Lon Pelly, arrived in +Phoenix and had a long talk with the marshal. That afternoon Lon Pelly +took the train south. Early in the evening Senator Brown received a +telegram from Pelly stating that Sneed and four men had left Tucson, +headed north and riding horses. + +The stolen horses had been trailed south as far as Phoenix. It was +evident that they had been driven to Tucson and disposed of somewhere in +that vicinity. Yet there was no conclusive proof that Sneed had stolen +the horses. As usual, he had managed to keep a few days ahead of his +pursuers. Sneed was known to have left his camp in the hills above San +Andreas. The first posse had found the camp abandoned. Sneed had not +been identified until Pelly got track of him in Tucson. + +During his talk with Senator Brown the marshal mentioned the fact that +Panhandle Sears was in Phoenix. + +"Did Panhandle come in from the south?" queried the Senator. + +"Nobody seems to know." + +"Well, if he did, we have got the link that's missing in this chain, +Colonel. Pelly is holdin' one end of the chain down in Tucson, and the +other end is layin' right here in Phoenix. If we can connect her up--" + +"But we haven't located the horses, Senator." + +"Colonel, I'll find those horses if I can. But I'm after Sneed, this +journey. He has been running things about ten years too long to suit me. +I've got a check-book with me. You have the men. I'm out to do a little +housecleanin' of my own. If we can get Panhandle to talk, we can find +out something." + +"He's been on a drunk for a week. I could run him in for disturbing the +peace and--" + +"And he'd suspect what we're after and freeze up, tight. No, let him run +loose, but keep your eye on him. He'll give the deal away, sooner or +later." + +"I hope it's sooner," said the Colonel. "Cheyenne is holed up down the +street, waiting for a chance to get Sears. Cheyenne didn't say so, but +it was in his eye. He's changed considerable since I saw him last." + +"Was there any one with him: a tall, dark-haired, kind of clean-cut boy, +for instance?" + +"No, not when I saw him. He rode in with his usual outfit." + +"Wonder where he lost young Bartley? Well, I'm glad the boy isn't here. +He might get hurt." + +"Wild?" + +"No. Quiet. Writes stories. He's out here to look at the West. Stayed at +the ranch a spell. Mrs. Brown likes him." + +Colonel Stevenson nodded and offered the Senator a cigar. "Let's step +over to the hotel, Steve. It's a long time since--" + + * * * * * + +That evening Bartley arrived in Phoenix, put up his horse, and, upon +inquiry, learned that the Grand Central was the best hotel in town. He +was registering when he noticed Senator Brown's name. He made inquiry of +the clerk. Yes, the Senator had arrived that morning. And would Mr. +Bartley prefer a front room? The front rooms on the north side were +cooler. No, the clerk knew nothing about a Mr. Cheyenne. There was no +one by that name registered at the hotel. It was past the regular dinner +hour, but the dining-room was not yet closed. There was a men's +furnishings store just across the street. They carried a complete stock. +And did Mr. Bartley wish to be called at any special hour in the +morning? Breakfast was served from six-thirty to nine-thirty. + +Bartley had dinner, and later strolled around to the Top-Notch livery to +see that Dobe was being well cared for. While talking with the +stableman, Bartley noticed a gray pony and in the next stall a +buckskin--Cheyenne's horses. + +"Those are Cheyenne's horses, aren't they?" he queried. + +"I dunno. Mebby that's his name. He left 'em here a few days ago. I only +seen him once, since then." + +"I'll be around in the morning. If a man called Cheyenne should happen +to come in, just tell him that Bartley is stopping at the Grand +Central." + +"I'll tell him, all right," said the stableman. + +And as soon as Bartley was out of sight, that worthy called up the city +marshal and told him that a stranger had ridden in and stabled a horse +bearing the Box-S brand. A big reward had been offered for the stolen +horses. + +At the hotel Bartley learned that Senator Brown had gone out for the +evening. Tired from his long ride, Bartley went to his room. Senator +Steve and Cheyenne were in town. Bartley recalled the blacksmith's talk +about the stolen horses. No doubt that accounted for Senator Steve's +presence in Phoenix. As for Cheyenne--Bartley decided to hunt him up in +the morning. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL + + +Panhandle Sears, in a back room in the Hole-in-the-Wall, was ugly drunk. +The Hole-in-the-Wall had the reputation of running a straight game. +Whether or not the game was straight, Panhandle had managed to drop his +share of the money from the sale of the Box-S horses. He had had nothing +to do with the actual stealing of them, but he had, with the assistance +of his Mexican companion Posmo, engineered the sale to a rancher living +out of Tucson. It was understood that the horses would find their way +across the border. + +Now Panhandle was broke again. He stated that unpleasant fact to his +companions, Posmo and Shorty,--the latter a town loafer he had picked up +in Antelope. Shorty had nothing to say. Panhandle's drunken aggressive +cowed him. But Posmo, who had really found the market for the stolen +stock, felt that he had been cheated. Panhandle had promised him a third +of his share of the money. Panhandle had kept on promising from day to +day, liquidating his promises with whiskey. And now there was no money. + +Posmo knew Panhandle well enough not to press the matter, just then. But +Panhandle, because neither of his companions had said anything when told +that he was broke, turned on Posmo. + +"What you got to say about it, anyway?" he asked with that curious +stubbornness born in liquor. + +"I say that you owe me a hundred dollar," declared Posmo. + +"Well, go ahead and collect!" + +"Yes, go ahead and collect," said Shorty, suddenly siding with +Panhandle. "We blowed her in. We're broke, but we ain't cryin' about +it." + +"That is all right," said Posmo quietly. "If the money is gone, she is +gone; yes?" + +"That's the way to say it!" asserted Panhandle, changing front and +slapping Posmo on the shoulder. "We're broke, and who the hell cares?" + +"Let's have a drink," suggested Shorty. "I got a couple of beans left." + +They slouched out from the back room and stood at the bar. Panhandle +immediately became engaged in noisy argument with one of the frequenters +of the place. Senator Brown's name was mentioned by the other, but +mentioned casually, with no reference whatever to stolen horses. + +Panhandle laughed. "So old Steve is down here lookin' for his hosses, +eh?" + +"What horses?" + +The question, spoken by no one knew whom, chilled the group to silence. + +Panhandle saw that he had made a blunder. "Who wants to know?" he +queried, gazing round the barroom. + +"Why, it's in all the papers," declared the bartender conciliatingly. +"The Box-S horses was run off a couple of weeks ago." + +Panhandle turned his back on the group and called for a drink. + +Shorty was tugging gently at his sleeve. "Posmo's beat it, Pan." + +"To hell with him! Beat it yourself if you feel like it." + +"I'll stick Pan," declared Shorty, yet his furtive eyes belied his +assertion. + + * * * * * + +For three days Bartley had tried to find where Cheyenne was staying, but +without success, chiefly because Cheyenne kept close to his room during +the daytime, watching the entrance to the Hole-in-the-Wall, waiting for +Panhandle to step out into the daylight, when there would be folk on the +street who could witness that Panhandle had drawn his gun first. +Cheyenne determined to give his enemy that chance, and then kill him. +But thus far Panhandle had not appeared on the street in the daytime, so +far as Cheyenne knew. + +Incidentally, Senator Steve had warned Bartley to keep away from the +Hole-in-the-Wall district after dark, intimating that there was more in +the wind than Cheyenne's feud with Panhandle Sears. So Bartley contented +himself with acting as a sort of private secretary for the Senator, a +duty that was a pleasure. The hardest thing Bartley did was to refuse +bottled entertainment, at least once out of every three times it was +offered. + +On the evening of the fourth day after Pelly had wired the Senator that +Sneed and his men had ridden north from Tucson, Posmo, hanging about the +eastern outskirts of Phoenix, saw a small band of horsemen against the +southern sky-line. Knowing the trail they would take, north, Posmo had +timed their arrival almost to the hour. They would pass to the east of +Phoenix, and take the old Apache Trail, North. Posmo had his horse +saddled and hidden in a draw. He mounted and rode directly toward the +oncoming horsemen. + +He sang as he rode. It was safer to do that, when it was growing dark. +The riders would know he was a Mexican, and that he did not wish to +conceal his identity on the road. He did not care to be mistaken for an +enemy, especially so near Phoenix. + +Sneed, a giant in the dusk, reined in as Posmo hailed the group. Sneed +asked his name. Posmo replied, and was told to ride up. Sneed, +separating himself from his men, rode a little ahead and met Posmo. + +"Panhandle is give the deal away," stated Posmo. + +"How?" + +"He drunk and spend all the money. He do not give me anything for that I +make the deal--over there," and Posmo gestured toward the south. + +"Double-crossed you, eh? And now you're sore and want his scalp." + +"He talk too much of the Box-S horses in that cantina," stated Posmo +deliberately. "He say that you owe him money." This was an afterthought, +and an invention. + +"Who did he say that to?" queried Sneed. + +"He tell everybody in that place that you turn the good trick and then +throw him hard." + +"Either you're lyin', or Panhandle's crazy." Sneed turned and called to +his men, a few paces off. They rode up on tired horses. "What do you +say, boys? Panhandle is talkin', over there in Phoenix. Posmo, here, +says Panhandle is talkin' about us. Now nobody's got a thing on us. We +been south lookin' at some stock we're thinkin' of buyin'. Want to ride +over with me and have a little talk with Panhandle?" + +"Ain't that kind of risky, Cap?" + +"Every time! But it ain't necessary to ride right into the marshal's +office. We put our little deal through clean. The horses we're ridin' +belong to us. And who's goin' to stop us from ridin' in, or out, of +town? I aim to talk to Panhandle into ridin' north with us. It's safer +to have him along. If you all don't want to ride with me, I'll go in +alone." + +"We're with you, Cap," said one of the men. + +"Mebby it's safer to ride through the towns from now on than to keep +dodgin' 'em," suggested Lawson. + +"Come on, then," and Sneed indicated Posmo. + +"And don't make any mistakes," threatened Lawson, riding close to the +Mexican. "If you do--you won't last." + +Posmo had not counted on this turn of affairs. He had supposed that his +news would send Sneed and his men in to have it out with Panhandle, or +that one of them would ride in and persuade Panhandle to join them. But +he now knew that he would have to ride with Sneed, or he would be +suspected of double-dealing. + +At the fork of the road leading into Phoenix, Sneed reined in. "We're +ridin' tired horses, boys. And we ain't lookin' for trouble. All we want +is Panhandle. We'll get him." + +Sitting his big horse like a statue, his club foot concealed by the long +_tapadero_, his physical being dominating his followers, Sneed headed +the group that rode slowly down the long open stretch bordering on the +east of the town. They entered town quietly and stopped a few doors +below the lighted front of the Hole-in-the-Wall. + +"Just step in and tell Panhandle I want to see him," and Sneed indicated +one of his riders. + +The man went in and came out again with the information that Panhandle +had left the saloon about an hour ago; that he had told the bartender he +was going out to get some money and come back and play the wheel. + +"Get on your horse," said Sneed, who had been gazing up the street while +listening to the other. "Here comes Panhandle now. I'll do the talking." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +CHEYENNE PLAYS BIG + + +Watching from his darkened window, Cheyenne had seen Panhandle leave the +Hole-in-the-Wall, and stride up the street alone. It was the first time +Cheyenne had seen Sears since he had taken the single room opposite the +gambling-house. Cheyenne stepped back, drew down the curtain, and turned +on the light. The bare board floor was littered with cigarette stubs. A +pair of saddle-bags hung on the iron bedstead. Other furniture was a +chair, a scratched and battered washstand, a cracked mirror. Standing by +the washstand Cheyenne took his gun from its holster, half-cocked it, +and punched out the loaded cartridges. He pulled the pin, pushed the +cylinder out with his thumb, and examined it against the light. +Carefully he cleaned and replaced the cylinder, reloaded it, held the +hammer back, and spun the cylinder with his hand. Finally he thrust the +gun in the holster and, striding to the bed, sat down, his chin in his +hands. + +Somewhere out there on the street, or in the Hole-in-the-Wall, he would +meet his enemy--in a few minutes, perhaps. There would be no wordy +argument. They understood each other, and had understood each other, +since that morning, long ago when they had passed each other on the +road--Panhandle riding in to Laramie and Cheyenne and Little Jim riding +from the abandoned home. Cheyenne thought of Little Jim, of his wife, +and, by some queer trick of mind, of Bartley. He knew that the Easterner +was in town. The stableman at the Top-Notch had told him. Well, he had +seen Panhandle. Now he would go out and meet him, or overtake him. + +Some one turned from the street into the hall below and rapidly climbed +the stairs. Cheyenne heard a knock at the door opposite his. That room +was unoccupied. Then came a brisk knock at his own door. + +"What do you want?" + +"Is that you, Cheyenne?" + +"Who wants to know?" + +"Bartley. I just found out from Colonel Stevenson where you were +camping." + +Cheyenne stepped to the door and unlocked it. + +Bartley entered, glanced round the room, and then shook hands with +Cheyenne. "Been a week trying to find you. How are you and how are the +horses? Man, but it was a long, lonesome ride from San Andreas! If it +hadn't been for that dog that adopted me--by the way, Colonel Stevenson +was telling Senator Brown that Panhandle is in town. I suppose you know +it." + +"I seen him, this evenin'." + +"So did I. Just passed him as I came down here. The Colonel said you +were camping somewhere opposite the Hole-in-the-Wall. How is +everything?" + +"Quiet." + +"Were you going anywhere?" + +"No place in particular." + +Bartley sat down on the edge of the bed and lighted a cigarette. +Cheyenne stood as though waiting for him to leave. There was something +queer about Cheyenne. His eyes were somber, his manner stiff and +unnatural. His greeting had been cool. + +"About that man Panhandle--" Bartley began, but Cheyenne interrupted +with a gesture. + +"You say you saw him, on your way down here?" + +"Yes. He didn't seem to recognize me. He was walking fast." + +"How was Little Jim when you left?" + +"Just fine!" + +"And the folks?" + +"Same as ever. Miss Gray--" + +"Well, I reckon I'll be steppin' along. Glad I saw you again." + +"Going to leave town to-night?" + +"I aim to." + +Bartley could no longer ignore Cheyenne's attitude. He knew that +something had happened or was about to happen. Cheyenne's manner did not +invite question or suggestion. Yet Bartley had promised Dorothy that he +would exert what influence he had--and it seemed a critical time, just +at that moment. + +"I'd like to talk with you a minute, if you have time," said Bartley. + +"Won't do no good, pardner." And without waiting for Bartley to say +anything more, Cheyenne stepped up to him and held out his hand. "So +long," he said. + +"Well, good luck!" replied Bartley, and shook hands with him heartily. +"I hope you win." + +Cheyenne gestured toward the door. Bartley stepped out into the hallway. +The light in the room flickered out. + +"I reckon you'll be goin' back to your hotel," said Cheyenne. "Wait. +I'll just step down first." + +At the foot of the stairs Cheyenne paused and glanced up and down the +street. Directly across the way the Hole-in-the-Wall was ablaze with +light. A few doors east of the gambling-hall an indistinct group of +riders sat their horses as though waiting for some one. Cheyenne drew +back into the shadows of the hallway. + +Bartley peered out over Cheyenne's shoulder. From up the street in the +opposite direction came the distant click of boot-heels. A figure strode +swiftly toward the patch of white light in front of the gambling-hall. + +"Just stand back a little, pardner," said Cheyenne. + +Bartley felt his heart begin to thump as Cheyenne gently loosened his +gun in the holster. + +"It's Panhandle!" whispered Bartley, as the figure of Sears was +silhouetted against the lighted windows of the place opposite. + +Out of the shadows where the riders waited came a single, abrupt word, +peremptory, incisive: "Panhandle!" + +Panhandle, about to turn into the lighted doorway, stopped short. + +Sneed had called to Panhandle; but it was Posmo the Mexican who rode +forward to meet him. Sneed, close behind Posmo, watched to see that the +Mexican carried out his instructions, which were simply to tell +Panhandle to get his horse and leave town with them. Seeing the group +behind the Mexican, Panhandle's first thought was that Posmo had +betrayed him to the authorities. It _was_ Posmo. Panhandle recognized +the Mexican's pinto horse. + +Enraged by what he thought was a trap, and with drunken contempt for the +man he had cheated, Panhandle jerked out his gun and fired at the +Mexican; fired again at the bulky figure behind Posmo, and staggered +back as a slug shattered his shoulder. Cursing, he swung round and +emptied his gun into the blur of riders that separated and spread across +the street, returning his fire from the vantage of the shadows. Flinging +his empty gun at the nearest rider, Panhandle lurched toward the doorway +where Cheyenne and Bartley stood watching. He had almost made the curb +when he lunged and fell. He rose and tried to crawl to the shelter of +the doorway. One of Sneed's men spurred forward and shot Panhandle in +the back. He sank down, his body twitching. + +Bartley gasped as he saw the rider deliberately throw another shot into +the dying man. Then Cheyenne's arm jerked up. The rider swerved and +pitched from the saddle. Another of Sneed's men crossed the patch of +light, and a splinter ripped from the door-casing where Cheyenne stood. +Cheyenne's gun came down again and the rider pitched forward and fell. +His horse galloped down the street. Again Cheyenne fired, and again. +Then, in the sudden stillness that followed, Cheyenne stepped out and +dragged Panhandle into the hallway. Some one shouted. A window above the +saloon opposite was raised. Doors opened and men came out, questioning +each other, gathering in a group in front of the Hole-in-the-Wall. + +Stunned by the sudden shock of events, the snakelike flash of guns in +the semi-darkness, and the realization that several men had been gravely +wounded, perhaps killed, Bartley heard Cheyenne's voice as though from a +distance. + +Cheyenne's hand was on Bartley's arm. "Come on. The game is closed for +the night." + +As they stepped from the doorway a man stopped them and asked what had +happened. + +"We're goin' for a doctor," said Cheyenne. "Somebody got hurt." + +Hastening along the shadowy wall of the building, they turned a corner +and by a roundabout way reached the city marshal's office. + +The marshal, who had been summoned in haste, was at his desk. "Sneed and +his bunch got Panhandle," stated Cheyenne quietly. "Mr. Bartley, here, +saw the row. Four of Sneed's men are down. One got away." + +"Sure it was Sneed?" + +"I reckon your men will fetch him in, right soon. Panhandle got Sneed +and a Mexican, before they stopped him." + +Colonel Stevenson glanced at Cheyenne's belt and holster. Cheyenne drew +his gun and handed it to the marshal. "She's fresh loaded," he said. + +"Cheyenne emptied his gun trying to fight off the men who killed +Panhandle," said Bartley, stepping forward. + +"And you're sure they were Sneed's men?" queried the marshal. + +Cheyenne nodded. + +"I am obliged to you," said the marshal. "But I'll have to detain you +both until after the inquest." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +TWO TRAILS HOME + + +Bartley was the chief witness at the inquest. He told his story in a +manner that impressed the coroner's jury. Senator Brown was present, and +identified one of the dead outlaws as Sneed. Posmo, killed by +Panhandle's first shot, was known in Phoenix. Panhandle, riddled with +bullets, was also identified by the Senator, Cheyenne, and several +habitues of the gambling-hall. Bartley himself identified the body of +one man as that of Hull. + +Cheyenne was the last witness called. He admitted that he had had +trouble with Panhandle Sears, and that he was looking for him when the +fight started; that Sneed and his men had unexpectedly taken the quarrel +out of his hands, and that he had fired exactly five shots at the men +who had killed Panhandle and it had been close work, and easy. Panhandle +had put up a game fight. The odds had been heavily against him. He had +been standing in the light of the gambling-hall doorway while the men +who had killed him had been in the shadow. "He didn't have a chance," +concluded Cheyenne. + +"You say you were looking for this man Sears, and yet you took his part +against Sneed's outfit?" queried the coroner. + +"I didn't just say so. Mr. Bartley said that." + +"Mr. Bartley seems to be the only disinterested witness of the +shooting," observed the coroner. + +"If there is any further evidence needed to convince the jury that Mr. +Bartley's statements are impartial and correct, you might read this," +declared the city marshal. "It is the antemortem statement of one of +Sneed's men, taken at the hospital at three-fifteen this morning. He +died at four o'clock." + +The coroner read the statement aloud. Ten minutes later the verdict was +given. The deceased, named severally, had met death by gunshot wounds, +_at the hands of parties unknown_. + +It was a caustic verdict, intended for the benefit of the cattle-and +horse-thieves of the Southwest. It conveyed the hint that the city of +Phoenix was prompt to resent the presence of such gentry within its +boundaries. One of the daily papers commented upon the fact that "the +parties unknown" must have been fast and efficient gunmen. Cheyenne's +name was not mentioned, and that was due to the influence of the +marshal, Senator Brown, and the mayor, which left readers of the papers +to infer that the police of Phoenix had handled the matter themselves. + +Through the evidence of the outlaw who had survived long enough to make +a statement, the Box-S horses were traced to a ranch in the neighborhood +of Tucson, identified, and finally returned to their owner. + +The day following the inquest, Bartley and Cheyenne left Phoenix, with +Fort Apache as their first tentative destination, and with the promise +of much rugged and wonderful country in between as an incentive to +journey again with his companion, although Bartley needed no special +incentive. At close range Bartley had beheld the killing of several men. +And he could not free himself from the vision of Panhandle crawling +toward him in the patch of white light, the flitting of horsemen back +and forth, and the red flash of six-guns. Bartley was only too anxious +to leave the place. + +It was not until they were two days out of Phoenix that Cheyenne +mentioned the fight--and then he did so casually, as though seeking an +opinion from his comrade. + +Bartley merely said he was glad Cheyenne had not killed Panhandle. +Cheyenne pondered a while, riding loosely, and gazing down at the trail. + +"I reckon I would 'a' killed him--if I'd 'a' got the chance," he said. +"I meant to. No, it wasn't me or Panhandle that settled that argument: +it was somethin' bigger than us. Folks that reads about the fight, +knowin' I was in Phoenix, will most like say that I got him. Let 'em say +so. I know I didn't; and you know I didn't--and that's good enough for +me." + +"And Dorothy and Aunt Jane and Little Jim," said Bartley. + +"Meanin' Little Jim won't have to grow up knowin' that his father was a +killer." + +"I was thinking of that." + +"Well, right here is where I quit thinkin' about it and talkin' about +it. If that dog of yours there was to kill a coyote, in a fair fight, I +reckon he wouldn't think about it long." + +A few minutes later Cheyenne spoke of the country they were in. + +"She's rough and unfriendly, right here," he said. "But north a ways she +sure makes up for it. There's big spruce and high mesas and grass to +your pony's knees and water 'most anywhere you look for it. I ain't much +on huntin'. But there's plenty deer and wild turkey up that way, and +some bear. And with a bent pin and a piece of string a fella can catch +all the trout he wants. Arizona is a mighty surprisin' State, in spots. +Most folks from the East think she's sagebrush and sand, except the +Grand Canon; but that's kind of rented out to tourists, most of the +time. I like the Painted Desert better." + +"Where haven't you been?" said Bartley, laughing. + +"Well, I ain't been North for quite a spell." + +And Cheyenne fell silent, thinking of Laramie, of the broad prairies of +Wyoming, of his old homestead, and the days when he was happy with his +wife and Little Jim. But he was not silent long. He visioned a plan that +he might work out, after he had seen Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank again. +Meanwhile, the sun was shining, the road wound among the ragged hills, +and Filaree and Joshua stepped along briskly, their hoof-beats +suggesting the rhythm of a song. + +That night they camped in the hill country not far from a crossroads +store. In the morning they bought a few provisions and an extra canteen. + +"There's a piece of country between here and the real hills that is like +to be dry," explained Cheyenne. "We're leavin' the road, this mornin', +and cuttin' north. She's some rough, the way we're headed, but you'll +like it." + +From the sagebrush of the southern slopes they climbed slowly up to a +country of scattered juniper. By noon they were among the pinons, +following a dim bridle trail that Cheyenne's horses seemed to know. + +"In a couple of days, I aim to spring a surprise on you," said Cheyenne +as they turned in that night. "I figure to show you somethin' you been +wantin' to see." + +"Bring on your bears," said Bartley, laughing. + +Cheyenne's moodiness had vanished. Frequently he hummed his old trail +song as they rode. Next day, as they nooned among the spruce of the high +country, Cheyenne suddenly drew the dice from his pocket and, turning +them in his hands, finally tossed them over the rim-rock of the canon +edging their camp. "It's a fool game," he said. And Bartley knew, by the +otter's tone, that he did not alone refer to the game of dice. + +The air was thin, clear, and vital with a quality that the air of the +lower country lacked. Bartley felt an ambition to settle down and go to +writing. He thought that he now had material enough and to spare. They +were in a country, vast, fenceless, verdant--almost awesome in its +timbered silences. His imagination was stirred. + +From their noon camp they rode into the timber and from the timber into +a mountain meadow, knee-deep with lush grass. There was no visible trail +across the meadow but the horses seemed to know which way to go. After +crossing the meadow, Filaree, leading the cavalcade, turned and took a +steep trail down the side of a hidden canon, a mighty chasm, rock-walled +and somber. At the bottom the horses drank, and, crossing the stream, +climbed the farther side. In an hour they were again on the rim, +plodding noiselessly through the sun-flecked shadows of the giant +spruce. + +"How about that surprise?" queried Bartley. + +"Ain't this good enough?" said Cheyenne, gesturing roundabout. + +"Gosh, yes! Lead on, Macduff." + +About four that afternoon the horses pricked their ears and quickened +their pace. Filaree and Joshua especially seemed interested in getting +along the silent trail; and presently the trail merged with another +trail, more defined. A few hundred yards down this trail, and Bartley +saw a big log cabin; to the left and beyond it a corral, empty, and with +the bars down. Bartley had never seen the place before, and did not +realize where he was, yet he had noticed that the horses seemed to know +the place. + +"We won't stop by," said Cheyenne. + +"Any one live there?" + +"Sneed used to," stated Cheyenne. + +Then Bartley knew that they were not far from the San Andreas Valley +and--well, the Lawrence ranch. + +They dropped down a long trail into another canon which finally spread +to a green valley dotted with ranches. The horses stepped briskly. +Presently, rounding a bend, they saw a ranch-house, far below, and +sharply defined squares of alfalfa. + +"That house with the red roof--" said Bartley. + +"That's her," asserted Cheyenne, a trifle ambiguously. + +"Then we've swung round in a circle." + +"We done crossed the res'avation, pardner. And we didn't see a dog-gone +Injun." + +Little Jim was the first to catch sight of them as they jogged down the +last stretch of trail leaving the foothills. He recognized the horses +long before their riders were near enough to be identified as his father +and Bartley. + +Little Jim did not rush to Aunt Jane and tell her excitedly that they +were coming. Instead, he quietly saddled up his pony and rode out to +meet them. Part-way up the slope he waited. + +His greeting was not effusive. "I just thought I'd ride up and tell you +folks that--'that I seen you comin'." + +"How goes the hunting?" queried Bartley. + +"Fine! I got six rabbits yesterday. Dorry is gittin' so she can shoot +pretty good, too. How you makin' it, dad?" + +Cheyenne pushed back his hat and gazed at his young son. "Pretty fair, +for an old man," said Cheyenne presently. "You been behavin' yourself?" + +"Sure." + +"How would you like to ride a real hoss, once?" + +"You mean _your_ hoss?" + +"Uh-huh." + +"I'll trade you, even." + +"No, you won't, son. But you can ride him down to the ranch, if you +like." + +Little Jim almost tumbled from his pony in his eagerness to ride Joshua, +his father's horse, with the big saddle and rope and the carbine under +the stirrup leather. + +"You musta made a long ride," declared Jimmy, as he scrambled up on +Joshua. "Josh's shoes is worn thin. He'll be throwin' one, next." + +Jimmy called attention to the horse's shoes, that his father and Bartley +might not see how really pleased he was to ride a "real horse." + +"Yes, a long ride. How is Aunt Jane and Dorry?" + +"Oh, they're all right. Uncle Frank he cut twenty-two tons of alfalfa +off the lower field last week." + +Cheyenne sat sideways on Jimmy's pony as they rode down the last easy +slope and turned into the ranch gate. Aunt Jane, who was busy +cooking,--it seemed that Aunt Jane was always busy cooking something or +other, when she wasn't dressmaking or mending clothing or +ironing,--greeted them warmly. Frank was working down at the lower end. +Dorry had gone to San Andreas. She would be back 'most any time, now. +And weren't they hungry? + +They were. And there was fresh milk and pie. But they put up the horses +first. + +Later, Cheyenne and Little Jim decided to walk down to the lower end of +the ranch and see Uncle Frank. Cheyenne had washed his hands and face +before eating, as had Bartley. But Bartley did not let it go at that. He +begged some hot water and again washed and shaved, brushed his clothes, +and changed his flannel shirt for a clean one. Then he strolled to the +kitchen and chatted with Aunt Jane, who had read of the killing of the +outlaws in Phoenix, and had many questions to ask. It had been a +terrible tragedy. And Mr. Bartley had actually seen the shooting? + +Aunt Jane was glad that Cheyenne had not been mixed up in it, especially +as that man Sears had been killed. But now that he had been killed, +people would talk less about her brother. It really had seemed an act of +Providence that Cheyenne had had nothing to do with the shooting. Of +course, Mr. Bartley knew about the trouble that her brother had had--and +why he had never settled down-- + +"His name was not mentioned in the papers," said Bartley, thinking that +he must say something. + +"There's Dorry, now," said Aunt Jane, glancing through the kitchen +window. + +Bartley promptly excused himself and stepped out to the gate, which he +vaulted and opened as Dorothy waved a greeting. Bartley carried the +groceries in, and later helped unhitch the team. They chatted casually +neither referring to the subject uppermost in their minds. + +When Cheyenne returned, riding on a load of alfalfa with Uncle Frank and +Little Jim, Bartley managed to let Uncle Frank know that he was not +supposed to have had a hand in the Phoenix affair. Cheyenne thanked him. + +"But you ain't talked with Dorry, yet, have you?" queried Cheyenne. + +Bartley shook his head. + +"She'll find out," stated Cheyenne. "You can't fool Dorry." + +That evening, while Uncle Frank and Cheyenne were discussing a matter +which seemed confidential to themselves, and while Aunt Jane was quietly +keeping an eye on Jimmy, who could hardly keep from interrupting his +seniors--Bartley and Dorry didn't count, just then, for _they_ were +also talking together--Dorothy intimated to Bartley that she would like +to talk with him alone. She did not say so, nor make any gesture to +indicate her wish, yet Bartley interpreted her expression correctly. + +He suggested that they step out to the veranda, where it was cooler. +From the veranda they strolled to the big gate, and there she asked him, +point-blank, to tell her just what had happened in Phoenix. She had read +the papers, and she surmised that there was more to the affair than the +papers printed. For instance, Senator Brown, upon his return to the +Box-S, had kindly sent word to Aunt Jane that Cheyenne was all right. +Bartley thought that the thoughtful Senator had rather spilled the +beans. + +"Did Cheyenne--" and Dorothy hesitated. + +"Cheyenne didn't kill Sears," stated Bartley. + +"You talked with Cheyenne, and got him to keep out of it?" + +"I tried to. He wouldn't listen. Then I wished him good luck and told +him I hoped he'd win." + +Dorothy was puzzled. "How do you know he didn't?" + +"Because I was standing beside him when it happened. I don't see why you +shouldn't know about it. Cheyenne and I were just about to cross the +street, that night, when we saw Panhandle coming down the opposite side. +Sneed and his men, who were evidently waiting for him, called to +Panhandle. Panhandle must have thought it was the sheriff, or the city +marshal. It happened suddenly. Panhandle began firing at Sneed and his +riders. They shot him down just as he reached the curb in front of us. +They kept on shooting at him as he lay in the street. Cheyenne couldn't +stand that. He emptied his gun, trying to keep them off--and he emptied +some saddles." + +"Thank you for trying to--to give Cheyenne my message," said Dorothy. +And she shook hands with him. + +"Do you know this is the loveliest vista I have seen since leaving +Phoenix--this San Andreas Valley," said Bartley. + +"But you came through the Apache Forest," said Dorothy, not for the sake +of argument, but because Bartley was still holding her hand. + +"Yes. But you don't happen to live in the Apache Forest." + +"But, Mr. Bartley--" + +"John, please." + +"Cheyenne calls you Jack." + +"Better still. Do you think Aunt Jane would mind if we walked up the +road as far as--well, as far as the spring?" + +"Hadn't you better ask her?" + +"No. But she wouldn't object. Would you?" + +Slowly Dorothy withdrew her hand and Bartley opened the big gate. As +they walked down the dim, starlit road they were startled by the advent +of a yellow dog that bounded from the brush and whined joyously. + +"And I had forgotten him," said Bartley. "Oh, he's mine! I can't get +away from the fact. He adopted me, and has followed me clear through. I +had forgotten that he is afraid to come into a ranch. And I am ashamed +to say that I forgot to feed him, to-night. He isn't at all beautiful, +but he's tremendously loyal." + +"And he shall have a good supper when we get back," declared Dorothy. + +The yellow dog padded along behind them in the dusk, content to be with +his master again. Bartley talked with Dorothy about his plans, his +hopes, and her promise to become the heroine of his new story. Then he +surprised her by stating that he had decided to make a home in the San +Andreas Valley. + +"You really don't know anything about me, or my people," he said. "And I +want you to know. My only living relative is my sister, and she is +scandalously well-to-do. Her husband makes money manufacturing hooks and +eyes. He's not romantic, but he's solid. As for me--" + +And Bartley spoke of his own income, just what he could afford to spend +each month, and just how much he managed to save, and his ambition to +earn more. Dorothy realized that he was talking to her just as he would +have talked to a chum--a man friend, without reserve, and she liked him +for it. She had been curious about him, his vocation, and even about his +plans; and she felt a glow of affection because he had seemed so loyal +to his friendship with Cheyenne, and because he had been kind to Little +Jim Hastings. While doing so with no other thought than to please the +boy, Bartley had made no mistake in buying him that new rifle. + +As they came to the big rock by the roadside--a spot which Bartley had +good reason to remember--he paused and glanced at Dorothy. She was +laughing. + +"You looked so funny that day. You were the most dilapidated-looking +person--for a writer--" + +"I imagine I was, after Hull got through with me. Let's sit down awhile. +I want to tell you what I should like to do. Are you comfortable?" + +Dorothy nodded. + +"Well," said Bartley, seating himself beside her, "I should like to rent +a small place in the valley, a place just big enough for two, and then +settle down and write this story. Then, if I sold it, I think I should +lock up, get a pack-horse and another saddle-horse, outfit for a long +trip, and then take the trail north and travel for, say, six months, +seeing the country, camping along the way, visiting with folks, and +incidentally gathering material for another story. It could be done." + +"But why rent a place, if you plan to leave it right away?" + +"Because I should want a home to come to, a place to think of when I was +on the trails. You know a fellow can't wander up and down the world +forever. I like to travel, but I think a chap ought to spend at least +half a year under a roof. Don't you?" + +"I was thinking of Cheyenne," said Dorothy musingly. + +"I think of him a great deal," declared Bartley. + +Dorothy glanced up at him from her pondering. + +Bartley leaned toward her. "Dorothy, will you help me make that home, +here in the valley, and be my comrade on the trails?" + +"Hadn't you better ask Aunt Jane?" said Dorothy softly, yet with a touch +of humor. + +"Do you mean it?" Bartley's voice was boyishly enthusiastic, like the +voice of a chum, a hearty comrade. "But how about your own folks?" + +Dorothy's answer was not given then and there, in words. Nor yet by +gesture, nor in any visible way--there being no moon that early in the +evening. After a brief interval--or, at least, it seemed brief--they +rose and strolled back down the road, the yellow dog padding faithfully +at their heels. Presently-- + +"Hey, Dorry!" came in a shrill voice. + +"It's the scout!" exclaimed Bartley, laughing. + +"We're coming, Jimmy," called Dorothy. + +"But before we're taken into custody--" said Bartley; and as mentioned +before, the moon had not appeared. + +Little Jim, astride of the ranch gate, querulously demanded where they +had been and why they had not told him they were going somewhere. + +"And you left the gate open, and--everything!" concluded Jimmy. + +"We just went for a walk," said Dorothy. + +"What's the use of walkin' up the old road in the dark?" queried Jimmy. +"You can't see anything." + +"What do you say to a rabbit hunt to-morrow morning early?" asked +Bartley. + +"Nope!" declared Little Jim decisively. "'Cause my dad was talkin' with +Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank, and dad says me and him are goin' back to +Laramie where ma is. And we're goin' on the _train_. Aunt Jane she +cried. But shucks! We ain't goin' to stay in Laramie all the time. Dad +says if things rib up right, me and ma and him are comin' back to live +in the valley. Don't you wish you was goin', Dorry?" + +"You run along and tell Aunt Jane we're coming," said Bartley. + +Little Jim hesitated. But then, Mr. Bartley had bought him that new +rifle. Jimmy pattered down the path to the lighted doorway, delivered +his message, and pattered back again toward the gate, wasting no time +_en route_. Halfway to the gate he stopped. Mr. Bartley was standing +very close to Dorry--in fact, Jimmy was amazed to see him kiss her. +Jimmy turned and trotted back to the house. + +"Shucks!" he exclaimed. "I thought he liked guns and things more'n +girls!" + +But Jimmy was too loyal to tell what he had seen. After all, Dorry was +mighty fine, for a girl. She could ride and shoot, and she never told on +him when he had done wrong. + +With a skip and a hop Jimmy burst into the room. "We're goin' on the +_train_," he declared. "Ain't we, dad?" + +Dorothy and Bartley came in. Bartley glanced at Cheyenne, hesitated, and +then thrust out his hand. + +"Good luck to your new venture," he said heartily. + +"Same to you, pardner!" And Cheyenne included Dorry in his glance. + +"I want to ask Aunt Jane's advice," stated Bartley. + +"Then," said Cheyenne, "I reckon me and Frank and Jimmy'll step out and +take a look at the stars. She's a wonderful night." + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARTNERS OF CHANCE*** + + +******* This file should be named 14085.txt or 14085.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/0/8/14085 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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