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 sceneryWhere 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 knowsme, 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 thehosses 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 youthink 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. Insidehe 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 individualcalled "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 thetable," 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 suggestedthe 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 billsfrom 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, andyou 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 Wishfulhad 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.
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 subduedand 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 Searsand 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, advertisingmanager, 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, andpicked 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-animalswere 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. Bartleydid 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 inspectedthe 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 oldisDobe?" queried Bartley. "You keep calling him 'old.'"
"I seen you mouthin' him, after you had saddled him. How old wouldyousay?"
"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.
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 sandwichesWishful 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 toeverybody. '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 runhimout of the country. He was a young, long, spindlin' hombre from Texas--a reg'lar Whicker-bill, with that drawlin' kind of a voicethat 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 steppeddown 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?Ourhorses? 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.