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 reckonit 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 Iaim 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 mannerchanged. 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 gradeGit 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 upwhen 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 andran 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 inthe 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.
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 Senatorushered 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, mashedpotatoes, 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 seemto 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 anythingbeing 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."
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 wasjust. 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 invitehim 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 methim, 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 ofengaging 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 coinwent 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. BillSmalley, 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.
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. "Verywell, 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 tothe 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 toBartley, 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, Iknow'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."