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 batteryshould 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 goodidea 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 donelookedat 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 theywere, 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 followedhim, 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--somethingthat 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 fetchher. 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.
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, asidefrom 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 thatman 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, theyusedto 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 hesuggested 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," retortedJimmy. "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 theoptimist 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 Bartleyand 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 whereisLittle 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 itwas 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 ofthose 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. Ididmeet 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 halfclosed 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 amnothungry. But my soul goes marching on."
"Then we'll have to find Jimmy. It's getting late."
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 UncleFrank," 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 andlive--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 thedog 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 theplace 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 asPhoenix 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 onhis 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 thedog 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.
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 openlyvowed 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: "Ihear 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 daysahead 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 andfreeze 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 SenatorBrown'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.