PARTNERS OF CHANCE

by

HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS

Author of _The Ridin' Kid from Powder River_, _Sundown Slim_, _Overland Red_, etc. 

Grosset & DunlapPublishers, New York

1921

CONTENTS

 I. LITTLE JIM II. PANHANDLE III. A MINUTE TOO LATE IV. "A LITTLE GREEN RIVER" V. "TOP HAND ONCE" VI. A HORSE-TRADE VII. AT THE WATER-HOLE VIII. HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS IX. AT THE BOX-S X. TO TRY HIM OUT XI. PONY TRACKS XII. JIMMY AND THE LUGER GUN XIII. AT AUNT JANE'S XIV. ANOTHER GAME XV. MORE PONY TRACKS XVI. SAN ANDREAS TOWN XVII. THAT MESCAL XVIII. JOE SCOTT XIX. DORRY COMES TO TOWN XX. ALONG THE FOOTHILLS XXI. "GIT ALONG CAYUSE" XXII. BOX-S BUSINESS XXIII. THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL XXIV. CHEYENNE PLAYS BIG XXV. TWO TRAILS HOME

CHAPTER I

LITTLE JIM

Little Jim knew that something strange had happened, because Big Jim, his father, had sold their few head of cattle, the work team, and thefarm implements, keeping only the two saddle-horses and the pack-horse, Filaree. When Little Jim asked where his mother had gone, Big Jim toldhim that she had gone on a visit, and would be away a long time. LittleJim wanted to know if his mother would ever come back. When Big Jim saidthat she would not, Little Jim manfully suppressed his tears, and, beingof that frontier stock that always has an eye to the main chance, hethrust out his hand. "Well, I'll stick with you, dad. I reckon we canmake the grade. "

Big Jim turned away and stood for a long time gazing out of the cabinwindow toward town. Presently he felt a tug at his coat-sleeve. 

"Is ma gone to live in town?"

"Yes. "

"Then why don't you go get her?"

"She don't want to come back, Jimmy. "

Little Jim could not understand this. Yet he had often heard his mothercomplain of their life on the homestead, and as often he had watched hisfather sitting grimly at table, saying nothing in reply to his wife'squerulous complainings. The boy knew that his father had worked hard tomake a home. They had all worked hard. But, then, that had seemed theonly thing to do. 

Presently Big Jim swung round as though he had made a decision. Helighted the lamp in the kitchen and made a fire. Little Jim scurried outto the well with a bucket. Little Jim was a hustler, never waiting to betold what to do. His mother was gone. He did not know why. But he knewthat folks had to eat and sleep and work. While his father preparedsupper, Little Jim rolled up his own shirt-sleeves and washedvigorously. Then he filled the two glasses on the table, laid the platesand knives and forks, and finding nothing else to do in the house, justthen, he scurried out again and returned with his small arms filled withfirewood. 

Big Jim glanced at him. "I guess we don't need any more wood, Jimmy. We'll be leaving in the morning. "

"What? Leavin' here?"

His father nodded. 

"Goin' to town, dad?"

"No. South. "

"Just us two, all alone?"

"Yes. Don't you want to go?"

"Sure! But I wish ma was comin', too. "

Big Jim winced. "So do I, Jimmy. But I guess we can get along all right. How would you like to visit Aunt Jane, down in Arizona?"

"Where them horn toads and stingin' lizards are?"

"Yes--and Gila monsters and all kinds of critters. "

"Gee! Has Aunt Jane got any of 'em on her ranch?"

Big Jim forced a smile. "I reckon so. "

Little Jim's face was eager. "Then I say, let's go. Mebby I can get toshoot one. Huntin' is more fun than workin' all the time. I guess ma gottired of workin', too. She said that was all she ever expected to do, 'long as we lived out here on the ranch. But she never told _me_ she wasgoin' to quit. "

"She didn't tell me, either, Jimmy. But you wouldn't understand. "

Jimmy puckered his forehead. "I guess ma kind of throwed us down, didn'tshe, dad?"

"We'll have to forget about it, " said Big Jim slowly. "Down at AuntJane's place in--"

"Somethin' 's burnin', dad!"

Big Jim turned to the stove. Little Jim gazed at his father's backcritically. There was something in the stoop of the broad shoulders thatwas unnatural, strange--something that caused Little Jim to hesitate inhis questioning. Little Jim idolized his father, and, with unfailingintuition, believed in him to the last word. As for his mother, who hadleft without explanation and would never return--Little Jim missed her, but more through habit of association than with actual grief. 

He knew that his mother and father had not gotten along very well forsome time. And now Little Jim recalled something that his mother hadsaid: "He's as much your boy as he is mine, Jim Hastings, and, if youare set on sending him to school, for goodness' sake get him some decentclothes, which is more than I have had for many a year. "

Until then Jimmy had not realized that his clothing or his mother's wasother than it should be. Moreover, he did not want to go to school. Hepreferred to work on the ranch with his father. But it was chiefly thetone of his mother's voice that had impressed him. For the first time inhis young life, Little Jim felt that he was to blame for something whichhe could not understand. He was accustomed to his mother's sudden fitsof unreasonable anger, often followed by a cuff, or sharp reprimand. Butshe had never mentioned his need of better clothing before, nor her ownneed. 

As for being as much his father's boy as his mother's--Little Jim feltthat he quite agreed to that, and, if anything, that he belonged more tohis father, who was kind to him, than to any one else in the world. Little Jim, trying to reason it out, now thought that he knew why hismother had left home. She had gone to live in town that she might havebetter clothes and be with folks and not wear her fingers to the bonesimply for a bed and three meals a day, as Little Jim had heard her saymore than once. 

But the trip to Aunt Jane's, down in Arizona, was too vivid in hisimagination to allow room for pondering. Big Jim had said they were toleave in the morning. So, while supper was cooking, Little Jim slippedinto his bedroom and busied himself packing his own scant belongings. Presently his father called him. Little Jim plodded out bearing his fewspare clothes corded in a neat bundle, with an old piece of canvas forthe covering. His father had taught him to pack. 

Big Jim stared. Then a peculiar expression flitted across his face. Little Jim was always for the main chance. 

"I'm all hooked up to hit the trail, dad. "

In his small blue overalls and jumper, in his alert and manful attitude, Little Jim was a pocket edition of his father. 

"Where's your shootin'-iron?" queried Big Jim jokingly. 

"Why, she's standin' in the corner, aside of yours. A man don't pack hisshootin'-iron in his bed-roll when he hits the trail. He keeps herhandy. "

"For stingin' lizards, eh?"

"For 'most anything. Stingin' lizards, Injuns, or hoss-thieves, oranything that we kin shoot. We ain't takin' no chances on this heretrip. "

Big Jim gestured toward the table and pulled up his chair. Little Jimwas too heartily interested in the meal to notice that his father gazedcuriously at him from time to time. Until then, Big Jim had thought ofhis small son as a chipper, sturdy, willing boy--his boy. But now, Little Jim seemed suddenly to have become an actual companion, apartner, a sharer in things as they were and were to be. 

Hard work and inherent industry had developed in Little Jim anindependence that would have been considered precocious in the East. BigJim was glad that the mother's absence did not seem to affect the boymuch. Little Jim seemed quite philosophical about it. Yet, deep in hisheart, Little Jim missed his mother, more than his father realized. Thehouse seemed strangely empty and quiet. And it had seemed queer that BigJim should cook the supper, and, later, wash the dishes. 

That evening, just before they went to bed, Big Jim ransacked thebureau, sorting out his own things, and laying aside a few things thathis wife had left: a faded pink ribbon, an old pair of high-heeledslippers, a torn and unmended apron, and an old gingham dress. Gatheringthese things together, Big Jim stuffed them in the kitchen stove. LittleJim watched him silently. 

But when his father came from the stove and sat down, Little Jim slippedover to him. "Dad, are you mad at ma for leavin' us?" he queried. 

Big Jim shook his head. "No, Jimmy. Just didn't want to leave her thingsaround, after we had gone. Benson'll be movin' in sometime this week. Isold our place to him. "

"The stove and beds and everything?"

"Everything. "

Little Jim wrinkled his nose and sniffed. "Them things you put in thestove smell just like brandin' a critter, " he said, gesturing toward thekitchen. 

Big Jim gazed hard at his young son. Then he smiled to himself, andshook his head. "Just like brandin' a critter, " he repeated, half tohimself. "Just like brandin' a critter. "

CHAPTER II

PANHANDLE

While his friends and neighbors called Jim Hastings "Big Jim, " he was nomore than average size--compact, vigorous, reared in the Wyoming cattlelands, and typical of the country. He was called Big Jim simply todistinguish him from Little Jim, who was as well known in Laramie as hisfather. Little Jim, when but five years of age, rode his own pony, jogging alongside his father when they went to town, where he wasdecidedly popular with the townsfolk because of his sturdy independenceand humorous grin. 

Little Jim talked horses and cattle and ranching with the grown-ups andtook their good-natured joshing philosophically. He seldom retortedhastily, but, rather, blinked his eyes and wrinkled his forehead as hedigested this or that pleasantry, and either gave it the indifferentacknowledgment of "Shucks! Think you can josh _me_?" or, if the occasionand the remark seemed to call for more serious consideration, he rose toit manfully, and often to the embarrassment of the initial speaker. 

Little Jim liked to go to town with his father, yet he considered townreally a sort of suburb to his real world, the homestead, which he hadseen change from a prairie level of unfenced space to a small--and tohim--complete kingdom of pasture lot, hayfield, garden, corrals, stable, and house. Town was simply a place to which you went to buy things, getthe mail, exchange views on the weather and grazing, and occasionallyhelp the hands load a shipment of cattle. Little Jim helped by sittingon the top rail of the pens and commenting on the individualcharacteristics of the cattle, and, sometimes, of the men loading them. In such instances he found opportunity to pay off old scores. Incidentally he kept the men in good humor by his lively comment. 

Little Jim was six years of age when his mother left to resume herformer occupation of waitress in the station restaurant of Laramie, where she had been popular because of her golden hair, her blue eyes, and her ability to "talk back" to the regular customers in a mannerwhich they seemed to enjoy. Big Jim married her when he was not muchmore than a boy--twenty, in fact; and during the first few years theywere happy together. But homesteading failed to supply more than theirimmediate needs. 

Occasional trips to town at first satisfied the wife's craving for theattention and admiration that most men paid to her rather superficialgood looks. But as the years slipped by, with no promise of easierconditions, she became dissatisfied, shrewish, and ashamed of her lackof pretty things to wear. Little Jim was, of course, as blind to allthis as he was to his need for anything other than his overalls, shoes, and jumper. He thought his mother was pretty and he often told her so. 

Meanwhile, Big Jim tried to blind himself to his wife's growingdissatisfaction. He was too much of a man to argue her own short-comingsas against his inability to do more for her than he was doing. But whenshe did leave, with simply a brief note saying that she was tired of itall, and would take care of herself, what hit Big Jim the hardest wasthe fact that she could give up Little Jim without so much as a wordabout him. Every one liked Little Jim, and the mother's going provedsomething that Big Jim had tried to ignore for several years--that hiswife cared actually nothing for the boy. When Big Jim finally realizedthis, his indecision evaporated. He would sell out and try his fortunesin Arizona, where his sister Jane lived, the sister who had never seenLittle Jim, but who had often written to Big Jim, inviting him to comeand bring his family for a visit. 

Big Jim had enough money from the sale of his effects to make thejourney by train, even after he had deposited half of the proceeds atthe local bank, in his wife's name. But being a true son of the open, hewanted to see the country; so he decided to travel horseback, with apack-animal. Little Jim, used to the saddle, would find the journey areal adventure. They would take it easy. There was no reason for haste. 

It had seemed the simplest thing to do, to sell out, leave that part ofthe country, and forget what had happened. There was nothing to begained by staying where they were. Big Jim had lost his interest in theranch. Moreover, there had been some talk of another man, in Laramie, aman who had "kept company" with Jenny Simpson, before she became Mrs. Jim Hastings. Mrs. Hastings was still young and quite good-looking. 

It had seemed a simple thing to do--to leave and begin life over againin another land. But Big Jim had forgotten Smiler. Smiler was a dog ofvague ancestry, a rough-coated, yellow dog that belonged solely toLittle Jim. Smiler stuck so closely to Little Jim that their shadowswere veritably one. Smiler was a sort of chuckle-headed, good-naturedanimal, meek, so long as Little Jim's prerogatives were not infringedupon, but a cyclone of yellow wrath if Little Jim were approached by anyone in other than a friendly spirit. Even when Big Jim "roughed" hissmall son, in fun, Smiler grew nervous and bristled, and once, when themother had smacked Little Jim for some offense or other, Smiler hadtaken sides to the extent of jumping between the mother and the boy, ready to do instant battle if his young partner were struck again. 

"I'm afraid we can't take Smiler with us, " said Big Jim, as Little Jimscurried about next morning, getting ready for the great adventure. 

Little Jim stopped as though he had run against a rope. He had not evendreamed but that Smiler would go with them. 

Now, Little Jim had not forgathered with punchers and townsfolk fornothing. He was naturally shrewd, and he did not offer or controvertopinions hastily. He stood holding a bit of old tie-rope in his hand, pondering this last unthinkable development of the situation. Smiler wasto be left behind. Jimmy wanted to ask why Smiler could not go. Hewanted to assure his father that Smiler would be a help rather than ahindrance to the expedition. 

Little Jim knew that if he wept, his father might pay some attention tothat sort of plea. But Little Jim did not intend to weep, nor askquestions, nor argue. Smiler stood expectantly watching thepreparations. He knew that something important was about to happen, and, with the loyalty of his kind, he was ready to follow, no matter where. Smiler had sniffed the floor of the empty house, the empty stables, thecorral. His folks were going somewhere. Well, he was ready. 

Little Jim, who had been gazing wistfully at Smiler, suddenly strode tohis pack and sat down. He bit his lips. Tears welled to his eyes anddrifted slowly down his cheeks. He had not intended to let himselfweep--but there was Smiler, wagging his thick tail, waiting to go. 

"I g-g-guess you better go ahead and hit the trail, dad. "

"Why, that's what we're going to do. What--" Big Jim glanced at his boy. "What's the matter?"

Little Jim did not answer, but his attitude spoke for itself. He haddecided to stay with Smiler. 

Big Jim frowned. It was the first time that the boy had ever openlyrebelled. And because it was the first time, Big Jim realized itssignificance. Yet, such loyalty, even to a dog, was worth while. 

Big Jim put his hand on Little Jim's shoulder. "Smiler'll get sore feeton the trails, Jimmy. And there won't be a whole lot to eat. "

Little Jim blinked up at his father. "Well, he can have half of my grub, and I reckon I can pack him on the saddle with me if his feet gettender. "

"All right. But don't blame me if Smiler peters out on the trip. "

"Smiler's tough, he is!" stated Little Jim. "He's so tough he bites barbwire. Anyhow, you said we was goin' to take it easy. And he can catchrabbits, I guess. "

"Perhaps he won't want to come along, " suggested Big Jim as he pulled upa cincha and slipped the end through the ring. 

Little Jim beckoned to Smiler who had stood solemnly listening to thecontroversy about himself as though he understood. Smiler trotted overto Jimmy. 

"You want to take it plumb easy on this trip, " said Little Jim, "and notgo to chasin' around and runnin' yourself ragged gettin' nowhere. If youget sore feet, we'll just have to beef you and hang your hide on thefence. "

Smiler grinned and wagged his tail. He pushed up and suddenly lickedLittle Jim's face. Little Jim promptly cuffed him. Smiler came back formore. 

Big Jim turned and watched the boy and the dog in their rough-and-tumbleabout the yard. He blinked and turned back to the horses. "Come on, Jimmy. We're all set. "

"Got to throw my pack on ole Lazy, dad. Gimme a hand, will you?"

Little Jim never would admit that he could not do anything there was tobe done. When he was stuck he simply asked his father to help him. 

Big Jim slung up the small pack and drew down the hitch. Little Jimducked under Lazy and took the rope on the other side, passing the endto his father. 

"Reckon that pack'll ride all right, " said the boy, surveying theoutfit. "Got the _morrals_ and everything, dad?"

"All set, Jimmy. "

"Then let's go. I got my ole twenty-two loaded. If we run on to one ofthem stingin' lizards, he's sure a sconer. Does dogs eat lizards?"

Big Jim swung to the saddle and hazed the old pack-horse ahead. "Don'tknow, Jimmy. Sometimes the Indians eat them. "

"Eat stingin' lizards?"

"Yep. "

"Well, I guess Smiler can, then. Come on, ole-timer!"

Suddenly Little Jim thought of his mother. It seemed that she ought tobe with them. Little Jim had wept when Smiler was in question. Now hegazed with clear-eyed faith at his father. 

"It ain't our fault ma ain't goin' with us, is it?" he queried timidly. 

Big Jim shrugged his shoulders. 

"Say, dad, we're headed west. Thought you said we was goin' to Arizona?"

"We'll turn south, after a while. "

Little Jim asked no more questions. His father knew everything--why theywere going and where. Little Jim glanced back to where Smiler paddedalong, his tongue out and his eyes already rimmed with dust, for hewould insist upon traveling tight to Lazy's heels. 

Little Jim leaned back. "Stick it out, ole-timer! But don't you go tocuttin' dad's trail till he gets kind of used to seein' you around. Sabe?"

Smiler grinned through a dust-begrimed countenance. He wagged his tail. 

Little Jim plunked his horse in the ribs and drew up beside his father. Little Jim felt big and important riding beside his dad. There had beensome kind of trouble at home--and they were leaving it behind. It wouldbe a long trail, and his father sure would need help. 

Little Jim drew a deep breath. He wanted to express his unwaveringloyalty to his father. He wanted to talk of his willingness to goanywhere and share any kind of luck. But his resolve to speak evaporatedin a sigh of satisfaction. This was a real holiday, an adventure. "Smiler's makin' it fine, dad. "

But Big Jim did not seem to hear. He was gazing ahead, where in thedistance loomed an approaching figure on horseback. Little Jim knew whoit was, and was about to say so when his father checked him with agesture. Little Jim saw his father shift his belt round so that his gunhung handy. He said nothing and showed by no other sign that he hadrecognized the approaching rider, who came on swiftly, his high-headedpinto fighting the bit. 

Within twenty yards of them, the rider reined his horse to a walk. Little Jim saw the two men eye each other closely. The man on the pintorode past. Little Jim turned to his father. 

"I guess Panhandle is goin' to town, " said the boy, not knowing justwhat to say, yet feeling that the occasion called for some remark. 

"Panhandle" Sears and his father knew each other. They had passed on theroad, neither speaking to the other. And Little Jim was not blind to thesignificant movement of shifting a belt that a gun might hang ready tohand. 

Yet he soon forgot the incident in visioning the future. Arizona, AuntJane, and stingin' lizards!

Big Jim rode with head bowed. He was thinking of the man who had justpassed them. If it had not been for the boy, Big Jim and that man wouldhave had it out, there on the road. And Jenny Hastings would have beenthe cause of their quarrel. "Panhandle" Sears had "kept company" withJenny before she became Big Jim's wife. Now that she had left him--

Big Jim turned and gazed back along the road. A far-away cloud of dustrolled toward the distant town of Laramie. 

CHAPTER III

A MINUTE TOO LATE

The Overland, westbound, was late. Nevertheless, it had to stop atAntelope, but it did so grudgingly and left with a snort of disdain forthe cow-town of the high mesa. Curious-eyed tourists had a brief glimpseof a loading-chute, cattle-pens, a puncher or two, and an Indianfreighter's wagon just pulling in from the spaces, and accompanied by aplodding cavalcade of outriders on paint ponies. 

Incidentally the westbound left one of those momentarily interestedEasterners on the station platform, without baggage, sense of direction, or companion. He had stepped off the train to send a telegram to afriend in California. He discovered that he had left his address book inhis grip. Meanwhile the train had moved forward some sixty yards, totake water. Returning for his address book, he boarded the wrongPullman, realized his mistake, and hastened on through to his car. Outto the station again--delay in getting the attention of the telegraphoperator, the wire finally written--and the Easterner heard the rumbleof the train as it pulled out. 

Even then he would have made it had it not been for a portly individualin shirt-sleeves who inadvertently blocked the doorway of the telegraphoffice. Bartley bumped into this portly person, tried to squeeze past, did so, and promptly caromed off the station agent whom he met head on, halfway across the platform. Gazing at the departing train, Bartleyreached in his pocket for a cigar which he lighted casually. 

The portly individual touched him on the shoulder. "'Nother one, thisafternoon. "

"Thanks. But my baggage is on that one. "

"You're lucky it ain't two sections behind, this time of year. Travel isheavy. "

Bartley's quick glance took in the big man from his high-heeled boots tohis black Stetson. A cattleman, evidently well to do, and quiteevidently not flustered by the mishaps of other folks. 

"There's a right comfortable little hotel, just over there, " stated thecattleman. "Wishful runs her. It ain't a bad place to wait for yourtrain. "

Bartley smiled in spite of his irritation. 

The cattleman's eyes twinkled. "You'll be sending a wire to have 'emtake care of your war bag. Well, come on in and send her. You can catchNumber Eight about Winslow. "

The cattleman forged ahead, and in the telegraph office, got theimmediate attention of the operator, who took Bartley's message. 

The cattleman paid for it. "'Tain't the first time my size has cost memoney, " he said, as Bartley protested. "Now, let's go over and getanother cigar. Then we can mill around and see Wishful. You'll likeWishful. He's different. "

They strode down the street and stopped in at a saloon where thecattleman called for cigars. Bartley noticed that the proprietor of theplace addressed the big cattleman as "Senator. "

"This here is a dry climate, and a cigar burns up right quick, if youdon't moisten it a little, " said the cattleman. "I 'most always moistenmine. "

Bartley grinned. "I think the occasion calls for it, Senator. "

"Oh, shucks! Just call me Steve--Steve Brown. And just give us a littleGreen River Tom. "

A few minutes later Bartley and his stout companion were seated on theveranda of the hotel, gazing out across the mesas. They were bothcomfortable, and quite content to watch the folk go past, out there inthe heat. Bartley wondered if the title "Senator" were a nickname, or ifthe portly gentleman placidly smoking his cigar and gazing into spacewas really a politician. 

A dusty cow-puncher drifted past the hotel, waving his hand to theSenator, who replied genially. A little later a Navajo buck rode up on aquick-stepping pony. He grunted a salutation and said something in hisnative tongue. The Senator replied in kind. Bartley was interested. Presently the Navajo dug his heels into his pony's ribs, and clatteredup the road. 

The Senator turned to Bartley. "Politics and cattle, " he said, smiling. 

Having learned the Senator's vocation, Bartley gave his own as briefly. The Senator nodded. 

"It is as obvious as all that, then?" queried Bartley. 

"I wouldn't say that, " stated the Senator carefully. "But after youbumped into me, and then stepped into the agent, and then turned aroundand took in my scenery, noticin' the set of my legs, I says to myself, 'painter-man or writer. ' It was kind of in your eye. I figured youwa'n't no painter-man when you looked at the oil paintin' over the bar. 

"A painter-man would 'a' looked sad or said somethin', for that therepaintin' is the most gosh-awful picture of what a puncher might looklike after a cyclone had hit him. I took a painter-man in there once, toget a drink. He took one look at that picture, and then he says, kind ofsorrowful: 'Is this the only place in town where they serve liquor?' Itold him it was. 'Let's go over and tackle the pump, ' he says. But wehad our drink. I told him just to turn his back on that picture when hetook his. "

"I might be anything but a writer, " said Bartley. 

"That's correct. But you ain't. "

"You hit the nail on the head. However, I can't just follow your line ofreasoning it out. "

"Easy. Elimination. Now a tourist, regular, stares at folks and things. But a painter or writer he takes things in without starin'. There's somedifference. I knew you were a man who did things. It's in your eye. "

"Well, " laughed Bartley, "I took you for a cattleman the minute I sawyou. "

"Which was a minute too late, eh?"

"I don't know about that. Since I've been sitting here looking at themesa and those wonderful buttes over there, and watching the nativescome and go, I have begun to feel that I don't care so much about thattrain, after all. I like this sort of thing. You see, I planned to visitCalifornia, but there was nothing definite about the plan. I choseCalifornia because I had heard so much about it. It doesn't matter muchwhere I go. By the way, my name is Bartley. "

"I'm Steve Brown--cattle and politics. I tell you, Mr. Bartley--"

"Suppose you say just Bartley?"

The Senator chuckled. "Suppose I said 'Green River'?"

"I haven't an objection in the world, " laughed Bartley. 

"Wishful, here, don't keep liquor, " explained the Senator. "And he'sright about that. Folks that stay at this hotel want to sleep nights. "

The Senator heaved himself out of his chair, stood up, and stretched. 

"I reckon you'll be wantin' to see all you can of this country. My ranchlays just fifty miles south of the railroad, and not a fence from hereto there. Then, there's them Indians, up north a piece. And over yonderis where they dig up them prehistoric villages. And those buttes overthere used to be volcanoes, before they laid off the job. To the west isthe petrified forest. I made a motion once, when the Legislature was insession, to have that forest set aside as a buryin'-ground forpoliticians, --State Senators and the like, --but they voted me down. Theysaid I didn't specify _dead_ politicians. 

"South of my place is the Apache reservation. There's good huntin' inthat country. 'Course, Arizona ain't no Garden of Eden to some folks. Two kinds of folks don't love this State a little bit'--homesteaders andtourists. But when it comes to cattle and sheep and mines, you can'tbeat her. She sure is the Tiger Lily of the West. But let's step overand see Tom. Excuse me a minute. There's a constituent who has somethin'on his chest. I'll meet you at the station. "

The Senator stepped out and talked with his constituent. Meanwhile, Bartley turned to gaze down the street. A string of empty freightwagons, followed by a lazy cloud of dust, rolled slowly toward town. Here and there a bit of red showed in the dun mass of riders thataccompanied the wagons. A gay-colored blanket flickered in the sun. Themesas radiated keen dry heat. 

Bartley turned and crossed over to the station. He blinked the effectsof the white light from his eyes as he entered the telegraph office. Theoperator, in shirt-sleeves, and smoking a brown-paper cigarette, noddedand handed Bartley a service message stating that his effects would becarried to Los Angeles and held for further orders. 

"It's sure hot, " said the operator. "Did you want to send another wire?"

Bartley shook his head. "Who is that stout man I bumped into trying tocatch my train?"

"That's Senator Steve Brown--State Senator. Thought you knew him. "

"No. I just met him to-day. "

The operator slumped down in his chair. 

Bartley strode to the door and blinked in the Arizona sunshine. "ByGeorge!" he murmured, "I always thought they wore those big Stetsons forshow. But all day in this sun--guess I'll have to have one. "

CHAPTER IV

"A LITTLE GREEN RIVER"

To suddenly stop off at a cow-town station, without baggage or definiteitinerary, was unconventional, to say the least. Bartley was amused andinterested. Hitherto he had written more or less conventionalstuff--acceptable stories of the subway, the slums, the docks, and thestreets of Eastern cities. But now, as he strode over to the saloon, heforgot that he was a writer of stories. A boyish longing possessed himto see much of the life roundabout, even to the farthest, faint range ofhills--and beyond. 

He felt that while he still owed something to his original plan ofvisiting California, he could do worse than stay right where he was. Hehad thought of wiring to have his baggage sent back. Then it occurred tohim that, aside from his shaving-kit and a few essentials, his baggagecomprised but little that he could use out here in the mesa country. Andhe felt a certain relief in not having trunks to look after. Outingflannels and evening clothes would hardly fit into the present scheme ofthings. The local store would furnish him all that he needed. In thisframe of mind he entered the Blue Front Saloon where he found SenatorSteve and his foreman seated at a side table discussing the merits of"Green River. "

"Hello!" called the Senator. "Mr. Bartley, meet my foreman, Lon Pelly. "

They shook hands. 

"Lon says the source of Green River is Joy in the Hills, " asserted theSenator, smiling. 

The long, lean cow-puncher grinned. "Steve, here, says the source ofGreen River is trouble. "

"Now, as a writin' man, what would you say?" queried the Senator. 

Bartley gazed at the label on the bottle under discussion. "Well, as awriter, I might say that it depends how far you travel up or down GreenRiver. But as a mere individual enjoying the blessings of companionship, I should say, let's experiment, judiciously. "

"Fetch a couple more glasses, Tom, " called the Senator. 

After the essential formalities, Bartley pushed back his chair, crossedone leg over the other, and lighted a cigar. "I'm rather inclined towardthat Joy in the Hills theory, just now, " he asserted. 

"That's all right, " said Lon Pelly. "Bein' a little inclined don't hurtany. But if you keep on reachin' for Joy, your foot is like to slip. Then comes Trouble. "

"Lon's qualified for the finals once or twice, " said the Senator. "Now, take _me_, for a horrible example. I been navigatin' Green River, offand on, for quite a spell, and I never got hung up bad. "

"Speaking of rivers, they're rather scarce in this country, I believe, "said Bartley. 

"Yes. But some of 'em are noticeable in the rainy season, " statedSenator Steve. "But you ain't seen Arizona. You've only been peekin'through your fingers at her. Wait till you get on a cayuse and hit thetrail for a few hundred miles--that's the only way to see the country. Now, take 'Cheyenne. ' He rides this here country from Utah to theborder, and he can tell you somethin' about Arizona. 

"Cheyenne is a kind of hobo puncher that rides the country with hislittle old pack-horse, stoppin' by to work for a grubstake when he hasto, but ramblin' most of the time. He used to be a top-hand once. Workedfor me a spell. But he can't stay in one place long. Wish you could meethim sometime. He can tell you more about this State than any man I know. He's what you might call a character for a story. He stops by regular, at the ranch, mebby for a day or two, and then takes the trail, singin'his little old song. He's kind of a outdoor poet. Makes up his ownsongs. "

"What was that one about Arizona that you gave 'em over to the StateHouse onct?" queried Lon Pelly. 

"Oh, that wa'n't Cheyenne's own po'try. It was one he read in a magazinethat he gave me. Let's see--

 "Arizona! The tramp of cattle, The biting dust and the raw, red brand: Shuffling sheep and the smoke of battle: The upturned face--and the empty hand. 

 "Dawn and dusk, and the wide world singing, Songs that thrilled with the pulse of life, As we clattered down with our rein chains ringing To woo you--but never to make you wife. "

The Senator smiled a trifle apologetically. "There's more of it. Butpo'try ain't just in my line. Once in a while I bust loose onpo'try--that is, my kind of po'try. And I want to say that we sureclattered down from the Butte and the Blue in the old days, with ourrein chains jinglin', thinkin'--some of us--that Arizona was ours tofare-ye-well. 

"But we old-timers lived to find out that Arizona was too young to getmarried yet; so we just had to set back and kind of admire her, afterhavin' courted her an amazin' lot, in our young days. " The Senatorchuckled. "Now, Lon, here, he'll tell you that there ain't no po'try inthis here country. And I never knew they was till I got time to set backand think over what we unbranded yearlin's used to do. "

"For instance?" queried Bartley. 

Senator Steve waved his pudgy hand as though shooing a flock of chickensoff a front lawn. "If I was to tell you some of the things thathappened, you would think I was a heap sight bigger liar than I am. Seein' some of them yarns in print, folks around this country would say:'Steve Brown's corralled some tenderfoot and loaded him to the muzzlewith shin tangle and ancient history!' Things that would seem amazin' toyou would never ruffle the hair of the mavericks that helped make thiscountry. "

"This country ain't all settled yet, " said the foreman, rising. "ReckonI'll step along, Steve. "

After the foreman had departed, Bartley turned to the Senator. "Arethere many more like him, out here?"

"Who, Lon? Well, a few. He's been foreman for me quite a spell. Lon hethinks. And that's more than I ever did till after I was thirty. And Lonain't twenty-six, yet. "

"I think I'll step over to the drug-store and get a few things, " saidBartley. 

"So you figure to bed down at the hotel, eh?"

"Yes. For a few days, at least. I want to get over the idea that I haveto take the next train West before I make any further plans. "

The Senator accompanied Bartley to the drug-store. The Easterner boughtwhat he needed in the way of shaving-kit and brush and comb. The Senatorexcused himself and crossed the street to talk to a friend. Theafternoon sun slanted across the hot roofs, painting black shadows onthe dusty street. Bartley found Wishful, the proprietor, and told himthat he would like to engage a room with a bath. 

Wishful smiled never a smile as he escorted Bartley to a room. 

"I'll fetch your bath up, right soon, " he said solemnly. 

Presently Wishful appeared with a galvanized iron washtub and a kettleof boiling water. Bartley thanked him. 

"You can leave 'em out in the hall when you're through, " said Wishful. 

Bartley enjoyed a refreshing bath and rub-down. Later he set the kettleand tub out in the dim hallway. Then he sat down and wrote a letter tohis friend in California, explaining his change of plan. The afternoonsunlight waned. Bartley gazed out across the vast mesas, lavender-huedand wonderful, as they darkened to blue, then to purple that was shotwith strange half-lights from the descending sun. 

Suddenly a giant hand seemed to drop a canopy over the vista, and it wasnight. Bartley lighted the oil lamp and sat staring out into thedarkness. From below came the rattle of dishes. Presently Bartley heardheavy, deliberate footsteps ascending the stairway. Then a clangingcrash and a thud, right outside his door. He flung the door open. Senator Steve was rising from the flattened semblance of a washtub andfeeling of himself tenderly. The Senator blinked, surveyed the wreckedtub and the kettle silently, and then without comment he stepped backand kicked the kettle. It soared and dropped clanging into the hallbelow. 

Wishful appeared at the foot of the stairs. "Did you ring, Senator?"

"Yes, I did! And I'm goin' to ring again. "

"Hold on!" said Wishful, "I'll come up and get the tub. I got thekettle. "

The Senator puffed into Bartley's room and sat on the edge of the bed. He wiped his bald head, smiling cherubically. "Did you hear him, askin'me, a member of the Society for the Prevention of Progress, if I rangfor him! That's about all the respect I command in this community. Isure want to apologize for not stoppin' to knock, " added the Senator. 

Bartley grinned. "It was hardly necessary. I heard you. "

"I just came up to see if you would take dinner with me and my missus. We're goin' to eat right soon. You see, my missus never met up with areal, live author. "

"Thanks, Senator. I'll be glad to meet your family. But suppose youforget that author stuff and just take me as a tenderfoot out to see thesights. I'll like it better. "

"Why, sure! And while the House is in session, I might rise to remarkthat I can't help bein' called 'Senator, ' because I'm guilty. But, honest, I always feel kinder toward my fellow-bein's who call me justplain 'Steve. '"

"All right. I'll take your word for it. "

"Don't you take my word for anything. How do you know but I might betryin' to sell you a gold mine?"

"I think the risk would be about even, " said Bartley. 

The Senator chuckled. "I just heard Wishful lopin' down the hall withhis bathin' outfit, so I guess the right of way is clear again. Andthere goes the triangle--sounds like the old ranch, that triangle. Yousee, Wishful used to be a cow-hand, and lots of cow-hands stop at thishotel when they're in town. That triangle sounds like home to 'em. I'mstoppin' here myself. But I got a real bathroom out to the ranch. Let'sgo down and look at some beef on the plate. "

CHAPTER V

"TOP HAND ONCE"

Bartley happened to be alone on the veranda of the Antelope House thatevening. 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 Easternexperiences. The dinner concluded with an invitation from Mrs. Brownthat anticipated Bartley visiting the ranch and staying as long as hewished. The day following the Senator's departure Bartley received atelegram from his friend in California, wishing him good luck and apleasant journey in the Arizona country. The friend would see toBartley's baggage, as Bartley had forwarded the claim checks in hisletter. 

The town was quiet and the stars were serenely brilliant. The dusty, rutted road past the hotel, dim gray in the starlight, muffled the treadof an occasional Navajo pony passing in the faint glow of light from thedoorway. Bartley was content with things as he found them, just then. But he knew that he would eventually go away from there--from the untidytown, the railroad, the string of box-cars on the siding, and seek thenew, the unexpected, an experience to be had only by kicking loose fromconvention and stepping out for himself. He thought of writing a Westernstory. He realized that all he knew of the West was from hearsay, and abrief contact with actual Westerners. He would do better to go out inthe fenceless land and live a story, and then write it. And betterstill, 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 thenorth. Presently he heard the soft, muffled tread of horses and adistinct word or two of the song. He leaned forward, interested, amused, alert. The voice was a big voice, mellowed by distance. There was atake-it-or-leave-it swing to the melody that suggested the singer'sabsolute oblivion to anything but the joy of singing. Again the plod, plod of the horses, and then:

 I was top-hand once for the T-Bar-T, In the days of long ago, But I took to seein' the scenery Where the barbed-wire fence don't grow. 

 I was top-hand once--but the trail for mine, And plenty of room to roam; So now I'm ridin' the old chuck line, And any old place is home . .. For me . .. And any old place is home. 

Bartley grinned. Whoever he was, drifting in from the northern spaces, he had evidently lost the pack-horse that bore his troubles. Suddenly, out of the wall of dusk that edged the strip of road loomed a horse'shead, and then another. The lead horse bore a pack. The second horse wasridden by an individual who leaned slightly forward, his hands claspedcomfortably over the saddle horn. The horses stopped in the light of thedoorway. 

"Well, I reckon we're here, " said a voice. "But hotels and us ain't inthe same class. I stop at the Antelope House, take a look at her, andthen spread my roll in the brush, same as always. Nobody to home? Theydon't know what they're missin'. "

Bartley struck a match and lighted his cigar. The pack-horse jerked itshead up. 

"Hello, stranger! Now I didn't see you settin' there. "

"Good-evening! But why 'stranger' when you say you can't see me?"

"Why? 'Cause everybody knows _me_, and you didn't whoop when I rode up. Me, I'm Cheyenne, from no place, and likewise that's where I'm goin'. This here town of Antelope got in the way--towns is always gittin' in myway--but nobody can help that. Is Wishful bedded down for the night oris 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 pushedback the brim of his faded black Stetson and sighed heavily. Bartleycaught a glimpse of a face as care-free as that of a happy child--thetwinkle of humorous eyes and a flash of white teeth as the othergrinned. "Reckon you never heard tell of me, " said the rider, hookinghis leg over the horn. 

I just arrived yesterday. I have not heard of you--but I heard you downthe 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 appetitefrom goin' to sleep. Guess I'll turn the hosses into Wishful's corraland go find him. Reckon you had your dinner. "

"Several hours ago. "

"Well, I had mine this mornin'. The dinner I had this mornin' was theone I ought to had day before yesterday. But I aim to catch up--andmebby 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 thecorral. This wayfarer, breezing in from the spaces, suggestedpossibilities as a character for a story No doubt the song was more orless autobiographical. "A top-hand once, but the trail for mine, " seemedto explain the singer's somewhat erratic dinner schedule. Bartleythought that he would like to see more of this strange itinerant, whosang both coming into and going out of town. 

Presently Cheyenne was back, singing something about a Joshua tree as hecame. 

He stopped at the veranda rail. His smile was affable. "Guess I'll goover and hunt up Wishful. I reckon you'll have to excuse me for notrefusin' 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. Isaid I reckoned you'd have to excuse me for not refusin' to go over tothe 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'mbroke. "

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 longthat tried to lift anything from his tepee. That is, not any longer thanit would take Wishful to pull a gun--and that ain't long. "

"If he caught them. "

"Caught 'em? Say, stranger, how far do you think a man could travel outof here, before somebody'd get him? Anyhow, Wishful ain't got nothin' inhis 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 andhadn'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-sizedman, was surprised to realize that the other was all of a head tallerthan himself. Cheyenne had not looked it in the saddle. 

"Are you acquainted with Senator Brown?" queried Bartley as he strodealong 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 instyle, Steve would be wearin' a crown. Why, last election I wore out apair of jeans lopin' around this here country campaignin' for Steve. Seethis hat? Steve give me this hat--a genuwine J. B. , the best they make. Inside he had printed on the band, in gold, 'From Steve to Cheyenne, hoping it will always fit. ' Do I know Steve Brown? Next time you see himjust ask him about Cheyenne Hastings. "

"I met the Senator, yesterday. Come to think of it, he did mention yourname--'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. Ifyou was headin' south--"

"I expect to visit Mr. And Mrs. Brown some day. Their ranch is south ofhere, 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 thesaloon. 

With a few exceptions, the men in the place were grouped round a longtable, in the far end of the room, at the head of which stood Wishfulevidently about to make a throw with the dice. No one paid the slightestattention to the arrival of Bartley and his companion, with theexception of the proprietor, who nodded to Bartley and spoke a word ofgreeting to Cheyenne. 

Bartley did the honors which included a sandwich and a glass of beer forCheyenne, who leaned with his elbow on the bar gazing at the men aroundthe table. Out of the corner of his eye Bartley saw the proprietor touchCheyenne's arm and, leaning across the bar, whisper something to him. Cheyenne straightened up and seemed to be adjusting his belt. Bartleycaught a name: "Panhandle. " He turned and glanced at Cheyenne. 

The humorous expression had faded from Cheyenne's face and in its steadthere was a sort of grim, speculative line to the mouth, and no twinklein the blue eyes. Bartley stepped over to the long table and watched thegame. Craps, played by these free-handed sons of the open, had more of apunch than he had imagined possible. A pile of silver and bills lay onthe 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 theboard. The players laughed as Wishful relinquished the dice. A leanoutlander, with a scarred face, took up the dice and made a throw. Heevidently did not want to locate an individual called "Little Joe, " whomhe importuned incessantly to stay away. 

Side bets were made and bills and silver withdrawn or added to the pilewith a rapidity which amazed Bartley. Hitherto craps had meant to himthree or four newsboys in an alley and a little pile of nickels andpennies. But this game was of robust proportions. It had pep and speed. 

Bartley became interested. His fingers itched to grasp the dice and tryhis luck. But he realized that his amateurish knowledge of the gamewould be an affront to those free-moving sons of the mesa. So hecontented himself with watching the game and the faces of the men asthey won or lost. Bartley felt that some one was close behind himlooking over his shoulder. Cheyenne's eyes were fixed on the playerknown as "Panhandle, " and on no other person at that table. Bartleyturned back to the game. 

Just then some one recognized Cheyenne and spoke his name. The gamestopped and Bartley saw several of the men glance curiously fromCheyenne to the man known as "Panhandle. " Then the game was resumed, butit 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 andhanded him a bill. 

Cheyenne straightway elbowed deeper into the group and finally securedthe dice. Wishful, for some unknown reason, remarked that he would backCheyenne to win--"shootin' with either hand, " Wishful concluded. Bartleynoticed 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 easywealth. His forehead was beaded with sweat. His eyes glistened. Heforgot his song. Bartley stepped over to the bar and chatted for a fewminutes with the proprietor, mentioning Senator Steve and his wife. 

When Bartley returned to the game the players had dwindled to a smallgroup--'Wishful, the man called "Panhandle, " a fat Mexican, a railroadengineer, 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 ofCheyenne's. "

"Oh, I see. "

Bartley turned from the man, and watched the players. Wishful hadwithdrawn 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 exhibitionfor the benefit of the other players. Finally the engineer quit, andcounted his winnings. Cheyenne and the man, Panhandle, faced each other, with Bartley standing close to Cheyenne and Wishful, who had movedaround the table, standing close to Panhandle. 

Panhandle took up the dice. There was no joy in his play. He shot thedice across the table viciously. Every throw was a, sort of insidiousinsult to his competitor, Cheyenne. Bartley was more interested in theperformance than the actual winning or losing, although he realized thatCheyenne was still a heavy winner. 

Presently Wishful stepped over to Bartley and touched his arm. Panhandleand Cheyenne were intent upon their game. 

"You kin see better from that side of the table, " said Wishful mildly, yet with a peculiar significance. 

Bartley glanced up, his face expressing bewilderment. 

"I seen you slip Cheyenne a bill, " murmured Wishful. "Accordin' to that, you're backin' him. Thought I'd just mention it. "

"I don't understand what you're driving at, " said Bartley. 

"That's just why I spoke to you. " And Wishful's face expressed a sort ofsad wonder. But then, the Easterner had not been in town long and he didnot know Panhandle. 

Wishful turned away casually. Bartley noticed that he again took up hisposition near Panhandle. 

This time Panhandle glanced up and asked Wishful if he didn't want tocome 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 thatthe other had somehow or other managed to convey an insult and achallenge in that glance, which suggested the contempt of the toughWesterner for the supposedly tender Easterner. 

Bartley did not know just what was on the boards, aside from dice andmoney, but he took Wishful's hint and moved around to Panhandle's sideof the table, leaving Cheyenne facing his competitor alone. Bartleyhappened to catch Cheyenne's eye. The happy-go-lucky expression wasgone. Cheyenne's face seemed troubled, yet he played with his formervigor and luck. 

Panhandle posed insolently, his thumb in his belt, watching the dice. Hewas all but broke. Cheyenne kept rolling the bones, but now he evoked noaid 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 hisright hand. Hitherto he had been shooting with his left. "I'll shootyou, either hand, " he said. 

"And win, " murmured Wishful. 

Panhandle whirled and confronted Wishful. "I don't see any of your moneyon 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 ahandful of bills from the pile and counted them. "Fifty, " he said;"fifty against the pot that you don't make your next throw. "

"Suits me, " said Cheyenne, picking up the dice and shaking them. 

Cheyenne threw and won on the third try. Panhandle reached toward thepile of money again. 

Cheyenne, who had not picked up the dice, stopped him. "You can't playon that money, " he stated tensely. "Half of it belongs to Mr. Bartley, there. "

"What have you got to say about it, " challenged Panhandle, turning toBartley. 

"Half of the money on the table is mine, according to agreement. Ibacked 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 reachedtoward 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 thehead. Panhandle dropped in a heap. 

It had happened so quickly that Bartley hardly realized what hadhappened. Panhandle was on the floor, literally down and out. Bartleywas surprised that such an apparently light tap on the head should put aman out. 

"Get him out of here, " said Tom, the proprietor. "I don't want any roughstuff in here. And if I were in your boots, Cheyenne, I'd leave town fora while. "

"I'm leavin' to-morrow mornin'. " Cheyenne was coolly counting hiswinnings. 

Wishful, the silent, doused a glass of water in Panhandle's face. Presently Panhandle was revived and helped from the saloon. His formerattitude of belligerency had entirely evaporated. Wishful followed himto the hitch-rail and saw him mount his horse. 

"Your best bet is to fan it back where you come from, and stay there, "said Wishful softly. "You don't belong in this town, and you can't goslappin' any of my guests in the face and get away with it. And when yougit so you can think it over, just figure that if I hadn't 'a' slowedyou down, Cheyenne would 'a' killed you. "

Panhandle did not feel like discussing the question just then. He leftwithout even turning to glance back. If he had glanced back, he wouldhave seen that Wishful had disappeared. Wishful, familiar with the waysof Panhandle and his kind, immediately sought the shadows, leaving thelighted doorway a blank. He entered the saloon from the rear. 

Cheyenne was endeavoring to make Bartley take half of the winnings. "Youstaked me--and it's fifty-fifty, pardner, " insisted Cheyenne. 

Finally Bartley accepted his share of the money and stuffed it into hispocket. 

"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 bitmore silent and melancholy than heretofore, also accepted. 

Alone in his room at the hotel, Bartley wondered what would havehappened if Wishful had not rapped Panhandle on the head. Bartleyrecalled the fact that he had drawn back his arm, intending to take onegood punch at Panhandle, even if it were his last. But Panhandle hadcrumpled down suddenly, silently, and Wishful had stood over him, gazingdown speculatively and swinging his gun back and forth before hereturned it to the holster. "They move quick, in this country, " thoughtBartley. "And speaking of material for a story--" Then he smiled. 

Somewhere out on the mesa Cheyenne had spread his bed-roll and was nodoubt sleeping peacefully. Bartley shook his head. He had been inAntelope but two days and yet it seemed that months had passed since hehad stepped from the westbound train to telegraph to his friend inCalifornia. Incidentally, he decided to purchase an automatic pistol. 

CHAPTER VI

A HORSE-TRADE

When Bartley came down to breakfast next morning he noticed two horsestied at the hitch-rail in front of the hotel. One of the horses, arather stocky gray, bore a pack. The other, a short-coupled, sturdybuckskin, was saddled. Evidently Cheyenne was trying to catch up withhis 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 ofwhich reposed two fried eggs among some curled slivers of bacon. 

Two railroad men, a red-eyed Eastern tourist who looked as though he hadnot slept for a week, a saturnine cattleman in from the mesas, and twovisiting ladies from an adjacent town comprised the tale of guests thatmorning. As Bartley came in the guests glanced at him curiously. Theyhad heard of the misunderstanding at the Blue Front. 

Cheyenne immediately rose and offered Bartley a chair at his table. Thetwo women, alone at their table, immediately became subdued andwatchful. They were gazing their first upon an author. Wishful had madethe fact known, with some pride. The ladies, whom Cheyenne designated as"cow-bunnies, "---or wives of ranchers, --were dressed in their "bestclothes, " and were trying to live up to them. They had about finishedbreakfast, and shortly after Bartley was seated they rose. On their wayout 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 andworry had graven in her face. Her "best clothes" rather accentuatedthese details. But back of it all he sensed the resolute spirit of theWest, resourceful, progressive, large-visioned. 

"Meet Mr. Bartley, " said Cheyenne unexpectedly. 

Which was just what the two women had been itching to do. Bartley roseand shook hands with them. 

"A couple of lady friends of mine, " said Cheyenne when they had gone. 

Cheyenne made no mention of the previous evening's game, or its climax. Yet Bartley had gathered from Wishful that Panhandle Sears and Cheyennehad an unsettled quarrel between them. 

In the hotel office Cheyenne purchased cigars and proffered Bartley ahalf-dozen. Bartley took one. Cheyenne seemed disappointed. When cigarswere going round, it seemed strange not to take full advantage of thecircumstance. As they stepped out to the veranda, the horses recognizedCheyenne and nickered gently. 

"Going south?" queried Bartley. 

"That's me. I got the silver changed to bills and some of the billschanged to grub. I reckon I'll head south. Kind of wish you was headedthat way. "

Bartley bit the end from his cigar and lighted it, as he gazed outacross the morning mesa. A Navajo buck loped past and jerked his littlepaint 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 gotthat dignity idea down fine. "

"Did he come in for medicine, perhaps?"

"Mebby. But most like he's after chewin'-gum for his squaw, andcigarettes for himself, with a bottle of red pop on the side. Injunsalways buy red pop. "

"Cigarettes and chewing-gum?"

"Sure thing! Didn't you ever see a squaw chew gum and smoke atailor-made cigarette at the same time? You didn't, eh? Well, then, yougot somethin' comin'. "

"Romance!" laughed Bartley. 

"Ever sleep in a Injun hogan?" queried Cheyenne as he busied himselfadjusting the pack. 

"No. This is my first trip West. "

"I was forgettin'. Well, I ain't what you'd call a dude, but, honest, ifI was prospectin' round lookin' for Injun romance I'd use a pair offield-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 tosee 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 ofthe old hand. Bartley noticed that the pack-horse had no lead-rope, norhad he been tied. Bartley did not know that Filaree, the pack-horse, would never let Joshua, the saddle-horse, out of his sight. They hadtraveled 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 heread in Bartley's glance a half-awakened desire to outfit and hit thetrail 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 aside street. 

Back in his room Bartley paced up and down, keeping time to the tune ofCheyenne's trail song. The morning sun poured down upon the station roofopposite, and danced flickering across the polished tracks of therailroad. Presently Bartley stopped pacing his room and stood at thewindow. Far out across the mesa he saw a rider, drifting along in thesunshine, followed by a gray pack-horse. 

"By George!" exclaimed Bartley. "He may be a sort of wandering joke tothe citizens of this State, but he's doing what he wants to do, andthat'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 hisfriend in El Paso: 'Drop into Denver some evening and I'll show you thesights. ' Distance? Negligible. Time? An inconsequent factor. Big stuff!As for me, I think I'll go downstairs and interview the pensiveWishful. "

Wishful had the Navajo blankets and chairs piled up in the middle of thehotel office and was thoughtfully sweeping out cigar ashes, cigarettestubs, and burned matches. Wishful, besides being proprietor of theAntelope House, was chambermaid, baggage-wrangler, clerk, advertisingmanager, and, upon occasion, waiter in his own establishment. And hekept a neat place. 

Bartley walked over to the desk. Wishful kept on sweeping. Bartleyglanced at the signatures on the register. Near the bottom of the pagehe 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 happensto 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 defunctcigar. "Never heard either of his hosses object to his company, " hereplied. 

Bartley grinned and glanced up and down the register. Wishful dug into acorner with his broom. Something shot rattling across the floor. Wishfullaid down the broom and upon hands and knees began a search. Presentlyhe rose. A slow smile illumined his face. He had found a pair of dice inthe litter on the floor. He made a throw, shook his head, and picked upthe dice. His sweeping became more sprightly. Amused by thepreoccupation of the lank and cautiously humorous Wishful, Bartleytouched the bell on the desk. Wishful promptly stood his broom againstthe 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 twodollars comin', " he stated. 

"I'll shake you for that two dollars, " said Bartley. 

Wishful's tired eyes lighted up. "You said somethin'. " And he producedthe dice. 

Just then the distant "Zoom" of the westbound Overland shook thesilence. Wishful hesitated, then gestured magnificently toward space. What was the arrival of a mere train, with possibly a guest or so forthe hotel, compared with a game of craps?

While they played, the train steamed in and was gone. Wishful won thetwo dollars. 

Bartley escaped to the veranda and his reflections. Presently he roseand strolled round to the corral. Wishful's three saddle-animals werelazying in the heat. Bartley was not unfamiliar with the good points ofa horse. He rejected the sorrel with the Roman nose, as stubborn andfoolish. The flea-bitten gray was all horse, but he had a white-rimmedeye. The chestnut bay was a big, hardy animal, but he appeared ratherslow and deliberate. Yet he had good, solid feet, plenty of bone, deepwithers, and powerful hindquarters. 

Bartley stepped round to the hotel. "Have you a minute to spare?" hequeried 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 rentone--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'tturn down a fair offer. "

"Set a price on that sorrel, " said Bartley. 

Now, Wishful was willing to part with the sorrel, which was showy andlooked fast. Bartley did not want the animal. He merely wanted to arriveat 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 ahoss. "

"The best, eh? And a hundred for the sorrel. " Bartley appeared toreflect. 

Wishful really wanted to sell the gray, describing him as the best horsehe owned to awaken Bartley's interest. The best horse in the corral wasthe 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'twant to rob you of your best horse, Wishful. "

Wishful saw that he was cornered. He had cornered himself, premisingthat 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 forodd 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 thatsum, 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 goodsaddle-horses, however. "

"Uh-huh? I reckon he did. And you ain't forgot what a real hoss lookslike, either. " Wishful's pensive countenance lighted suddenly. "You'llbe wantin' a rig--saddle and bridle and slicker and saddle-bags. Now Igot just what you want. "

Bartley stepped to the stable and inspected the outfit. It was old andworn, and worth, Bartley estimated, about thirty dollars, all told. 

"I'll let you have the whole outfit--hoss and rig and all, for twohundred, " stated Wishful unblushingly. 

"I priced a saddle, over in the shop across from the station, thismorning, " said Bartley. 

"With bridle and blanket and saddle-pockets it would only stand meninety dollars. If the bay is the poorest horse you own, then at yourfigure this outfit would come rather high. "

"I might 'a' knowed it!" stated Wishful. "Say, Mr. Bartley, give me ahundred 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 onlytaking you at your word. "

"I sure done overlooked a bet, this trip, " said Wishful. "Say, I reckonyou must 'a' cut your first tooth on a cinch-ring. I done learntsomethin' this mornin'. Private eddication comes high, but I'm game. Write your check for a hundred--and take the bay. By rights I ought togive him to you, seein as how you done roped and branded me for ablattin' yearlin' the first throw; and you been out West just threedays! You'll git along in this country. "

"I hope so, " laughed Bartley. "Speaking of getting along, I plan tovisit Senator Brown. How long will it take me to get there, riding thebay?"

"He's got a runnin' walk that is good for six miles an hour. He's awalkin' fool. And anything you git your rope on, he'll hold it tillyou're gray-headed and got whiskers. That ole hoss is the best cow-hossin 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 ahoss, you can figure he's a good one. "

"I suppose I'd have to camp on the mesa two or three nights, " saidBartley. 

"Nope! Ole Dobe'll make it in two days. He don't look fast, but thetrail sure fades behind him when he's travelin'. I'm kind of glad youdidn't try to buy the Antelope House. You'd started in pricin' thestable, and kind of milled around and ast me what I'd sell the kitchenfor, and afore I knowed it, you'd 'a' had me selling the hotel for lessthan 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 youengineer 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 onlooks, 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'ttravel fast with a pack-hoss along. He'll most like camp at the firstwater, about twenty-five miles south. But you can pack some grub in yoursaddle-bags, and play safe. And take a canteen along. "

Wishful superintended the purchasing of the new outfit, and seemedunusually keen about seeing Bartley well provided for at the minimumcost. Wishful's respect for the Easterner had been greatly enhanced bythe recent horse-deal. When it came to the question of clothing, Wishfulwisely suggested overalls and a rowdy, as being weather and brush proof. Incidentally Wishful asked Bartley why he had paid his bill before hehad actually prepared to start on the journey. Bartley told Wishful thathe 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 thesaddle-pockets, a blanket tied behind the cantle, and a small canteenhung on the horn, he felt equipped to make the journey. Wishfulsuggested 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 hewalked around horse and rider, giving them a final inspection. "And youdon't have to cinch ole Dobe extra tight, " he advised. "He carries asaddle good. 'Course that new leather will stretch some. "

"How old _is_ Dobe?" queried Bartley. "You keep calling him 'old. '"

"I seen you mouthin' him, after you had saddled him. How old would _you_say?"

"Seven, going on eight. "

"Git along! And if anybody gits the best of you in a hoss-trade, wire mecollect. 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 disappearedaround a corner. 

Then Wishful strode into the hotel office and marked a blue cross on thebig wall calendar. A humorous smile played about his mouth. It was amark to indicate the day and date that an Eastern tenderfoot had got thebest of him in a horse-deal. 

CHAPTER VII

AT THE WATER-HOLE

Before Bartley had been riding an hour he knew that he had a good horseunder 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, Englishstyle. But Dobe did not understand that style of riding a trot. Eachtime Bartley raised in the stirrups, Dobe took it for a signal to lope. Finally Bartley caught the knack of leaning forward and riding a trotwith a straight leg, and to his surprise he found it was a mightysatisfactory method and much easier than posting. 

The mesa trail was wide--in reality a cross-country road, so Bartley hadopportunity to try Dobe's different gaits. The running walk was a joy toexperience, the trot was easy, and the lope as regular and smooth as theswing of a pendulum. Finally Bartley settled to the best long-distancegait of all, the running walk, and began to enjoy the vista; thewide-sweeping, southern reaches dotted with buttes, the line of the farhills crowded against the sky, and the intense light in which there wasno faintest trace of blur or moisture. Everything within normal range ofvision stood out clean-edged and definite. 

Unaccustomed to riding a horse that neck-reined at the merest touch, andone that stopped at the slightest tightening of the rein, Bartley had tolearn through experience that a spade bit requires delicate handling. Hewas jogging along easily when he turned to glance back at the town--nowa far, huddled group of tiny buildings. Inadvertently he tightened rein. Dobe stopped short. Bartley promptly went over the fork and slid to theground. 

Dobe gazed down at his rider curiously, ears cocked forward, as thoughtrying to understand just what his rider meant to do next. Bartleyexpected to see the horse whirl and leave for home. But Dobe stoodpatiently until his rider had mounted. Bartley glanced round covertly, wondering if any one had witnessed his impromptu descent. Then helaughed, realizing that it was a long way to Central Park, flat saddlesand snaffles. 

A little later he ate two of the sandwiches Wishful had thoughtfullyprovided, and drank from the canteen. Gradually the shadows of thebuttes lengthened. The afternoon heat ebbed away in little, infrequentpuffs 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 ofthe tracks the mark of wheels. Here the wagon had swung aside to avoid abit of bad going, yet the tracks of two horses still kept the middle ofthe road. "Senator Brown--and Cheyenne, " thought Bartley, studying thetracks. He became interested in them. Here, again, Cheyenne haddismounted, possibly to tighten a cinch. There was the stub of acigarette. Farther along the tracks were lost in the rocky ground of thepetrified forest. He had made twenty miles without realizing it. 

Winding in and out among the shattered and fallen trunks of thoseprehistoric trees, Bartley forgot where he was until he passed thebluish-gray sweep of burned earth edging the forest. Presently a fewdwarf junipers appeared. He was getting higher, although the mesa seemedlevel. Again he discovered the tracks of the horses in the powdered redclay of the road. 

He crossed a shallow arroyo, sandy and wide. Later he came suddenly upona red clay cutbank, and a hint of water where the bank shadowed themud-smeared rocks. He rode slowly, preoccupied in studying the country. The sun showed close to the rim of the world when he finally realizedthat, if he meant to get anywhere, he had better be about it. Dobepromptly caught the change of his rider's mental attitude and steppedout briskly. Bartley patted the horse's neck. 

It was a pleasure to ride an animal that seemed to want to work with aman and not against him. The horse had cost one hundred dollars--a fairprice for such a horse in those days. Yet Bartley thought it a veryreasonable price. And he knew he had a bargain. He felt clearlyconfident that the big cow-pony would serve him in any circumstance orhazard. 

As a long, undulating stretch of road appeared, softly brown in theshadows, Bartley began to look about for the water-hole which Wishfulhad spoken about. The sun slipped from sight. The dim, gray road reachedon and on, shortening in perspective as the quick night swept down. 

Beyond and about was a dusky wall through which loomed queer shapes thatseemed to move and change until, approached, they became junipers. Bartley's gaze became fixed upon the road. That, at least, was areality. He reached back and untied his coat and swung into it. An earlystar flared over the southern hills. He wondered if he had passed thewater-hole. He had a canteen, but Dobe would need water. But Dobe wasthoroughly familiar with the trail from Antelope to the White Hills. AndDobe smelled the presence of his kind, even while Bartley, peering aheadin the dusk, rode on, not aware that some one was camped within callingdistance of the trail. A cluster of junipers hid the faint glow of thecamp-fire. 

Dobe stopped suddenly. Bartley urged him on. For the first time the bighorse showed an inclination to ignore the rein. Bartley gazed round, sawnothing in particular, and spoke to the horse, urging him forward. Dobeturned and marched deliberately away from the road, heading toward thewest, and nickered. From behind the screen of junipers came an answeringnicker. Bartley hallooed. No one answered him. Yet Dobe seemed to knowwhat he was about. He plodded on, down a slight grade. Suddenly the softglow of a camp-fire illumined the hollow. 

A blanket-roll, a saddle, a coil of rope, and a battered canteen and thefire--but no habitant of the camp. 

"Hello!" shouted Bartley. 

Dobe shied and snorted as a figure loomed in the dusk, and Cheyenne waspeering 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 forstandin' you up that way--but I didn't quite get you till I seen yourface. 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 inAntelope. "

"Then you didn't know just what to expect?"

"I wa'n't sure. But say, I got some coffee goin'--and some bacon. Lightdown 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 toyou?"

"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 Dobeknows where it is. Just lift off your saddle and turn him loose--ormebby 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 ofhobbles, 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 ofserviceable hobbles. 

"Now he'll travel easy and git enough grass to keep him in shape. Andthem hobbles won't burn him. Any time you're shy of hobbles, that's howto make 'em. "

Later, as Bartley sat by the fire and ate, Cheyenne asked him ifPanhandle 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 forSteve'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 forme. "

"Room! Wait till you see Steve's place. And say, if you want to get wiseto how they run a cattle outfit, just throw in with the boys, tell 'emyou're a plumb tenderfoot and can't ride a bronc, nohow, and that younever took down a rope in your life, and that all you know about cattleis 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 isa hand when he ain't. 'Course the boys won't mind seem' you top a broncand get throwed, just to see if you got sand. "

Meanwhile Cheyenne manipulated the coffee-pot and skillet mosteffectively. And while Bartley ate his supper, Cheyenne talked, seemingly glad to have a companion to talk to. 

"You see, " he began, apropos of nothing in particular, "entertainin'folks with the latest news is my long suit. I'm kind of a travelin'show, singin' and packin' the news around to everybody. 'Course folksread the paper and hear about somebody gettin' married, or gettin' shotor leavin' the country, and then they ask me the how of it. I beenramblin' so long that I know the pedigrees of 'most everybody down thisway. 

"Newspapers is all right, but folks get plumb hungry to git their newswith 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 tothe country, and seems they locked horns with a outfit runnin' sheepjust south of Springerville. Now, I hadn't been down that way for aboutsix months, but I had heard of that ruckus. So after Steve lets me singa 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 guessthe fella that told me must 'a' got his reins crossed, for pretty soonSteve starts to laugh and turns to them visitors and says: 'How aboutit, Mr. Smith?'

"Now, Smith was the fella that had the ruckus, and I'd been tellin' howthat sheep outfit had run _him_ out of the country. He was a young, long, spindlin' hombre from Texas--a reg'lar Whicker-bill, with thatdrawlin' kind of a voice that hosses and folks listen to. I knowed hewas from Texas the minute I seen him, but I sure didn't know he was theman I was talkin' about. 

"Everybody laughed but him and his wife. I reckon she was feelin' heroats, visitin' at the Senator's house. I don't know what she said to herhusband, but, anyhow, afore I left for the bunk-house that evenin', hesays, slow and easy, that if I was around there next mornin', he wouldexplain all about that ruckus to me, when the ladies weren't present, soI wouldn't get it wrong, next time. I seen I had made a mistake formyself, and I didn't aim to make another, so I just kind of eased offand faded away, bushin' down that night a far piece from Senator Steve'sranch. 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. Yousee, he was married--and I--ain't. "

Bartley lay back on his saddle and gazed up at the stars. The littlefire had died down to a dot of red. A coyote yelped in the far dusk. Another coyote replied. Cheyenne rose and threw some wood on the fire. Then he stepped down to the water-hole and washed the plates and cups. Bartley could hear the peculiar thumping sound of hobbled horses movingabout on the mesa. Cheyenne returned to the fire, picked up hisbed-roll, and marched off into the bushes. Bartley wondered why heshould take the trouble to move his bed-roll such a distance from thewater-hole. 

"Pack your saddle and blanket over, when you feel like turnin' in, " saidCheyenne. "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 thestars. Presently he heard Cheyenne snore. The Big Dipper grew dim. Thena coyote yelped--a shrill cadence of mocking laughter. "I wonder whatthe joke is?" Bartley thought drowsily. 

Sometime during the night he was awakened by the tramping of horses, asound 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 thathe was wide awake and Cheyenne was standing over him. It was daylight. 

"They got our hosses, " said Cheyenne. 

"Who?"

"I dunno. "

"What? _Our_ horses? Great Scott, how far is it to Senator Brown'sranch?"

"About twenty-five miles, by road. I know a short cut. "

Bartley jumped up and pulled on his boots. From the far hills came thefaint yelp of a coyote, shrill and derisive. 

"The joke is on us, " said Bartley. 

"This here ain't no joke, " stated Cheyenne. 

CHAPTER VIII

HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS

Bartley suggested that, perhaps, the horses had strayed. 

Cheyenne shook his head. "My hosses ain't leavin' good feed, or leavin'me. They know this here country. "

"Perhaps Dobe left for home and the rest followed him, " said Bartley. 

"Nope. Our hosses was roped and led south. "

Bartley stared at Cheyenne, whose usually placid countenance expressedindecision and worry. Cheyenne seemed positive about the missing horses. Then Bartley saw an expression in Cheyenne's eyes that indicated moresternness 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' gonefaster, tryin' to keep 'em from turnin' back. I don't see nothin' aroundcamp 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 tohim, and he found Bartley pointing at a pair of dice on a flat rockbeside the fire. 

Cheyenne stooped and picked up the dice. "Was you rattlin' the bones tosee 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 hereturned he squatted down and ate. 

Presently he rose. "First off, I thought they might 'a' been some strayApaches or Cholas. But they don't pack dice. And the bunch that rode bylast 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 dicefor us to play with while he trails south with our stack. I reckon itwas 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 leavetown, Panhandle figured that meant to stay out of Antelope quite aspell. First off he steals some hosses. Next thing, he'll sell 'em ortrade 'em, down south of here. He'll travel nights, mostly. "

"I can't see why he should especially pick us out as his victims, " saidBartley. 

"I don't say he did. But it would make no difference to him. He'd stealany man's stock. Only, I figure some of his friends must 'a' told himabout you--that seen you ridin' down this way. He would know our campwould be somewhere near this water-hole. What kind of matches you gotwith 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. Noreg'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 ofhis 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' youthat I aim to shoot a game of craps with Panhandle, usin' these heredice, 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 countrybetween them spots. "

Cheyenne cached the bed-roll, saddles, and cooking-outfit back in thebrush, taking only a canteen and a little food. He proffered a pair ofmoccasins, parfleche-soled and comfortable, to Bartley. 

"You wear these. Them new ridin'-boots'll sure kill you dead, walkin'. You can pack 'em along with you. "

"How about your feet?"

"Say, you wouldn't call me a tenderfoot, would you?"

"Not exactly. "

"Then slip on them moccasins. But first I aim to make a circle and seejust where they caught up our stock. "

Bartley drew on the moccasins and, tying his boots together, rolled themin his blanket. Meanwhile, Cheyenne circled the camp far out, examiningthe scattered tracks of horses. When he returned the morning sun wasbeginning to make itself felt. 

"I'll toss up to see who wears the moccasins, " said Bartley. "I'm moreused to hiking than you are. "

"Spin her!"

As Bartley tossed the coin, Cheyenne called. The half-dollar dropped andstuck edge-up in the sand. 

"You wear 'em the first fifteen miles and then we'll swap, " saidCheyenne. 

Bartley filled the canteen and scraped dirt over the fire. Cheyenne tooka 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'llsee lots, to-day. "

Once more upon the road Cheyenne's manner changed. He seemed to ignorethe fact that he was afoot, in country where there was little prospectof getting a lift from a passing rancher or freighter. And he saidnothing about his horses, Filaree and Joshua, although Bartley knew thattheir 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 tothe 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, andthen stepped out again, singing on:

 They ain't no water and they ain't no shade: They ain't no beer or lemonade, But I reckon most like we'll make the grade Git along, cayuse, git along. 

"That's the stuff!" laughed Bartley. "A stanza or two of that every fewmiles, and we'll make the grade all right. That last was improvised, wasn't it?"

"Nope. Just naturalized. I make 'em up when I'm ridin' along, to kind offit into the scenery. Impervisin' gets my wind. "

"Well, if you are singing when we finish, you're a wonder, " statedBartley. 

"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 noreputation. And I sure lose mine this trip. Why, folks all over thecountry will josh me to death when they hear Panhandle Sears set meafoot on the big mesa. I reckon I'll have to kind of change my routetill somethin' happens to make folks forget this here bobble. "

Another five miles of hot and monotonous plodding, and Cheyenne stoppedand 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 ofboots, because these fit. It's scaldin' your feet that throws you. "

They smoked and drank from the canteen. Five minutes' rest, and theywere on the road again. The big mesa reached on and on toward the south, seemingly limitless, without sign of fence or civilization save for thenarrow road that swung over each slight, rounded rise and ran away intothe distance, narrowing to a gray line that disappeared in space. 

Occasionally singing, Cheyenne strode along, Bartley striding besidehim. 

"You got a stride like a unbroke yearlin', " said; Cheyenne, as Bartleyunconsciously drew ahead. 

Bartley stopped and turned into step as Cheyenne caught up. He heldhimself to a slower pace, realizing that, while his companion could haveoutridden 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. Bartleyflinched as Cheyenne whipped up his gun and fired. The coyotejack-knifed and lay still. Cheyenne punched the empty shell from hisgun, 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 manback me down, " said Bartley. 

"Mebby so. But you're wrong, old-timer. Bein' fast with a gun is justlike advertisin' for the coroner. Me, I'm plumb peaceful. "

A few miles farther along they nooned in the shade of a piñion. Whenthey started down the road again, Bartley noticed that Cheyenne limpedslightly. But Cheyenne still refused to put on the moccasins. Bartleyargued that his own feet were getting tender. He was unaccustomed tomoccasins. Cheyenne turned this argument aside by singing a stanza ofhis trail song. 

Also, incidentally, Cheyenne had been keeping his eye on thehorse-tracks; and just before they left the main road taking a shortcut, he pointed to them. "There's Filaree's tracks, and there'sJoshua's. Your hoss has been travelin' over here, on the edge. Themhoss-thieves figure to hit into the White Hills and cut down through theApache forest, most like. "

"Will they sell the horses?"

"Yes. Or trade 'em for whiskey. Panhandle's got friends up in themhills. "

"How far is it to the ranch?" queried Bartley. 

"We done reached her. We're on Steve's ranch, right now. It's about fivemiles from that first fence over there to his house, by trail. It'sfifteen by road. "

"Then here is where you take the moccasins. "

"Nope. My feet are so swelled you couldn't start my boots with a fencestretcher. 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 tochoose his footing, dodging the rougher places. The muscles of hiscalves ached under the unaccustomed strain of walking without heels. Cheyenne dogged along behind, suffering keenly from blistered feet, butcentering his attention on Bartley's bobbing shadow. They had made abouttwo miles across country when the faint trail ran round a butte anddipped into a shallow arroyo. 

The arroyo deepened to a gulch, narrow and rocky. Up the gulch a fewhundred yards they came suddenly upon a bunch of Hereford cattle headedby a magnificent bull. The trail ran in the bottom of the gulch. Oneither side the walls were steep and rocky. Angling junipers stuck outfrom 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. Thebull shook his head and snapped his tail, but did not move. The cattlebehind the bull stared blandly at the invaders of their domain. Thebull, being an aristocrat, gave warning of his intent to charge byshaking his head and bellowing. Then he charged. 

Cheyenne stooped for another stone, but Bartley had no intention ofplaying ping-pong with a roaring red avalanche. Bartley made for theside of the gulch and, catching hold of the bole of a juniper, drewhimself up. Cheyenne stood to his guns, shied a third stone, scored abull's-eye, and then decided to evacuate in favor of the enemy. His feetwere 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 intothe tree where Bartley had taken refuge, so Cheyenne backed into ashallow depression beneath the roots of the juniper. 

The bull shook his head and butted at Cheyenne. Cheyenne slapped thebull'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 couldnot quite reach Cheyenne, who slapped at the bull with his hat and spakeeloquently. 

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 himhave it?" he queried. 

"Have what?" came the muffled voice of Cheyenne. "He's 'most got whathe's after, right now. "

"Shall I shoot him?"

"Hell, no! No use beefin' twelve hundred dollars' worth of meat. Wedon't need that much. "

"Look out! He's coming again!" called Bartley. 

Cheyenne had suddenly poked his head out of the shallow cave. The bullcharged, backed down, and amused himself by tossing dirt over hisshoulders 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 wasstraddled 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 thebottom, still holding to a broken branch of the tree. Cheyenne was alsoat the bottom of the gulch. The bull was trotting heavily toward hisherd. 

"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. Hesounded right mad, singin' lively, back in there. My laigs feel kind oflimp, right now. "

Cheyenne felt of his torn overalls, shook his head, and then a slowsmile illumined his face. "How do you like this here country, anyhow?"

"Great!" said Bartley. 

CHAPTER IX

AT THE BOX-S

When they emerged from the western end of the gulch, they paused torest. Not over a half-mile south stood the ranch-house, just back of arow of giant cottonwoods. 

Cheyenne pointed out the stables, corrals, and bunk-house. "A mightyneat 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, Iknow a outfit down in Texas that would call this here ranch their northpasture--and they got three more about the same size, besides theregular range. But standin' in any one place you can't see any more thanyou do right now. Steve just keeps up this here ranch so he can haveelbow-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 thesuggestion aside. "Decent nothin'! A man afoot looks as queer to awaddie as we did to that ole bull. "

The puncher loped up, recognized Cheyenne, nodded to Bartley, and seemedto hesitate. Cheyenne made no explanation of their plight, so thepuncher simply turned back and loped toward the ranch-house. 

"Just steppin' over to tell Steve we're here, " said Cheyenne, asBartley's face expressed astonishment. 

They plodded on, came to a gate, limped down a long lane, came toanother gate, and there Senator Steve met them. 

"I'd 'a' sent a man with a buckboard if I had known you planned to walkover from Antelope, " he asserted, and his eyes twinkled. 

Cheyenne frowned prodigiously. "Steve, " he said slowly, "you canlovin'ly and trustfully go plumb to hell!"

Cheyenne turned and limped slowly toward the bunk-house. 

Mrs. Brown welcomed Bartley as the Senator ushered him into theliving-room. The Senator half-filled a tumbler from a cold, dark bottleand 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 alreadyfilled 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 sparerazor in the cabinet, and all the fixings. And when you're ready there'sa pair of clean socks on the doorknob. "

Bartley heard the Senator's heavy, deliberate step as he passed down thehallway. 

"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. Heshaved, dressed, and stepped out into the hall. He sniffed. "Chicken!"he murmured soulfully. 

Mrs. Senator Brown was supervising the cooking of a dinner that Bartleynever forgot. Boiled chicken, dumplings, rich gravy, mashed potatoes, creamed carrots, sliced tomatoes--to begin with. And then the pie!Bartley furnished the appetite. 

But that was not until after the Senator had returned from thebunk-house. He had seen to it that Cheyenne had had a bucket of hotwater, soap, and towels and grease for his sore feet. In direct andeffectual kindliness, without obviously expressed sympathy, theWesterner is peculiarly supreme. 

Back in the living-room Bartley made himself comfortable, admiring thegenerous proportions of the house, the choice Indian blankets, the widefireplace, and the general solidity of everything, which reflected thepersonality of his hosts. 

Presently the Senator came in. "Cheyenne tells me that somebody set youafoot, 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 inthe gulch. 

The Senator chuckled. "Don't say a word to Mrs. Brown about it. I'llhave 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 askinghim to eat in here. And, say, Bartley, we've got a little surprise foryou. One of my boys caught up your horse, old Dobe. Dobe was dragging arope. Looks like he broke away from some one. I had him turned into thecorral. 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 ofthose horses, Filaree and Joshua, than he did of anything on earth. I'llsend one of the boys back to the water-hole to-morrow, for your saddlesand 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, " statedBartley. 

"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 gangthat steal stock, and generally live by their wits and never seem to getcaught. But he made a big mistake when he lifted Cheyenne's horses. Cheyenne already has a grievance against Sears. Some day Cheyenne willopen 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 crapgame. "

The Senator chuckled. "I heard about it. Heard you offered to take onSears 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 tolet him take a couple of horses to trail Panhandle. And, judging fromwhat Cheyenne said, he thinks you are going along with him. There's lotsof country right round here to see, without taking any unnecessaryrisks. "

"I understand, " said Bartley. 

"And this is your headquarters, as long as you want to stay, " continuedthe Senator. 

"Thank you. It's a big temptation to stay, Senator. "

"How?"

"Well, it was rather understood, without anything being said, that Iwould help Cheyenne find his horses and mine. Dobe came back; but thathardly excuses me from going with Cheyenne. "

"But your horse is here; and you seem to be in pretty fair health, rightnow. "

"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 backin his chair, blew smoke-rings, puffed out his cheeks, and presentlyrose. "Bartley, I see that you're set on chousin' around the countrywith that warbling waddie--just to hear him sing, as you say. I sayyou're a dam' fool. 

"But you're the kind of a dam' fool I want to shake hands with. Youaren't excited and you don't play to the gallery; so if there's anythingyou want on this ranch, from a posse to a pack-outfit, it's yours. Andif either of you get Sears, I'll sure chip in my share to buy hisheadstone. "

"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 stampingground ain't what an insurance company would call a good risk. "

CHAPTER X

TO TRY HIM OUT

Two days later Cheyenne was able to get his feet into his boots, buteven then he walked as though he did not care to let his left foot knowwhat his right foot was doing. Lon Pelly, just in from a ride out to theline shack, remarked to the boys in the bunk-house that Cheyenne walkedas though his brains were in his feet and he didn't want to get stonebruises stepping on them. 

Cheyenne made no immediate retort, but later he delivered himself of anew stanza of his trail song, wherein the first line ended with "Pelly"followed by the rhymed assertion that the gentleman who bore thatpeculiar name had slivers in his anatomy due to a fondness for leaningagainst the bar of the Blue Front Saloon. 

The boys were mightily pleased with the stanza, and they also improviseduntil, according to their versions, Long Lon bore a marked resemblanceto a porcupine. Lon, being a real person, felt that Cheyenne'sretaliation was just. Moreover, Lon, who never did anything hastily, letit be known casually that he had seen three riders west of the lineshack some two days past, and that the riders were leading two horses, abuckskin and a gray. They were too far away to be distinguishedabsolutely, 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 canpass 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, " assertedCheyenne. "I suspicioned that it was him--but the dice told me, plain. "

"So you figure to walk up to Pan and invite him to shoot a little game, when you meet up with him?" queried a puncher. 

"That's me. "

"The tenderfoot"--he referred to Bartley--"is he goin' along with you?"

"He ain't so tender as you might think, " said Cheyenne. "He's green, butnot 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 oftwenty-dollar cayuses. They ain't worth it. "

"They ain't, eh?"

"Course, they make a right good audience, when you're singin'. They doall the listenin', " said another puncher. 

"Huh! They ain't one of you got a hoss that can listen to you, withoutblushin'. You fellas think you're a hard-ridin'--"

"Ridin' beats walkin', " suggested Long Lon. 

"Keep a-joshin'. I like it. Shows how much you don't know. I--hello, Mr. Bartley! Shake hands with Lon Pelly--but I guess you met him, over toAntelope. 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' toCheyenne preachin' his own funeral sermon. "

Bartley seated himself in the doorway of the bunk-house. The joshingceased. Cheyenne, who could never keep his hands still, toyed with thedice. Presently one of the boys suggested that Cheyenne show them somefancy work with a six-gun--"just to keep your wrist limber, " heconcluded. 

Cheyenne shook his head. But, when Bartley intimated that he would liketo see Cheyenne shoot, Cheyenne rose. 

"All right. I'll shoot any fella here for ten bucks--him to name thetarget. "

"No, you don't, " said a puncher. "We ain't givin' our dough away, justto git rid of it. "

"And right recent they was talkin' big, " said Cheyenne. "I'll shoot thespot of a playin'-card, if you'll hold it, " he asserted, indicatingBartley. 

The boys glanced at Bartley and then lowered their eyes, wondering whatthe Easterner would do. Bartley felt that this was a test of his nerve, and, while he didn't like the idea of engaging in a William Tellperformance he realized that Cheyenne must have had a reason forchoosing him, out of the men present, and that Cheyenne knew hisbusiness. 

"Cheyenne wants to git out of shootin', " suggested a puncher. 

That settled it with Bartley. "He won't disappoint you, " he statedquietly. "Give me the card. "

One of the boys got up and fetched an old deck of cards. Bartley chosethe 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 thegroup, saying something that made them laugh. Bartley's fingers tensed. He forgot his nervousness. Cheyenne whirled and shot, apparently withoutaim. Bartley drew a deep breath, and glanced at the card. The black pipwas cut clean from the center. 

"That's easy, " asserted Cheyenne. Then he took a silver dollar from hispocket, laid it in the palm of his right hand, hung the gun, by itstrigger guard on his right forefinger, lowered his hand and tossed thecoin up. As the coin went up the gun whirled over. Then came the whiz ofthe 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 surewouldn'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 ofthe stolen horses. Panhandle's name was mentioned. And the name ofanother 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 withthe Senator and his wife. Out in the bunk-house those of the boys whohad not left for the line shack were discussing horse-thieves in generaland Panhandle and Sneed in particular. Bill Smalley, a saturnine memberof the outfit, who seldom said anything, and who was a good hand but asurly one, made a remark. 

"That there Cheyenne is the fastest gun artist--and the biggest cowardthat ever come out of Wyoming. Ain't that right, Lon?"

"I never worked in Wyoming, " said Long Lon. 

CHAPTER XI

PONY TRACKS

Mrs. Senator Brown did not at all approve of Bartley's determination toaccompany Cheyenne in search of the stolen horses. Late that night, longafter Cheyenne had ceased to sing for the boys in the bunk-house, andwhile Bartley was peacefully slumbering in a comfortable bed, Mrs. Browntook the Senator to task for not having discouraged the young Easternerfrom attempting such a wild-goose chase. The Senator, whose diametermade the task of removing his boots rather difficult, puffed, and tuggedat a tight riding-boot, but said nothing. 

"Steve!"

"Yes'm. I 'most got it off. Wild-goose chase? Madam, the wild goose is achild that shuns this element. You mean wild-horse chase. "

"That sort of talk may amuse your constituents, but you are talking tome. "

Off came the stubborn boot. The Senator puffed, and tugged at the otherboot. 

"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 dodgingissues when he was cornered, --both at home and abroad, --peered at himover her glasses. "What else did you tell him?"

"Well, your honor, " chuckled the Senator, "I also told him he was thekind 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 introduceany 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 hecould have anything on this ranch that would help him get a rope onSears. "

"I knew it!"

"Then why did you ask me?"

Mrs. Brown ignored the question. "Very well, Stephen. Mr. Bartley gaveme his sister's address, in case anything happened. She is his onlyliving relative and I'm going to write to her at once and tell her whather 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 bewelcome. "

"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 somebodyto 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 outto the veranda. He was surprised to find the Senator up and about, inspecting the details of Cheyenne's outfit, for Cheyenne had the horsessaddled and packed. Bartley was still more surprised to find that Mrs. Brown had breakfast ready. Evidently the good Senator and his wife had adecided interest in the welfare of the expedition. 

After breakfast the Senator's wife came out to the bunk-house with amysterious 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 cooland the horses were a bit snuffy. Lon mounted and rode toward the westgate 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 westernspaces. Long Lon closed the big gate, stepped up on his horse, andjogged along beside them. 

Bartley felt as though he had suddenly left the world of reality and wasriding in a sort of morning dream. He could feel the pleasant warmth ofthe sun on his back. He sniffed the thin dust cast up by the horses. Oneither side of him the big mesa spread to the sky-line. Cattle werescattered in the brush, some of them lying down, some of them grazingindolently. 

Presently Cheyenne began to sing, and his singing seemed to fit into themood of the morning. He ceased, and nothing but the faint jingle of reinchains and the steady plod of hoofs disturbed the vast silence. Aflicker of smoke drifted back as Cheyenne lighted a cigarette. Long Londrilled on, wrapped in his reflections. Their moving shadows shortened. Occasionally a staring-eyed cow strayed directly in their way and stooduntil Long Lon struck his chaps with his quirt, when the cow, swingingits head, would whirl and bounce off to one side, stiff-legged andridiculous. 

Bartley unbuttoned his shirt-collar and pushed back his hat. Far acrossthe 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 glancedback. The ranch buildings--a dot of white in a clump of green--shimmeredvaguely in the morning sunlight. 

Thus far, Bartley felt that he had been leaving the ranch and thecheerful companionship of the Senator and his wife. But as Lon Pellyreined up--it was something like two hours since they had started--andpointed to a cross-trail leading south, Bartley's mental attitudechanged instantly. Hitherto he had been leaving a pleasant habitation. Now he was going somewhere. He felt the distinction keenly. Cheyenne'sverse 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 roundand set off toward the far western sky-line. That was his casualfarewell. 

Cheyenne now turned directly toward the south and a range of hills thatmarked the boundary of the mesa level. Occasionally he got off his horseand stooped to examine tracks. Once he made a wide circle, leavingBartley to haze the pack-horse along. Slowly they drew nearer to thehills. During the remainder of that forenoon, Cheyenne said nothing, butrode, 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 tinystream while Cheyenne and Bartley ate the cold chicken sandwiches. Inhalf an hour they were riding again, skirting the foothills, and, itseemed to Bartley, simply meandering about the country, for now theywere 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 isbig 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' Iwas kind of twisted and didn't know which way to head. Now take thatthere hoss, Joshua. Plenty times I've rode him up to a fork in thetrail, and kep' sayin' to myself, 'We'll take the right-hand fork. ' AndJoshua always took the fork I was thinkin' about. You try it with Dobe, sometime. "

"I have read of such things, " said Bartley. 

"Well, I _know_ 'em. What would you say if I was to tell you that Joshuaknowed once they was a fella ridin' behind me, five miles back, and outof sight--and told me, plain?"

"I wouldn't say anything. "

"There's where you're wise. I can talk to you about such things. Butwhen I try to talk to the boys like that, they just josh, till I git madand quit. They ain't takin' me serious. "

"What is your plan?" queried Bartley. 

Cheyenne reined up and dismounted. "Step down, and take a look, " hesuggested. 

Bartley dismounted. Cheyenne pointed out horse-tracks on the trail alongthe edge of the hills. 

"Five hosses, " he asserted. "Two of 'em is mine. That leaves three thatare 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 beforehe hit the timber, up yonder. Once he gits in them hills he'll headstraight 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, Cheyennelost the tracks. He spent over an hour finding them again. Bartley coulddiscern nothing definite, even when Cheyenne pointed to a queer, blurredpatch 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 horsesshowed, I'd think he had turned my hosses loose on the big mesa. Hestops, pulls their shoes, sacks their feet, and leads 'em over there. Whoever done it was afoot, and steppin' careful. Hell, I could learnthat yella-bellied hoss-thief how to steal hosses right, if I was in thebusiness. "

"Looks like a pretty stiff drill up those hills, " remarked Bartley. 

"That's why he turned, right here. 'Tain't just the stealin' of myhosses that's interestin' him. He's takin' trouble to run a whizzer onme--get me guessin'. Here is where we quit trailin' him. I got my planworkin' like a hen draggin' fence rails. We ain't goin' to trailPanhandle. We're goin' to ride 'round and meet him. "

"Not a bad idea, " said Bartley. 

"It won't be--if I see him first. "

CHAPTER XII

JIMMY AND THE LUGER GUN

Two days of riding toward the west, along the edge of the hills, andBartley and Cheyenne found themselves approaching the high country. Thetrail ran up a wide valley, on either side of which were occasionalranches reaching back toward the slopes. In reality they were graduallyclimbing the range on an easy grade and making good time. 

Their course now paralleled the theoretical course of Panhandle and hisfellows. Dodging the rugged land to the south, Cheyenne had swung roundin a half-circle, hoping to head off Panhandle on the desert side of therange. Since abandoning the tracks of the stolen horses, Cheyenne hadresumed his old habit of singing as he rode. He seemed to know the nameof every ranch, and of every person they met. 

Once or twice some acquaintance expressed surprise that Cheyenne did notstop and spend the night with him. But Cheyenne jokingly declined allinvitations, explaining to Bartley that in stopping to visit they wouldnecessarily waste hours in observing the formalities of arrival anddeparture, although Cheyenne did not put it just that way. 

They found water and plenty of feed, made their camps early, broke campearly, and rode steadily. With no visible incentive to keep going, Bartley lost his first keen interest in the hunt, and contented himselfwith listening to Cheyenne's yarns about the country and its folk, oroccasionally chatting with some wayfarer. But never once did Cheyennehint, to those they met, just why he was riding south. 

There were hours at a stretch, when the going was level, when Cheyennedid nothing but roll his gun, throw down on different objects, toss uphis gun, and catch it by the handle; and once he startled Bartley bymaking a quick fall from the saddle and shooting from the ground. Cheyenne explained to Bartley that often, when riding alone, he hadspent hour after hour figuring out the possibilities of gun-play, tillit became evident to the Easterner that, aside from being naturallyquick, there was a very good reason for Cheyenne's proficiency with thesix-gun. He practiced continually. And yet, thought Bartley, one of theBox-S punchers had said that Cheyenne had never killed anything biggerthan a coyote, and never would--intimating that he was too good-naturedever to take advantage of his own proficiency with a gun. 

Bartley wondered just how things would break if they did happen to meetPanhandle unexpectedly. Panhandle would no doubt dispose of the stolenhorses as soon as he could. What excuse would Cheyenne have to callPanhandle to account? And when it came to a show-down, _would_ Cheyennecall him to account?

Bartley was thinking of this when they made an early camp, the afternoonof the third day out. After the horses were hobbled and the packsarranged, Bartley decided to experiment a little with his new Lugerautomatic. Cheyenne declined to experiment with the gun. 

"It's a mean gat, " he asserted, "and it's fast. But I'll bet you a newhat I can empty my old smoke-wagon quicker than you can that pocketmachine gun. "

For the fun of the thing, Bartley took him up. He selected as target ajuniper stump, and blazed away. 

"I'm leavin' the decision to you, " said Cheyenne, as he braced his rightarm against his body and fanned the Colt, emptying it before Bartleycould realize that he had fired three shots--and Cheyenne had firedfive. 

"I'll buy you that hat when we get to town, " laughed Bartley. "You beatme, hands down. "

"Hands down is right, old-timer. Fannin' a gun is show stuff, but it'swicked, at close range. "

Meanwhile, Bartley had been experimenting further with the Luger. Whenhe got through he had a hat full of pieces and Cheyenne was staring atwhat seemed to be the wreck of a once potent weapon. 

"Why, you done pulled that little lead sprinkler all to bits!" exclaimedCheyenne, "and you didn't have no tools to do it with. "

"You can take down and assemble this gun without tools, " stated Bartley. "All you need is your fingers. "

"But what in Sam Hill did you pull her apart for?"

"Just to see if I could put her together again. "

Cheyenne scratched his head, and stepped over to inspect the juniperstump. He stooped, whistled, and turned to Bartley. "Man, you like tosawed that stub in two. Why didn't you say you could shoot?"

"I can't, in your class. But tell me why you Westerners always seem tothink it strange that an Easterner can sit a horse or shoot fairly well?Is it because you consider that the average tourist represents theentire East?"

"I dunno. But, then, I've met up with Easterners that weren't just likeyou. "

Bartley was busy, assembling the Luger, and Cheyenne was watching him, when they glanced up simultaneously. A shadow drifted between them. 

Cheyenne hesitated and then stepped forward. "I'll be dinged if it ain'tJimmy! What you doin' up here in the brush, anyhow?"

The boy, who rode a well-mannered gray pony, kicked one foot out of thestirrup and hooked his small leg over the horn. He nodded to Cheyenne, but his interest was centered on Bartley and the Luger. 

"It's Jimmy--my boy, " said Cheyenne. "His Aunt Jane lives over yonder, apiece. "

"Why, hello!" exclaimed Bartley, laying the pistol aside. And he steppedup and shook hands with the boy, who grinned. 

"How's the folks?" queried Cheyenne. 

"All right. That there is a Luger gun, ain't it?"

"Yes, " said Bartley. "Would you like to try it?"

The boy scrambled down from the saddle. "Honest?"

"Ain't you goin' to say hello to your dad?" queried Cheyenne. 

"Sure! Only I was lookin' at that Luger gun--"

Jimmy shook hands perfunctorily with his father and turned to Bartley, expectancy in his gaze. 

Bartley reloaded the gun and handed it to the boy, who straightawayselected the juniper stump and blazed away. Bartley watched him, asturdy youngster, brown-fisted, blue-eyed, with sandy hair, and dressedin jeans and a rowdy--a miniature cow-puncher, even to his walk. 

"Ever shoot one before?" queried Bartley as the boy gave back thepistol. 

"Nope. There's one like it, over to the store in San Andreas. It's inthe window. I never got to look at it right close. "

"Try it again, " said Bartley. 

The boy grinned. "I reckon you're rich?"

"Why?"

"'Cause you got a heap of ca'tridges. They cost money. "

"Never mind. Go ahead and shoot. "

Jimmy blazed away again and ran to see where his bullets had hit thestump. "She's a pretty fair gun, " he said as he handed it back. "But Ireckon I'll have to stick to my ole twenty-two rifle. She's gettin' woreout, but I can hit things with her, yet. I git rabbits. "

"Now, mebby you got time to tell us something about Aunt Jane and UncleFrank and Dorry, " suggested Cheyenne. 

"Why, they're all right, " said the boy. "Why didn't you stop by to ourplace instead of bushin' way up here?"

Cheyenne hesitated. "I reckon I'll be comin' over, " he said finally. 

Bartley put the Luger away. The boy turned to his father. Cheyenne'sface expressed happiness, yet Bartley was puzzled. The boy was not whatcould be termed indifferent in any sense, yet he had taken his father'spresence casually, showing no special interest in their meeting. And whyhad Cheyenne never mentioned the boy? Bartley surmised that there wassome good reason for Cheyenne's silence on that subject--and because itwas obvious that there was a good reason, Bartley accepted theyoungster's presence in a matter-of-fact manner, as though he had knownall along that Cheyenne had a son. In fact, Cheyenne had not stopped tothink about it at all. If he had, he would have reasoned that Bartleyhad heard about it. Almost every one in Arizona knew that Cheyenne hadbeen married and had separated from his wife. 

"That would be a pretty good gun to git hoss-thieves with, " asserted theboy, still thinking of the Luger. 

"What do you know about hoss-thieves?" queried Cheyenne. 

"You think I didn't see you was ridin' different hosses!" said Jimmy. "Mebby you think I don't know where Josh and Filaree are. "

"You quit joshin' your dad, " said Cheyenne. 

"I ain't joshin' _nobody_. Ole 'Clubfoot' Sneed, over by there'savation's got Josh and Filaree. I seen 'em in his corral, yesterday. I was up there, huntin'. "

"Did you talk to him?" queried Cheyenne. 

"Nope. He just come out of his cabin an' told me to fan it. I wasn'tdoin' nothin'. He said it was against the law to be huntin' up there. Mebby he don't hunt when he feels like it!"

"Did you tell Uncle Frank?"

"Yep. Wish I hadn't. He says for me to stay away from the highcountry--and not to ride by Sneed's place any more. "

Cheyenne turned to Bartley. "I done made one guess right, " he said. 

"You goin' to kill Sneed?" queried young Jim enthusiastically. 

"Nobody's goin' to get killed. But I aim to git my hosses. "

Cheyenne turned to Jimmy. "You ride over and tell Uncle Frank and AuntJane that me and Mr. Bartley'll be over after we eat. "

"Will you sing that 'Git Along' song for me, dad?"

"You bet!"

"But why don't you come over and eat to our place? You always stop by, every time you ride down this way, " said Jimmy. 

"You ride right along, like I told you, or you'll be late for yoursupper. "

Little Jim climbed into the saddle, and, turning to cast a lingering andhopeful glance at Bartley, --a glance which suggested the possibilitiesof further practice with the Luger gun, --he rode away, a manful figure, despite his size. 

"They're bringin' my kid up right, " said Cheyenne, as though inexplanation of something about which he did not care to talk. 

CHAPTER XIII

AT AUNT JANE'S

Aunt Jane Lawrence was popular with the young folks of the district, notalone because she was a good cook, but because she was a sort of fostermother to the entire community. The young ladies of the communitybrought to Aunt Jane their old hats and dresses, along with their loveaffairs, petty quarrels, and youthful longings. A clever woman atneedlework, she was often able to remodel the hats and "turn" thedresses so that they would serve a second season or maybe a third. 

The love affairs, petty quarrels, and youthful longings were not alwaysso easy to remodel, even when they needed it: but Aunt Jane managedwell. She had much patience and sympathy. She knew the community, and sowas often able to help her young friends without conflicting withpaternal or maternal views. Hat-trimming and dressmaking were reallyonly incidental to her real purpose in life, which was to help youngfolks realize their ideals, when such ideals did not lead too far fromeveryday responsibilities. 

Yet, with all her capabilities, her gentle wisdom, and her unobtrusivesympathy, she was unable to influence her Brother Jim--known by everyone as "Cheyenne"--toward a settled habit of life. So it became herfondest desire to see that Cheyenne's boy, Little Jim, should be broughtup in a home that he would always cherish and respect. Aunt Jane'shusband Frank Lawrence, had no patience with Cheyenne's aimlessmeanderings. Frank Lawrence was a hard-working, silent nonentity. AuntJane was the real manager of the ranch, and incidentally of Little Jim, and her husband was more than content that it should be so. 

Occasionally Aunt Jane gave a dance at her home. The young folks of thevalley came, had a jolly time, and departed, some of them on horseback, some in buckboards, and one or two of the more well-to-do in that smallbut aggressive vehicle which has since become a universal odor in thenostrils of the world. 

Little Jim detested these functions which entailed his best clothes andhis best behavior. He did not like girls, and looked down with scornupon young men who showed any preference for the sex feminine. He madebut two exceptions to this hard-baked rule: his Aunt Jane, and her youngfriend who lived on the neighboring ranch, Dorothy. Little Jim calledher Dorry because it sounded like a boy's name. And he liked Dorrybecause she could ride, and shoot with a twenty-two rifle almost as wellas he could. Then, she didn't have a beau, which was the main thing. Once he told her frankly that if she ever got a beau, he--Jimmy--wasgoing to quit. 

"Quit what?" asked Dorothy, smiling. 

Little Jim did not know just what he was going to quit, but he hadimagination. 

"Why, quit takin' you out huntin' and campin' and showin' you how totell deer tracks from goat's tracks--and everything. "

"But I have a beau, " said Dorothy teasingly. 

"Who is he?" demanded Little Jim. 

"Promise you won't tell?"

Little Jim hesitated. He did not consider it quite the thing to promisea girl anything. But he was curious. "Uh-huh, " he said. 

"Jimmy Hastings!" said Dorothy, laughing at his expression. 

"That ain't fair!" blurted Little Jim. "I ain't nobody's beau. Shucks!Now you gone and spoiled all the fun. "

"I was only teasing you, Jimmy. " And she patted Little Jim's tousledhead. He wriggled away and smoothed down his hair. 

"I can beat you shootin' at tin cans, " he said suddenly, to change thesubject. 

Shooting at tin cans was much more interesting than talking about beaux. 

"I have to help Aunt Jane get supper, " said Dorothy, who had beeninvited to stay for supper that evening. In fact, she was often at theHastings ranch, a more than welcome guest. 

Jimmy scowled. Dorry was always helping Aunt Jane make dresses or trimhats, or get supper. A few minutes later Little Jim was out back of thebarn, scowling over the sights of his twenty-two at a tomato can a fewyards away. He fired and punctured the can. 

"Plumb center!" he exclaimed. "You think you're her beau, do you? Well, that's what you get. And if I see you around this here ranch, just even_lookin'_ at her, I'll plug you again. " Jimmy was romancing, with therecently discussed subject of beaux in mind. 

When Little Jim informed the household that his father and another manwere coming over, that evening, Uncle Frank asked who the other man was. Little Jim described Bartley and told about the wonderful Luger gun. 

"My dad is huntin' his hosses, " he said. "And I know who's got 'em!"

"Was the other man a deputy?" queried Uncle Frank. 

"He didn't have a badge on him. He kind of acted like everything was ajoke--shootin' at that stump, and everything. He wasn't mad at nobody. And he looked kind of like a dude. "

Little Jim meanwhile amused himself by trying to rope the family catwith a piece of clothesline. Uncle Frank, who took everything seriously, asked Little Jim if he had told his father where the horses were. 

"Sure I told him. Wouldn't you? They're dad's hosses, Filaree and Josh. I guess he'll make ole Clubfoot Sneed give 'em back!"

"You want to be careful what you say about Mr. Sneed, Jimmy. And don'tyou go to ridin' over that way again. We aim to keep out of trouble. "

Little Jim had succeeded in noosing the cat's neck. That sadly molestedanimal jumped, rolled over, and clawed at the rope, and left hurriedlywith the bit of clothesline trailing in its wake. 

"I got to git that cat afore he hangs himself, " stated Little Jim, diving out of the house and heading for the barn. Thus he avoidedacknowledging his uncle's command to stay away from Sneed's place. 

Supper was over and the dishes were washed and put away when Cheyenneand Bartley appeared. Clean-shaven, his dark hair brushed smoothly, asmall, dark-blue, silk muffler knotted loosely about his throat, and ina new flannel shirt and whipcord riding-breeches--which he wore underhis jeans when on the trail--Bartley pretty well approximated LittleJim's description of him as a dude. And the word "dude" was commonlyused rather to differentiate an outlander from a native than in anexactly scornful sense. Without a vestige of self-consciousness, Bartleymade himself felt as a distinct entity, physically fit and mentallyalert. Cheyenne, with his cow-puncher gait and his generalhappy-go-lucky attitude, furnished a strong contrast to the trim andwell-poised Easterner. Dorothy was quick to appreciate this. She thoughtthat she rather liked Bartley. He was different from the young men whomshe knew. Bartley was pleased with her direct and natural manner ofanswering his many questions about Western life. 

Presently he found himself talking about his old home in Kentucky, andthe thorough-bred horses of the Blue Grass. The conversation drifted tobooks and plays, but never once did it approach the subject of guns--andLittle Jim, who had hoped that the subject of horse-thieves might bebroached, felt altogether out of the running. 

He waited patiently, for a while. Then during a lull in the talk hementioned Sneed's name. 

"Jimmy!" reprimanded his Uncle Frank. 

"Yes, sir?"

Uncle Frank merely gestured, significantly. 

Little Jim subsided, frowning, and making a face at Dorothy, who wassmiling at him. It seemed mighty queer that, when _he_ "horned in, " hisAunt Jane or his uncle always said "Jimmy!" in that particular tone. Butwhen any of the grown-ups interrupted, no one said a word. However, Bartley was not blind to Little Jim's attitude of forced silence, andpresently Bartley mentioned the subject of guns, much to Little Jim'sjoy. Little Jim worked round to the subject of twenty-two rifles, intimating that his own single-shot rifle was about worn out. 

Uncle Frank heard and promptly changed the subject. Little Jim wasdisgusted. A boy just wouldn't talk when other folks were talking, andhe couldn't talk when they were not. What was the use of living, anyhow, if you had to go around without talking at all, except when somebodyasked you if you had forgotten to close the lane gate and had let thestock get into the alfalfa--and you had to say that you had?

However, Little Jim had his revenge. When Aunt Jane proffered apple pie, later in the evening, Jimmy prefixed his demand for a second piece withthe statement that he knew there was another uncut pie in the kitchen, because Aunt Jane had said maybe his dad would eat half a one, and thenask for more. 

This gentle insinuation brought forth a sharp reprimand from UncleFrank. But Jimmy had looked before he leaped. 

"Well, Aunt Jane said so. Didn't you, Aunt Jane?"

Whereat every one laughed, including the gentle Aunt Jane. And Jimmy gothis second piece of pie. 

After the company had found itself, Uncle Frank, Cheyenne, and Bartleyforgathered out on the veranda and talked about the missing horses. Little Jim sat silently on the steps, hoping that the talk would swinground to where he could have his say. If he had not discovered themissing horses, how would his father know where they were? It did notseem exactly fair to Little Jim that he should be ignored in the matter. 

"I'd just ride over and talk with Sneed, " suggested Uncle Frank. 

"Oh, I'll do that, all right, " asserted Cheyenne. 

"But I'd go slow. You might talk like your stock had strayed and youwere looking for them. Sneed and Panhandle Sears are pretty thick. I'dstart easy, if I was in your boots. "

This from the cautious Uncle Frank. 

"But you'd go get 'em, if they happened to be your hosses, " saidCheyenne. "You're always tellin' me to step light and go slow. I reckonyou expect me to sing and laugh and josh and take all the grief that'scomin' and forget it. "

"No, " said Uncle Frank deliberately. "If they was my hosses, I'd rideover and get 'em. But I can't step into your tangle. If I did, Sneedwould just nacherally burn us out, some night. There's only two ways tohandle a man like Clubfoot Sneed: one is to kill him, and the other isto leave him alone. And it's got to be one or the other when you live asclose to the hills as we do. I aim to leave him alone, unless he triesto ride me. "

"Which means that you kind of think I ought to let the hosses go, forfear of gettin' you in bad. "

Uncle Frank shook his head, but said nothing. Bartley smoked a cigar andlistened to the conversation that followed. Called upon by Uncle Frankfor his opinion, Bartley hesitated, and then said that, if the horseswere his, he would be tempted to go and get them, regardless ofconsequences. Bartley's stock went up, with Little Jim, right there. 

Cheyenne turned to Uncle Frank. "I'm ridin' over to Clubfoot's wikiupto-morrow mornin'. I'll git my hosses, or git him. And I'm ridin'alone. "

Little Jim, meanwhile, had been raking his mind for an idea as to how hemight attract attention. He disappeared. Presently he appeared in frontof the veranda with the end of a long rope in his fist. He blinked andgrinned. 

"What's on the other end of that rope?" queried Uncle Frank, immediatelysuspicious. 

"Nothin' but High-Tail. "

"I thought I told you not to rope that calf, " said Uncle Frank, rising. 

"I didn't. I jest held my loop in front of some carrots and High-Tailshoves his head into it. Then I says, 'Whoosh!' and he jumps back--and Ihung on. "

"How in Sam Hill did you get him here?" queried Uncle Frank. 

"Jest held a carrot to his nose--and he walked along tryin' to get it. "

"Well you shake off that loop and haze him back into the corral. "

High-Tail, having eaten the carrot, decided to go elsewhere. He backedaway and blatted. Little Jim took a quick dally round a veranda post. High-Tail plunged and fought the rope. 

"Turn him loose!" cried Uncle Frank. 

"What's the matter?" said Aunt Jane, appearing in the doorway. 

Little Jim eased off the dally, but clung to the rope. High-Tail whirledand started for the corral. Little Jim set back on his heels, but LittleJim was a mere item in High-Tail's wild career toward freedom. A patterof hoofs in the dark, and Little Jim and the calf disappeared around thecorner of the barn. 

Cheyenne laughed and rose, following Uncle Frank to the corral. Whenthey arrived, High-Tail had made his third round of the corral, withJimmy still attached to the rope. Cheyenne managed to stop the calf andthrow off the noose. 

Little Jim rose and gazed wildly around. He was one color, from head tofoot--and it was a decidedly local color. His jeans were torn and hiscotton shirt was in rags, but his grit was unsifted. 

"D-didn't I hang to him, dad?" he inquired enthusiastically. 

"You sure did!" said Cheyenne. 

With a pail of hot water, soap, and fresh raiment, Aunt Jane undertookto make Little Jim's return to the heart of the family as agreeable aspossible to all concerned. 

"Isn't he hurt?" queried Bartley. 

"Not if he doesn't know it, " stated Cheyenne. 

CHAPTER XIV

ANOTHER GAME

Cheyenne knew enough about Sneed, by reputation, to make him cautious. He decided to play ace for ace--and, if possible, steal the stolenhorses from Sneed. The difficulty was to locate them without being seen. Little Jim had said the horses were in Sneed's corral, somewhere up inthe mountain meadows. And because Cheyenne knew little about thatparticular section of the mountains, he rolled a blanket and packed someprovisions to see him through. Bartley and he had returned to their campafter their visit to the ranch, and next morning, as Cheyenne madepreparation to ride, Bartley offered to go with him. 

Cheyenne dissuaded Bartley from accompanying him, arguing that he couldtravel faster and more cautiously alone. "One man ridin' in to Sneed'scamp wouldn't look as suspicious as two, " said Cheyenne. "And if Ithought you could help any, I'd say to come along. That's on the square. Me and my little old carbine will make out, I guess. "

So Bartley, somewhat against his inclination, stayed in camp, with theunderstanding that, if Cheyenne did not return in two days, he was toreport the circumstance to the authorities in San Andreas, the principaltown of the valley. 

Meanwhile, the regular routine prevailed at the Lawrence ranch. UncleFrank had the irrigation plant to look after; and Aunt Jane was immersedin the endless occupation of housekeeping. Little Jim had his regularlight tasks to attend to, and that morning he made short work of them. It was not until noon that Aunt Jane missed him. He had disappearedcompletely, as had his saddle-pony. 

At first, Jimmy had thought of riding over to his father's camp, but hewas afraid his father would guess his intent and send him back home. Sohe tied his pony to a clump of junipers some distance from the camp, and, crawling to a rise, he lay and watched Cheyenne saddle up and takethe trail that led into the high country. A half-hour later, Jimmymounted his pony and, riding wide of the camp, he cut into the hilltrail and followed it on up through the brush to the hillside timber. Heplanned to ride until he got so far into the mountains that when he didovertake his father and offer his assistance in locating the stolenhorses, it would hardly seem worth while to send him back. Jimmyexpected to be ordered back, but he had his own argument ready in thatevent. 

Little Jim's pony carried him swiftly up the grade. Meanwhile, Cheyennehad traveled rather slowly, saving his horse. At a bend in the trail hedrew rein to breathe the animal. On the lookout for any moving thing, heglanced back and down--and saw an old black hat bobbing along throughthe brush below. He leaned forward and peered down. "The little cuss!"he exclaimed, grinning. Then his expression changed. "Won't do, a-tall!His aunt will be havin' fits--and Miss Dorry'll be helpin' her to have'em, if she hears of it. Dog-gone that boy!"

Nevertheless, Cheyenne was pleased. His boy had sand, and likedadventure. Little Jim might have stayed in camp, with Bartley, and spenta joyous day shooting at a mark, incidentally hinting to the Easternerthat "his ole twenty-two was about worn out. " But Little Jim had chosento follow his father into the hills. 

"Reckon he figures to see what'll happen, " muttered Cheyenne as he ledhis horse off the trail and waited for Jimmy to come up. 

Little Jim's black hat bobbed steadily up the switchbacks. Presently hewas on the stretch of trail at the end of which his father waited, concealed in the brush. 

As Little Jim's pony approached the bend it pricked its ears andsnorted. "Git along, you!" said Jimmy. 

"Where you goin'?" queried Cheyenne, stepping out on the trail. 

Little Jim gazed blankly at his father. "I'm just a-ridin'. I wa'n'tgoin' no place. "

"Well, you took the wrong trail to get there. You fan it back to thefolks. "

"Aunt Jane is my boss!" said Jimmy defiantly. "'Course she is, " agreedCheyenne. "You and me, we're just pardners. But, honest, Jimmy, youcan't do no good, doggin' along after me. Your Aunt Jane would surestretch my hide if she knowed I let you come along. "

"I won't tell her. "

"But she'd find out. You just ride back and wait down at my camp. I'llfind them hosses, all right. "

Little Jim hesitated, twisting his fingers in his pony's mane. "Suppose, " he ventured, "that a bunch of Sneed's riders was to run on toyou? You'd sure need help. "

"That's just it! Supposin' they did? And supposin' they took a crack atus, they might git you--for you sure look man-size, a little piece off. "

Jimmy grinned at the compliment, but compliments could not alter hispurpose. "I got my ole twenty-two loaded, " he asserted hopefully. 

"Then you just ride back and help Mr. Bartley take care of the hosses. He ain't much of a hand with stock. "

"Can't I go with you?"

"Not this trip, son. But I'll tell you somethin'. Mr. Bartley, downthere, said to me this mornin' that he was goin' to buy you a brand-newtwenty-two rifle, one of these days: mebby after we locate the hosses. You better have a talk with him about it. "

This _was_ a temptation to ride back: yet Jimmy had set his heart ongoing with his father. And his father had said that he was simply goingto ride up to Sneed's place and have a talk with him. Jimmy wanted tohear that talk. He knew that his father meant business when he had toldhim to go back. 

"All right for you!" said Jimmy finally. And he reined his pony roundand rode back down the trail sullenly, his black hat pulled over hiseyes, and his small back very straight and stiff. 

Cheyenne watched him until the brush of the lower levels intervened. Then Cheyenne began the ascent, his eye alert, his mind upon the taskahead. When Little Jim realized that his father was so far into thetimber that the trail below was shut from view, he reined his pony roundagain and began to climb the grade, slowly, this time, for fear that hemight overtake his father too soon. 

Riding the soundless upland trail that meandered among the spruce andpine, skirting the edges of the mountain meadows and keeping within thetimber, Cheyenne finally reached the main ridge of the range. Occasionally he dismounted and examined the tracks of horses. 

It was evident that Sneed had quite a bunch of horses running in themeadows. Presently Cheyenne came to a narrow trail which crossed ameadow. At the far end of the trail, close to the timber, was a spring, fenced with poles. The spring itself was boxed, and roundabout were themarks of high-heeled boots. Cheyenne realized that he must be close toSneed's cabin. He wondered if he had been seen. 

If he had, the only thing to do was to act natural. He was now too closeto a habitation--although he could see none--to do otherwise. So hedismounted and, tying his horse to the spring fence, he stepped throughthe gate and picked up the rusted tin cup and dipped it in the coldmountain water. He had the cup halfway to his lips when his horsenickered. From somewhere in the brush came an answering nicker. Cheyenne, kneeling, threw the water from the cup as though he haddiscovered dirt in it, and dipped the cup again. 

Behind him he heard his horse moving restlessly. As Cheyenne raised thecup to drink, he half closed his eyes, and glancing sideways, caught aglimpse of a figure standing near the upper end of the spring fence. Cheyenne drank, set down the cup, and, rising, turned his back on thefigure, and, stretching his arms, yawned heartily. He strode to hishorse, untied the reins, mounted, and began to sing:

 Seems like I don't get anywhere Git along, cayuse, git along! But we're leavin' here and--

"What's your hurry?" came from behind him. 

Cheyenne turned and glanced back. "Hello, neighbor! Now, if I'd 'a'knowed you was around, I'd 'a' asked you to have a drink with me. "

A tall, heavy-set mountain man, bearded, and limping noticeably, steppedround the end of the spring fence and strode toward him. From UncleFrank's description, Cheyenne at once recognized the stranger as Sneed. Across Sneed's left arm lay a rifle. Cheyenne saw him let down thehammer as he drew near. 

"Where you headed?" queried Sneed. 

"Me, I'm lookin' for Bill Sneed's cabin. You ain't Sneed, are you?"

"Yes, I'm Sneed. "

"Well, I'm in luck. I'm Cheyenne Hastings. "

"That don't buy you nothin' around here. What do you want to see meabout?"

"Why, I done lost a couple of hosses the other night. I reckon somethin'stampeded 'em, for they never strayed far from camp before. I trailed'em up to the hills and then lost their tracks on the rocks. Thought I'dride up and see if you had seen 'em--a little ole buckskin and a gray. "

Sneed waved his hand toward the east. "My corrals are over there. You'rewelcome to look my stock over. "

"Thanks. This way, you said?"

"Straight ahead. "

Cheyenne hesitated, hoping that Sneed would take the lead. But themountain man merely gestured again and followed Cheyenne through a patchof timber, and across another meadow--and Cheyenne caught a glimpse ofthe ridge of a cabin roof, and smoke above it. Close to the cabin was alarge pole corral. Cheyenne saw the backs of Filaree and Joshua, amongthe other horses, long before he came to the corral. Yet, not wishing toappear too eager, he said nothing until he arrived at the corner of thefence. 

Then he turned and pointed. "Them's my hosses--the gray and thebuckskin. I'm mighty glad you caught 'em up. "

Sneed nodded. "One of my boys found them in with a bunch of my stock andrun them in here. "

A few rods from the corral stood the cabin, larger than Cheyenne hadimagined, and built of heavy logs, with a wide-roofed porch runningacross the entire front. On the veranda lay several saddles. Tied to thehitch rail stood two chunky mountain ponies that showed signs of recenthard use. 

Cheyenne smiled as he turned toward Sneed. "You got a mighty snughomestead up here, neighbor. "

"Tie your horse and step in, " invited Sneed. 

"He'll stand, " said Cheyenne, dismounting and dropping the reins. 

Cheyenne was in the enemy's country. But he trusted to his ability toplay up to his reputation for an easy-going hobo to get him out again, without trouble. He appeared unaware of the covert suspicion with whichSneed watched his every movement. 

"Meet the boys, " said Sneed as they entered the cabin. 

Cheyenne nodded to the four men who sat playing cards at a long table inthe main room. They returned his nod indifferently and went on withtheir game. Cheyenne pretended an interest in the game, meanwhilestudying the visible characteristics of the players. One and all theywere hard-boiled, used to the open, rough-spoken, and indifferent toCheyenne's presence. 

Sneed stepped to the kitchen and pulled the coffee-pot to the front ofthe stove. Finally Cheyenne strolled out to the veranda and seatedhimself on the long bench near the doorway. He picked up a stick andbegan to whittle, and as he whittled his gaze traveled from the logstable to the corral, and from there to the edge of the clearing. Heheard Sneed speak to one of the men in a low voice. Cheyenne slipped hisknife into his pocket and his fingers touched the pair of dice. 

He drew out the dice and rattled them. "Go 'way, you snake eyes!" hechanted as he threw the dice along the bench. "Little Jo, where youbushin' out? You sure are bashful!" He threw again. "Roll on, youbox-car! I don't like you, nohow! Nine? Nine? Five and a four! Six and athree! Just as easy!"

Sneed came to the doorway and glanced at Cheyenne, who continuedshooting craps with himself, oblivious to Sneed's muttered comment. Sneed turned and stepped in. "Crazy as a hoot owl, " he said as one ofthe card-players glanced up. 

Cheyenne picked up the dice and listened. He heard Sneed steppingheavily about the kitchen, and he heard an occasional and vividexclamation from one of the card-players. He glanced at the distant edgeof timber. He shook his head. "Can't make it!" he declared, and again hethrew the dice. 

One of the cubes rolled off the bench. He stooped and picked it up. Ashe straightened, he stared. Just at the edge of the timber he saw LittleJim's pony, and Little Jim's black hat. Some one in the cabin pushedback a chair. Evidently the card game was finished. 

Then Cheyenne heard Sneed's voice: "Just lay off that game, if you wantto eat. Come and get it. "

Wondering what Little Jim was up to, Cheyenne turned and walked into thecabin. "Guess I'll wash up, first, " he said, gazing about as thoughlooking for the wherewithal to wash. He knew well enough where the basinwas. He had noticed it out by the kitchen door, when he rode up to thecabin. Sneed told him where to find the basin. Cheyenne stepped roundthe cabin. Covertly he glanced toward the edge of the timber. Little Jimhad disappeared. 

Entering the cabin briskly, Cheyenne took his place at the table and ateheartily. 

Lawson, who seemed to be Sneed's right-hand man, was the first to speakto him. "Bill tells me you are huntin' hosses. "

"Yep! That little gray and the buckskin, out in your corral, are myhosses. They strayed--"

"Didn't see no brand on 'em, " declared Lawson. 

"Nope. They never was branded. I raised 'em both, when I was workin' forSenator Steve, over to the Box-S. "

"That sounds all right. But you got to show me. I bought them cayusesfrom a Chola, down in the valley. "

Cheyenne suspected that Lawson was trying to create argument and, in sodoing, open up a way to make him back down and leave or take theconsequences of his act in demanding the horses. 

"Honest, they're my hosses, " declared Cheyenne, turning to Sneed. 

"You'll have to talk to Lawson, " said Sneed. 

Cheyenne frowned and scratched his head. Suddenly his face brightened. "Tell you what I'll do! I'll shoot you craps for 'em. "

"That's all right, but what'll you put up against 'em?" asked Lawson. 

"What did you pay for 'em?" queried Cheyenne. 

"Fifty bucks. "

"You got 'em cheap. They're worth that much to me. " Cheyenne pushed backhis chair and, fishing in his jeans, dug up a purse. "Here's my fifty. As soon as you get through eatin' we'll shoot for the ponies. "

Lawson, while finishing his meal, made up his mind that Cheyenne wouldnot get away with that fifty dollars, game or no game; and, also, thathe would not get the horses. Cheyenne knew this--knew the kind of man hewas dealing with. But he had a reason to keep the men in the cabin. Little Jim was out there somewhere, and up to something. If any of themen happened to catch sight of Little Jim, they would suspect Cheyenneof some trickery. Moreover, if Little Jim were caught--but Cheyennerefused to let himself think of what might happen in that event. 

Cheyenne threw the dice on the table as Lawson got up. "Go ahead andshoot. "

"Show me what I got to beat, " said Lawson. 

"All right. Watch 'em close. "

Cheyenne gathered up the dice and threw. Calling his point, he snappedhis fingers and threw again. The men crowded round, momentarilyinterested in Cheyenne's sprightly monologue. Happening to glancethrough the doorway as he gathered up the dice for another throw, Cheyenne noticed that his horse had turned and was standing, with earsand eyes alert, looking toward the corral. 

Cheyenne tossed up the dice, caught them and purposely made a wildthrow. One of the little cubes shot across the table and clattered onthe floor. Cheyenne barely had time to glance through the kitchendoorway and the window beyond as he recovered the cube. But he had seenthat the corral bars were down and that the corral was empty. Quickly heresumed his place at the table and threw again, meanwhile talkingsteadily. He had not made his point nor had he thrown a seven. Sweatprickled on his forehead. Little Jim had seen his father's horses andknew that the men were in the cabin. With the rashness of boyhood he hadsneaked up to the corral, dropped the bars, and had then flung pinecones at the horses, starting them to milling and finally to a dashthrough the gateway and out into the meadow. 

Cheyenne brushed his arm across his face. "Come on you, Filaree!" hechanted. 

Somebody would be mightily surprised when the ownership of Filaree andJoshua was finally decided. Unwittingly, Little Jim had placed hisfather in a still more precarious position. Sneed and his men, findingthe corral empty, would naturally conclude that Cheyenne had kept thembusy while some friend had run off the horses. Cheyenne knew the riskshe ran; but, above all, he wanted to prolong the game until Little Jimgot safely beyond reach of Sneed's men. As for himself--

Again Cheyenne threw, but he did not make his point, nor throw a seven. He threw several times; and still he did not make his point. Finally hemade his point. Smiling, he gathered up his money and tucked it in hispocket. 

"I reckon that settles it, " he said cheerfully. 

Sneed and Lawson exchanged glances. Cheyenne, rolling a cigarette, drewa chair toward them and sat down. He seemed at home, and altogetherfriendly. One of the men picked up a deck of cards and suggested a game. Sneed lighted his pipe and stepped to the kitchen to get a drink ofwater. Cheyenne glanced casually round the cabin, drew his feet underhimself, and jumped for the doorway. He heard Sneed drop the dipper andknew that Sneed would pick up something else, and quickly. 

Cheyenne made the saddle on the run, reined toward the corral, and, passing it on the run, turned in the saddle to glance back. Sneed was inthe doorway. Cheyenne jerked his horse to one side and dug in the spurs. Sneed's rifle barked and a bullet whined past Cheyenne's head. Hecrouched in the saddle. Again a bullet whistled across the sunlitclearing. The cow-horse was going strong. A tree flicked past, thenanother and another. 

Cheyenne straightened in the saddle and glanced back through the timber. He saw a jumble of men and horses in front of the cabin. "They got justtwo hosses handy, and they're rode down, " he muttered as he sped throughthe shadows of the forest. 

Across another sun-swept meadow he rode, and into the timber again--andbefore he realized it he was back on the mountain trail that led to thevalley. He took the first long, easy grade on the run, checked at theswitchback, and pounded down the succeeding grade, still under cover ofthe hillside timber, but rapidly nearing the more open country of brushand rock. 

As he reined in at the second switchback he saw, far below, and going ata lively trot, seven or eight horses, and behind them, hazing them alongas fast as the trail would permit, Little Jim. 

"If Sneed's outfit gets to the rim before he makes the next turn, they'll get him sure, " reasoned Cheyenne. 

He thought of turning back and trying to stop Sneed's men. He thought ofturning his horse loose and ambushing the mountainmen, afoot. ButCheyenne did not want to kill. His greatest fear was that Little Jimmight get hurt. As he hesitated, a rifle snarled from the rim above, andhe saw Little Jim's horse flinch and jump forward. 

"I reckon it's up to us, old Steel Dust, " he said to his horse. 

Hoping to draw the fire of the men above, he eased his horse round thenext bend and then spurred him to a run. Below, Little Jim was joggingalong, within a hundred yards or so of the bend that would screen himfrom sight. Realizing that he could never make the next turn on the run, Cheyenne gripped with his knees, and leaned back to meet the shock asSteel Dust plunged over the end of the turn and crashed through thebrush below. A slug whipped through the brush and clipped a twig infront of the horse. 

Steel Dust swerved and lunged on down through the heavy brush. A nakedcreek-bed showed white and shimmering at the bottom of the slope. Againa slug whined through the sunlight and Cheyenne's hat spun from his headand settled squarely on a low bush. It was characteristic of Cheyennethat he grabbed for his hat--and got it as he dashed past. 

"Keep the change, " said Cheyenne as he ducked beneath a branch andstraightened up again. He was almost to the creek-bed, naked to thesunlight, and a bad place to cross with guns going from above. He pulledup, slipped from his horse, and slapped him on the flank. 

The pony leaped forward, dashed across the creek-bed, and cut into thetrail beyond. A bullet flattened to a silver splash on a boulder. Another bullet shot a spurt of sand into the air. Cheyenne crouchedtense, and then made a rush. A slug sang past his head. Heat palpitatedin the narrow draw. He gained the opposite bank, dropped, and crawledthrough the brush and lay panting, close to the trail. From above himsomewhere came the note of a bird: _Chirr-up! Chirr-up!_ Again a slugtore through the brush scattering twigs and tiny leaves on Cheyenne'shat. 

"That one didn't say, 'Cheer up!'" murmured Cheyenne. 

When he had caught his breath he crawled out and into the narrow trail. The shooting had ceased. Evidently the men were riding. Stepping roundthe shoulder of the next bend, he peered up toward the rim of the range. A tiny figure appeared riding down the first long grade, and thenanother figure. Turning, he saw his own horse quietly nipping at thegrass in the crevices of the rocks along the trail. 

He walked down to the horse slowly and caught him up. Loosening hiscarbine from the scabbard, and deeming himself lucky to have it, afterthat wild ride down the mountain, he stepped back to the angle of thebend, rested the carbine against a rocky shoulder and dropped a shot infront of the first rider, who stopped suddenly and took to cover. 

"That'll hold 'em for a spell, " said Cheyenne, stepping back. He mountedand rode on down the trail, eyeing the tracks of the horses that LittleJim was hazing toward the valley below. Cheyenne shook his head. "He'sdone run off the whole dog-gone outfit! There's nothin' stingy aboutthat kid. "

Striking to the lower level, Cheyenne cut across country to his camp. Hefound Bartley leaning comfortably back against a saddle, reading aloud, and opposite him sat Dorry, so intent upon the reading that she did nothear Cheyenne until he spoke. 

"Evenin', folks! Seen anything of Jimmy?"

"Oh--Cheyenne! No, have you?" It was Dorothy who spoke, as Bartleyclosed the book and got to his feet. 

"Was you lookin' for Jimmy's address in that there book?" queriedCheyenne, grinning broadly. 

Dorothy flushed and glanced at Bartley, who immediately changed thesubject by calling attention to Cheyenne's hat. Cheyenne also changedthe subject by stating that Jimmy had recently ridden down the trailtoward the ranch--with some horses. 

"Then you got your horses?" said Bartley. 

"I reckon they're over to the ranch about now. "

"Jimmy has been gone all day, " said Dorothy. "Aunt Jane is terriblyworried about him. "

"Jimmy and me took a little ride in the hills, " said Cheyenne casually. "But you needn't to tell Aunt Jane that Jimmy was with me. It turned outall right. "

"I rode over to your camp to look for Jimmy, " said Dorothy, "but Mr. Bartley had not seen him. "

Cheyenne nodded and reined his horse round. 

"Why, your shirt is almost ripped from your back!" said Bartley. 

"My hoss shied, back yonder, and stepped off into the brush. We kept onthrough the brush. It was shorter. "

Dorothy mounted her horse, and, nodding farewell to Bartley, accompaniedCheyenne to the ranch. When they were halfway there, Dorothy, who hadbeen riding thoughtfully along, saying nothing, turned to her companion:"Cheyenne, you had trouble up there. You might at least tell _me_ aboutit. "

"Well, Miss Dorry--" And Cheyenne told her how Jimmy had followed him, how he had sent Jimmy back, and the unexpected appearance of that younghopeful in the timber near Sneed's cabin. "I was in there, figurin' hardhow to get my hosses and get away, when, somehow, Jimmy got to thecorral and turned Sneed's stock loose and hazed 'em down the trail. Butwhere he run 'em to is the joke. I figured he would show up at our camp. It would be just like him to run the whole bunch into the ranch corral. And I reckon he done it. "

"But, Mr. Sneed!" exclaimed Dorothy. "If he finds out we had anything todo with running off his horses--"

"He never saw Jimmy clost enough to tell who he was. 'Course, Sneedknows Aunt Jane is my sister, and most he'll suspicion is that I gothelp from _some_ of my folks. But so far he don't know _who_ helped meturn the trick. "

"You don't seem to be very serious about it, " declared Dorothy. 

"Serious? Me? Why, ain't most folks serious enough without everybodybein' took that way?"

"Perhaps. But I knew something had happened the minute you rode intocamp. "

"So did I, " asserted Cheyenne, and he spoke sharply to his horse. 

Dorothy flushed. "Cheyenne, I rode over to find Jimmy. You needn't--Oh, there's Aunt Jane now! And there's Jimmy, and the corral is full ofhorses!"

"Reckon we better step along, " and Cheyenne put Steel Dust to a lope. 

CHAPTER XV

MORE PONY TRACKS

Summoned from the west end of the ranch, where he had been irrigatingthe alfalfa, Uncle Frank arrived at the house just as Cheyenne andDorothy rode up. Little Jim was excitedly endeavoring to explain to AuntJane how the corral came to be filled with strange horses. 

Uncle Frank nodded to Cheyenne and turned to Jimmy. "Where you been?"

"I was over on the mountain. "

"How did these horses get here?"

Uncle Frank's eye was stern. Jimmy hesitated. He had been forbidden togo near Sneed's place; and he knew that all that stood between a harnessstrap and his small jeans was the presence of Dorothy and Cheyenne. Itwas pretty tough to have recovered the stolen horses single-handed, andthen to take a licking for it. 

Little Jim gazed hopefully at his father. 

"Why, I was chousin' around up there, " he explained, "and I seen dad'shosses, and--and I started 'em down the trail and the whole blame bunchfollowed 'em. They was travelin' so fast I couldn't cut 'em out, so Ijust let 'em drift. Filaree and Josh just nacherally headed for thecorral and the rest followed 'em in. "

Uncle Frank gazed sternly at Jimmy. "Who told you to help your fatherget his horses?"

"Nobody. "

"Did your Aunt Jane tell you you could go over to the mountain?"

"I never asked her. "

"You trot right into the house and stay there, " said Uncle Frank. 

Little Jim cast an appealing glance at Cheyenne and walked slowly towardthe house, incidentally and unconsciously rubbing his hand across hisjeans with a sort of anticipatory movement. He bit his lip, and thetears started to his eyes. But he shook them away, wondering what hemight do to avert the coming storm. Perhaps his father would interposebetween him and the dreaded harness strap. Yet Jimmy knew that hisfather had never interfered when a question of discipline arose. 

Suddenly Little Jim's face brightened. He marched through the house tothe wash bench, and, unsolicited, washed his hands and face and soapedhis hair, after which he slicked it down carefully, so that there mightbe no mistake about his having brushed and combed it. He rather hopedthat Uncle Frank or Aunt Jane would come in just then and find him atthis unaccustomed task. It might help. 

Meanwhile, Cheyenne and his brother-in-law had a talk, outside. Dorothyand Aunt Jane retired to the veranda, talking in low tones. PresentlyLittle Jim, who could stand the strain no longer, --the jury seemed along time at arriving at a verdict, --appeared on the front veranda, hatless, washed, and his hair fearfully and wonderfully brushed andcombed. 

"Why, Jimmy!" exclaimed Dorothy. 

Jimmy fidgeted and glanced away bashfully. Presently he stole to hisAunt Jane's side. 

"Am I goin' to get a lickin'?" he queried. 

Aunt Jane shook her head, and patted his hand. Entrenched beside AuntJane, Jimmy watched his father and Uncle Frank as they talked by the bigcorral. Uncle Frank was gesturing toward the mountains. Cheyenne wasarguing quietly. 

"It ain't just the runnin' off of Sneed's hosses, " said Uncle Frank. "That's bad enough. But I told Jimmy to keep away from Sneed's. "

"So did I, " declared Cheyenne. "And seein' as I'm his dad, it's up to meto lick him if he's goin' to get licked. "

"Sneed is like to ride down some night and set fire to the barns, "asserted Uncle Frank. 

"Sneed don't know yet who run off his stock. And he can't say that Idid, and prove it. Now, Frank, you just hold your hosses. I'll ride overto camp and get my outfit together and come over here. Then we'll throwSteve Brown's hosses into your pasture, and I'll see that Sneed's stockis out of here, pronto. "

"That's all right. But Sneed will trail his stock down here. "

"But he won't find 'em here. And he'll never know they was in yourcorral. "

Uncle Frank shook his head doubtfully. He was a pessimist and alwaysargued the worst of a possible situation. 

"And before I'll see Jimmy take a lickin'--this trip--I'll ride back andshoot it out with Sneed and his outfit, " stated Cheyenne. 

"I reckon you're fool enough to do it, " said Uncle Frank. 

 * * * * *

An hour later Bartley and Cheyenne were at the Lawrence ranch, wherethey changed packs, saddled Filaree and Joshua, and turned the horsesborrowed from Steve Brown into Uncle Frank's back pasture. 

Little Jim watched these operations with keen interest. He wanted tohelp, but refrained for fear that he would muss up his hair--and hewanted Uncle Frank to notice his hair as it was. 

Aunt Jane hastily prepared a meal and Dorothy helped. 

In a few minutes Cheyenne and Bartley had eaten, and were ready for theroad. Cheyenne stepped up and shook hands with Jimmy, as though Jimmywere a grown-up. Jimmy felt elated. There was no one just like hisfather, even if folks did say that Cheyenne Hastings could do betterthan ride around the country singing and joking with everybody. 

"And don't forget to stop by when you come back, " said Aunt Jane, bidding farewell to Bartley. 

Dorothy shook hands with the Easterner and wished him a pleasantjourney, rather coolly, Bartley thought. She was much more animated whenbidding farewell to Cheyenne. 

"And I won't forget to send you that rifle, " said Bartley as he noddedto Little Jim. 

Uncle Frank helped them haze Sneed's horses out of the yard on to theroad, where Cheyenne waited to head them from taking the hill trail, again. 

Just as he left, Bartley turned to Dorothy who stood twisting apomegranate bud in her fingers. "May I have it?" he asked, half in jest. 

She tossed the bud to him and he caught it. Then he spurred out afterCheyenne who was already hazing the horses down the road. Occasionallyone of the horses tried to break out and take to the hills, but Cheyennealways headed it back to the bunch, determined, for some reason unknownto Bartley, to keep the horses together and going south. 

The road climbed gradually, winding in and out among the foothills. Asthe going became stiffer, the rock outcropped and the dust settled. 

The horses slowed to a walk. Bartley wondered why his companion seemeddetermined to drive Sneed's stock south. He thought it would be just aswell to let them break for the hills, and not bother with them. ButCheyenne offered no explanation. He evidently knew what he was about. 

To their right lay the San Andreas Valley across which the long, slanting shadows of sunset crept slowly. Still Cheyenne kept the bunchof horses going briskly, when the going permitted speed. Just over arise they came suddenly upon an Apache, riding a lean, active painthorse. Cheyenne pulled up and talked with the Indian. The lattergrinned, nodded, and, jerking his pony round, rode after the horses asthey drifted ahead. Bartley saw the Apache bunch the animals again, andturn them off the road toward the hills. 

"Didn't expect to meet up with luck, so soon, " declared Cheyenne. "Ifigured to turn Sneed's hosses loose when I'd got 'em far enough fromthe ranch. But that Injun'll take care of 'em. Sneed ain't popular withthe Apaches. Sneed's cabin is right clost to the res'avation line. "

"What will the Indian do with the horses?" queried Bartley. 

"Most like trade 'em to his friends. "

Bartley gestured toward a spot of green far across the valley. "Lookslike a town, " he said. 

"San Andreas--and that's where we stop, to-night. No campin' in thebrush for me while Sneed is ridin' the country lookin' for his stock. Itwouldn't be healthy. "

CHAPTER XVI

SAN ANDREAS TOWN

A sleepy town, that paid little attention to the arrival or departure ofstrangers, San Andreas in the valley merely rubbed its eyes and dozedagain as Cheyenne and Bartley rode in, put up their horses at thelivery, and strolled over to the adobe hotel where they engaged roomsfor the night. 

Bartley was taken by the picturesque simplicity of the place, and nextmorning he suggested that they stay a few days and enjoy the advantageof having some one other than themselves cook their meals and make theirbeds. The hotel, a relic of old times, with its patio and long portal, its rooms whose lower floors were on the ground level, its unpretentiousspaciousness, appealed strongly to Bartley as something unusual in theway of a hostelry. It seemed restful, romantic, inviting. It was a placewhere a man might write, dream, loaf, and smoke. Then, incidentally, itwas not far from the Lawrence ranch, which was not far from the home ofa certain young woman whom Little Jim called "Dorry. "

Bartley thought that Dorothy was rather nice--in fact, singularlyinteresting. He had not imagined that a Western girl could be sothoroughly domestic, natural, charming, and at the same time manage ahorse so well. He had visioned Western girls as hard-voiced horse-women, masculine, bold, and rather scornful of a man who did not wear chaps andride broncos. True, Dorothy was not like the girls in the East. Sheseemed less sophisticated--less inclined to talk small talk just for itsown sake; yet, concluded Bartley, she was utterly feminine and quiteworth while. 

Cheyenne smiled as Bartley suggested that they stay in San Andreas a fewdays; and Cheyenne nodded in the direction from which they had come. 

"I kinda like this part of the country, myself, " he said, "but I hate tospend all my money in one place. "

Bartley suddenly realized that his companion, was nothing more than ariding hobo, a vagrant, without definite means of support, anddisinclined to stay in any one place long. 

"I'll take care of the expenses, " said Bartley. 

Cheyenne smiled, but shook his head. "It ain't that, right now. Me, Igot to shoot that there game of craps with Panhandle, and I figure hewon't ride this way. "

"But you have recovered your horses, " argued Bartley. 

Cheyenne gestured toward the south. "I reckon I'll keep movin', pardner. And that game of craps is as good a excuse as I want. "

"I had hoped that it would be plain sailing, from now on, " declaredBartley. "I thought of stopping here only three or four days. This sortof town is new to me. "

"They's lots like it, between here and the border, " said Cheyenne. "ButI don't want no 'dobe walls between me and the sky-line, reg'lar. I canstand it for a day, mebby. "

"Well, perhaps we may agree to dissolve partnership temporarily, "suggested Bartley. "I think I'll stay here a few days, at least. "

"That's all right, pardner. I don't aim to tell no man how to live. Butme, I aim to live in the open. "

"Do you think that man Sneed will ride down this way?" queried Bartley, struck by a sudden idea. 

"That ain't why I figure to keep movin', " said Cheyenne. "But seein' asyou figure to stay, I'll stick around to-day, and light out to-morrowmornin'. Mebby you'll change your mind, and come along. "

Bartley spent the forenoon with Cheyenne, prowling about the old town, interested in its quaint unusualness. The afternoon heat drove him tothe shade of the hotel veranda, and, feeling unaccountably drowsy, hefinally went to his room, and, stretching out on the bed, fell asleep. He was awakened by Cheyenne's knock at the door. Supper was ready. 

After supper they strolled out to the street and watched the town wakeup. From down the street a ways came the sound of a guitar and singing. A dog began to howl. Then came a startled yelp, and the howl died awayin the dusk. The singing continued. A young Mexican in a blue sergesuit, tan shoes, and with a black sombrero set aslant on his head, walked down the street beside a Mexican girl, young, fat, and giggling. They passed the hotel with all the self-consciousness of being attiredin their holiday raiment. 

A wagon rattled past and stopped at the saloon a few doors down thestreet. Then a ragged Mexican, hazing two tired burros, appeared in thedim light cast from a window--a quaint silhouette that merged in thefarther shadows. Cheyenne moved his feet restlessly. 

Bartley smiled. "The road for mine, " he quoted. 

Cheyenne nodded. "Reckon I'll go see how the hosses are makin' it. "

"I'll walk over with you, " said Bartley. 

As they came out of the livery barn again, Bartley happened to glance atthe lighted doorway of the cantina opposite. From within the saloon camethe sound of glasses clinking occasionally, and voices engaged in lazyconversation. Cheyenne fingered the dice in his pocket and hummed atune. Slowly he moved toward the lighted doorway, and Bartley walkedbeside him. 

"I got a thirst, " stated Cheyenne. 

Bartley laughed. "Well, as we are about to dissolve partnership, I don'tmind taking one myself. "

"Tough joint, " declared Cheyenne as he stepped up to the doorway. 

"All the better, " said Bartley. 

A young rancher, whose team stood at the hitch-rail, nodded pleasantlyas they entered. 

"Mescal, " said Cheyenne, and he laid a silver dollar on the bar. 

Bartley glanced about the low-ceilinged room. The place, poorly lightedwith oil lamps, looked sinister enough to satisfy the most hardyadventurer, although it was supposed to be a sort of social center forthe enjoyment of vino and talk. The bar was narrow, made of some kind ofsoft wood, and painted blue. The top of it was almost paintless inpatches. 

Back of the bar a narrow shelf, also painted blue, offered a lean choiceof liquors. Several Mexicans lounged at the side tables along the wall. The young American rancher stood at the bar, drinking. The proprietor, afat, one-eyed Mexican whose face was deeply pitted from smallpox, servedBartley and Cheyenne grudgingly. The mescal was fiery stuff. Bartleycoughed as he swallowed it. 

"Why not just whiskey, and have it over with?" he queried, grinning atCheyenne. 

"Whiskey ain't whiskey, here, " Cheyenne replied. "But mescal is justwhat she says she is. I like to know the kind of poison I'm drinkin'. "

Bartley began to experience an inner glow that was not unpleasant. Oncedown, this native Mexican drink was not so bad. He laid a coin on thebar and the glasses were filled again. 

Cheyenne nodded and drank Bartley's health. Bartley suggested that theysit at one of the side tables and study the effects of mescal on thenatives present. 

"Let joy be unconfined, " said Cheyenne. 

"Where in the world did you get that?"

"Oh, I can read, " declared Cheyenne. "Before I took to ramblin', I usedto read some, nights. I reckon that's where I got the idea of makin' uppo'try, later. "

"I really beg your pardon, " said Bartley. 

"The mescal must of told you. "

"I don't quite get that, " said Bartley. 

"No? Well, you ain't the first. Josh and Filaree is the only ones thatsabes me. Let's sit in this corner and watch the mescal work for alivin'. "

It was a hot night. Sweat prickled on Bartley's forehead. His noseitched. He lit a cigar. It tasted bitter, so he asked Cheyenne fortobacco and papers, and rolled a cigarette. He inhaled a whiff, and feltmore comfortable. The Mexicans, who had ceased to talk when Bartley andCheyenne entered, were now at it again, making plenty of noise. 

Cheyenne hummed to himself and tapped the floor with his boot-heel. "She's a funny old world, " he declared. 

Bartley nodded and blew a smoke-ring. 

"Miss Dorry's sure a interestin' girl, " asserted Cheyenne. 

Bartley nodded again. 

"Kind of young and innocent-like. "

Again Bartley nodded. 

"It ain't a bad country to settle down in, for folks that likes tosettle, " said Cheyenne. 

Bartley glanced sharply at his companion. Cheyenne was gazing straightahead. His face was unreadable. 

"Now if I was the settlin' kind--" He paused and slowly turned towardBartley. "A man could raise alfalfa and chickens and kids. "

"Go ahead, " laughed Bartley. 

"I'm goin'--to-morrow mornin'. And you say you figure to stay here aspell?"

"Oh, just a few days. I imagine I shall grow tired of it. But to-night, I feel pretty well satisfied to stay right where I am. "

Cheyenne rose and strode to the bar. After a short argument with theproprietor, he returned with a bottle and glasses. Bartley raised hiseyebrows questioningly. 

"Once in a while--" And Cheyenne gestured toward the bottle. 

"It's powerful stuff, " said Bartley. 

"We ain't far from the hotel, " declared Cheyenne. And he filled theirglasses. 

"This ought to be the last, for me, " said Bartley, drinking. "But don'tlet that make any difference to you. "

Cheyenne drank and shrugged his shoulders. He leaned back and gazed atthe opposite wall. Bartley vaguely realized that the Mexicans werechattering, that two or three persons had come in, and that theatmosphere was heavy with tobacco smoke. He unbuttoned his shirt-collar. 

Presently Cheyenne twisted round in his chair. "Remember Little Jim, back at the Hastings ranch?"

"I should say so! It would be difficult to forget him. "

"Miss Dorry thinks a heap of that kid. "

"She seems to. "

"Now, I ain't drunk, " Cheyenne declared solemnly. "I sure wish I was. You know Little Jim is my boy. Well, his ma is livin' over to Laramie. She writ to me to come back to her, onct. I reckon Sears got tired ofher. She lived with him a spell after she quit me. Folks say Searstreated her like a dog. I guess I wasn't man enough, when I heardthat--"

"You mean Panhandle Sears--at Antelope?"

"Him. "

"Oh, I see!" said Bartley slowly. "And that crap game, at Antelope--Isee!"

"If Panhandle had a-jumped me, instead of you, that night, I'd 'a'killed him. Do you know why Wishful stepped in and put Sears down?Wishful did that so that there wouldn't be a killin'. That's the secondtime Sears has had his chance to git me, but he won't take that chance. That's the second time we met up since--since my wife left me. The thirdtime it'll be lights out for somebody. I ain't drunk. "

"Then Sears has got a yellow streak?"

"Any man that uses a woman rough has. When Jimmy's ma left us, I reckonI went loco. It wa'n't just her _leavin'_ us. But when I heard she hadtook up with Sears, and knowin' what he was--I just quit. I was workin'down here at the ranch, then. I went up North, figurin' to kill him. Folks thought I was yellow, for not killin' him. They think so rightnow. Mebby I am. 

"I worked up North a spell, but I couldn't stay. So I lit out and comedown South again. First time I met up with Sears was over on the Tonto. He stepped up and slapped my face, in front of a crowd, in the LoneStar. And I took it. But I told him I'd sure see him again, and give himanother chance to slap my face. 

"You see, Panhandle Sears is that kind--he's got to work himself up tokill a man. And over there at Antelope, that night, he just about knowedthat if he lifted a finger, I'd git him. He figured to start a ruckus, and then git me in the mix-up. Wishful was on, and he stopped thatchance. Folks think that because I come ridin' and singin' and joshin'that I ain't no account. Mebby I ain't. "

Cheyenne poured another drink for himself. Bartley declined to drinkagain. He was thinking of this squalid tragedy and of its possibleoutcome. The erstwhile sprightly Cheyenne held a new significance forthe Easterner. That a man could ride up and down the trails singing, andyet carry beneath it all the grim intent some day to kill a man--

Bartley felt that Cheyenne had suddenly become a stranger, an unknownquantity, a sinister jester, in fact, a dangerous man. He leaned forwardand touched Cheyenne's arm. 

"Why not give up the idea of--er--getting Sears; and settle down, andmake a home for Little Jim?"

"When Aunt Jane took him, the understandin' was that Jimmy was to beraised respectable, which is the same as tellin' me that I don't havenothin' to do with raisin' him. Me, I got to keep movin'. "

Bartley turned toward the doorway as a tall figure loomed through thehaze of tobacco smoke: a gaunt, heavy-boned man, bearded and limpingslightly. With him were several companions, booted and spurred;evidently just in from a hard ride. 

Cheyenne turned to Bartley. "That's Bill Sneed--and his crowd. I ain'tpopular with 'em--right now. "

CHAPTER XVII

THAT MESCAL

"The man who had your horses?" queried Bartley. 

Cheyenne nodded. "The one at the end of the bar. The hombre next to himis Lawson, who claims he bought my hosses from a Mexican, down here. Lawson is the one that is huntin' trouble. Sneed don't care nothin'about a couple of cayuses. He won't start anything. He's here just toback up Lawson if things git interestin'. "

"But what can they do? We're here, in town, minding our own business. They know well enough that Panhandle stole your horses. And you said thepeople in San Andreas don't like Sneed a whole lot. "

"Because they're scared of him and his crowd. And we're strangers here. It's just me and Lawson, this deal. Sneed is sizin' you up, back of hiswhiskers, right now. He's tryin' to figure out who you are. Sneed ain'tone to run into the law when they's anybody lookin' on. He worksdifferent. 

"Now, while he is figurin', you just git up easy and step out and slipover to the barn and saddle up Joshua. I'm goin' to need him. Take thetie-rope off Filaree and leave him loose in his stall. Just say 'Adios'to me when you git up, like you was goin' back to the hotel. And ifyou'll settle what we owe--"

"That's all right. But my feet aren't cold, yet. "

"You figure to stay in town a spell, don't you? Well, I figure to leave, right soon. I'm tryin' to dodge trouble. It's your chanct to help out. "

"Why can't we both walk out?"

"'Cause they'd follow us. They won't follow you. "

Bartley glanced at the men ranged along the bar, rose, and, shakinghands with Cheyenne, strode out, nodding pleasantly to the one-eyedproprietor as he went. 

Sneed eyed the Easterner sharply, and nudged one of his men as Bartleypassed through the doorway. 

"Just step out and see where he goes, Hull, " he ordered in an undertone. "Keep him in sight. "

The man spoken to hitched up his chaps, and, turning to finish hisdrink, strolled out casually. 

Bartley saw a row of saddle-horses tied at the rail. He noticed theslickers on the saddles and the carbines under the stirrup leathers. Itwas evident that the riders were not entirely on pleasure bent. Hecrossed the street, wakened the stableman, paid the bill, and saddledJoshua. Then he took the tie-rope off Filaree, as Cheyenne had directed. Bartley led Joshua through the barn to the back, where he was tying himto a wagon wheel when a figure loomed up in the semi-darkness. 

"Ridin', stranger?"

The figure struck a match and lighted a cigarette. Bartley at oncerecognized him as one of Sneed's men. Resenting the other's question andhis attitude of easy familiarity, Bartley ignored his presence. 

"Hard of hearin'?" queried Hull. 

"Rather. "

"I said: Was you ridin'?"

"Yesterday, " replied Bartley. 

Hull blew a whiff of smoke in Bartley's face. It seemed casual, but wasintended as an insult. Bartley flushed, and realizing that the other wasthere to intercept any action on his part to aid Cheyenne, he droppedJoshua's reins, and without the slightest warning of his intent--infact, Hull thought the Easterner was stooping to pick up thereins--Bartley launched a haymaker that landed with a loud crack onHull's unguarded chin, and Hull's head snapped back. Bartley jumpedforward and shot another one to the same spot. Hull's head hit the edgeof the doorway as he went down. 

He lay there, inert, a queer blur in the half-light. Bartley licked hisskinned knuckles. 

"He may resent this, when he wakes up, " he murmured. "I believe I'll tiehim. "

Bartley took Joshua's tie-rope and bound Mr. Hull's arms and legs, amateurishly, but securely. 

Then he strode through to the front of the barn. He could hear loudtalking in the saloon opposite and thought he could distinguishCheyenne's voice. Bartley wondered what would happen in there, and whenthings would begin to pop, if there was to be any popping. He feltfoolishly helpless and inefficient--rather a poor excuse for a partner, just then. Yet there was that husky rider, back there in the straw. Hewas even more helpless and inefficient. Bartley licked his knuckles, andgrinned. 

"There must have been a little mescal in that second punch, " he thought. "I never hit so hard in my life. "

The stableman had retired to his bunk--a habit of night stablemen. Thestable was dark and still, save for the munching of the horses. In thesaloon across the way Cheyenne was facing Sneed and his men, alone. Bartley felt like a quitter. Indecision irritated him, and curiosityurged him to do something other than to stand staring at the saloonfront. He recalled his plan to sojourn in San Andreas a few days, andincidently to ride over to the Lawrence ranch--frankly, to have anothervisit with Dorothy. He shrugged his shoulders. That idea now seemedinsignificant, compared with the present possibilities. 

"I'm a free agent, " he soliloquized. "I think I'll take a hand in this, myself. "

He snapped his fingers as he turned and hastened to Dobe's stall. He ledDobe out to the stable floor, got his saddle from the office, told thesleepy stableman that he was going to take a little ride, and saddledDobe. And he led Dobe back to where Joshua was tied. He had forgottenhis victim on the floor, for a moment, but was aware of him when hestumbled over him in the dark. The other mumbled and struggled faintly. 

"I left your gun in the wagon-box, " said Bartley. "I wouldn't movearound much, if I were you. One of the horses might step on your faceand hurt his foot. "

Mr. Hull was not pleased at this, and he said as much. Bartley tied Dobeto the back of the wagon. 

"Just keep your eye on the horses a minute, " he told Hull. "I'll be backsoon. "

Bartley felt unusually and inexplicably elated. He had not realized theextreme potency of mescal. The proprietor of the hotel was mildlysurprised when Bartley, remarking that he had been called awayunexpectedly, paid the hotel bill. Bartley hastened back to the stable. Across the way the horses of the mountain men drowsed in the faintlamplight. Turning, Bartley saw Joshua and Dobe dimly silhouetted in theopening at the far end of the stable. Cheyenne was still in the saloon. 

Bartley grinned. "It might help, " he said as he stepped across thestreet. Taking down the rope from the nearest horse, he tied the end ofthe rope in the horse's bridle and threaded the end through the bridlesof all five horses, tying the loose end to the last horse's bridle. "Just like stringing fish!" he murmured soulfully. "When those gentlemenfrom the interior try to mount, there'll be something doing. "

He had just turned to walk back to the stable when he heard a shot, andthe lighted doorway of the saloon became suddenly dark. Without waitingto see what would happen next, Bartley ran to the rear of the stable anduntied the horses. Behind him he heard the quick trample of feet. Heturned. A figure appeared in the front doorway of the stable, a figurethat dashed toward him, and, with a leap and a swing, mounted Joshua andspurred out and down the alley back of the building. 

Bartley grabbed for his own stirrup, missed it, grabbed again and swungup. Dobe leaped after the other horse, turned at the end of the alley, and, reaching into a long, swinging gallop, pounded across thenight-black open. San Andreas had but one street. The backs of itsbuildings opened to space. 

Ahead, Cheyenne thundered across a narrow bridge over an arroyo. Dobelifted and leaped forward, as though in a race. From behind came thequick patter of hoofs. One of Sneed's men had evidently managed to gethis horse loose from the reata. A solitary house, far out on the level, flickered past. Bartley glanced back. The house door opened. A ray ofyellow light shot across the road. 

"Hey, Cheyenne!" called Bartley. 

But Cheyenne's little buckskin was drumming down the night road at apace that astonished the Easterner. Dobe seemed to be doing his best, yet he could not overtake the buckskin. Behind Bartley the patter ofhoofs sounded nearer. Bartley thought he heard Cheyenne call back tohim. He leaned forward, but the drumming of hoofs deadened all othersound. 

They were on a road, now--a road that ran south across the spaces, unwinding itself like a tape flung from a reel. Suddenly Cheyenne pulledto a stop. Bartley raced up, bracing himself as the big cow-horse set upin two jumps. 

"I thought you was abidin' in San Andreas, " said Cheyenne. 

"There's some one coming!" warned Bartley, breathing heavily. 

"And his name is Filaree, " declared Cheyenne. "You sure done a good job. Let's keep movin'. " And Cheyenne let Joshua out as Filaree drewalongside and nickered shrilly. 

"Now I reckon we better hold 'em in a little, " said Cheyenne after theyhad gone, perhaps, a half-mile. "We got a good start. "

They slowed the horses to a trot. Filaree kept close to Joshua's flank. A gust of warm air struck their faces. 

"Ain't got time to shake hands, pardner, " said Cheyenne. "Know whereyou're goin'?"

"South, " said Bartley. 

"Correc'. And I don't hear no hosses behind us. "

"I strung them together on a rope, " said Bartley. 

"How's that?"

"I tied Sneed's horses together, with a rope. Ran it through thebridles--like stringing fish. Not according to Hoyle, but it seems tohave worked. "

Cheyenne shook his head. He did not quite get the significance ofBartley's statement. 

"Any one get hurt?" queried Bartley presently. 

"Nope. I spoiled a lamp, and I reckon I hit somebody on the head, in thedark, comin' through. Seems like I stepped on somethin' soft, out thereback of the barn. It grunted like a human. But I didn't stop to look. "

"I had to do it, " declared Bartley ambiguously. 

"Had to do what?"

"Punch a fellow that wanted to know what I was doing with your horse. Ilet him have it twice. "

"Then you didn't hit him with your gun?"

"No. I wish I had. I've got a fist like a boiled ham. I can feel itswell, right now. "

"That there mescal is sure pow'ful stuff. "

"Thanks!" said Bartley succinctly. 

"Got a kick like white lightin', " said Cheyenne. 

"And I paid our hotel bill, " continued Bartley. 

"Well, that was mighty thoughtful. I plumb forgot it. "

CHAPTER XVIII

JOE SCOTT

Just before daybreak Cheyenne turned from the road and picked his waythrough the scattered brush to a gulch in the western foothills. Cheyenne's horses seemed to know the place, when they stopped at anarrow, pole gate across the upper end of the gulch, for on beyond thegate the horses again stopped of their own accord. Bartley could barelydiscern the outlines of a cabin. Cheyenne hallooed. 

A muffled answer from the cabin, then a twinkle of light, then the opendoorway framing a gigantic figure. 

"That you, Shy?" queried the figure. 

"Me and a friend. "

"You're kind of early, " rumbled the figure as the riders dismounted. 

"Shucks! You'd be gettin' up, anyway, right soon. We come early so asnot to delay your breakfast. "

In the cabin, Cheyenne and the big man shook hands. Bartley wasintroduced. The man was a miner, named Joe Scott. 

"Joe, here, is a minin' man--when he ain't runnin' a all-nightlunch-stand, " explained Cheyenne. "He can't work his placer when it'sdark, but he sure can work a skillet and a coffee-mill. "

"What you been up to?" queried the giant slowly, as he made a fire inthe stove, and set about getting breakfast. 

"Up to Clubfoot Sneed's place, to get a couple of hosses that belongedto me. He was kind of hostile. Followed us down to San Andreas and donespoiled our night's rest. But I got the hosses. "

"Hosses seems to be his failin', " said the big man. 

"So some folks say. I'm one of 'em. "

"How are the folks up Antelope way?"

"Kinda permanent, as usual. I hear Panhandle's drifted south again. Wishful, he shoots craps, reg'lar. "

Scott nodded, shifted the coffee-pot and sat down on the edge of hisbunk. "Got any smokin'?" he queried presently. 

Bartley offered the miner a cigar. "I'm afraid it's broken, " apologizedBartley. 

"That's all right. I was goin' to town this mornin', to get some tobaccoand grub. But this will help. " And doubling the cigar Scott thrust it inhis mouth and chewed it with evident satisfaction. 

The gray edge of dawn crept into the room. Scott blew out the light andopened the door. 

Bartley felt suddenly sleepy and he drowsed and nodded, realizing thatScott and Cheyenne were talking, and that the faint aroma of coffeedrifted toward him, mingling with the chill, fresh air of morning. Hepulled himself together and drank the coffee and ate some bacon. Fromtime to time he glanced at Scott, fascinated by the miner's tremendousforearms, his mighty chest and shoulders. Even Cheyenne, who was afair-sized man, appeared like a boy beside the miner. Bartley wonderedthat such tremendous strength should be isolated, hidden back therebehind the foothills. Yet Scott himself, easy-going and dryly humorous, was evidently content right where he was. 

Later the miner showed Bartley about the diggings, quietly proud of hisestablishment, and enthusiastic about the unfailing supply of water--infact, Scott talked more about water than he did about gold. Bartleyrealized that the big miner would have been a misfit in town, that hebelonged in the rugged hills from which he wrested a scant six dollars aday by herculean toil. 

In a past age, Scott would have been a master builder of castles or oftriremes or a maker of armor, but never a fighting man. It was evidentthat the miner was, despite his great strength, a man of peace. Bartleyrather regretted, for some romantic reason or other, that the big minerwas not a fighting man. 

Yet when they returned to the shack, where Cheyenne sat smoking, Bartleylearned that Big Joe Scott had a reputation in his own country. That waswhen Scott suggested that they needed sleep. He spread a blanket-roll onthe cabin floor for Cheyenne and offered Bartley his bunk. Then Scottpicked up his rifle and strode across to a shed. Cheyenne pulled off hisboots, stretched out on the blanket-roll, and sighed comfortably. Bartley could see the big miner busily twisting something in his hands, something that looked like a leather bag from which occasional tinyspurts of silver gleamed and trickled. Bartley wondered what Scott wasdoing. He asked Cheyenne. 

"He's squeezin' 'quick. '" And Cheyenne explained the process ofsqueezing quicksilver through a chamois skin. "And I'm glad it ain't myneck, " added Cheyenne. "Joe killed a man, with his bare hands, onct. That's why he never gets in a fight, nowadays. He dassn't. 'Course, hehad to kill that man, or get killed. "

"I noticed he picked up his rifle, " said Bartley. 

"Nobody'll disturb our sleep, " said Cheyenne drowsily. 

 * * * * *

The afternoon shadows were long when Bartley awakened. Through thedoorway he could see Cheyenne out in the shed, talking with Joe Scott. 

"Hello!" called Bartley, sitting up. "Lost any horses, Cheyenne?"

Presently Scott and Cheyenne came over to the cabin. 

"I'm cook, this trip, " stated Cheyenne as he bustled about the kitchen. "I reckon Joe needs a rest. He ain't lookin' right strong. "

An early supper, and the three men forgathered outside the cabin andsmoked and talked until long after dark. Cheyenne had told Scott of thehappenings since leaving Antelope, and jokingly he referred to SanAndreas and Bartley's original plan of staying there awhile. 

Bartley nodded. "And now that the smoke has blown away, I think I'll goback and finish my visit, " he said. 

Cheyenne's face expressed surprise and disappointment. "Honest?" hequeried. 

"Why not?" asked Bartley, and it was a hard question to answer. 

After all, Bartley had stuck to him when trouble seemed inevitable, reasoned Cheyenne. 

Now the Easterner felt free to do as he pleased. And why shouldn't he?There had been no definite or even tentative agreement as to when theywould dissolve partnership. And Bartley's evident determination to carryout his original plan struck Cheyenne as indicative of considerablespirit. It was plain that Sneed's unexpected presence in San Andreas hadnot affected Bartley very much. With a tinge of malice, born ofdisappointment, Cheyenne suggested to Bartley that the man he hadknocked out, back of the livery barn, would no doubt be glad to see himagain. 

Bartley turned to Joe Scott. "He's trying to 'Out-West' me a bit, isn'the?"

Scott laughed heartily. "Cheyenne is getting tired of rambling up anddown the country alone. He wants a pardner. Seems he likes your company, from what he says. But you can't take him serious. He'll be singin' thateverlastin' trail song of his next. "

"He hasn't sung much, recently. "

Cheyenne bridled and snorted like a colt. "Huh! Just try this on yourpiano. " And seemingly improvising, he waved his arm toward the burrocorral. 

 One time I had a right good pal, Git along, cayuse, git along; But he quit me cold for a little ranch gal, Git along, cayuse, git along. 

 And now he's took to pitchin' hay On a rancho down San Andreas way; He's done tied up and he's got to stay; Git along, cayuse, git along. 

"I was just learnin' him the ropes, and he quit me cold, " complainedCheyenne, appealing to Scott. 

"He aims to keep out of trouble, " suggested Scott. 

"I ain't got no friends, " said Cheyenne, grinning. 

"Thanks for that, " said Scott. 

Cheyenne reached in his pocket and drew out the dice. His eyesbrightened. He rattled the dice and shot them across the hardpackedground near the doorstep. Then he struck a match to see what he hadthrown. "I'm hittin' the road five minutes after six, to-morrowmornin', " he declared, as he picked up the dice. 

CHAPTER XIX

DORRY COMES TO TOWN

At six, next morning, Bartley and Scott were on their way to SanAndreas, Bartley riding Dobe and Scott hazing two pack-burros. They tooka hill trail, which, Scott explained, was shorter by miles than thevalley road which Cheyenne and Bartley had taken to the gulch. Cheyennewas forced to stay at the miner's cabin until Scott returned with thepack-saddle and outfit left in the livery. Scott was after supplies andtobacco. 

At first Cheyenne had thought of going along with them. But hereconsidered. He did not care to risk being arrested in San Andreas forhaving disturbed the peace. If the authorities should happen to detainhim, there would be one broken head, one broken lamp, and possibly fiveor six witnesses as evidence that he had been the aggressor in thesaloon. Sneed and his men would swear to anything, and the owner of thesaloon would add his bit of evidence. Bartley himself was liable toarrest for assault and battery should Hull lodge a complaint againsthim. Incidentally, Hull had been found by the stableman, curiously ropedand tied and his lower jaw somewhat out of plumb. 

Bartley and Scott arrived in San Andreas about noon, saw to their stockand had dinner together. Bartley engaged a room at the hotel. Scottbought supplies. Then, unknown to Bartley, Scott hunted up the townmarshal and told him that the Easterner was a friend of his. The townmarshal took the hint. Scott assured the marshal that, if Sneed or hismen made any trouble in San Andreas, he would gladly come over and helpthe marshal establish peace. Cheyenne's name was not mentioned. 

An hour later Scott appeared in front of the hotel with his burrospacked. Bartley, loafing on the veranda, rose and stepped out. 

"If you got time, " said Scott, "you might walk along with me, out to theedge of town. "

Bartley wondered what Scott had in mind, but he agreed to the suggestionat once. 

Together they trudged through the sleepy town until they reached theopen. 

"I guess you can find your way back, " said Scott, his eyes twinkling. "And, say, it's a good idea not to pack a shootin'-iron--and let folksknow 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 makeyourself to home. " And the big miner turned and started his burrostoward the hills. 

"Give my regards to Cheyenne, " called Bartley. 

The miner nodded. 

On his way back through town, Bartley wondered why the miner had askedhim to take that walk. Then suddenly he thought of a reason. They hadbeen seen in San Andreas, walking and talking together. That wouldintimate that they were friends. And a man would have to be blind, notto realize that it would be a mistake to pick a quarrel with Scott, orone of his friends. Joe Scott never quarreled; but he had the reputationof being a man of whom it was safe to step around. 

With his sleeves rolled up, sitting in the quiet of his room, Bartleyspent the afternoon jotting down notes for a story. He thought he hadexperienced enough adventure to make a good beginning. Of course, thelove 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 onthe veranda. Well, he would finish his rough sketch of Cheyenne, andthen step down to the veranda. He caught himself drowsing over his work. He sat up, scribbled a while, nodded sleepily, and, finally, with hishead on his arms, he fell asleep. 

The rattle of wagon wheels wakened him. A ranch team had just pulled upto the hitch-rail in front of the hotel and a small boy was tying thehorses. The boy's hat seemed familiar to Bartley. Then Bartley heard avoice. Suddenly he was wide awake. Little Jim was down there, talking tosome one. Bartley rose and peered down. Little Jim's companion wasDorothy. Bartley could not see her face, because of her wide hat-brim. Stepping back into the room, Bartley picked up his pencil and, leaningout of the window, started it rolling down the gentle slope of theveranda 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, hehastened downstairs. 

Little Jim expressed no surprise at seeing Bartley, but the youngster'seyes were eager. 

He shook hands, like a grown-up. "Got that twenty-two, yet?"

"Haven't seen one, Jimmy. But I won't forget. "

"There's a brand-new twenty-two over to Hodges' store, in the window, "declared Little Jim. 

"That so? Then we'll have to walk over and look at it. "

"I done _looked_ at it already, " said Little Jim. 

"Well, then, let's go and price it. "

"I done priced it. It's twelve-fifty. "

"Well, what do you say to going over and buying it?"

"Sure! Is dad gone?"

"Yes. He left here last night. I thought Miss Gray was with you, " saidBartley. 

"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. Buthe asked himself why should he be? They were the merest acquaintances. True, they had spent several hours together, reading and discussingverse. But no doubt that had been purely impersonal, on her part. WithLittle Jim as his guide, Bartley entered Hodges' general store. Dorothywas at the back of the store making purchases. Bartley watched her amoment. 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 ashowcase. 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 thattwenty-two in the window. "

"Now, Jimmy! Oh, how do you do!" And Dorothy greeted Bartley withconsiderable poise for a young woman who was as interested in theEasterner 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 toBartley and went on making her purchases. They were really insignificantpurchases--some pins, some thread, and a roll of binding tape. Insignificant as they were, Bartley offered to carry them to the wagonfor 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. " Jimmypretended to read the tags tied to the trigger guard. "Yep! This isher. "

"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 thepurchase with some apprehension. She knew Little Jim. 

Bearing the rifle proudly, Jimmy marched from the store. Dorothy andBartley followed him, and Bartley briefly outlined Cheyenne's recentsprightly exodus from San Andreas. 

"I heard about it, from Mr. Hodges, " said Dorothy. "And I also noticedthat you have hurt your hand. "

Bartley glanced at his right hand--and then at Dorothy, who was gazingat him curiously. It had become common news in town that CheyenneHastings and the Easterner had engaged in a free-for-all fight with theSneed 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 tobuy 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 hissmall hand. "Thanks, pardner, " he said heartily. 

Bartley laughed and patted Jimmy's shoulder--something that Jimmyutterly detested, but suffered nobly, under the circumstances. 

"You earned that gun--and thank you for fetching Miss Dorry to town. "

"Huh! I didn't fetch _her_. She fetched me. Uncle Frank was comin', butDorry 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 feltmore than grateful to Little Jim. 

Nevertheless, Dorothy met Bartley's eyes frankly as he said farewell. "Ihope you will find time to ride over to the ranch, " she said. "I'm sureAunt 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 allday. "

"I wouldn't miss such an opportunity for anything, " declared Bartley, yet he was looking at Dorothy when he spoke. 

CHAPTER XX

ALONG THE FOOTHILLS

Bartley, enjoying his after-dinner smoke, felt that he wanted to knowmore about the girl who had invited him to call at the Lawrence ranchagain. He told himself that he wanted to study her; to find out herpreferences, her ideals, her attitude toward life, and how the thoughtof 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 notrealize that her world was quite as interesting to her as his world wasto him. Manlike, he also failed to realize that Dorothy was studying himquite as much as he was studying her. While he did not feel in the leastsuperior, he did feel that he was more worldly-wise than this youngwoman whose horizon was bounded by the hills edging the San AndreasValley. 

True, she seemed to have read much, for one as isolated as she, and shehad evidently appreciated what she had read. And then there wassomething about her that interested him, aside from her good looks. Hehad known many girls far more beautiful. It was not her manner, whichwas a bit constrained, at times. Her charm for him was indefinable. Somehow, she seemed different from other girls he had met. Bartley washimself responsible for this romantic hallucination. He saw her witheyes hungry for the sympathetic companionship of youth, especiallyfeminine youth, for he could talk with her seriously about things whichthe genial Cheyenne could hardly appreciate. 

In other words, Bartley, whose aim was to isolate himself fromconvention, was unconsciously hungry for the very conventions he thoughthe was fleeing from. And in a measure, Dorothy Gray represented the lifehe had left behind. Had she been a boy, Bartley would have enjoyedtalking 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'segoism would not allow him to admit that their tentative friendshipcould become anything more than friendship. And it was upon thatunderstanding with himself that he saddled up, next morning, --why thehurry, with a week to spend in San Andreas, --and set out for theLawrence ranch, to call on Aunt Jane. 

Purposely he timed his arrival to follow the dinner hour--dinner was atnoon in the ranch country--and was mildly lectured by Aunt Jane for notarriving earlier. Uncle Frank was at the lower end of the ranch, superintending the irrigating. Little Jim was on the veranda, needlesslycleaning his new rifle, preparatory to a rabbit hunt that afternoon. Bartley was at once invited to participate in the hunt, and he couldthink of no reason to decline. Dorothy, however, was not at the ranch. 

Little Jim scrubbed his rifle with an oily rag, and scowled. "Got bothhosses saddled, and lots of ca'tridges--and Dorry ain't here yet! Shepromised 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 onlya single-shot, " added Jimmy scornfully. "But it's good enough for agirl. "

"Isn't it early to hunt rabbits?" queried Bartley. 

"Sure! But we got to get there, clear over to the flats. If Dorry don'tcome as soon as I get this gun cleaned, I'm goin' anyhow. "

But Dorothy appeared before Jimmy could carry out his threat of leavingwithout her. Jimmy, mounted on his pony, fretted to be gone, whileDorothy chatted a minute or so with Aunt Jane and Bartley. Finally theyrode off, with Jimmy in the lead, explaining that there would be norabbits on the flat until at least five o'clock, and in the meantimethey would ride over to the spring and pretend they were starving. Thatis, Dorothy and Bartley were to pretend they were starving, while Jimmyscouted for meat and incidentally shot a couple of Indians and returnedwith a noble buck deer hanging across the saddle. 

It was hot and they rode slowly. Far ahead, in the dim southerndistances, lay the hills that walled the San Andreas Valley from thedesert. 

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, " assertedDorothy, although Bartley had said nothing. "I don't think Cheyenne willever settle down. At least, not so long as that man Sears is alive. Ofcourse, if anything happens to Sears--"

Dorothy was interrupted by Little Jim, who turned in the saddle toaddress her. "Say, Dorry, if you keep on talkin' out loud, the Injuns islike to jump us! Scoutin' parties don't keep talkin' when they're on thetrail. "

"Don't be silly, Jimmy, " laughed Dorothy. 

"Well, they _used_ to be Injuns in these hills, once. "

"We'll behave, " said Bartley. "But can't we ride toward the foothillsand 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 weremerely his guests. He had allowed them to come with him--possiblybecause he wanted an audience. Presently Little Jim reined his horse tothe left and rode up a dim trail among the boulders. By an exceedinglydevious route he led the way to the spring, meanwhile playing the scoutwith intense concentration on some cattle tracks which were at least amonth old. Bartley recognized the spot. Cheyenne and he had camped thereupon their quest for the stolen horses. Little Jim assured his chargesthat all was safe, and he suggested that they "light down and rest aspell. "

The contrasting coolness of the shade was inviting. Jimmy explained thatthere would be no rabbits visible until toward evening. Below and beyondthem stretched the valley floor, shimmering in the sun. Behind them thehills rose and dipped, rose and dipped again, finally reaching up to thelong slope of the mother range. Far above a thin, dark line of timbershowed against the eastern sky. 

"Ole Clubfoot Sneed lives up there, " asserted Jimmy, pointing toward thedistant ridge. "I been up there. "

"Yes. And your father saved you from a whipping. Uncle Frank was veryangry. "

"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 mesometimes. I like stories about Buffalo Bill and Injuns and fights. Fairy stories make me tired. "

"Jimmy thinks he is quite grown up, " teased Dorothy. 

"You ain't growed up yourself, anyhow, " retorted Jimmy. "Girls ain'tgrowed 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 worthlistening to? Jimmy examined his new rifle, sighting it at differentobjects, and opening and closing the empty magazine. Finally he loadedit. His companions of the hunt were deep in a discussion having to dowith Western stories. Jimmy fidgeted under the constant stress ofkeeping silent. He would have interrupted Dorothy, willingly enough, butBartley's presence rather awed him. 

Jimmy felt that his afternoon was being wasted. However, there was thesolace of the new rifle, and plenty of ammunition. While he knew therewas no big game in those hills, he could pretend that there was. Hedebated with himself as to whether he would hunt deer, bear, or mountainlion. Finally he decided he would hunt bear. He waited for anopportunity to leave without being noticed, and, carrying his trustyrifle at the ready, he stealthily disappeared in the brush south of thespring. A young boy, with a new gun and lots of brush to prowl through!Under such circumstances the optimist can imagine anything from rabbitsto elephants. 

Some time passed before Dorothy missed him. She called. There was noreply. "He won't go far, " she assured Bartley who rose to go and lookfor Jimmy. 

Bartley sat down by the spring again. He questioned Dorothy in regard toranch life, social conditions, local ambitions, and the like. Quiteimpersonally she answered him, explaining that the folk in the valleywere quite content, so long as they were moderately successful. Ofcourse, the advent of that funny little machine, the automobile, wouldrevolutionize ranch life, eventually. Why, a wealthy rancher of SanAndreas had actually driven to Los Angeles and back in one of thoselittle machines!

Bartley smiled. "They've come to stay, no doubt. But I can't reconcileautomobiles with saddle-horses and buckboards. I shan't have anautomobile 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 farwrong. "

Dorothy flushed and bit her lip. So that was why Bartley had been soattentive and polite? He had been studying her, questioning her, mentally jotting down what she had said--and he had not told her, untilthat moment, that he was writing a story. She had not known that he wasa writer of stories. 

"You might, at least, have asked me if I cared to be a Western heroinein your story. "

"Oh, that would have spoiled it all! Can't you see? You would not havebeen 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 wassincere--that she was not angling for flattery. He had thought that hewas rather paying her a compliment in making her the heroine of hisfirst Western book; or, at least, that she would take it as acompliment. He frowned, twisting a spear of dry grass in his fingers. 

"Of course--that needn't make any difference about your calling--on AuntJane. "

"Thank you, " laughed Bartley. "And because of the privilege which Ireally appreciate, I'll agree to look for another heroine. "

Dorothy had not expected just such an answer. "In San Andreas?" shequeried. 

"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. "Ithink 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 untilafter I had seen you. Of course I knew I would write a new story sooneror later. I hope you will believe that. "

"Yes. But I think I know why you decided to stay in San Andreas, insteadof riding south, with Cheyenne. Aunt Jane and Little Jim and yourheroine were within easy riding distance. "

"I'll admit I intended to write about Aunt Jane and Jimmy. I actuallyadore Aunt Jane. And Little Jim, he's what one might call an unknownquantity--"

"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 youplease. I had no idea that Cheyenne could actually hate any one, untilthe 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 hehappens to meet him again. "

"And that will furnish the climax for your story!" said Dorothyscornfully. 

"Well, if it has to happen--" Bartley paused. 

Dorothy's face was troubled. Finally she rose and picked up her glovesand hat. 

"I wish some one or something would stop him, " she said slowly. "Heliked you. All the years he has been riding up and down the country hehas 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 tostay in San Andreas for a while. "

"You thought he was joking, but he wasn't. We have all tried to get himto 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 findanother 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. Isuppose it sounds silly, and I would not think of asking you to try andkeep him from doing anything he decided to do. But you might happen tobe able to say the right word at the right time. "

"I hardly took myself as seriously as that, in connection withCheyenne, " declared Bartley. "I suppose, if I should saddle up and ridesouth to-morrow, I might overtake him along the road, somewhere. Hetravels slowly. "

"But you won't go, just because I spoke as I did?"

"Not altogether because of that. I like Cheyenne. "

Impetuously Dorothy stepped close to Bartley and laid her hand on hisarm. "I knew you were like that! And what does writing about peopleamount to, when you can really do something for them? It isn't justCheyenne. There's Little Jim--"

"Yes. But where _is_ Little Jim?"

Dorothy called in her high, clear voice. There was no answering halloo. "His horse is there. I can't understand--"

"I'll look around a bit, " said Bartley. "He's probably ambushing us, somewhere, and expects us to be tremendously surprised. "

"I'll catch up my horse, " said Dorothy. "No, you had better let me catchhim. He knows me. "

And Dorothy stepped from the clearing round the spring and walked towardthe horses. They were grazing quite a ways off, up the hillside. 

Bartley recalled having glimpsed Little Jim crawling through the brushon the south side of the spring. No doubt Jimmy had grown tired ofwaiting, and had dropped down to the mesa on foot to hunt rabbits. Onceclear of the hillside brush, Bartley was able to overlook the mesabelow. Presently he discerned a black hat moving along slowly. Evidentlythe young hunter was stalking game. 

Bartley hesitated to call out. He doubted that Jimmy could hear him atthat distance. Stepping down the gentle slope of the hillside to theroad, Bartley watched Jimmy for a while, hoping that he would turn andsee him. But Jimmy was busy. "Might as well go back and get the horsesand ride over to him, " said Bartley. 

He had turned to cross the road, when he heard the sound of quickhoof-beats. Surely Dorothy had not caught up the horses so soon? Bartleyturned toward the bend of the road. Presently a rider, his worn chapsflapping, his shapeless hat pulled low, and his quirt swinging at everyjump of the horse, pounded up and had almost passed Bartley, when he setup his horse and dismounted. Bartley did not recognize him until hespoke. 

"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 seeif the other carried a gun. Bartley expected argument and inwardlybraced himself. Meanwhile he wondered if he could find Hull's chinagain, and as easily as he had found it that night back of the liverybarn. Hull loomed big and heavy, and it was evident from the minute hedismounted 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 kickingwickedly when he got a chance. Finally, after taking a straight blow inthe face, Hull clinched--and the minute Bartley felt those tough-sinewedarms around him he knew that he was in for a licking. 

Bartley's only chance, and that a pretty slim one, lay in getting freefrom the grip of those arms. He used his knee effectively. Hull gruntedand staggered back. Bartley jumped forward and bored in, knocking Hulloff his feet. The cow-puncher struck the ground, rolled over, and was upand coming like a cyclone. It flashed through Bartley's mind that theonly thing to do was to stay with it till the finish. Hull was beatinghim down slowly, but surely. 

Dully conscious that some one was calling, behind him, Bartley struckout, straight and clean, but he might as well have tried to stop arunaway freight with a whisk-broom. He felt the smashing impact of ablow--then suddenly he was on his back in the road--and he had no desireto get up. Free from the hammering of those heavy fists, he feltcomparatively comfortable. 

"You brute!" It was Dorothy's voice, tense with anger. 

Bartley heard another voice, thick with heavy breathing. "That's allright, 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 lipswould not obey his will. 

"I'm all right, " he mumbled. 

"Perhaps, " said Dorothy, steady and cool. "But you'll want to wash yourface at the spring. I fetched your horse. "

"Lord, Miss Gray, let's walk. I'm more used to it. "

"It was that man Hull, from the mountain, wasn't it?"

"I don't know his name. I _did_ meet him once, in San Andreas, afterdark. "

"I'll just tie the horses, here. It's not far to the spring. Feeldizzy?"

"A little. But I can walk without help, thank you. Little Jim is downthere, stalking rabbits. "

At the spring Bartley knelt and washed the blood from his face and felttenderly of his half closed eye, twisted his neck round and felt a sharpclick--and then his head became clearer. His light shirt was half-tornfrom 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 nowI can't recall it. First, however, you say you're 'all right, ' if youare alive. If you are not, it doesn't matter. Then you say, 'a merescratch!' But I'm certain of one thing. I never needed a heroine morethan I did when you arrived. "

Dorothy smiled in spite of herself. "You aren't pretending, are you? Imean--about your condition?"

"I should say not. My eye is closed. My right arm won't work, and myhead feels queer--and I am _not_ hungry. But my soul goes marching on. "

"Then we'll have to find Jimmy. It's getting late. "

CHAPTER XXI

"GIT ALONG CAYUSE"

It was dark when Bartley arrived at his hotel in San Andreas. Not caringto parade his black eye and his swollen mouth, he took his evening mealat a little Mexican restaurant, and then went back to his room, where hespent the evening adding a few more pertinent notes to his story; notesthat were fresh in his mind. He knew what it felt like to take a goodlicking. In fact, the man is unfortunate who does not. Bartley thoughthe could write effectively upon the subject. 

He had found Dorothy's quiet sympathy rather soothing. She had made nofuss whatever about the matter. And she had not insisted that he stop atthe ranch and get doctored up. Little Jim had promptly asked Bartley, "Who done it?" and Bartley had told him. Little Jim asked more questionsand was silenced only by a promise from Dorothy to buy him morecartridges. "That is, if you promise not to say anything about it toAunt Jane or Uncle Frank, " she stipulated. Little Jim gravely shookhands upon the agreement. Dorothy knew that he would keep his word. 

This agreement had been made after Bartley had left them. Dorothy hadsworn Little Jim to silence, not so much on Bartley's account as on herown. Should the news of the fight become public, there would be muchbucolic comment, wherein her name would be mentioned and the wholeaffair interpreted to suit the crude imaginings of the community. Bartley also realized this and, because of it, stuck close to his roomfor two days, meanwhile making copious notes for the new story. 

But the making of notes for the story was a rather tame occupationcompared with the possibilities of actual adventure on the road. He hada good saddle-horse, plenty of optimism, and enough money to pay his waywherever he chose to go. Incidentally he had a notebook and pencil. Whatmore did a man need to make life worth while?

And then, somewhere along the southern highway Cheyenne was jogging withFilaree 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 noonsun. Far to the north he could see a dot of fresh green--the cottonwoodsof the Lawrence rancho. Again he found himself in the grip ofindecision. After all, a fellow didn't have to journey up and down theland to find material for a story. There was plenty of material rightwhere he was. All he had to do was to stop, look, and listen. "Hang thestory!" he exclaimed peevishly. "I'll just go out and _live_--and thenwrite the story. "

It did not take him long to pack his saddle-bags, nor to get togetherthe few articles of clothing he had had washed by a Mexican woman intown. 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'sentertainment, saddled up, and, literally shaking the dust of SanAndreas from his feet, rode down the long trail south, headed for JoeScott's placer, as his first stop. 

He would spend the night there and then head south again. The onlyliving thing that seemed interested in Bartley's exodus was a stray dogthat seemed determined to follow him. Turning from the road, Bartleytook the short cut to Scott's placer. Glancing back he saw that the dogwas still following. Bartley told him to go home. The dog, a veryordinary yellow dog, didn't happen to have a home--and he was hungry. Sohe ignored Bartley's command. 

Whether or not he imagined that Bartley was different from the run oftownsfolk is a question. Possibly he imagined Bartley might give himsomething to eat. In any event, the dog stuck to the trail clear up toScott's placer. 

Scott was not at the cabin. Bartley hallooed, glanced round, anddismounted. On the cabin door was a note: "Gone to Phoenix. J. Scott. "

Bartley turned from the cabin to find the dog gazing up at himmournfully; his expression seemed to convey the idea that they were bothin 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 faithin mankind. 

Bartley tied his horse and strode up the trail to the workings. Everything had been put in order. The dog helped investigate, sniffingat the wheelbarrow, the buckets, the empty sacks weighted down with rockto keep them from blowing away, the row of tools, picks and shovels andbars. Evidently the owner of the place was not concealed beneath any ofthese things. 

Meanwhile the afternoon shadows warned Bartley that a camp with waterand feed was the next thing in order. He strode back to the cabin. Therewas no problem to solve, although he thought there was. The yellow dog, an old campaigner in the open, though young in years, solved his problemby a suggestion. He was tired. There seemed to be no food in sight. Hephilosophically trotted to the open shed opposite the cabin and made abed for himself in a pile of gunny-sacks. Bartley grinned. Why not?

Experience had taught Bartley to carry something else, besides anotebook and pencil, in his saddle-bags. Hence the crackers and can ofcorned beef came in handy. The mountain water was cold and refreshing. There was hay in the burro stable. Moreover, Bartley now had a happycompanion who licked his chops, wagged his tail, and grinned as hefinished a bit of corned beef. Bartley tossed him a cracker. The dogcaught it and it disappeared. This was something like it! Here was a manwho rode a big horse, didn't kick stray dogs, and even shared a mealwith a fellow! Such a man was worth following forever. 

"It would seem that you have adopted me, " declared Bartley. The dog hadshown no inclination to leave since being fed. There might possibly beanother meal coming, later. 

"But what am I going to do with you?" queried Bartley, as the dog curledup on the pile of gunny-sacks. "You don't look as though you habituallystopped 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 withunblinking eyes. Bartley laughed. Then he made his own bed withgunny-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 wasthere, most evidently waiting for breakfast, grinning his delight at notbeing cursed or kicked at, and frisking round the cabin yard in a madrace after nothing in particular, and indicating in every way possiblethat he was the happiest dog that ever wagged a tail. 

Crackers and corned beef again, and spring water for breakfast. Andwhile Dobe munched his hay, Bartley smoked and roughly planned hisitinerary. He would travel south as far as Phoenix and then swing backagain, 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. Hehad set out to find his erstwhile traveling companion. If he found him, they could just as well travel together. If he did not, Bartleydetermined to see much of the country. In so far as influencing Cheyennein any way--that would have to be determined by chance. Bartley feltthat his influence with the sprightly Cheyenne weighed very littleagainst Cheyenne's hatred for Panhandle Sears. 

Once more upon the road, with the early morning shadows slanting acrossthe valley, Bartley felt that it was his own fault if he did not enjoyhimself. Swinging into an easy trot he turned to see if the yellow dogwere following him. At first Bartley thought the dog had shown wisdomand had departed for San Andreas, but, happening to glance down on theother side of his horse, he saw the dog trotting along, close to Dobe'sheels. 

Bartley felt a pity for the dog's dumb, insistent attachment. Reiningin, Bartley told the dog he had better go home. For answer the dog laydown in the horse's shadow, his head on his paws, and his eyes fixed onBartley's face. He did not seem to know what the words meant. But he didknow--only pretended he did not. His rooftree was the Arizona sky, andhis 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 hishorse. Cheyenne had passed that way several days ago, the ranch folktold him. It was about twenty miles to the next town. Bartley wasinvited 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 theranch. And it was some twenty minutes or so after Bartley was on theroad 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 atfirst waited patiently for Bartley to appear. Then, as Bartley did notappear, the dog made a short scout through the near-by brush. Finally hestirred up a rabbit. It was a long, hard chase, but the dog got hisdinner. 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 arrangedwith the local liveryman for the dog's keep that night. From that nighton, the dog never let Dobe out of his sight. It was evidently intendedthat he should sleep in stalls and guard Dobe against the approach ofany one save his master. 

Bartley learned that Cheyenne had passed through Stacey headed south. Hehad stopped at the local store to purchase provisions. Estimatingroughly, Bartley was making better time than had Cheyenne, yet it wouldbe several days before he could possibly overtake him. 

Next day Bartley had ridden better than forty miles, and that night hestayed at a ranch, where he was made welcome. In fact, any one who rodea good horse and appeared to be even halfway civil never suffered forwant of a meal or a bed in those days. Gasoline has somewhat dilutedsuch hospitality, yet there are sections of Arizona still unspoiled, where the stranger is made to feel that the word "home" has retained itsancient and honorable significance. 

CHAPTER XXII

BOX-S BUSINESS

A few days later, Bartley stopped at a small town to have his horseshod. The blacksmith seemed unusually interested in the horse andcomplimented Bartley upon owning such a good mount. 

"Comes from up San Andreas way, " said the smith, noticing the brand onDobe's flank. 

"Yes. I picked him up at Antelope. I understand he was raised on SenatorBrown's ranch. "

"That's Steve Brown's brand, all right. Heard the news from up thatway?"

"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 throughyesterday. 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 againwithout trouble. He was tellin' me how he lost his horses, and we got totalkin' about some folks bein' blind when they're facin' a brand on acritter. 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. Saidhe was feelin' all right. He ast me if I'd seen Panhandle Sears downthis way, recent. Seemed kind of disappointed when I told him no. Cheyenne used to be a right-smart man, before he had trouble with thatwoman of his. "

"Yes? He told me about it, " said Bartley, not caring to hear any more ofthe details of Cheyenne's trouble. 

"'Most everybody knows it, " stated the smith. "And if I was Sears I'dsure 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 cleanthat slate and start fresh again. He used to be a right-smart hand, before he had trouble. "

The blacksmith accompanied his conversation with considerable elbowmotion and the rattle and clang of shaping horseshoes. Presently Dobewas new shod and ready for the road. Bartley paid the smith, thanked himfor a good job, and rode south. Evidently Cheyenne's open quarrel withSears was the talk of the countryside. It was expected of Cheyenne thathe would "clean the slate and start fresh" some day. And cleaning theslate meant killing Sears. To Bartley it seemed strange that any oneshould be pleased with the idea of one man killing another deliberately. 

In speaking of the recent horse-stealings, the blacksmith had mentionedno names. But Bartley at once drew the conclusion that it had beenSneed's men who had run off the Senator's horses. Sneed was known to bea horse-thief. He had never been convicted, although he had beenarrested and tried several times. It was also known that Senator Stevehad openly vowed that he would rid the country of Sneed, sooner orlater. 

Several times, during his journey south, Bartley was questioned, butnever interfered with. Thus far he heard of Cheyenne occasionally, but, nearing Phoenix, he lost track of his erstwhile companion. However, hetook it for granted that Phoenix had been Cheyenne's destination. AndBartley wanted to see the town for himself, in any event. 

 * * * * *

Cheyenne, arriving in Phoenix, stabled his horses at the Top-Notchlivery, and took a room for himself directly opposite theHole-in-the-Wall gambling-house. He refused to drink with the occasionalacquaintance he met, not because he did not like liquor, but becauseColonel Stevenson, the city marshal, had told him that Panhandle Searsand his friends were in town. 

"Why don't you tell me to go git him?" queried Cheyenne, looking themarshal in the eye. 

"I didn't think it was necessary, " said the marshal. 

"What? To git him?"

The marshal smiled. Then casually: "I hear that Panhandle and hisfriends are drinking heavy and spending considerable money. They musthave 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 ifPanhandle's presence in town had any connection with the recentrunning-off of the Box-S stock. The sheriff of Antelope had wiredColonel Stevenson to be on the lookout for Bill Sneed and his gang, buthad not mentioned Panhandle's name in the telegram. 

The following day, Senator Brown and his foreman, Lon Pelly, arrived inPhoenix and had a long talk with the marshal. That afternoon Lon Pellytook the train south. Early in the evening Senator Brown received atelegram 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 wasevident that they had been driven to Tucson and disposed of somewhere inthat vicinity. Yet there was no conclusive proof that Sneed had stolenthe horses. As usual, he had managed to keep a few days ahead of hispursuers. Sneed was known to have left his camp in the hills above SanAndreas. The first posse had found the camp abandoned. Sneed had notbeen identified until Pelly got track of him in Tucson. 

During his talk with Senator Brown the marshal mentioned the fact thatPanhandle 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 theother 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, thisjourney. 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 littlehousecleanin' of my own. If we can get Panhandle to talk, we can findout something. "

"He's been on a drunk for a week. I could run him in for disturbing thepeace and--"

"And he'd suspect what we're after and freeze up, tight. No, let him runloose, but keep your eye on him. He'll give the deal away, sooner orlater. "

"I hope it's sooner, " said the Colonel. "Cheyenne is holed up down thestreet, waiting for a chance to get Sears. Cheyenne didn't say so, butit 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 atthe ranch a spell. Mrs. Brown likes him. "

Colonel Stevenson nodded and offered the Senator a cigar. "Let's stepover to the hotel, Steve. It's a long time since--"

 * * * * *

That evening Bartley arrived in Phoenix, put up his horse, and, uponinquiry, learned that the Grand Central was the best hotel in town. Hewas registering when he noticed Senator Brown's name. He made inquiry ofthe clerk. Yes, the Senator had arrived that morning. And would Mr. Bartley prefer a front room? The front rooms on the north side werecooler. No, the clerk knew nothing about a Mr. Cheyenne. There was noone by that name registered at the hotel. It was past the regular dinnerhour, but the dining-room was not yet closed. There was a men'sfurnishings store just across the street. They carried a complete stock. And did Mr. Bartley wish to be called at any special hour in themorning? Breakfast was served from six-thirty to nine-thirty. 

Bartley had dinner, and later strolled around to the Top-Notch livery tosee that Dobe was being well cared for. While talking with thestableman, Bartley noticed a gray pony and in the next stall abuckskin--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 onlyseen him once, since then. "

"I'll be around in the morning. If a man called Cheyenne should happento come in, just tell him that Bartley is stopping at the GrandCentral. "

"I'll tell him, all right, " said the stableman. 

And as soon as Bartley was out of sight, that worthy called up the citymarshal and told him that a stranger had ridden in and stabled a horsebearing the Box-S brand. A big reward had been offered for the stolenhorses. 

At the hotel Bartley learned that Senator Brown had gone out for theevening. Tired from his long ride, Bartley went to his room. SenatorSteve and Cheyenne were in town. Bartley recalled the blacksmith's talkabout the stolen horses. No doubt that accounted for Senator Steve'spresence in Phoenix. As for Cheyenne--Bartley decided to hunt him up inthe morning. 

CHAPTER XXIII

THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL

Panhandle Sears, in a back room in the Hole-in-the-Wall, was ugly drunk. The Hole-in-the-Wall had the reputation of running a straight game. Whether or not the game was straight, Panhandle had managed to drop hisshare of the money from the sale of the Box-S horses. He had had nothingto do with the actual stealing of them, but he had, with the assistanceof his Mexican companion Posmo, engineered the sale to a rancher livingout of Tucson. It was understood that the horses would find their wayacross the border. 

Now Panhandle was broke again. He stated that unpleasant fact to hiscompanions, Posmo and Shorty, --the latter a town loafer he had picked upin Antelope. Shorty had nothing to say. Panhandle's drunken aggressivecowed him. But Posmo, who had really found the market for the stolenstock, felt that he had been cheated. Panhandle had promised him a thirdof his share of the money. Panhandle had kept on promising from day today, liquidating his promises with whiskey. And now there was no money. 

Posmo knew Panhandle well enough not to press the matter, just then. ButPanhandle, because neither of his companions had said anything when toldthat he was broke, turned on Posmo. 

"What you got to say about it, anyway?" he asked with that curiousstubbornness born in liquor. 

"I say that you owe me a hundred dollar, " declared Posmo. 

"Well, go ahead and collect!"

"Yes, go ahead and collect, " said Shorty, suddenly siding withPanhandle. "We blowed her in. We're broke, but we ain't cryin' aboutit. "

"That is all right, " said Posmo quietly. "If the money is gone, she isgone; yes?"

"That's the way to say it!" asserted Panhandle, changing front andslapping Posmo on the shoulder. "We're broke, and who the hell cares?"

"Let's have a drink, " suggested Shorty. "I got a couple of beans left. "

They slouched out from the back room and stood at the bar. Panhandleimmediately became engaged in noisy argument with one of the frequentersof the place. Senator Brown's name was mentioned by the other, butmentioned casually, with no reference whatever to stolen horses. 

Panhandle laughed. "So old Steve is down here lookin' for his hosses, eh?"

"What horses?"

The question, spoken by no one knew whom, chilled the group to silence. 

Panhandle saw that he had made a blunder. "Who wants to know?" hequeried, gazing round the barroom. 

"Why, it's in all the papers, " declared the bartender conciliatingly. "The Box-S horses was run off a couple of weeks ago. "

Panhandle turned his back on the group and called for a drink. 

Shorty was tugging gently at his sleeve. "Posmo's beat it, Pan. "

"To hell with him! Beat it yourself if you feel like it. "

"I'll stick Pan, " declared Shorty, yet his furtive eyes belied hisassertion. 

 * * * * *

For three days Bartley had tried to find where Cheyenne was staying, butwithout success, chiefly because Cheyenne kept close to his room duringthe daytime, watching the entrance to the Hole-in-the-Wall, waiting forPanhandle to step out into the daylight, when there would be folk on thestreet who could witness that Panhandle had drawn his gun first. Cheyenne determined to give his enemy that chance, and then kill him. But thus far Panhandle had not appeared on the street in the daytime, sofar as Cheyenne knew. 

Incidentally, Senator Steve had warned Bartley to keep away from theHole-in-the-Wall district after dark, intimating that there was more inthe wind than Cheyenne's feud with Panhandle Sears. So Bartley contentedhimself with acting as a sort of private secretary for the Senator, aduty that was a pleasure. The hardest thing Bartley did was to refusebottled entertainment, at least once out of every three times it wasoffered. 

On the evening of the fourth day after Pelly had wired the Senator thatSneed and his men had ridden north from Tucson, Posmo, hanging about theeastern outskirts of Phoenix, saw a small band of horsemen against thesouthern sky-line. Knowing the trail they would take, north, Posmo hadtimed their arrival almost to the hour. They would pass to the east ofPhoenix, and take the old Apache Trail, North. Posmo had his horsesaddled and hidden in a draw. He mounted and rode directly toward theoncoming horsemen. 

He sang as he rode. It was safer to do that, when it was growing dark. The riders would know he was a Mexican, and that he did not wish toconceal his identity on the road. He did not care to be mistaken for anenemy, especially so near Phoenix. 

Sneed, a giant in the dusk, reined in as Posmo hailed the group. Sneedasked his name. Posmo replied, and was told to ride up. Sneed, separating himself from his men, rode a little ahead and met Posmo. 

"Panhandle is give the deal away, " stated Posmo. 

"How?"

"He drunk and spend all the money. He do not give me anything for that Imake the deal--over there, " and Posmo gestured toward the south. 

"Double-crossed you, eh? And now you're sore and want his scalp. "

"He talk too much of the Box-S horses in that cantina, " stated Posmodeliberately. "He say that you owe him money. " This was an afterthought, and an invention. 

"Who did he say that to?" queried Sneed. 

"He tell everybody in that place that you turn the good trick and thenthrow him hard. "

"Either you're lyin', or Panhandle's crazy. " Sneed turned and called tohis men, a few paces off. They rode up on tired horses. "What do yousay, boys? Panhandle is talkin', over there in Phoenix. Posmo, here, says Panhandle is talkin' about us. Now nobody's got a thing on us. Webeen south lookin' at some stock we're thinkin' of buyin'. Want to rideover with me and have a little talk with Panhandle?"

"Ain't that kind of risky, Cap?"

"Every time! But it ain't necessary to ride right into the marshal'soffice. We put our little deal through clean. The horses we're ridin'belong to us. And who's goin' to stop us from ridin' in, or out, oftown? I aim to talk to Panhandle into ridin' north with us. It's saferto have him along. If you all don't want to ride with me, I'll go inalone. "

"We're with you, Cap, " said one of the men. 

"Mebby it's safer to ride through the towns from now on than to keepdodgin' 'em, " suggested Lawson. 

"Come on, then, " and Sneed indicated Posmo. 

"And don't make any mistakes, " threatened Lawson, riding close to theMexican. "If you do--you won't last. "

Posmo had not counted on this turn of affairs. He had supposed that hisnews would send Sneed and his men in to have it out with Panhandle, orthat one of them would ride in and persuade Panhandle to join them. Buthe now knew that he would have to ride with Sneed, or he would besuspected of double-dealing. 

At the fork of the road leading into Phoenix, Sneed reined in. "We'reridin' tired horses, boys. And we ain't lookin' for trouble. All we wantis Panhandle. We'll get him. "

Sitting his big horse like a statue, his club foot concealed by the long_tapadero_, his physical being dominating his followers, Sneed headedthe group that rode slowly down the long open stretch bordering on theeast of the town. They entered town quietly and stopped a few doorsbelow the lighted front of the Hole-in-the-Wall. 

"Just step in and tell Panhandle I want to see him, " and Sneed indicatedone of his riders. 

The man went in and came out again with the information that Panhandlehad left the saloon about an hour ago; that he had told the bartender hewas going out to get some money and come back and play the wheel. 

"Get on your horse, " said Sneed, who had been gazing up the street whilelistening to the other. "Here comes Panhandle now. I'll do the talking. "

CHAPTER XXIV

CHEYENNE PLAYS BIG

Watching from his darkened window, Cheyenne had seen Panhandle leave theHole-in-the-Wall, and stride up the street alone. It was the first timeCheyenne had seen Sears since he had taken the single room opposite thegambling-house. Cheyenne stepped back, drew down the curtain, and turnedon the light. The bare board floor was littered with cigarette stubs. Apair of saddle-bags hung on the iron bedstead. Other furniture was achair, a scratched and battered washstand, a cracked mirror. Standing bythe washstand Cheyenne took his gun from its holster, half-cocked it, and punched out the loaded cartridges. He pulled the pin, pushed thecylinder out with his thumb, and examined it against the light. Carefully he cleaned and replaced the cylinder, reloaded it, held thehammer back, and spun the cylinder with his hand. Finally he thrust thegun in the holster and, striding to the bed, sat down, his chin in hishands. 

Somewhere out there on the street, or in the Hole-in-the-Wall, he wouldmeet his enemy--in a few minutes, perhaps. There would be no wordyargument. They understood each other, and had understood each other, since that morning, long ago when they had passed each other on theroad--Panhandle riding in to Laramie and Cheyenne and Little Jim ridingfrom the abandoned home. Cheyenne thought of Little Jim, of his wife, and, by some queer trick of mind, of Bartley. He knew that the Easternerwas in town. The stableman at the Top-Notch had told him. Well, he hadseen Panhandle. Now he would go out and meet him, or overtake him. 

Some one turned from the street into the hall below and rapidly climbedthe stairs. Cheyenne heard a knock at the door opposite his. That roomwas unoccupied. Then came a brisk knock at his own door. 

"What do you want?"

"Is that you, Cheyenne?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Bartley. I just found out from Colonel Stevenson where you werecamping. "

Cheyenne stepped to the door and unlocked it. 

Bartley entered, glanced round the room, and then shook hands withCheyenne. "Been a week trying to find you. How are you and how are thehorses? Man, but it was a long, lonesome ride from San Andreas! If ithadn't been for that dog that adopted me--by the way, Colonel Stevensonwas telling Senator Brown that Panhandle is in town. I suppose you knowit. "

"I seen him, this evenin'. "

"So did I. Just passed him as I came down here. The Colonel said youwere camping somewhere opposite the Hole-in-the-Wall. How iseverything?"

"Quiet. "

"Were you going anywhere?"

"No place in particular. "

Bartley sat down on the edge of the bed and lighted a cigarette. Cheyenne stood as though waiting for him to leave. There was somethingqueer about Cheyenne. His eyes were somber, his manner stiff andunnatural. His greeting had been cool. 

"About that man Panhandle--" Bartley began, but Cheyenne interruptedwith a gesture. 

"You say you saw him, on your way down here?"

"Yes. He didn't seem to recognize me. He was walking fast. "

"How was Little Jim when you left?"

"Just fine!"

"And the folks?"

"Same as ever. Miss Gray--"

"Well, I reckon I'll be steppin' along. Glad I saw you again. "

"Going to leave town to-night?"

"I aim to. "

Bartley could no longer ignore Cheyenne's attitude. He knew thatsomething had happened or was about to happen. Cheyenne's manner did notinvite question or suggestion. Yet Bartley had promised Dorothy that hewould exert what influence he had--and it seemed a critical time, justat that moment. 

"I'd like to talk with you a minute, if you have time, " said Bartley. 

"Won't do no good, pardner. " And without waiting for Bartley to sayanything more, Cheyenne stepped up to him and held out his hand. "Solong, " he said. 

"Well, good luck!" replied Bartley, and shook hands with him heartily. "I hope you win. "

Cheyenne gestured toward the door. Bartley stepped out into the hallway. The light in the room flickered out. 

"I reckon you'll be goin' back to your hotel, " said Cheyenne. "Wait. I'll just step down first. "

At the foot of the stairs Cheyenne paused and glanced up and down thestreet. Directly across the way the Hole-in-the-Wall was ablaze withlight. A few doors east of the gambling-hall an indistinct group ofriders sat their horses as though waiting for some one. Cheyenne drewback into the shadows of the hallway. 

Bartley peered out over Cheyenne's shoulder. From up the street in theopposite direction came the distant click of boot-heels. A figure strodeswiftly toward the patch of white light in front of the gambling-hall. 

"Just stand back a little, pardner, " said Cheyenne. 

Bartley felt his heart begin to thump as Cheyenne gently loosened hisgun in the holster. 

"It's Panhandle!" whispered Bartley, as the figure of Sears wassilhouetted against the lighted windows of the place opposite. 

Out of the shadows where the riders waited came a single, abrupt word, peremptory, incisive: "Panhandle!"

Panhandle, about to turn into the lighted doorway, stopped short. 

Sneed had called to Panhandle; but it was Posmo the Mexican who rodeforward to meet him. Sneed, close behind Posmo, watched to see that theMexican carried out his instructions, which were simply to tellPanhandle to get his horse and leave town with them. Seeing the groupbehind the Mexican, Panhandle's first thought was that Posmo hadbetrayed him to the authorities. It _was_ Posmo. Panhandle recognizedthe Mexican's pinto horse. 

Enraged by what he thought was a trap, and with drunken contempt for theman he had cheated, Panhandle jerked out his gun and fired at theMexican; fired again at the bulky figure behind Posmo, and staggeredback as a slug shattered his shoulder. Cursing, he swung round andemptied his gun into the blur of riders that separated and spread acrossthe street, returning his fire from the vantage of the shadows. Flinginghis empty gun at the nearest rider, Panhandle lurched toward the doorwaywhere Cheyenne and Bartley stood watching. He had almost made the curbwhen he lunged and fell. He rose and tried to crawl to the shelter ofthe doorway. One of Sneed's men spurred forward and shot Panhandle inthe back. He sank down, his body twitching. 

Bartley gasped as he saw the rider deliberately throw another shot intothe dying man. Then Cheyenne's arm jerked up. The rider swerved andpitched from the saddle. Another of Sneed's men crossed the patch oflight, and a splinter ripped from the door-casing where Cheyenne stood. Cheyenne's gun came down again and the rider pitched forward and fell. His horse galloped down the street. Again Cheyenne fired, and again. Then, in the sudden stillness that followed, Cheyenne stepped out anddragged Panhandle into the hallway. Some one shouted. A window above thesaloon opposite was raised. Doors opened and men came out, questioningeach other, gathering in a group in front of the Hole-in-the-Wall. 

Stunned by the sudden shock of events, the snakelike flash of guns inthe semi-darkness, and the realization that several men had been gravelywounded, perhaps killed, Bartley heard Cheyenne's voice as though from adistance. 

Cheyenne's hand was on Bartley's arm. "Come on. The game is closed forthe night. "

As they stepped from the doorway a man stopped them and asked what hadhappened. 

"We're goin' for a doctor, " said Cheyenne. "Somebody got hurt. "

Hastening along the shadowy wall of the building, they turned a cornerand by a roundabout way reached the city marshal's office. 

The marshal, who had been summoned in haste, was at his desk. "Sneed andhis bunch got Panhandle, " stated Cheyenne quietly. "Mr. Bartley, here, saw the row. Four of Sneed's men are down. One got away. "

"Sure it was Sneed?"

"I reckon your men will fetch him in, right soon. Panhandle got Sneedand a Mexican, before they stopped him. "

Colonel Stevenson glanced at Cheyenne's belt and holster. Cheyenne drewhis gun and handed it to the marshal. "She's fresh loaded, " he said. 

"Cheyenne emptied his gun trying to fight off the men who killedPanhandle, " said Bartley, stepping forward. 

"And you're sure they were Sneed's men?" queried the marshal. 

Cheyenne nodded. 

"I am obliged to you, " said the marshal. "But I'll have to detain youboth until after the inquest. "

CHAPTER XXV

TWO TRAILS HOME

Bartley was the chief witness at the inquest. He told his story in amanner that impressed the coroner's jury. Senator Brown was present, andidentified one of the dead outlaws as Sneed. Posmo, killed byPanhandle's first shot, was known in Phoenix. Panhandle, riddled withbullets, was also identified by the Senator, Cheyenne, and severalhabitués of the gambling-hall. Bartley himself identified the body ofone man as that of Hull. 

Cheyenne was the last witness called. He admitted that he had hadtrouble with Panhandle Sears, and that he was looking for him when thefight started; that Sneed and his men had unexpectedly taken the quarrelout of his hands, and that he had fired exactly five shots at the menwho had killed Panhandle and it had been close work, and easy. Panhandlehad put up a game fight. The odds had been heavily against him. He hadbeen standing in the light of the gambling-hall doorway while the menwho had killed him had been in the shadow. "He didn't have a chance, "concluded Cheyenne. 

"You say you were looking for this man Sears, and yet you took his partagainst Sneed's outfit?" queried the coroner. 

"I didn't just say so. Mr. Bartley said that. "

"Mr. Bartley seems to be the only disinterested witness of theshooting, " observed the coroner. 

"If there is any further evidence needed to convince the jury that Mr. Bartley's statements are impartial and correct, you might read this, "declared the city marshal. "It is the antemortem statement of one ofSneed's men, taken at the hospital at three-fifteen this morning. Hedied at four o'clock. "

The coroner read the statement aloud. Ten minutes later the verdict wasgiven. The deceased, named severally, had met death by gunshot wounds, _at the hands of parties unknown_. 

It was a caustic verdict, intended for the benefit of the cattle-andhorse-thieves of the Southwest. It conveyed the hint that the city ofPhoenix was prompt to resent the presence of such gentry within itsboundaries. One of the daily papers commented upon the fact that "theparties unknown" must have been fast and efficient gunmen. Cheyenne'sname was not mentioned, and that was due to the influence of themarshal, Senator Brown, and the mayor, which left readers of the papersto infer that the police of Phoenix had handled the matter themselves. 

Through the evidence of the outlaw who had survived long enough to makea statement, the Box-S horses were traced to a ranch in the neighborhoodof Tucson, identified, and finally returned to their owner. 

The day following the inquest, Bartley and Cheyenne left Phoenix, withFort Apache as their first tentative destination, and with the promiseof much rugged and wonderful country in between as an incentive tojourney again with his companion, although Bartley needed no specialincentive. At close range Bartley had beheld the killing of several men. And he could not free himself from the vision of Panhandle crawlingtoward him in the patch of white light, the flitting of horsemen backand forth, and the red flash of six-guns. Bartley was only too anxiousto leave the place. 

It was not until they were two days out of Phoenix that Cheyennementioned the fight--and then he did so casually, as though seeking anopinion from his comrade. 

Bartley merely said he was glad Cheyenne had not killed Panhandle. Cheyenne pondered a while, riding loosely, and gazing down at the trail. 

"I reckon I would 'a' killed him--if I'd 'a' got the chance, " he said. "I meant to. No, it wasn't me or Panhandle that settled that argument:it was somethin' bigger than us. Folks that reads about the fight, knowin' I was in Phoenix, will most like say that I got him. Let 'em sayso. I know I didn't; and you know I didn't--and that's good enough forme. "

"And Dorothy and Aunt Jane and Little Jim, " said Bartley. 

"Meanin' Little Jim won't have to grow up knowin' that his father was akiller. "

"I was thinking of that. "

"Well, right here is where I quit thinkin' about it and talkin' aboutit. If that dog of yours there was to kill a coyote, in a fair fight, Ireckon he wouldn't think about it long. "

A few minutes later Cheyenne spoke of the country they were in. 

"She's rough and unfriendly, right here, " he said. "But north a ways shesure makes up for it. There's big spruce and high mesas and grass toyour pony's knees and water 'most anywhere you look for it. I ain't muchon huntin'. But there's plenty deer and wild turkey up that way, andsome bear. And with a bent pin and a piece of string a fella can catchall the trout he wants. Arizona is a mighty surprisin' State, in spots. Most folks from the East think she's sagebrush and sand, except theGrand Cañon; but that's kind of rented out to tourists, most of thetime. I like the Painted Desert better. "

"Where haven't you been?" said Bartley, laughing. 

"Well, I ain't been North for quite a spell. "

And Cheyenne fell silent, thinking of Laramie, of the broad prairies ofWyoming, of his old homestead, and the days when he was happy with hiswife and Little Jim. But he was not silent long. He visioned a plan thathe might work out, after he had seen Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank again. Meanwhile, the sun was shining, the road wound among the ragged hills, and Filaree and Joshua stepped along briskly, their hoof-beatssuggesting the rhythm of a song. 

That night they camped in the hill country not far from a crossroadsstore. In the morning they bought a few provisions and an extra canteen. 

"There's a piece of country between here and the real hills that is liketo be dry, " explained Cheyenne. "We're leavin' the road, this mornin', and cuttin' north. She's some rough, the way we're headed, but you'lllike it. "

From the sagebrush of the southern slopes they climbed slowly up to acountry of scattered juniper. By noon they were among the piñons, following a dim bridle trail that Cheyenne's horses seemed to know. 

"In a couple of days, I aim to spring a surprise on you, " said Cheyenneas they turned in that night. "I figure to show you somethin' you beenwantin' to see. "

"Bring on your bears, " said Bartley, laughing. 

Cheyenne's moodiness had vanished. Frequently he hummed his old trailsong as they rode. Next day, as they nooned among the spruce of the highcountry, Cheyenne suddenly drew the dice from his pocket and, turningthem in his hands, finally tossed them over the rim-rock of the cañonedging their camp. "It's a fool game, " he said. And Bartley knew, by theotter's tone, that he did not alone refer to the game of dice. 

The air was thin, clear, and vital with a quality that the air of thelower country lacked. Bartley felt an ambition to settle down and go towriting. He thought that he now had material enough and to spare. Theywere in a country, vast, fenceless, verdant--almost awesome in itstimbered silences. His imagination was stirred. 

From their noon camp they rode into the timber and from the timber intoa mountain meadow, knee-deep with lush grass. There was no visible trailacross the meadow but the horses seemed to know which way to go. Aftercrossing the meadow, Filaree, leading the cavalcade, turned and took asteep trail down the side of a hidden cañon, a mighty chasm, rock-walledand somber. At the bottom the horses drank, and, crossing the stream, climbed the farther side. In an hour they were again on the rim, plodding noiselessly through the sun-flecked shadows of the giantspruce. 

"How about that surprise?" queried Bartley. 

"Ain't this good enough?" said Cheyenne, gesturing roundabout. 

"Gosh, yes! Lead on, Macduff. "

About four that afternoon the horses pricked their ears and quickenedtheir pace. Filaree and Joshua especially seemed interested in gettingalong the silent trail; and presently the trail merged with anothertrail, more defined. A few hundred yards down this trail, and Bartleysaw a big log cabin; to the left and beyond it a corral, empty, and withthe bars down. Bartley had never seen the place before, and did notrealize where he was, yet he had noticed that the horses seemed to knowthe place. 

"We won't stop by, " said Cheyenne. 

"Any one live there?"

"Sneed used to, " stated Cheyenne. 

Then Bartley knew that they were not far from the San Andreas Valleyand--well, the Lawrence ranch. 

They dropped down a long trail into another cañon which finally spreadto a green valley dotted with ranches. The horses stepped briskly. Presently, rounding a bend, they saw a ranch-house, far below, andsharply defined squares of alfalfa. 

"That house with the red roof--" said Bartley. 

"That's her, " asserted Cheyenne, a trifle ambiguously. 

"Then we've swung round in a circle. "

"We done crossed the res'avation, pardner. And we didn't see a dog-goneInjun. "

Little Jim was the first to catch sight of them as they jogged down thelast stretch of trail leaving the foothills. He recognized the horseslong before their riders were near enough to be identified as his fatherand Bartley. 

Little Jim did not rush to Aunt Jane and tell her excitedly that theywere coming. Instead, he quietly saddled up his pony and rode out tomeet them. Part-way up the slope he waited. 

His greeting was not effusive. "I just thought I'd ride up and tell youfolks that--'that I seen you comin'. "

"How goes the hunting?" queried Bartley. 

"Fine! I got six rabbits yesterday. Dorry is gittin' so she can shootpretty good, too. How you makin' it, dad?"

Cheyenne pushed back his hat and gazed at his young son. "Pretty fair, for an old man, " said Cheyenne presently. "You been behavin' yourself?"

"Sure. "

"How would you like to ride a real hoss, once?"

"You mean _your_ hoss?"

"Uh-huh. "

"I'll trade you, even. "

"No, you won't, son. But you can ride him down to the ranch, if youlike. "

Little Jim almost tumbled from his pony in his eagerness to ride Joshua, his father's horse, with the big saddle and rope and the carbine underthe stirrup leather. 

"You musta made a long ride, " declared Jimmy, as he scrambled up onJoshua. "Josh's shoes is worn thin. He'll be throwin' one, next. "

Jimmy called attention to the horse's shoes, that his father and Bartleymight not see how really pleased he was to ride a "real horse. "

"Yes, a long ride. How is Aunt Jane and Dorry?"

"Oh, they're all right. Uncle Frank he cut twenty-two tons of alfalfaoff the lower field last week. "

Cheyenne sat sideways on Jimmy's pony as they rode down the last easyslope and turned into the ranch gate. Aunt Jane, who was busycooking, --it seemed that Aunt Jane was always busy cooking something orother, when she wasn't dressmaking or mending clothing orironing, --greeted them warmly. Frank was working down at the lower end. Dorry had gone to San Andreas. She would be back 'most any time, now. And weren't they hungry?

They were. And there was fresh milk and pie. But they put up the horsesfirst. 

Later, Cheyenne and Little Jim decided to walk down to the lower end ofthe ranch and see Uncle Frank. Cheyenne had washed his hands and facebefore eating, as had Bartley. But Bartley did not let it go at that. Hebegged some hot water and again washed and shaved, brushed his clothes, and changed his flannel shirt for a clean one. Then he strolled to thekitchen and chatted with Aunt Jane, who had read of the killing of theoutlaws in Phoenix, and had many questions to ask. It had been aterrible tragedy. And Mr. Bartley had actually seen the shooting?

Aunt Jane was glad that Cheyenne had not been mixed up in it, especiallyas that man Sears had been killed. But now that he had been killed, people would talk less about her brother. It really had seemed an act ofProvidence that Cheyenne had had nothing to do with the shooting. Ofcourse, Mr. Bartley knew about the trouble that her brother had had--andwhy he had never settled down--

"His name was not mentioned in the papers, " said Bartley, thinking thathe must say something. 

"There's Dorry, now, " said Aunt Jane, glancing through the kitchenwindow. 

Bartley promptly excused himself and stepped out to the gate, which hevaulted and opened as Dorothy waved a greeting. Bartley carried thegroceries in, and later helped unhitch the team. They chatted casuallyneither referring to the subject uppermost in their minds. 

When Cheyenne returned, riding on a load of alfalfa with Uncle Frank andLittle Jim, Bartley managed to let Uncle Frank know that he was notsupposed to have had a hand in the Phoenix affair. Cheyenne thanked him. 

"But you ain't talked with Dorry, yet, have you?" queried Cheyenne. 

Bartley shook his head. 

"She'll find out, " stated Cheyenne. "You can't fool Dorry. "

That evening, while Uncle Frank and Cheyenne were discussing a matterwhich seemed confidential to themselves, and while Aunt Jane was quietlykeeping an eye on Jimmy, who could hardly keep from interrupting hisseniors--Bartley and Dorry didn't count, just then, for _they_ werealso talking together--Dorothy intimated to Bartley that she would liketo talk with him alone. She did not say so, nor make any gesture toindicate her wish, yet Bartley interpreted her expression correctly. 

He suggested that they step out to the veranda, where it was cooler. From the veranda they strolled to the big gate, and there she asked him, point-blank, to tell her just what had happened in Phoenix. She had readthe papers, and she surmised that there was more to the affair than thepapers printed. For instance, Senator Brown, upon his return to theBox-S, had kindly sent word to Aunt Jane that Cheyenne was all right. Bartley thought that the thoughtful Senator had rather spilled thebeans. 

"Did Cheyenne--" and Dorothy hesitated. 

"Cheyenne didn't kill Sears, " stated Bartley. 

"You talked with Cheyenne, and got him to keep out of it?"

"I tried to. He wouldn't listen. Then I wished him good luck and toldhim I hoped he'd win. "

Dorothy was puzzled. "How do you know he didn't?"

"Because I was standing beside him when it happened. I don't see why youshouldn't know about it. Cheyenne and I were just about to cross thestreet, that night, when we saw Panhandle coming down the opposite side. Sneed and his men, who were evidently waiting for him, called toPanhandle. Panhandle must have thought it was the sheriff, or the citymarshal. It happened suddenly. Panhandle began firing at Sneed and hisriders. They shot him down just as he reached the curb in front of us. They kept on shooting at him as he lay in the street. Cheyenne couldn'tstand that. He emptied his gun, trying to keep them off--and he emptiedsome saddles. "

"Thank you for trying to--to give Cheyenne my message, " said Dorothy. And she shook hands with him. 

"Do you know this is the loveliest vista I have seen since leavingPhoenix--this San Andreas Valley, " said Bartley. 

"But you came through the Apache Forest, " said Dorothy, not for the sakeof argument, but because Bartley was still holding her hand. 

"Yes. But you don't happen to live in the Apache Forest. "

"But, Mr. Bartley--"

"John, please. "

"Cheyenne calls you Jack. "

"Better still. Do you think Aunt Jane would mind if we walked up theroad as far as--well, as far as the spring?"

"Hadn't you better ask her?"

"No. But she wouldn't object. Would you?"

Slowly Dorothy withdrew her hand and Bartley opened the big gate. Asthey walked down the dim, starlit road they were startled by the adventof a yellow dog that bounded from the brush and whined joyously. 

"And I had forgotten him, " said Bartley. "Oh, he's mine! I can't getaway from the fact. He adopted me, and has followed me clear through. Ihad forgotten that he is afraid to come into a ranch. And I am ashamedto say that I forgot to feed him, to-night. He isn't at all beautiful, but he's tremendously loyal. "

"And he shall have a good supper when we get back, " declared Dorothy. 

The yellow dog padded along behind them in the dusk, content to be withhis master again. Bartley talked with Dorothy about his plans, hishopes, and her promise to become the heroine of his new story. Then hesurprised her by stating that he had decided to make a home in the SanAndreas Valley. 

"You really don't know anything about me, or my people, " he said. "And Iwant you to know. My only living relative is my sister, and she isscandalously well-to-do. Her husband makes money manufacturing hooks andeyes. He's not romantic, but he's solid. As for me--"

And Bartley spoke of his own income, just what he could afford to spendeach month, and just how much he managed to save, and his ambition toearn more. Dorothy realized that he was talking to her just as he wouldhave talked to a chum--a man friend, without reserve, and she liked himfor it. She had been curious about him, his vocation, and even about hisplans; and she felt a glow of affection because he had seemed so loyalto his friendship with Cheyenne, and because he had been kind to LittleJim Hastings. While doing so with no other thought than to please theboy, Bartley had made no mistake in buying him that new rifle. 

As they came to the big rock by the roadside--a spot which Bartley hadgood reason to remember--he paused and glanced at Dorothy. She waslaughing. 

"You looked so funny that day. You were the most dilapidated-lookingperson--for a writer--"

"I imagine I was, after Hull got through with me. Let's sit down awhile. I want to tell you what I should like to do. Are you comfortable?"

Dorothy nodded. 

"Well, " said Bartley, seating himself beside her, "I should like to renta small place in the valley, a place just big enough for two, and thensettle down and write this story. Then, if I sold it, I think I shouldlock up, get a pack-horse and another saddle-horse, outfit for a longtrip, and then take the trail north and travel for, say, six months, seeing the country, camping along the way, visiting with folks, andincidentally gathering material for another story. It could be done. "

"But why rent a place, if you plan to leave it right away?"

"Because I should want a home to come to, a place to think of when I wason the trails. You know a fellow can't wander up and down the worldforever. I like to travel, but I think a chap ought to spend at leasthalf a year under a roof. Don't you?"

"I was thinking of Cheyenne, " said Dorothy musingly. 

"I think of him a great deal, " declared Bartley. 

Dorothy glanced up at him from her pondering. 

Bartley leaned toward her. "Dorothy, will you help me make that home, here in the valley, and be my comrade on the trails?"

"Hadn't you better ask Aunt Jane?" said Dorothy softly, yet with a touchof humor. 

"Do you mean it?" Bartley's voice was boyishly enthusiastic, like thevoice of a chum, a hearty comrade. "But how about your own folks?"

Dorothy's answer was not given then and there, in words. Nor yet bygesture, nor in any visible way--there being no moon that early in theevening. After a brief interval--or, at least, it seemed brief--theyrose and strolled back down the road, the yellow dog padding faithfullyat their heels. Presently--

"Hey, Dorry!" came in a shrill voice. 

"It's the scout!" exclaimed Bartley, laughing. 

"We're coming, Jimmy, " called Dorothy. 

"But before we're taken into custody--" said Bartley; and as mentionedbefore, the moon had not appeared. 

Little Jim, astride of the ranch gate, querulously demanded where theyhad been and why they had not told him they were going somewhere. 

"And you left the gate open, and--everything!" concluded Jimmy. 

"We just went for a walk, " said Dorothy. 

"What's the use of walkin' up the old road in the dark?" queried Jimmy. "You can't see anything. "

"What do you say to a rabbit hunt to-morrow morning early?" askedBartley. 

"Nope!" declared Little Jim decisively. "'Cause my dad was talkin' withAunt Jane and Uncle Frank, and dad says me and him are goin' back toLaramie where ma is. And we're goin' on the _train_. Aunt Jane shecried. But shucks! We ain't goin' to stay in Laramie all the time. Dadsays if things rib up right, me and ma and him are comin' back to livein the valley. Don't you wish you was goin', Dorry?"

"You run along and tell Aunt Jane we're coming, " said Bartley. 

Little Jim hesitated. But then, Mr. Bartley had bought him that newrifle. Jimmy pattered down the path to the lighted doorway, deliveredhis message, and pattered back again toward the gate, wasting no time_en route_. Halfway to the gate he stopped. Mr. Bartley was standingvery close to Dorry--in fact, Jimmy was amazed to see him kiss her. Jimmy turned and trotted back to the house. 

"Shucks!" he exclaimed. "I thought he liked guns and things more'ngirls!"

But Jimmy was too loyal to tell what he had seen. After all, Dorry wasmighty fine, for a girl. She could ride and shoot, and she never told onhim when he had done wrong. 

With a skip and a hop Jimmy burst into the room. "We're goin' on the_train_, " he declared. "Ain't we, dad?"

Dorothy and Bartley came in. Bartley glanced at Cheyenne, hesitated, andthen thrust out his hand. 

"Good luck to your new venture, " he said heartily. 

"Same to you, pardner!" And Cheyenne included Dorry in his glance. 

"I want to ask Aunt Jane's advice, " stated Bartley. 

"Then, " said Cheyenne, "I reckon me and Frank and Jimmy'll step out andtake a look at the stars. She's a wonderful night. "