Partners of Chance Part 10

"No. I bought him."

"If you don't mind tellin' me--how much?"

"A hundred."

"Was Wishful drunk?"

"No."

"Well, you got a real hoss, there. The water is right close. Old Dobe knows where it is. Just lift off your saddle and turn him loose--or mebby you better hobble him the first night. He ain't used to travelin'

with you, yet."

"I have a stake-rope," said Bartley.

"A hoss would starve on a stake-rope out here. I'll make you a pair of hobbles, p.r.o.nto. Then he'll stick with my hosses."

"Where are they?"

"Runnin' around out there somewhere. They never stray far from camp."

Bartley watched Cheyenne untwist a piece of soft rope and make a pair of serviceable hobbles.

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

Later, as Bartley sat by the fire and ate, Cheyenne asked him if Panhandle had been seen in town since the night of the c.r.a.p game.

Bartley told him that he had seen nothing of Panhandle.

"He's ridin' this country, somewhere," said Cheyenne. "You're headed for Steve's ranch?"

"Yes."

"Well, Steve'll sure give you the time of your life."

"I think I'll stay there a few days, if the Senator can make room for me."

"Room! Wait till you see Steve's place. And say, if you want to get wise to how they run a cattle outfit, just throw in with the boys, tell 'em you're a plumb tenderfoot and can't ride a bronc, nohow, and that you never took down a rope in your life, and that all you know about cattle is what you've et, and then the boys will use you white. There's nothin'

puts a fella in wrong with the boys quicker than for him to let on he is a hand when he ain't. 'Course the boys won't mind seem' you top a bronc and get throwed, just to see if you got sand."

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

"You see," he began, apropos of nothing in particular, "entertainin'

folks with the latest news is my long suit. I'm kind of a travelin'

show, singin' and packin' the news around to everybody. 'Course folks read the paper and hear about somebody gettin' married, or gettin' shot or leavin' the country, and then they ask me the how of it. I been ramblin' so long that I know the pedigrees of 'most everybody down this way.

"Newspapers is all right, but folks get plumb hungry to git their news with human trimmin's. I recollec' I come mighty near gettin' in trouble, onct. Steve had some folks visitin' down to his ranch. They was new to the country, and seems they locked horns with a outfit runnin' sheep just south of Springerville. Now, I hadn't been down that way for about six months, but I had heard of that ruckus. So after Steve lets me sing a couple of songs, and I got to feelin' comfortable with them new folks, I set to and tells 'em about the ruckus down near Springerville. I guess the fella that told me must 'a' got his reins crossed, for pretty soon Steve starts to laugh and turns to them visitors and says: 'How about it, Mr. Smith?'

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

"Everybody laughed but him and his wife. I reckon she was feelin' her oats, visitin' at the Senator's house. I don't know what she said to her husband, but, anyhow, afore I left for the bunk-house that evenin', he says, slow and easy, that if I was around there next mornin', he would explain all about that ruckus to me, when the ladies weren't present, so I wouldn't get it wrong, next time. I seen I had made a mistake for myself, and I didn't aim to make another, so I just kind of eased off and faded away, bus.h.i.+n' down that night a far piece from Senator Steve's ranch. I know them Whicker-bills and I didn't want to tangle with any of 'em."

"Afraid you'd get shot?" queried Bartley, laughing.

"Shot? Me? No, pardner. I was afraid that Texas gent would get shot. You see, he was married--and I--ain't."

Bartley lay back on his saddle and gazed up at the stars. The little fire had died down to a dot of red. A coyote yelped in the far dusk.

Another coyote replied. Cheyenne rose and threw some wood on the fire.

Then he stepped down to the water-hole and washed the plates and cups.

Bartley could hear the peculiar thumping sound of hobbled horses moving about on the mesa. Cheyenne returned to the fire, picked up his bed-roll, and marched off into the bushes. Bartley wondered why he should take the trouble to move his bed-roll such a distance from the water-hole.

"Pack your saddle and blanket over, when you feel like turnin' in," said Cheyenne. "And you might throw some dirt on that fire. I ain't lookin'

for visitors down this way, but you can't tell."

Bartley carried his saddle out to the distant clump of junipers.

"Just shed your coat and boots and turn in," invited Cheyenne.

Bartley was not sleepy, and for a long time he lay gazing up at the stars. Presently he heard Cheyenne snore. The Big Dipper grew dim. Then a coyote yelped--a shrill cadence of mocking laughter. "I wonder what the joke is?" Bartley thought drowsily.

Sometime during the night he was awakened by the tramping of horses, a sound that ran along the ground and diminished in the distance.

Cheyenne was sitting up. He touched Bartley. "Five or six of 'em,"

whispered Cheyenne.

"Our horses?"

"Too many. Mebby some strays."

"Or cowboys," suggested Bartley.

"Night-ridin' ain't so popular out here."

Bartley turned over and fell asleep. It seemed but a moment later that he was wide awake and Cheyenne was standing over him. It was daylight.

"They got our hosses," said Cheyenne.

"Who?"

"I dunno."

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

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

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

"The joke is on us," said Bartley.

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