Partners of Chance Part 24

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

Bartley thought that Dorothy was rather nice--in fact, singularly interesting. He had not imagined that a Western girl could be so thoroughly domestic, natural, charming, and at the same time manage a horse 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 and ride broncos. True, Dorothy was not like the girls in the East. She seemed less sophisticated--less inclined to talk small talk just for its own sake; yet, concluded Bartley, she was utterly feminine and quite worth while.

Cheyenne smiled as Bartley suggested that they stay in San Andreas a few days; 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 to spend all my money in one place."

Bartley suddenly realized that his companion, was nothing more than a riding hobo, a vagrant, without definite means of support, and disinclined 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, I got to shoot that there game of c.r.a.ps with Panhandle, and I figure he won'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 c.r.a.ps is as good a excuse as I want."

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

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

"Well, perhaps we may agree to dissolve partners.h.i.+p 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. But me, 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' as you figure to stay, I'll stick around to-day, and light out to-morrow mornin'. 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 to the shade of the hotel veranda, and, feeling unaccountably drowsy, he finally 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 wake up. 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 away in the dusk. The singing continued. A young Mexican in a blue serge suit, 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 pa.s.sed the hotel with all the self-consciousness of being attired in their holiday raiment.

A wagon rattled past and stopped at the saloon a few doors down the street. Then a ragged Mexican, hazing two tired burros, appeared in the dim light cast from a window--a quaint silhouette that merged in the farther 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 at the lighted doorway of the cantina opposite. From within the saloon came the sound of gla.s.ses clinking occasionally, and voices engaged in lazy conversation. Cheyenne fingered the dice in his pocket and hummed a tune. Slowly he moved toward the lighted doorway, and Bartley walked beside him.

"I got a thirst," stated Cheyenne.

Bartley laughed. "Well, as we are about to dissolve partners.h.i.+p, I don't mind 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 pleasantly as they entered.

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

Bartley glanced about the low-ceilinged room. The place, poorly lighted with oil lamps, looked sinister enough to satisfy the most hardy adventurer, although it was supposed to be a sort of social center for the enjoyment of vino and talk. The bar was narrow, made of some kind of soft wood, and painted blue. The top of it was almost paintless in patches.

Back of the bar a narrow shelf, also painted blue, offered a lean choice of liquors. Several Mexicans lounged at the side tables along the wall.

The young American rancher stood at the bar, drinking. The proprietor, a fat, one-eyed Mexican whose face was deeply pitted from smallpox, served Bartley and Cheyenne grudgingly. The mescal was fiery stuff. Bartley coughed as he swallowed it.

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

"Whiskey ain't whiskey, here," Cheyenne replied. "But mescal is just what 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. Once down, this native Mexican drink was not so bad. He laid a coin on the bar and the gla.s.ses were filled again.

Cheyenne nodded and drank Bartley's health. Bartley suggested that they sit at one of the side tables and study the effects of mescal on the natives 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 used to read some, nights. I reckon that's where I got the idea of makin' up po'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 that sabes me. Let's sit in this corner and watch the mescal work for a livin'."

It was a hot night. Sweat p.r.i.c.kled on Bartley's forehead. His nose itched. He lit a cigar. It tasted bitter, so he asked Cheyenne for tobacco and papers, and rolled a cigarette. He inhaled a whiff, and felt more comfortable. The Mexicans, who had ceased to talk when Bartley and Cheyenne 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," a.s.serted Cheyenne.

Bartley nodded again.

"Kind of young and innocent-like."