Partners of Chance Part 34

"Wild?"

"No. Quiet. Writes stories. He's out here to look at the West. Stayed at the ranch a spell. Mrs. Brown likes him."

Colonel Stevenson nodded and offered the Senator a cigar. "Let's step over to the hotel, Steve. It's a long time since--"

That evening Bartley arrived in Phoenix, put up his horse, and, upon inquiry, learned that the Grand Central was the best hotel in town. He was registering when he noticed Senator Brown's name. He made inquiry of the clerk. Yes, the Senator had arrived that morning. And would Mr.

Bartley prefer a front room? The front rooms on the north side were cooler. No, the clerk knew nothing about a Mr. Cheyenne. There was no one by that name registered at the hotel. It was past the regular dinner hour, but the dining-room was not yet closed. There was a men's furnis.h.i.+ngs store just across the street. They carried a complete stock.

And did Mr. Bartley wish to be called at any special hour in the morning? Breakfast was served from six-thirty to nine-thirty.

Bartley had dinner, and later strolled around to the Top-Notch livery to see that Dobe was being well cared for. While talking with the stableman, Bartley noticed a gray pony and in the next stall a buckskin--Cheyenne's horses.

"Those are Cheyenne's horses, aren't they?" he queried.

"I dunno. Mebby that's his name. He left 'em here a few days ago. I only seen him once, since then."

"I'll be around in the morning. If a man called Cheyenne should happen to come in, just tell him that Bartley is stopping at the Grand Central."

"I'll tell him, all right," said the stableman.

And as soon as Bartley was out of sight, that worthy called up the city marshal and told him that a stranger had ridden in and stabled a horse bearing the Box-S brand. A big reward had been offered for the stolen horses.

At the hotel Bartley learned that Senator Brown had gone out for the evening. Tired from his long ride, Bartley went to his room. Senator Steve and Cheyenne were in town. Bartley recalled the blacksmith's talk about the stolen horses. No doubt that accounted for Senator Steve's presence in Phoenix. As for Cheyenne--Bartley decided to hunt him up in the morning.

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 his share of the money from the sale of the Box-S horses. He had had nothing to do with the actual stealing of them, but he had, with the a.s.sistance of his Mexican companion Posmo, engineered the sale to a rancher living out of Tucson. It was understood that the horses would find their way across the border.

Now Panhandle was broke again. He stated that unpleasant fact to his companions, Posmo and Shorty,--the latter a town loafer he had picked up in Antelope. Shorty had nothing to say. Panhandle's drunken aggressive cowed him. But Posmo, who had really found the market for the stolen stock, felt that he had been cheated. Panhandle had promised him a third of his share of the money. Panhandle had kept on promising from day to day, liquidating his promises with whiskey. And now there was no money.

Posmo knew Panhandle well enough not to press the matter, just then. But Panhandle, because neither of his companions had said anything when told that he was broke, turned on Posmo.

"What you got to say about it, anyway?" he asked with that curious stubbornness 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 with Panhandle. "We blowed her in. We're broke, but we ain't cryin' about it."

"That is all right," said Posmo quietly. "If the money is gone, she is gone; yes?"

"That's the way to say it!" a.s.serted Panhandle, changing front and slapping Posmo on the shoulder. "We're broke, and who the h.e.l.l 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. Panhandle immediately became engaged in noisy argument with one of the frequenters of the place. Senator Brown's name was mentioned by the other, but mentioned 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?" he queried, 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 h.e.l.l with him! Beat it yourself if you feel like it."

"I'll stick Pan," declared Shorty, yet his furtive eyes belied his a.s.sertion.

For three days Bartley had tried to find where Cheyenne was staying, but without success, chiefly because Cheyenne kept close to his room during the daytime, watching the entrance to the Hole-in-the-Wall, waiting for Panhandle to step out into the daylight, when there would be folk on the street 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, so far as Cheyenne knew.

Incidentally, Senator Steve had warned Bartley to keep away from the Hole-in-the-Wall district after dark, intimating that there was more in the wind than Cheyenne's feud with Panhandle Sears. So Bartley contented himself with acting as a sort of private secretary for the Senator, a duty that was a pleasure. The hardest thing Bartley did was to refuse bottled entertainment, at least once out of every three times it was offered.

On the evening of the fourth day after Pelly had wired the Senator that Sneed and his men had ridden north from Tucson, Posmo, hanging about the eastern outskirts of Phoenix, saw a small band of hors.e.m.e.n against the southern sky-line. Knowing the trail they would take, north, Posmo had timed their arrival almost to the hour. They would pa.s.s to the east of Phoenix, and take the old Apache Trail, North. Posmo had his horse saddled and hidden in a draw. He mounted and rode directly toward the oncoming hors.e.m.e.n.

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 to conceal his ident.i.ty on the road. He did not care to be mistaken for an enemy, especially so near Phoenix.

Sneed, a giant in the dusk, reined in as Posmo hailed the group. Sneed asked 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 I make the deal--over there," and Posmo gestured toward the south.