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.
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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 Wishf
ul.
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.
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