Partners of Chance

by Henry Herbert Knibbs

  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 a
nd 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."