A MINUTE TOO LATE
The Overland, westbound, was late. Nevertheless, it had to stop at
Antelope, but it did so grudgingly and left with a snort of disdain for
the cow-town of the high mesa. Curious-eyed tourists had a brief glimpse
of a loading-chute, cattle-pens, a puncher or two, and an Indian
freighter's wagon just pulling in from the spaces, and accompanied by a
plodding cavalcade of outriders on paint ponies.
Incidentally the westbound left one of those momentarily interested
Easterners on the station platform, without baggage, sense of direction,
or companion. He had stepped off the train to send a telegram to a
friend in California. He discovered that he had left his address book in
his grip. Meanwhile the train had moved forward some sixty yards, to
take water. Returning for his address book, he boarded the wrong
Pullman, realized his mistake, and hastened on through to his car. Out
to the station again--delay in getting the attention of the telegraph
operator, the wire finally written--and the Easterner heard the rumble
of the train as it pulled out.
Even then he would have made it had it not been for a portly individual
in shirt-sleeves who inadvertently blocked the doorway of the telegraph
office. Bartley bumped into this portly person, tried to squeeze past,
did so, and promptly caromed off the station agent whom he met head on,
halfway across the platform. Gazing at the departing train, Bartley
reached in his pocket for a cigar which he lighted casually.
The portly individual touched him on the shoulder. "'Nother one, this
afternoon."
"Thanks. But my baggage is on that one."
"You're lucky it ain't two sections behind, this time of year. Travel is
heavy."
Bartley's quick glance took in the big man from his high-heeled boots to
his black Stetson. A cattleman, evidently well to do, and quite
evidently not flustered by the mishaps of other folks.
"There's a right comfortable little hotel, just over there," stated the
cattleman. "Wishful runs her. It ain't a bad place to wait for your
train."
Bartley smiled in spite of his irritation.
The cattleman's eyes twinkled. "You'll be sending a wire to have 'em
take care of your war bag. Well, come on in and send her. You can catch
Number Eight about Winslow."
The cattleman forged ahead, and in the telegraph office, got the
immediate attention of the operator, who took Bartley's message.
The cattleman paid for it. "'Tain't the first time my size has cost me
money," he said, as Bartley protested. "Now, let's go over and get
another cigar. Then we can mill around and see Wishful. You'll like
Wishful. He's different."
They strode down the street and stopped in at a saloon where the
cattleman called for cigars. Bartley noticed that the proprietor of the
place addressed the big cattleman as "Senator."
"This here is a dry climate, and a cigar burns up right quick, if you
don't moisten it a little," said the cattleman. "I 'most always moisten
mine."
Bartley grinned. "I think the occasion calls for it, Senator."
"Oh, shucks! Just call me Steve--Steve Brown. And just give us a little
Green River Tom."
A few minutes later Bartley and his stout companion were seated on the
veranda of the hotel, gazing out across the mesas. They were both
comfortable, and quite content to watch the folk go past, out there in
the heat. Bartley wondered if the title "Senator" were a nickname, or if
the portly gentleman placidly smoking his cigar and gazing into space
was really a politician.
A dusty cow-puncher drifted past the hotel, waving his hand to the
Senator, who replied genially. A little later a Navajo buck rode up on a
quick-stepping pony. He grunted a salutation and said something in his
native tongue. The Senator replied in kind. Bartley was interested.
Presently the Navajo dug his heels into his pony's ribs, and clattered
up the road.
The Senator turned to Bartley. "Politics and cattle," he said, smiling.
Having learned the Senator's vocation, Bartley gave his own as briefly.
The Senator nodded.
"It is as obvious as all that, then?" queried Bartley.
"I wouldn't say that," stated the Senator carefully. "But after you
bumped into me, and then stepped into the agent, and then turned around
and took in my scenery, noticin' the set of my legs, I says to myself,
'painter-man or writer.' It was kind of in your eye. I figured you
wa'n't no painter-man when you looked at the oil paintin' over the bar.
"A painter-man would 'a' looked sad or said somethin', for that there
paintin' is the most gosh-awful picture of what a puncher might look
like after a cyclone had hit him. I took a painter-man in there once, to
get a drink. He took one look at that picture, and then he says, kind of
sorrowful: 'Is this the only place in town where they serve liquor?' I
told him it was. 'Let's go over and tackle the pump,' he says. But we
had our drink. I told him just to turn his back on that picture when he
took his."
"I might be anything but a writer," said Bartley.
"That's correct. But you ain't."
"You hit the nail on the head. However, I can't just follow your line of
reasoning it out."
"Easy. Elimination. Now a tourist, regular, stares at folks and things.
But a painter or writer he takes things in without starin'. There's some
difference. I knew you were a man who did things. It's in your eye."
"Well," laughed Bartley, "I took you for a cattleman the minute I saw
you."
"Which was a minute too late, eh?"
"I don't know about that. Since I've been sitting here looking at the
mesa and those wonderful buttes over there, and watching the natives
come and go, I have begun to feel that I don't care so much about that
train, after all. I like this sort of thing. You see, I planned to visit
California, but there was nothing definite about the plan. I chose
California because I had heard so much about it. It doesn't matter much
where I go. By the way, my name is Bartley."
"I'm Steve Brown--cattle and politics. I tell you, Mr. Bartley--"
"Suppose you say just Bartley?"
The Senator chuckled. "Suppose I said 'Green River'?"
"I haven't an objection in the world," laughed Bartley.
"Wishful, here, don't keep liquor," explained the Senator. "And he's
right about that. Folks that stay at this hotel want to sleep nights."
The Senator heaved himself out of his chair, stood up, and stretched.
"I reckon you'll be wantin' to see all you can of this country. My ranch
lays just fifty miles south of the railroad, and not a fence from here
to there. Then, there's them Indians, up north a piece. And over yonder
is where they dig up them prehistoric villages. And those buttes over
there used to be volcanoes, before they laid off the job. To the west is
the petrified forest. I made a motion once, when the Legislature was in
session, to have that forest set aside as a buryin'-ground for
politicians,--State Senators and the like,--but they voted me down. They
said I didn't specify _dead_ politicians.
"South of my place is the Apache reservation. There's good huntin' in
that country. 'Course, Arizona ain't no Garden of Eden to some folks.
Two kinds of folks don't love this State a little bit'--homesteaders and
tourists. But when it comes to cattle and sheep and mines, you can't
beat her. She sure is the Tiger Lily of the West. But let's step over
and see Tom. Excuse me a minute. There's a constituent who has somethin'
on his chest. I'll meet you at the station."
The Senator stepped out and talked with his constituent. Meanwhile,
Bartley turned to gaze down the street. A string of empty freight
wagons, followed by a lazy cloud of dust, rolled slowly toward town.
Here and there a bit of red showed in the dun mass of riders that
accompanied the wagons. A gay-colored blanket flickered in the sun. The
mesas radiated keen dry heat.
Bartley turned and crossed over to the station. He blinked the effects
of the white light from his eyes as he entered the telegraph office. The
operator, in shirt-sleeves, and smoking a brown-paper cigarette, nodded
and handed Bartley a service message stating that his effects would be
carried to Los Angeles and held for further orders.
"It's sure hot," said the operator. "Did you want to send another wire?"
Bartley shook his head. "Who is that stout man I bumped into trying to
catch my train?"
"That's Senator Steve Brown--State Senator. Thought you knew him."
"No. I just met him to-day."
The operator slumped down in his chair.
Bartley strode to the door and blinked in the Arizona sunshine. "By
George!" he murmured, "I always thought they wore those big Stetsons for
show. But all day in this sun--guess I'll have to have one."