"A LITTLE GREEN RIVER"
To suddenly stop off at a cow-town station, without baggage or definite
itinerary, was unconventional, to say the least. Bartley was amused and
interested. Hitherto he had written more or less conventional
stuff--acceptable stories of the subway, the slums, the docks, and the
streets of Eastern cities. But now, as he strode over to the saloon, he
forgot that he was a writer of stories. A boyish longing possessed him
to see much of the life roundabout, even to the farthest, faint range of
hills--and beyond.
He felt that while he still owed something to his original plan of
visiting California, he could do worse than stay right where he was. He
had thought of wiring to have his baggage sent back. Then it occurred to
him that, aside from his shaving-kit and a few essentials, his baggage
comprised but little that he could use out here in the mesa country. And
he felt a certain relief in not having trunks to look after. Outing
flannels and evening clothes would hardly fit into the present scheme of
things. The local store would furnish him all that he needed. In this
frame of mind he entered the Blue Front Saloon where he found Senator
Steve and his foreman seated at a side table discussing the merits of
"Green River."
"Hello!" called the Senator. "Mr. Bartley, meet my foreman, Lon Pelly."
They shook hands.
"Lon says the source of Green River is Joy in the Hills," asserted the
Senator, smiling.
The long, lean cow-puncher grinned. "Steve, here, says the source of
Green River is trouble."
"Now, as a writin' man, what would you say?" queried the Senator.
Bartley gazed at the label on the bottle under discussion. "Well, as a
writer, I might say that it depends how far you travel up or down Green
River. But as a mere individual enjoying the blessings of companionship,
I should say, let's experiment, judiciously."
"Fetch a couple more glasses, Tom," called the Senator.
After the essential formalities, Bartley pushed back his chair, crossed
one leg over the other, and lighted a cigar. "I'm rather inclined toward
that Joy in the Hills theory, just now," he asserted.
"That's all right," said Lon Pelly. "Bein' a little inclined don't hurt
any. But if you keep on reachin' for Joy, your foot is like to slip.
Then comes Trouble."
"Lon's qualified for the finals once or twice," said the Senator. "Now,
take _me_, for a horrible example. I been navigatin' Green River, off
and on, for quite a spell, and I never got hung up bad."
"Speaking of rivers, they're rather scarce in this country, I believe,"
said Bartley.
"Yes. But some of 'em are noticeable in the rainy season," stated
Senator Steve. "But you ain't seen Arizona. You've only been peekin'
through your fingers at her. Wait till you get on a cayuse and hit the
trail for a few hundred miles--that's the only way to see the country.
Now, take 'Cheyenne.' He rides this here country from Utah to the
border, and he can tell you somethin' about Arizona.
"Cheyenne is a kind of hobo puncher that rides the country with his
little old pack-horse, stoppin' by to work for a grubstake when he has
to, but ramblin' most of the time. He used to be a top-hand once. Worked
for me a spell. But he can't stay in one place long. Wish you could meet
him sometime. He can tell you more about this State than any man I know.
He's what you might call a character for a story. He stops by regular,
at the ranch, mebby for a day or two, and then takes the trail, singin'
his little old song. He's kind of a outdoor poet. Makes up his own
songs."
"What was that one about Arizona that you gave 'em over to the State
House onct?" queried Lon Pelly.
"Oh, that wa'n't Cheyenne's own po'try. It was one he read in a magazine
that he gave me. Let's see--
"Arizona! The tramp of cattle,
The biting dust and the raw, red brand:
Shuffling sheep and the smoke of battle:
The upturned face--and the empty hand.
"Dawn and dusk, and the wide world singing,
Songs that thrilled with the pulse of life,
As we clattered down with our rein chains ringing
To woo you--but never to make you wife."
The Senator smiled a trifle apologetically. "There's more of it. But
po'try ain't just in my line. Once in a while I bust loose on
po'try--that is, my kind of po'try. And I want to say that we sure
clattered down from the Butte and the Blue in the old days, with our
rein chains jinglin', thinkin'--some of us--that Arizona was ours to
fare-ye-well.
"But we old-timers lived to find out that Arizona was too young to get
married yet; so we just had to set back and kind of admire her, after
havin' courted her an amazin' lot, in our young days." The Senator
chuckled. "Now, Lon, here, he'll tell you that there ain't no po'try in
this here country. And I never knew they was till I got time to set back
and think over what we unbranded yearlin's used to do."
"For instance?" queried Bartley.
Senator Steve waved his pudgy hand as though shooing a flock of chickens
off a front lawn. "If I was to tell you some of the things that
happened, you would think I was a heap sight bigger liar than I am.
Seein' some of them yarns in print, folks around this country would say:
'Steve Brown's corralled some tenderfoot and loaded him to the muzzle
with shin tangle and ancient history!' Things that would seem amazin' to
you would never ruffle the hair of the mavericks that helped make this
country."
"This country ain't all settled yet," said the foreman, rising. "Reckon
I'll step along, Steve."
After the foreman had departed, Bartley turned to the Senator. "Are
there many more like him, out here?"
"Who, Lon? Well, a few. He's been foreman for me quite a spell. Lon he
thinks. And that's more than I ever did till after I was thirty. And Lon
ain't twenty-six, yet."
"I think I'll step over to the drug-store and get a few things," said
Bartley.
"So you figure to bed down at the hotel, eh?"
"Yes. For a few days, at least. I want to get over the idea that I have
to take the next train West before I make any further plans."
The Senator accompanied Bartley to the drug-store. The Easterner bought
what he needed in the way of shaving-kit and brush and comb. The Senator
excused himself and crossed the street to talk to a friend. The
afternoon sun slanted across the hot roofs, painting black shadows on
the dusty street. Bartley found Wishful, the proprietor, and told him
that he would like to engage a room with a bath.
Wishful smiled never a smile as he escorted Bartley to a room.
"I'll fetch your bath up, right soon," he said solemnly.
Presently Wishful appeared with a galvanized iron washtub and a kettle
of boiling water. Bartley thanked him.
"You can leave 'em out in the hall when you're through," said Wishful.
Bartley enjoyed a refreshing bath and rub-down. Later he set the kettle
and tub out in the dim hallway. Then he sat down and wrote a letter to
his friend in California, explaining his change of plan. The afternoon
sunlight waned. Bartley gazed out across the vast mesas, lavender-hued
and wonderful, as they darkened to blue, then to purple that was shot
with strange half-lights from the descending sun.
Suddenly a giant hand seemed to drop a canopy over the vista, and it was
night. Bartley lighted the oil lamp and sat staring out into the
darkness. From below came the rattle of dishes. Presently Bartley heard
heavy, deliberate footsteps ascending the stairway. Then a clanging
crash and a thud, right outside his door. He flung the door open.
Senator Steve was rising from the flattened semblance of a washtub and
feeling of himself tenderly. The Senator blinked, surveyed the wrecked
tub and the kettle silently, and then without comment he stepped back
and kicked the kettle. It soared and dropped clanging into the hall
below.
Wishful appeared at the foot of the stairs. "Did you ring, Senator?"
"Yes, I did! And I'm goin' to ring again."
"Hold on!" said Wishful, "I'll come up and get the tub. I got the
kettle."
The Senator puffed into Bartley's room and sat on the edge of the bed.
He wiped his bald head, smiling cherubically. "Did you hear him, askin'
me, a member of the Society for the Prevention of Progress, if I rang
for him! That's about all the respect I command in this community. I
sure want to apologize for not stoppin' to knock," added the Senator.
Bartley grinned. "It was hardly necessary. I heard you."
"I just came up to see if you would take dinner with me and my missus.
We're goin' to eat right soon. You see, my missus never met up with a
real, live author."
"Thanks, Senator. I'll be glad to meet your family. But suppose you
forget that author stuff and just take me as a tenderfoot out to see the
sights. I'll like it better."
"Why, sure! And while the House is in session, I might rise to remark
that I can't help bein' called 'Senator,' because I'm guilty. But,
honest, I always feel kinder toward my fellow-bein's who call me just
plain 'Steve.'"
"All right. I'll take your word for it."
"Don't you take my word for anything. How do you know but I might be
tryin' to sell you a gold mine?"
"I think the risk would be about even," said Bartley.
The Senator chuckled. "I just heard Wishful lopin' down the hall with
his bathin' outfit, so I guess the right of way is clear again. And
there goes the triangle--sounds like the old ranch, that triangle. You
see, Wishful used to be a cow-hand, and lots of cow-hands stop at this
hotel when they're in town. That triangle sounds like home to 'em. I'm
stoppin' here myself. But I got a real bathroom out to the ranch. Let's
go down and look at some beef on the plate."