A HORSE-TRADE
When Bartley came down to breakfast next morning he noticed two horses
tied at the hitch-rail in front of the hotel. One of the horses, a
rather stocky gray, bore a pack. The other, a short-coupled, sturdy
buckskin, was saddled. Evidently Cheyenne was trying to catch up with
his 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 of
which reposed two fried eggs among some curled slivers of bacon.
Two railroad men, a red-eyed Eastern tourist who looked as though he had
not slept for a week, a saturnine cattleman in from the mesas, and two
visiting ladies from an adjacent town comprised the tale of guests that
morning. As Bartley came in the guests glanced at him curiously. They
had heard of the misunderstanding at the Blue Front.
Cheyenne immediately rose and offered Bartley a chair at his table. The
two women, alone at their table, immediately became subdued and
watchful. They were gazing their first upon an author. Wishful had made
the fact known, with some pride. The ladies, whom Cheyenne designated as
"cow-bunnies,"---or wives of ranchers,--were dressed in their "best
clothes," and were trying to live up to them. They had about finished
breakfast, and shortly after Bartley was seated they rose. On their way
out 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 and
worry had graven in her face. Her "best clothes" rather accentuated
these details. But back of it all he sensed the resolute spirit of the
West, resourceful, progressive, large-visioned.
"Meet Mr. Bartley," said Cheyenne unexpectedly.
Which was just what the two women had been itching to do. Bartley rose
and 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 Cheyenne
had an unsettled quarrel between them.
In the hotel office Cheyenne purchased cigars and proffered Bartley a
half-dozen. Bartley took one. Cheyenne seemed disappointed. When cigars
were going round, it seemed strange not to take full advantage of the
circumstance. As they stepped out to the veranda, the horses recognized
Cheyenne and nickered gently.
"Going south?" queried Bartley.
"That's me. I got the silver changed to bills and some of the bills
changed to grub. I reckon I'll head south. Kind of wish you was headed
that way."
Bartley bit the end from his cigar and lighted it, as he gazed out
across the morning mesa. A Navajo buck loped past and jerked his little
paint 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 got
that dignity idea down fine."
"Did he come in for medicine, perhaps?"
"Mebby. But most like he's after chewin'-gum for his squaw, and
cigarettes for himself, with a bottle of red pop on the side. Injuns
always buy red pop."
"Cigarettes and chewing-gum?"
"Sure thing! Didn't you ever see a squaw chew gum and smoke a
tailor-made cigarette at the same time? You didn't, eh? Well, then, you
got somethin' comin'."
"Romance!" laughed Bartley.
"Ever sleep in a Injun hogan?" queried Cheyenne as he busied himself
adjusting the pack.
"No. This is my first trip West."
"I was forgettin'. Well, I ain't what you'd call a dude, but, honest, if
I was prospectin' round lookin' for Injun romance I'd use a pair of
field-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 to
see 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 of
the old hand. Bartley noticed that the pack-horse had no lead-rope, nor
had he been tied. Bartley did not know that Filaree, the pack-horse,
would never let Joshua, the saddle-horse, out of his sight. They had
traveled 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 he
read in Bartley's glance a half-awakened desire to outfit and hit the
trail 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 a
side street.
Back in his room Bartley paced up and down, keeping time to the tune of
Cheyenne's trail song. The morning sun poured down upon the station roof
opposite, and danced flickering across the polished tracks of the
railroad. Presently Bartley stopped pacing his room and stood at the
window. Far out across the mesa he saw a rider, drifting along in the
sunshine, followed by a gray pack-horse.
"By George!" exclaimed Bartley. "He may be a sort of wandering joke to
the citizens of this State, but he's doing what he wants to do, and
that'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 his
friend in El Paso: 'Drop into Denver some evening and I'll show you the
sights.' Distance? Negligible. Time? An inconsequent factor. Big stuff!
As for me, I think I'll go downstairs and interview the pensive
Wishful."
Wishful had the Navajo blankets and chairs piled up in the middle of the
hotel office and was thoughtfully sweeping out cigar ashes, cigarette
stubs, and burned matches. Wishful, besides being proprietor of the
Antelope House, was chambermaid, baggage-wrangler, clerk, advertising
manager, and, upon occasion, waiter in his own establishment. And he
kept a neat place.
Bartley walked over to the desk. Wishful kept on sweeping. Bartley
glanced at the signatures on the register. Near the bottom of the page
he 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 happens
to 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 defunct
cigar. "Never heard either of his hosses object to his company," he
replied.
Bartley grinned and glanced up and down the register. Wishful dug into a
corner with his broom. Something shot rattling across the floor. Wishful
laid down the broom and upon hands and knees began a search. Presently
he rose. A slow smile illumined his face. He had found a pair of dice in
the litter on the floor. He made a throw, shook his head, and picked up
the dice. His sweeping became more sprightly. Amused by the
preoccupation of the lank and cautiously humorous Wishful, Bartley
touched the bell on the desk. Wishful promptly stood his broom against
the 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 two
dollars comin'," he stated.
"I'll shake you for that two dollars," said Bartley.
Wishful's tired eyes lighted up. "You said somethin'." And he produced
the dice.
Just then the distant "Zoom" of the westbound Overland shook the
silence. Wishful hesitated, then gestured magnificently toward space.
What was the arrival of a mere train, with possibly a guest or so for
the hotel, compared with a game of craps?
While they played, the train steamed in and was gone. Wishful won the
two dollars.
Bartley escaped to the veranda and his reflections. Presently he rose
and strolled round to the corral. Wishful's three saddle-animals were
lazying in the heat. Bartley was not unfamiliar with the good points of
a horse. He rejected the sorrel with the Roman nose, as stubborn and
foolish. The flea-bitten gray was all horse, but he had a white-rimmed
eye. The chestnut bay was a big, hardy animal, but he appeared rather
slow and deliberate. Yet he had good, solid feet, plenty of bone, deep
withers, and powerful hindquarters.
Bartley stepped round to the hotel. "Have you a minute to spare?" he
queried 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 rent
one--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't
turn down a fair offer."
"Set a price on that sorrel," said Bartley.
Now, Wishful was willing to part with the sorrel, which was showy and
looked fast. Bartley did not want the animal. He merely wanted to arrive
at 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 a
hoss."
"The best, eh? And a hundred for the sorrel." Bartley appeared to
reflect.
Wishful really wanted to sell the gray, describing him as the best horse
he owned to awaken Bartley's interest. The best horse in the corral was
the 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't
want to rob you of your best horse, Wishful."
Wishful saw that he was cornered. He had cornered himself, premising
that 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 for
odd 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 that
sum, 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 good
saddle-horses, however."
"Uh-huh? I reckon he did. And you ain't forgot what a real hoss looks
like, either." Wishful's pensive countenance lighted suddenly. "You'll
be wantin' a rig--saddle and bridle and slicker and saddle-bags. Now I
got just what you want."
Bartley stepped to the stable and inspected the outfit. It was old and
worn, and worth, Bartley estimated, about thirty dollars, all told.
"I'll let you have the whole outfit--hoss and rig and all, for two
hundred," stated Wishful unblushingly.
"I priced a saddle, over in the shop across from the station, this
morning," said Bartley.
"With bridle and blanket and saddle-pockets it would only stand me
ninety dollars. If the bay is the poorest horse you own, then at your
figure this outfit would come rather high."
"I might 'a' knowed it!" stated Wishful. "Say, Mr. Bartley, give me a
hundred 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 only
taking you at your word."
"I sure done overlooked a bet, this trip," said Wishful. "Say, I reckon
you must 'a' cut your first tooth on a cinch-ring. I done learnt
somethin' this mornin'. Private eddication comes high, but I'm game.
Write your check for a hundred--and take the bay. By rights I ought to
give him to you, seein as how you done roped and branded me for a
blattin' yearlin' the first throw; and you been out West just three
days! You'll git along in this country."
"I hope so," laughed Bartley. "Speaking of getting along, I plan to
visit Senator Brown. How long will it take me to get there, riding the
bay?"
"He's got a runnin' walk that is good for six miles an hour. He's a
walkin' fool. And anything you git your rope on, he'll hold it till
you're gray-headed and got whiskers. That ole hoss is the best cow-hoss
in 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 a
hoss, you can figure he's a good one."
"I suppose I'd have to camp on the mesa two or three nights," said
Bartley.
"Nope! Ole Dobe'll make it in two days. He don't look fast, but the
trail sure fades behind him when he's travelin'. I'm kind of glad you
didn't try to buy the Antelope House. You'd started in pricin' the
stable, and kind of milled around and ast me what I'd sell the kitchen
for, and afore I knowed it, you'd 'a' had me selling the hotel for less
than 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 you
engineer 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 on
looks, 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't
travel fast with a pack-hoss along. He'll most like camp at the first
water, about twenty-five miles south. But you can pack some grub in your
saddle-bags, and play safe. And take a canteen along."
Wishful superintended the purchasing of the new outfit, and seemed
unusually keen about seeing Bartley well provided for at the minimum
cost. Wishful's respect for the Easterner had been greatly enhanced by
the recent horse-deal. When it came to the question of clothing, Wishful
wisely suggested overalls and a rowdy, as being weather and brush proof.
Incidentally Wishful asked Bartley why he had paid his bill before he
had actually prepared to start on the journey. Bartley told Wishful that
he 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 the
saddle-pockets, a blanket tied behind the cantle, and a small canteen
hung on the horn, he felt equipped to make the journey. Wishful
suggested 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 he
walked around horse and rider, giving them a final inspection. "And you
don't have to cinch ole Dobe extra tight," he advised. "He carries a
saddle 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 me
collect. 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 Wishful.
Wishful stood gazing after his recent guest until he had disappeared
around a corner.
Then Wishful strode into the hotel office and marked a blue cross on the
big wall calendar. A humorous smile played about his mouth. It was a
mark to indicate the day and date that an Eastern tenderfoot had got the
best of him in a horse-deal.