HIGH HEELS AND MOCCASINS
Bartley suggested that, perhaps, the horses had strayed.
Cheyenne shook his head. "My hosses ain't leavin' good feed, or leavin'
me. They know this here country."
"Perhaps Dobe left for home and the rest followed him," said Bartley.
"Nope. Our hosses was roped and led south."
Bartley stared at Cheyenne, whose usually placid countenance expressed
indecision and worry. Cheyenne seemed positive about the missing horses.
Then Bartley saw an expression in Cheyenne's eyes that indicated more
sternness of spirit than he had given Cheyenne credit for.
"Roped and led south," reiterated Cheyenne.
"How do you know it?"
"I been scoutin' around. The bunch that rode by last night was leadin'
hosses. I could tell by the way the hosses was travelin'. They was goin'
steady. If they'd been drivin' our hosses ahead, they would 'a' gone
faster, tryin' to keep 'em from turnin' back. I don't see nothin' around
camp to show who's been here."
"I'll make a fire," said Bartley.
"You got the right idea. We can eat. Then I aim to look around."
Cheyenne was over in the bushes rolling his bed when Bartley called to
him, and he found Bartley pointing at a pair of dice on a flat rock
beside the fire.
Cheyenne stooped and picked up the dice. "Was you rattlin' the bones to
see if you could beat yourself?"
"I found them here. Are they yours?"
"Nope. And they weren't here last evenin'."
Cheyenne turned and strode out to the road while Bartley made breakfast.
Cheyenne was gone a long time, examining the tracks of horses. When he
returned he squatted down and ate.
Presently he rose. "First off, I thought they might 'a' been some stray
Apaches or Cholas. But they don't pack dice. And the bunch that rode by
last night was ridin' shod bosses."
Bartley turned slowly toward his companion. "Panhandle?" he queried.
"And these here dice? Looks like it. It's like him to leave them dice
for us to play with while he trails south with our stack. I reckon it
was that Dobe hoss he was after. But he must 'a' knowed who was campin'
around here. You see, when Wishful kind of hinted to Panhandle to leave
town, Panhandle figured that meant to stay out of Antelope quite a
spell. First off he steals some hosses. Next thing, he'll sell 'em or
trade 'em, down south of here. He'll travel nights, mostly."
"I can't see why he should especially pick us out as his victims," said
Bartley.
"I don't say he did. But it would make no difference to him. He'd steal
any man's stock. Only, I figure some of his friends must 'a' told him
about you--that seen you ridin' down this way. He would know our camp
would be somewhere near this water-hole. What kind of matches you got
with you?"
"Why--this kind." And Bartley produced a few blue-top matches.
"This here is a old-timer sulphur match, cut square. It was right here,
by the rock. Somebody lit a match and laid them dice there--sixes up. No
reg'lar hoss-thief would take that much trouble to advertise himself.
Panhandle done it--and he wanted me to know he done it."
"You've had trouble with him before, haven't you?"
"Yes--and no man can say I ever trailed him. But I never stepped out of
his way."
"Then that crap game in Antelope meant more than an ordinary crap game?"
said Bartley.
"He had his chance," stated Cheyenne.
"Well, we're in a fix," asserted Bartley.
"Yes; we're afoot. But we'll make it. And right here I'm tellin' you
that I aim to shoot a game of craps with Panhandle, usin' these here
dice, that'll be fast and won't last long."
"How about the law?"
"The law is all right, in spots. But they's a whole lot of country
between them spots."
Cheyenne cached the bed-roll, saddles, and cooking-outfit back in the
brush, taking only a canteen and a little food. He proffered a pair of
moccasins, parfleche-soled and comfortable, to Bartley.
"You wear these. Them new ridin'-boots'll sure kill you dead, walkin'.
You can pack 'em along with you."
"How about your feet?"
"Say, you wouldn't call me a tenderfoot, would you?"
"Not exactly."
"Then slip on them moccasins. But first I aim to make a circle and see
just where they caught up our stock."
Bartley drew on the moccasins and, tying his boots together, rolled them
in his blanket. Meanwhile, Cheyenne circled the camp far out, examining
the scattered tracks of horses. When he returned the morning sun was
beginning to make itself felt.
"I'll toss up to see who wears the moccasins," said Bartley. "I'm more
used to hiking than you are."
"Spin her!"
As Bartley tossed the coin, Cheyenne called. The half-dollar dropped and
stuck edge-up in the sand.
"You wear 'em the first fifteen miles and then we'll swap," said
Cheyenne.
Bartley filled the canteen and scraped dirt over the fire. Cheyenne took
a last look around, and turned toward the south.
"You didn't say nothin' about headin' back to Antelope," said Cheyenne.
"Why, no. I started out to visit Senator Brown's ranch."
Cheyenne laughed. "Well, you're out to see the country, anyhow. We'll
see lots, to-day."
Once more upon the road Cheyenne's manner changed. He seemed to ignore
the fact that he was afoot, in country where there was little prospect
of getting a lift from a passing rancher or freighter. And he said
nothing about his horses, Filaree and Joshua, although Bartley knew that
their loss must have hit him hard.
A mile down the road, and Cheyenne was singing his trail song,
bow-legging ahead as though he were entirely alone and indifferent to
the journey:
Seems like I don't git anywhere:
Git along, cayuse, git along!
But I'm leavin' here and I'm goin' there,
Git along, cayuse, git along--
He stopped suddenly, pulled his faded black Stetson over one eye, and
then stepped out again, singing on:
They ain't no water and they ain't no shade:
They ain't no beer or lemonade,
But I reckon most like we'll make the grade
Git along, cayuse, git along.
"That's the stuff!" laughed Bartley. "A stanza or two of that every few
miles, and we'll make the grade all right. That last was improvised,
wasn't it?"
"Nope. Just naturalized. I make 'em up when I'm ridin' along, to kind of
fit into the scenery. Impervisin' gets my wind."
"Well, if you are singing when we finish, you're a wonder," stated
Bartley.
"Oh, I'm a wonder, all right! And mebby I don't feel like a plumb fool,
footin' it into Steve's ranch with no hosses and no bed-roll and no
reputation. And I sure lose mine this trip. Why, folks all over the
country will josh me to death when they hear Panhandle Sears set me
afoot on the big mesa. I reckon I'll have to kind of change my route
till somethin' happens to make folks forget this here bobble."
Another five miles of hot and monotonous plodding, and Cheyenne stopped
and sat down. He pulled off his boots.
Bartley offered the moccasins, but Cheyenne waved the offer aside.
"Just coolin' my feet," he explained. "It ain't so much the kind of
boots, because these fit. It's scaldin' your feet that throws you."
They smoked and drank from the canteen. Five minutes' rest, and they
were on the road again. The big mesa reached on and on toward the south,
seemingly limitless, without sign of fence or civilization save for the
narrow road that swung over each slight, rounded rise and ran away into
the distance, narrowing to a gray line that disappeared in space.
Occasionally singing, Cheyenne strode along, Bartley striding beside
him.
"You got a stride like a unbroke yearlin'," said; Cheyenne, as Bartley
unconsciously drew ahead.
Bartley stopped and turned into step as Cheyenne caught up. He held
himself to a slower pace, realizing that, while his companion could have
outridden him by days and miles, the other was not used to walking.
As they topped a low rise a coyote sprang up and floated away. Bartley
flinched as Cheyenne whipped up his gun and fired. The coyote
jack-knifed and lay still. Cheyenne punched the empty shell from his
gun, slipped in a cartridge, and strode on.
"Pretty fast work," remarked Bartley.
"Huh! I just throwed down on him to see if I was gettin' slow."
"It seems to me that if I could shoot like that, I wouldn't let any man
back me down," said Bartley.
"Mebby so. But you're wrong, old-timer. Bein' fast with a gun is just
like advertisin' for the coroner. Me, I'm plumb peaceful."
A few miles farther along they nooned in the shade of a piñion. When
they started down the road again, Bartley noticed that Cheyenne limped
slightly. But Cheyenne still refused to put on the moccasins. Bartley
argued that his own feet were getting tender. He was unaccustomed to
moccasins. Cheyenne turned this argument aside by singing a stanza of
his trail song.
Also, incidentally, Cheyenne had been keeping his eye on the
horse-tracks; and just before they left the main road taking a short
cut, he pointed to them. "There's Filaree's tracks, and there's
Joshua's. Your hoss has been travelin' over here, on the edge. Them
hoss-thieves figure to hit into the White Hills and cut down through the
Apache forest, most like."
"Will they sell the horses?"
"Yes. Or trade 'em for whiskey. Panhandle's got friends up in them
hills."
"How far is it to the ranch?" queried Bartley.
"We done reached her. We're on Steve's ranch, right now. It's about five
miles from that first fence over there to his house, by trail. It's
fifteen by road."
"Then here is where you take the moccasins."
"Nope. My feet are so swelled you couldn't start my boots with a fence
stretcher. They's no use both of us gettin' cripped up."
Bartley's own feet ached from the constant bruising of pebbles.
Presently Cheyenne dropped back and asked Bartley to set the pace.
"I'll just tie to your shadow," said Cheyenne. "Keeps me interested.
When I'm drillin' along ahead I can't think of nothin' but my feet."
Because there was now no road and scarcely a trail, Bartley began to
choose his footing, dodging the rougher places. The muscles of his
calves ached under the unaccustomed strain of walking without heels.
Cheyenne dogged along behind, suffering keenly from blistered feet, but
centering his attention on Bartley's bobbing shadow. They had made about
two miles across country when the faint trail ran round a butte and
dipped into a shallow arroyo.
The arroyo deepened to a gulch, narrow and rocky. Up the gulch a few
hundred yards they came suddenly upon a bunch of Hereford cattle headed
by a magnificent bull. The trail ran in the bottom of the gulch. On
either side the walls were steep and rocky. Angling junipers stuck out
from the walls in occasional dots of green.
"That ole white-face sure looks hostile," Cheyenne remarked. "Git along,
you ole Mormon; curl your tail and drift."
Cheyenne heaved a stone which took the bull fairly between the eyes. The
bull shook his head and snapped his tail, but did not move. The cattle
behind the bull stared blandly at the invaders of their domain. The
bull, being an aristocrat, gave warning of his intent to charge by
shaking his head and bellowing. Then he charged.
Cheyenne stooped for another stone, but Bartley had no intention of
playing ping-pong with a roaring red avalanche. Bartley made for the
side of the gulch and, catching hold of the bole of a juniper, drew
himself up. Cheyenne stood to his guns, shied a third stone, scored a
bull's-eye, and then decided to evacuate in favor of the enemy. His feet
were sore, but he managed to keep a good three jumps ahead of the bull,
up the precipitous bank of the gulch. There was no time to swing into
the tree where Bartley had taken refuge, so Cheyenne backed into a
shallow depression beneath the roots of the juniper.
The bull shook his head and butted at Cheyenne. Cheyenne slapped the
bull's nose with his hat. The bull backed part-way down the grade,
snapped his tail, and bellowed. Up the grade he charged again. He could
not quite reach Cheyenne, who slapped at the bull with his hat and spake
eloquently.
Bartley, clinging to his precarious perch, gazed down upon the scene,
wondering if he had not better take a shot at the bull. "Shall I let him
have it?" he queried.
"Have what?" came the muffled voice of Cheyenne. "He's 'most got what
he's after, right now."
"Shall I shoot him?"
"Hell, no! No use beefin' twelve hundred dollars' worth of meat. We
don't need that much."
"Look out! He's coming again!" called Bartley.
Cheyenne had suddenly poked his head out of the shallow cave. The bull
charged, backed down, and amused himself by tossing dirt over his
shoulders and grumbling like distant thunder.
"Perhaps if you stay in that cave and don't show yourself, he'll leave,"
suggested Bartley.
"Stay nothin'!" answered Cheyenne. "There's a rattler in this here cave.
I can hear him singin'. I'm comin' out, right now!"
Bartley leaned forward and glanced down. The branch on which he was
straddled snapped.
"Look out below!" he shouted as he felt himself going.
Bartley's surprising evolution was too much for his majesty the bull,
who whirled and galloped clumsily down the slope. Bartley rolled to the
bottom, still holding to a broken branch of the tree. Cheyenne was also
at the bottom of the gulch. The bull was trotting heavily toward his
herd.
"Is there anything hooked to the back of my jeans?" queried Cheyenne.
"No. They're torn; that's all."
"Huh! I thought mebby that ole snake had hooked on to my jeans. He
sounded right mad, singin' lively, back in there. My laigs feel kind of
limp, right now."
Cheyenne felt of his torn overalls, shook his head, and then a slow
smile illumined his face. "How do you like this here country, anyhow?"
"Great!" said Bartley.