AT THE BOX-S
When they emerged from the western end of the gulch, they paused to
rest. Not over a half-mile south stood the ranch-house, just back of a
row of giant cottonwoods.
Cheyenne pointed out the stables, corrals, and bunk-house. "A mighty
neat little outfit," he remarked, as they started on again.
"Little?"
"Senator Steve's only got about sixty thousand acres under fence."
"Then I'd like to see a big ranch," laughed Bartley.
"You can't. They ain't nothin' to see more'n you see right now. Why, I
know a outfit down in Texas that would call this here ranch their north
pasture--and they got three more about the same size, besides the
regular range. But standin' in any one place you can't see any more than
you do right now. Steve just keeps up this here ranch so he can have
elbow-room. Yonder comes one of his boys. Reckon he seen us."
A rider had just reined his horse round and was loping toward them.
"He seen we was afoot," said Cheyenne.
"Mighty decent of him--" began Bartley, but Cheyenne waved the
suggestion aside. "Decent nothin'! A man afoot looks as queer to a
waddie as we did to that ole bull."
The puncher loped up, recognized Cheyenne, nodded to Bartley, and seemed
to hesitate. Cheyenne made no explanation of their plight, so the
puncher simply turned back and loped toward the ranch-house.
"Just steppin' over to tell Steve we're here," said Cheyenne, as
Bartley's face expressed astonishment.
They plodded on, came to a gate, limped down a long lane, came to
another gate, and there Senator Steve met them.
"I'd 'a' sent a man with a buckboard if I had known you planned to walk
over from Antelope," he asserted, and his eyes twinkled.
Cheyenne frowned prodigiously. "Steve," he said slowly, "you can
lovin'ly and trustfully go plumb to hell!"
Cheyenne turned and limped slowly toward the bunk-house.
Mrs. Brown welcomed Bartley as the Senator ushered him into the
living-room. The Senator half-filled a tumbler from a cold, dark bottle
and handed it to Bartley.
"'Green River,'" he said.
"Mrs. Brown," said Bartley as he bowed.
Then the Senator escorted Bartley to the bathroom. The tub was already
filled with steaming water. A row of snow-white towels hung on the rack.
The Senator waved his hand and, stepping out, closed the door.
A few minutes later he knocked at the bathroom door. "There's a spare
razor in the cabinet, and all the fixings. And when you're ready there's
a pair of clean socks on the doorknob."
Bartley heard the Senator's heavy, deliberate step as he passed down the
hallway.
"A little 'Green River,' a hot bath, and clean socks," murmured Bartley.
"Things might be worse."
His tired muscles relaxed under the beneficent warmth of the bath. He
shaved, dressed, and stepped out into the hall. He sniffed. "Chicken!"
he murmured soulfully.
Mrs. Senator Brown was supervising the cooking of a dinner that Bartley
never forgot. Boiled chicken, dumplings, rich gravy, mashed potatoes,
creamed carrots, sliced tomatoes--to begin with. And then the pie!
Bartley furnished the appetite.
But that was not until after the Senator had returned from the
bunk-house. He had seen to it that Cheyenne had had a bucket of hot
water, soap, and towels and grease for his sore feet. In direct and
effectual kindliness, without obviously expressed sympathy, the
Westerner is peculiarly supreme.
Back in the living-room Bartley made himself comfortable, admiring the
generous proportions of the house, the choice Indian blankets, the wide
fireplace, and the general solidity of everything, which reflected the
personality of his hosts.
Presently the Senator came in. "Cheyenne tells me that somebody set you
afoot, down at the water-hole."
"Did he also tell you about your bull?"
"No! Is that how he came to tear his jeans?"
Bartley nodded. And he told the Senator of their recent experience in
the gulch.
The Senator chuckled. "Don't say a word to Mrs. Brown about it. I'll
have Cheyenne in, after dinner, and sweat it out of him. You see,
Cheyenne won't eat with us. He always eats with the boys. No use asking
him to eat in here. And, say, Bartley, we've got a little surprise for
you. One of my boys caught up your horse, old Dobe. Dobe was dragging a
rope. Looks like he broke away from some one. I had him turned into the
corral. Dobe was raised on this range."
"Broke loose and came back!" exclaimed Bartley. "That's good news,
Senator. I like that horse."
"But Cheyenne is out of luck," said the Senator. "He thought more of
those horses, Filaree and Joshua, than he did of anything on earth. I'll
send one of the boys back to the water-hole to-morrow, for your saddles
and outfit. But now you're here, how do you like the country?"
"Almost as much as I like some of the people living in it," stated
Bartley.
"Not including Panhandle Sears, eh?"
"I'm pretty well fed up on walking," and Bartley smiled.
"Sears is a worthless hombre," stated the Senator. "He's one of a gang
that steal stock, and generally live by their wits and never seem to get
caught. But he made a big mistake when he lifted Cheyenne's horses.
Cheyenne already has a grievance against Sears. Some day Cheyenne will
open up--and that will be the last of Mr. Sears."
"I had an idea there was something like that in the wind," said Bartley.
"Cheyenne hasn't said much about Sears, but I was present at that crap
game."
The Senator chuckled. "I heard about it. Heard you offered to take on
Sears if he would put his gun on the table."
Bartley flushed. "I must have been excited."
The Senator leaned forward in his big, easy-chair. "Cheyenne wants me to
let him take a couple of horses to trail Panhandle. And, judging from
what Cheyenne said, he thinks you are going along with him. There's lots
of country right round here to see, without taking any unnecessary
risks."
"I understand," said Bartley.
"And this is your headquarters, as long as you want to stay," continued
the Senator.
"Thank you. It's a big temptation to stay, Senator."
"How?"
"Well, it was rather understood, without anything being said, that I
would help Cheyenne find his horses and mine. Dobe came back; but that
hardly excuses me from going with Cheyenne."
"But your horse is here; and you seem to be in pretty fair health, right
now."
"I appreciate the hint, Senator."
"But you don't agree with me a whole lot."
"Well, not quite. Chance rather chucked us together, Cheyenne and me,
and I think I'll travel with him for a while. I like to hear him sing."
"He likes to hear him sing!" scoffed the Senator, frowning. He sat back
in his chair, blew smoke-rings, puffed out his cheeks, and presently
rose. "Bartley, I see that you're set on chousin' around the country
with that warbling waddie--just to hear him sing, as you say. I say
you're a dam' fool.
"But you're the kind of a dam' fool I want to shake hands with. You
aren't excited and you don't play to the gallery; so if there's anything
you want on this ranch, from a posse to a pack-outfit, it's yours. And
if either of you get Sears, I'll sure chip in my share to buy his
headstone."
"I wouldn't have it inscribed until we get back," laughed Bartley.
"No; I don't think I will. Trailin' horse-thieves on their own stamping
ground ain't what an insurance company would call a good risk."