TO TRY HIM OUT
Two days later Cheyenne was able to get his feet into his boots, but
even then he walked as though he did not care to let his left foot know
what his right foot was doing. Lon Pelly, just in from a ride out to the
line shack, remarked to the boys in the bunk-house that Cheyenne walked
as though his brains were in his feet and he didn't want to get stone
bruises stepping on them.
Cheyenne made no immediate retort, but later he delivered himself of a
new stanza of his trail song, wherein the first line ended with "Pelly"
followed by the rhymed assertion that the gentleman who bore that
peculiar name had slivers in his anatomy due to a fondness for leaning
against the bar of the Blue Front Saloon.
The boys were mightily pleased with the stanza, and they also improvised
until, according to their versions, Long Lon bore a marked resemblance
to a porcupine. Lon, being a real person, felt that Cheyenne's
retaliation was just. Moreover, Lon, who never did anything hastily, let
it be known casually that he had seen three riders west of the line
shack some two days past, and that the riders were leading two horses, a
buckskin and a gray. They were too far away to be distinguished
absolutely, but he could tell the color of the horses.
"Panhandle?" queried a puncher.
"And two riders with him," said Long Lon.
"Goin' to trail him, Cheyenne?" came presently.
"That's me."
"Then let's pass the hat," suggested the first speaker.
"Wait!" said Cheyenne, drawing a pair of dice from his pocket. "Somehow,
and sometime, I aim to shoot Panhandle a little game. Then you guys can
pass the hat for the loser. Panhandle left them dice on the flat rock,
by the water-hole. My pardner, Bartley, found them."
"Kind of sign talk that Pan pulled one on you," said Lon Pelly.
"He sure left his brains behind him when he left them dice," asserted
Cheyenne. "I suspicioned that it was him--but the dice told me, plain."
"So you figure to walk up to Pan and invite him to shoot a little game,
when you meet up with him?" queried a puncher.
"That's me."
"The tenderfoot"--he referred to Bartley--"is he goin' along with you?"
"He ain't so tender as you might think," said Cheyenne. "He's green, but
not so dam' tender."
"Well, it's right sad. He looks like a pretty decent hombre."
"What's sad?" queried Cheyenne belligerently.
"Why, gettin' that tenderfoot all shot up, trailin' a couple of
twenty-dollar cayuses. They ain't worth it."
"They ain't, eh?"
"Course, they make a right good audience, when you're singin'. They do
all the listenin'," said another puncher.
"Huh! They ain't one of you got a hoss that can listen to you, without
blushin'. You fellas think you're a hard-ridin'--"
"Ridin' beats walkin'," suggested Long Lon.
"Keep a-joshin'. I like it. Shows how much you don't know. I--hello, Mr.
Bartley! Shake hands with Lon Pelly--but I guess you met him, over to
Antelope. You needn't to mind the rest of these guys. They're harmless."
"I don't want to interrupt--" began Bartley.
"Set right in!" they invited in chorus. "We're just listenin' to
Cheyenne preachin' his own funeral sermon."
Bartley seated himself in the doorway of the bunk-house. The joshing
ceased. Cheyenne, who could never keep his hands still, toyed with the
dice. Presently one of the boys suggested that Cheyenne show them some
fancy work with a six-gun--"just to keep your wrist limber," he
concluded.
Cheyenne shook his head. But, when Bartley intimated that he would like
to see Cheyenne shoot, Cheyenne rose.
"All right. I'll shoot any fella here for ten bucks--him to name the
target."
"No, you don't," said a puncher. "We ain't givin' our dough away, just
to git rid of it."
"And right recent they was talkin' big," said Cheyenne. "I'll shoot the
spot of a playin'-card, if you'll hold it," he asserted, indicating
Bartley.
The boys glanced at Bartley and then lowered their eyes, wondering what
the Easterner would do. Bartley felt that this was a test of his nerve,
and, while he didn't like the idea of engaging in a William Tell
performance he realized that Cheyenne must have had a reason for
choosing him, out of the men present, and that Cheyenne knew his
business.
"Cheyenne wants to git out of shootin'," suggested a puncher.
That settled it with Bartley. "He won't disappoint you," he stated
quietly. "Give me the card."
One of the boys got up and fetched an old deck of cards. Bartley chose
the ace of spades. Back of the corrals, with nothing but mesa in sight,
he took up his position, while Cheyenne stepped off fifteen paces.
Bartley's hand trembled a little. Cheyenne noticed it and turned to the
group, saying something that made them laugh. Bartley's fingers tensed.
He forgot his nervousness. Cheyenne whirled and shot, apparently without
aim. Bartley drew a deep breath, and glanced at the card. The black pip
was cut clean from the center.
"That's easy," asserted Cheyenne. Then he took a silver dollar from his
pocket, laid it in the palm of his right hand, hung the gun, by its
trigger guard on his right forefinger, lowered his hand and tossed the
coin up. As the coin went up the gun whirled over. Then came the whiz of
the coin as it cut through space.
"About seventy-five shots like that and I'm broke," laughed Cheyenne.
"Anybody's hat need ventilatin'?"
"Not this child's," asserted Lon Pelly. "I sailed my hat for him onct.
It was a twenty-dollar J.B., when I sailed it. When it hit it sure
wouldn't hold water. Six holes in her--and three shots."
"Six?" exclaimed Bartley.
"The three shots went clean through both sides," said Lon.
Cheyenne reloaded his gun and dropped it into the holster.
Later, Bartley had a talk with Cheyenne about the proposed trailing of
the stolen horses. Panhandle's name was mentioned. And the name of
another man--Sneed. Cheyenne seemed to know just where he would look,
and whom he might expect to meet.
Bartley and Cheyenne were in the living-room that evening talking with
the Senator and his wife. Out in the bunk-house those of the boys who
had not left for the line shack were discussing horse-thieves in general
and Panhandle and Sneed in particular. Bill Smalley, a saturnine member
of the outfit, who seldom said anything, and who was a good hand but a
surly one, made a remark.
"That there Cheyenne is the fastest gun artist--and the biggest coward
that ever come out of Wyoming. Ain't that right, Lon?"
"I never worked in Wyoming," said Long Lon.