PONY TRACKS
Mrs. Senator Brown did not at all approve of Bartley's determination to
accompany Cheyenne in search of the stolen horses. Late that night, long
after Cheyenne had ceased to sing for the boys in the bunk-house, and
while Bartley was peacefully slumbering in a comfortable bed, Mrs. Brown
took the Senator to task for not having discouraged the young Easterner
from attempting such a wild-goose chase. The Senator, whose diameter
made the task of removing his boots rather difficult, puffed, and tugged
at a tight riding-boot, but said nothing.
"Steve!"
"Yes'm. I 'most got it off. Wild-goose chase? Madam, the wild goose is a
child that shuns this element. You mean wild-horse chase."
"That sort of talk may amuse your constituents, but you are talking to
me."
Off came the stubborn boot. The Senator puffed, and tugged at the other
boot.
"No, ma'am. You're talking to me. There! Now go ahead and I'll listen."
"Why didn't you discourage Mr. Bartley's idea of making such a journey?'
"I did, Nelly. I told him he was a dam' fool."
Mrs. Senator Brown, who knew her husband's capabilities in dodging
issues when he was cornered,--both at home and abroad,--peered at him
over her glasses. "What else did you tell him?"
"Well, your honor," chuckled the Senator, "I also told him he was the
kind of dam' fool I liked to shake hands with."
"I knew it! And what else?"
"I challenge the right of the attorney for the plaintiff to introduce
any evidence that may--"
"The attorney for the defense may proceed," said Mrs. Brown, smiling.
"Why, shucks, Nelly! When you smile like that--why, I told Bartley he
could have anything on this ranch that would help him get a rope on
Sears."
"I knew it!"
"Then why did you ask me?"
Mrs. Brown ignored the question. "Very well, Stephen. Mr. Bartley gave
me his sister's address, in case anything happened. She is his only
living relative and I'm going to write to her at once and tell her what
her brother is up to."
"And most like she'll head right for this ranch."
"Well, suppose she does? If she is anything like her brother she will be
welcome."
"You bet! Just leave that to me!"
"It's a shame!" asserted Mrs. Brown.
"It is! With her good looks and inexperience she'll sure need somebody
to look after her."
"How do you know she is good-looking?"
"I don't. I was just hoping."
"I shall write, just the same."
"I reckon you will. I'm going to bed."
Just as the sun rounded above the mesa next morning, Bartley stepped out
to the veranda. He was surprised to find the Senator up and about,
inspecting the details of Cheyenne's outfit, for Cheyenne had the horses
saddled and packed. Bartley was still more surprised to find that Mrs.
Brown had breakfast ready. Evidently the good Senator and his wife had a
decided interest in the welfare of the expedition.
After breakfast the Senator's wife came out to the bunk-house with a
mysterious parcel which she gave to Bartley. He sniffed at it.
"Cold chicken sandwiches!" he said, smiling broadly.
"And some doughnuts. It will save you boys fussing with a lunch."
Long Lon Pelly was also up and ready to start. The air was still cool
and the horses were a bit snuffy. Lon mounted and rode toward the west
gate where he waited for Cheyenne and Bartley.
"Now don't forget where you live," said the Senator as Bartley mounted.
With a cheery farewell to their hosts, Cheyenne and Bartley rode away.
The first warmth of the sun touched them as they headed into the western
spaces. Long Lon closed the big gate, stepped up on his horse, and
jogged along beside them.
Bartley felt as though he had suddenly left the world of reality and was
riding in a sort of morning dream. He could feel the pleasant warmth of
the sun on his back. He sniffed the thin dust cast up by the horses. On
either side of him the big mesa spread to the sky-line. Cattle were
scattered in the brush, some of them lying down, some of them grazing
indolently.
Presently Cheyenne began to sing, and his singing seemed to fit into the
mood of the morning. He ceased, and nothing but the faint jingle of rein
chains and the steady plod of hoofs disturbed the vast silence. A
flicker of smoke drifted back as Cheyenne lighted a cigarette. Long Lon
drilled on, wrapped in his reflections. Their moving shadows shortened.
Occasionally a staring-eyed cow strayed directly in their way and stood
until Long Lon struck his chaps with his quirt, when the cow, swinging
its head, would whirl and bounce off to one side, stiff-legged and
ridiculous.
Bartley unbuttoned his shirt-collar and pushed back his hat. Far across
the mesa a dust devil spun up and writhed away toward the distant hills.
As the horses slowed to cross a sandy draw, Bartley turned and glanced
back. The ranch buildings--a dot of white in a clump of green--shimmered
vaguely in the morning sunlight.
Thus far, Bartley felt that he had been leaving the ranch and the
cheerful companionship of the Senator and his wife. But as Lon Pelly
reined up--it was something like two hours since they had started--and
pointed to a cross-trail leading south, Bartley's mental attitude
changed instantly. Hitherto he had been leaving a pleasant habitation.
Now he was going somewhere. He felt the distinction keenly. Cheyenne's
verse came back to him.
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--
"Just drop a line when you get there," said Long Lon as he reined round
and set off toward the far western sky-line. That was his casual
farewell.
Cheyenne now turned directly toward the south and a range of hills that
marked the boundary of the mesa level. Occasionally he got off his horse
and stooped to examine tracks. Once he made a wide circle, leaving
Bartley to haze the pack-horse along. Slowly they drew nearer to the
hills. During the remainder of that forenoon, Cheyenne said nothing, but
rode, slouched forward, his hand on the horn, his gaze on the ground.
They nooned in the foothills. The horses grazed along the edge of a tiny
stream while Cheyenne and Bartley ate the cold chicken sandwiches. In
half an hour they were riding again, skirting the foothills, and, it
seemed to Bartley, simply meandering about the country, for now they
were headed west again.
Presently Cheyenne spoke. "I been makin' a plan."
"I didn't say a word," laughed Bartley.
"You didn't need to. I kind of got what you were thinkin'. This here is
big country. When you're ridin' this kind of country with some fella,
you can read his mind almost as good as a horse can. You was thinkin' I
was kind of twisted and didn't know which way to head. Now take that
there hoss, Joshua. Plenty times I've rode him up to a fork in the
trail, and kep' sayin' to myself, 'We'll take the right-hand fork.' And
Joshua always took the fork I was thinkin' about. You try it with Dobe,
sometime."
"I have read of such things," said Bartley.
"Well, I _know_ 'em. What would you say if I was to tell you that Joshua
knowed once they was a fella ridin' behind me, five miles back, and out
of sight--and told me, plain?"
"I wouldn't say anything."
"There's where you're wise. I can talk to you about such things. But
when I try to talk to the boys like that, they just josh, till I git mad
and quit. They ain't takin' me serious."
"What is your plan?" queried Bartley.
Cheyenne reined up and dismounted. "Step down, and take a look," he
suggested.
Bartley dismounted. Cheyenne pointed out horse-tracks on the trail along
the edge of the hills.
"Five hosses," he asserted. "Two of 'em is mine. That leaves three that
are carryin' weight. But we're makin' a mistake for ourselves, trailin'
Panhandle direct. He figures mebby I'd do that. I got to outfigure him.
I don't want to git blowed out of my saddle by somebody in the brush,
just waitin' for me to ride up and git shot. I got the way he's headed,
and by to-morrow mornin' I'll know for sure.
"If he'd been goin' to swing back, to fool me, he'd 'a' done it before
he hit the timber, up yonder. Once he gits in them hills he'll head
straight south, for they ain't no other trail to ride on them ridges.
But mebby he cut along the foothills, first. I got to make sure."
Late that afternoon and close to the edge of the foothills, Cheyenne
lost the tracks. He spent over an hour finding them again. Bartley could
discern nothing definite, even when Cheyenne pointed to a queer, blurred
patch in some loose earth.
"It looks like the imprint of some coarse cloth," said Bartley.
"Gunnysack. They pulled the shoes off my hosses and sacked their feet."
"How about their own horses?"
"They been ridin' hard ground, and the tracks don't show, plain.
Panhandle figured, when I seen that only the tracks of three horses
showed, I'd think he had turned my hosses loose on the big mesa. He
stops, pulls their shoes, sacks their feet, and leads 'em over there.
Whoever done it was afoot, and steppin' careful. Hell, I could learn
that yella-bellied hoss-thief how to steal hosses right, if I was in the
business."
"Looks like a pretty stiff drill up those hills," remarked Bartley.
"That's why he turned, right here. 'Tain't just the stealin' of my
hosses that's interestin' him. He's takin' trouble to run a whizzer on
me--get me guessin'. Here is where we quit trailin' him. I got my plan
workin' like a hen draggin' fence rails. We ain't goin' to trail
Panhandle. We're goin' to ride 'round and meet him."
"Not a bad idea," said Bartley.
"It won't be--if I see him first."