JIMMY AND THE LUGER GUN
Two days of riding toward the west, along the edge of the hills, and
Bartley and Cheyenne found themselves approaching the high country. The
trail ran up a wide valley, on either side of which were occasional
ranches reaching back toward the slopes. In reality they were gradually
climbing the range on an easy grade and making good time.
Their course now paralleled the theoretical course of Panhandle and his
fellows. Dodging the rugged land to the south, Cheyenne had swung round
in a half-circle, hoping to head off Panhandle on the desert side of the
range. Since abandoning the tracks of the stolen horses, Cheyenne had
resumed his old habit of singing as he rode. He seemed to know the name
of every ranch, and of every person they met.
Once or twice some acquaintance expressed surprise that Cheyenne did not
stop and spend the night with him. But Cheyenne jokingly declined all
invitations, explaining to Bartley that in stopping to visit they would
necessarily waste hours in observing the formalities of arrival and
departure, although Cheyenne did not put it just that way.
They found water and plenty of feed, made their camps early, broke camp
early, and rode steadily. With no visible incentive to keep going,
Bartley lost his first keen interest in the hunt, and contented himself
with listening to Cheyenne's yarns about the country and its folk, or
occasionally chatting with some wayfarer. But never once did Cheyenne
hint, to those they met, just why he was riding south.
There were hours at a stretch, when the going was level, when Cheyenne
did nothing but roll his gun, throw down on different objects, toss up
his gun, and catch it by the handle; and once he startled Bartley by
making a quick fall from the saddle and shooting from the ground.
Cheyenne explained to Bartley that often, when riding alone, he had
spent hour after hour figuring out the possibilities of gun-play, till
it became evident to the Easterner that, aside from being naturally
quick, there was a very good reason for Cheyenne's proficiency with the
six-gun. He practiced continually. And yet, thought Bartley, one of the
Box-S punchers had said that Cheyenne had never killed anything bigger
than a coyote, and never would--intimating that he was too good-natured
ever to take advantage of his own proficiency with a gun.
Bartley wondered just how things would break if they did happen to meet
Panhandle unexpectedly. Panhandle would no doubt dispose of the stolen
horses as soon as he could. What excuse would Cheyenne have to call
Panhandle to account? And when it came to a show-down, _would_ Cheyenne
call him to account?
Bartley was thinking of this when they made an early camp, the afternoon
of the third day out. After the horses were hobbled and the packs
arranged, Bartley decided to experiment a little with his new Luger
automatic. Cheyenne declined to experiment with the gun.
"It's a mean gat," he asserted, "and it's fast. But I'll bet you a new
hat I can empty my old smoke-wagon quicker than you can that pocket
machine gun."
For the fun of the thing, Bartley took him up. He selected as target a
juniper stump, and blazed away.
"I'm leavin' the decision to you," said Cheyenne, as he braced his right
arm against his body and fanned the Colt, emptying it before Bartley
could realize that he had fired three shots--and Cheyenne had fired
five.
"I'll buy you that hat when we get to town," laughed Bartley. "You beat
me, hands down."
"Hands down is right, old-timer. Fannin' a gun is show stuff, but it's
wicked, at close range."
Meanwhile, Bartley had been experimenting further with the Luger. When
he got through he had a hat full of pieces and Cheyenne was staring at
what seemed to be the wreck of a once potent weapon.
"Why, you done pulled that little lead sprinkler all to bits!" exclaimed
Cheyenne, "and you didn't have no tools to do it with."
"You can take down and assemble this gun without tools," stated Bartley.
"All you need is your fingers."
"But what in Sam Hill did you pull her apart for?"
"Just to see if I could put her together again."
Cheyenne scratched his head, and stepped over to inspect the juniper
stump. He stooped, whistled, and turned to Bartley. "Man, you like to
sawed that stub in two. Why didn't you say you could shoot?"
"I can't, in your class. But tell me why you Westerners always seem to
think it strange that an Easterner can sit a horse or shoot fairly well?
Is it because you consider that the average tourist represents the
entire East?"
"I dunno. But, then, I've met up with Easterners that weren't just like
you."
Bartley was busy, assembling the Luger, and Cheyenne was watching him,
when they glanced up simultaneously. A shadow drifted between them.
Cheyenne hesitated and then stepped forward. "I'll be dinged if it ain't
Jimmy! What you doin' up here in the brush, anyhow?"
The boy, who rode a well-mannered gray pony, kicked one foot out of the
stirrup and hooked his small leg over the horn. He nodded to Cheyenne,
but his interest was centered on Bartley and the Luger.
"It's Jimmy--my boy," said Cheyenne. "His Aunt Jane lives over yonder, a
piece."
"Why, hello!" exclaimed Bartley, laying the pistol aside. And he stepped
up and shook hands with the boy, who grinned.
"How's the folks?" queried Cheyenne.
"All right. That there is a Luger gun, ain't it?"
"Yes," said Bartley. "Would you like to try it?"
The boy scrambled down from the saddle. "Honest?"
"Ain't you goin' to say hello to your dad?" queried Cheyenne.
"Sure! Only I was lookin' at that Luger gun--"
Jimmy shook hands perfunctorily with his father and turned to Bartley,
expectancy in his gaze.
Bartley reloaded the gun and handed it to the boy, who straightaway
selected the juniper stump and blazed away. Bartley watched him, a
sturdy youngster, brown-fisted, blue-eyed, with sandy hair, and dressed
in jeans and a rowdy--a miniature cow-puncher, even to his walk.
"Ever shoot one before?" queried Bartley as the boy gave back the
pistol.
"Nope. There's one like it, over to the store in San Andreas. It's in
the window. I never got to look at it right close."
"Try it again," said Bartley.
The boy grinned. "I reckon you're rich?"
"Why?"
"'Cause you got a heap of ca'tridges. They cost money."
"Never mind. Go ahead and shoot."
Jimmy blazed away again and ran to see where his bullets had hit the
stump. "She's a pretty fair gun," he said as he handed it back. "But I
reckon I'll have to stick to my ole twenty-two rifle. She's gettin' wore
out, but I can hit things with her, yet. I git rabbits."
"Now, mebby you got time to tell us something about Aunt Jane and Uncle
Frank and Dorry," suggested Cheyenne.
"Why, they're all right," said the boy. "Why didn't you stop by to our
place instead of bushin' way up here?"
Cheyenne hesitated. "I reckon I'll be comin' over," he said finally.
Bartley put the Luger away. The boy turned to his father. Cheyenne's
face expressed happiness, yet Bartley was puzzled. The boy was not what
could be termed indifferent in any sense, yet he had taken his father's
presence casually, showing no special interest in their meeting. And why
had Cheyenne never mentioned the boy? Bartley surmised that there was
some good reason for Cheyenne's silence on that subject--and because it
was obvious that there was a good reason, Bartley accepted the
youngster's presence in a matter-of-fact manner, as though he had known
all along that Cheyenne had a son. In fact, Cheyenne had not stopped to
think about it at all. If he had, he would have reasoned that Bartley
had heard about it. Almost every one in Arizona knew that Cheyenne had
been married and had separated from his wife.
"That would be a pretty good gun to git hoss-thieves with," asserted the
boy, still thinking of the Luger.
"What do you know about hoss-thieves?" queried Cheyenne.
"You think I didn't see you was ridin' different hosses!" said Jimmy.
"Mebby you think I don't know where Josh and Filaree are."
"You quit joshin' your dad," said Cheyenne.
"I ain't joshin' _nobody_. Ole 'Clubfoot' Sneed, over by the
re'savation's got Josh and Filaree. I seen 'em in his corral, yesterday.
I was up there, huntin'."
"Did you talk to him?" queried Cheyenne.
"Nope. He just come out of his cabin an' told me to fan it. I wasn't
doin' nothin'. He said it was against the law to be huntin' up there.
Mebby he don't hunt when he feels like it!"
"Did you tell Uncle Frank?"
"Yep. Wish I hadn't. He says for me to stay away from the high
country--and not to ride by Sneed's place any more."
Cheyenne turned to Bartley. "I done made one guess right," he said.
"You goin' to kill Sneed?" queried young Jim enthusiastically.
"Nobody's goin' to get killed. But I aim to git my hosses."
Cheyenne turned to Jimmy. "You ride over and tell Uncle Frank and Aunt
Jane that me and Mr. Bartley'll be over after we eat."
"Will you sing that 'Git Along' song for me, dad?"
"You bet!"
"But why don't you come over and eat to our place? You always stop by,
every time you ride down this way," said Jimmy.
"You ride right along, like I told you, or you'll be late for your
supper."
Little Jim climbed into the saddle, and, turning to cast a lingering and
hopeful glance at Bartley,--a glance which suggested the possibilities
of further practice with the Luger gun,--he rode away, a manful figure,
despite his size.
"They're bringin' my kid up right," said Cheyenne, as though in
explanation of something about which he did not care to talk.