SAN ANDREAS TOWN
A sleepy town, that paid little attention to the arrival or departure of
strangers, San Andreas in the valley merely rubbed its eyes and dozed
again as Cheyenne and Bartley rode in, put up their horses at the
livery, and strolled over to the adobe hotel where they engaged rooms
for the night.
Bartley was taken by the picturesque simplicity of the place, and next
morning he suggested that they stay a few days and enjoy the advantage
of having some one other than themselves cook their meals and make their
beds. The hotel, a relic of old times, with its patio and long portal,
its rooms whose lower floors were on the ground level, its unpretentious
spaciousness, appealed strongly to Bartley as something unusual in the
way of a hostelry. It seemed restful, romantic, inviting. It was a place
where a man might write, dream, loaf, and smoke. Then, incidentally, it
was not far from the Lawrence ranch, which was not far from the home of
a certain young woman whom Little Jim called "Dorry."
Bartley thought that Dorothy was rather nice--in fact, singularly
interesting. He had not imagined that a Western girl could be so
thoroughly domestic, natural, charming, and at the same time manage a
horse so well. He had visioned Western girls as hard-voiced horse-women,
masculine, bold, and rather scornful of a man who did not wear chaps and
ride broncos. True, Dorothy was not like the girls in the East. She
seemed less sophisticated--less inclined to talk small talk just for its
own sake; yet, concluded Bartley, she was utterly feminine and quite
worth while.
Cheyenne smiled as Bartley suggested that they stay in San Andreas a few
days; and Cheyenne nodded in the direction from which they had come.
"I kinda like this part of the country, myself," he said, "but I hate to
spend all my money in one place."
Bartley suddenly realized that his companion, was nothing more than a
riding hobo, a vagrant, without definite means of support, and
disinclined to stay in any one place long.
"I'll take care of the expenses," said Bartley.
Cheyenne smiled, but shook his head. "It ain't that, right now. Me, I
got to shoot that there game of craps with Panhandle, and I figure he
won't ride this way."
"But you have recovered your horses," argued Bartley.
Cheyenne gestured toward the south. "I reckon I'll keep movin', pardner.
And that game of craps is as good a excuse as I want."
"I had hoped that it would be plain sailing, from now on," declared
Bartley. "I thought of stopping here only three or four days. This sort
of town is new to me."
"They's lots like it, between here and the border," said Cheyenne. "But
I don't want no 'dobe walls between me and the sky-line, reg'lar. I can
stand it for a day, mebby."
"Well, perhaps we may agree to dissolve partnership temporarily,"
suggested Bartley. "I think I'll stay here a few days, at least."
"That's all right, pardner. I don't aim to tell no man how to live. But
me, I aim to live in the open."
"Do you think that man Sneed will ride down this way?" queried Bartley,
struck by a sudden idea.
"That ain't why I figure to keep movin'," said Cheyenne. "But seein' as
you figure to stay, I'll stick around to-day, and light out to-morrow
mornin'. Mebby you'll change your mind, and come along."
Bartley spent the forenoon with Cheyenne, prowling about the old town,
interested in its quaint unusualness. The afternoon heat drove him to
the shade of the hotel veranda, and, feeling unaccountably drowsy, he
finally went to his room, and, stretching out on the bed, fell asleep.
He was awakened by Cheyenne's knock at the door. Supper was ready.
After supper they strolled out to the street and watched the town wake
up. From down the street a ways came the sound of a guitar and singing.
A dog began to howl. Then came a startled yelp, and the howl died away
in the dusk. The singing continued. A young Mexican in a blue serge
suit, tan shoes, and with a black sombrero set aslant on his head,
walked down the street beside a Mexican girl, young, fat, and giggling.
They passed the hotel with all the self-consciousness of being attired
in their holiday raiment.
A wagon rattled past and stopped at the saloon a few doors down the
street. Then a ragged Mexican, hazing two tired burros, appeared in the
dim light cast from a window--a quaint silhouette that merged in the
farther shadows. Cheyenne moved his feet restlessly.
Bartley smiled. "The road for mine," he quoted.
Cheyenne nodded. "Reckon I'll go see how the hosses are makin' it."
"I'll walk over with you," said Bartley.
As they came out of the livery barn again, Bartley happened to glance at
the lighted doorway of the cantina opposite. From within the saloon came
the sound of glasses clinking occasionally, and voices engaged in lazy
conversation. Cheyenne fingered the dice in his pocket and hummed a
tune. Slowly he moved toward the lighted doorway, and Bartley walked
beside him.
"I got a thirst," stated Cheyenne.
Bartley laughed. "Well, as we are about to dissolve partnership, I don't
mind taking one myself."
"Tough joint," declared Cheyenne as he stepped up to the doorway.
"All the better," said Bartley.
A young rancher, whose team stood at the hitch-rail, nodded pleasantly
as they entered.
"Mescal," said Cheyenne, and he laid a silver dollar on the bar.
Bartley glanced about the low-ceilinged room. The place, poorly lighted
with oil lamps, looked sinister enough to satisfy the most hardy
adventurer, although it was supposed to be a sort of social center for
the enjoyment of vino and talk. The bar was narrow, made of some kind of
soft wood, and painted blue. The top of it was almost paintless in
patches.
Back of the bar a narrow shelf, also painted blue, offered a lean choice
of liquors. Several Mexicans lounged at the side tables along the wall.
The young American rancher stood at the bar, drinking. The proprietor, a
fat, one-eyed Mexican whose face was deeply pitted from smallpox, served
Bartley and Cheyenne grudgingly. The mescal was fiery stuff. Bartley
coughed as he swallowed it.
"Why not just whiskey, and have it over with?" he queried, grinning at
Cheyenne.
"Whiskey ain't whiskey, here," Cheyenne replied. "But mescal is just
what she says she is. I like to know the kind of poison I'm drinkin'."
Bartley began to experience an inner glow that was not unpleasant. Once
down, this native Mexican drink was not so bad. He laid a coin on the
bar and the glasses were filled again.
Cheyenne nodded and drank Bartley's health. Bartley suggested that they
sit at one of the side tables and study the effects of mescal on the
natives present.
"Let joy be unconfined," said Cheyenne.
"Where in the world did you get that?"
"Oh, I can read," declared Cheyenne. "Before I took to ramblin', I used
to read some, nights. I reckon that's where I got the idea of makin' up
po'try, later."
"I really beg your pardon," said Bartley.
"The mescal must of told you."
"I don't quite get that," said Bartley.
"No? Well, you ain't the first. Josh and Filaree is the only ones that
sabes me. Let's sit in this corner and watch the mescal work for a
livin'."
It was a hot night. Sweat prickled on Bartley's forehead. His nose
itched. He lit a cigar. It tasted bitter, so he asked Cheyenne for
tobacco and papers, and rolled a cigarette. He inhaled a whiff, and felt
more comfortable. The Mexicans, who had ceased to talk when Bartley and
Cheyenne entered, were now at it again, making plenty of noise.
Cheyenne hummed to himself and tapped the floor with his boot-heel.
"She's a funny old world," he declared.
Bartley nodded and blew a smoke-ring.
"Miss Dorry's sure a interestin' girl," asserted Cheyenne.
Bartley nodded again.
"Kind of young and innocent-like."
Again Bartley nodded.
"It ain't a bad country to settle down in, for folks that likes to
settle," said Cheyenne.
Bartley glanced sharply at his companion. Cheyenne was gazing straight
ahead. His face was unreadable.
"Now if I was the settlin' kind--" He paused and slowly turned toward
Bartley. "A man could raise alfalfa and chickens and kids."
"Go ahead," laughed Bartley.
"I'm goin'--to-morrow mornin'. And you say you figure to stay here a
spell?"
"Oh, just a few days. I imagine I shall grow tired of it. But to-night,
I feel pretty well satisfied to stay right where I am."
Cheyenne rose and strode to the bar. After a short argument with the
proprietor, he returned with a bottle and glasses. Bartley raised his
eyebrows questioningly.
"Once in a while--" And Cheyenne gestured toward the bottle.
"It's powerful stuff," said Bartley.
"We ain't far from the hotel," declared Cheyenne. And he filled their
glasses.
"This ought to be the last, for me," said Bartley, drinking. "But don't
let that make any difference to you."
Cheyenne drank and shrugged his shoulders. He leaned back and gazed at
the opposite wall. Bartley vaguely realized that the Mexicans were
chattering, that two or three persons had come in, and that the
atmosphere was heavy with tobacco smoke. He unbuttoned his shirt-collar.
Presently Cheyenne twisted round in his chair. "Remember Little Jim,
back at the Hastings ranch?"
"I should say so! It would be difficult to forget him."
"Miss Dorry thinks a heap of that kid."
"She seems to."
"Now, I ain't drunk," Cheyenne declared solemnly. "I sure wish I was.
You know Little Jim is my boy. Well, his ma is livin' over to Laramie.
She writ to me to come back to her, onct. I reckon Sears got tired of
her. She lived with him a spell after she quit me. Folks say Sears
treated her like a dog. I guess I wasn't man enough, when I heard
that--"
"You mean Panhandle Sears--at Antelope?"
"Him."
"Oh, I see!" said Bartley slowly. "And that crap game, at Antelope--I
see!"
"If Panhandle had a-jumped me, instead of you, that night, I'd 'a'
killed him. Do you know why Wishful stepped in and put Sears down?
Wishful did that so that there wouldn't be a killin'. That's the second
time Sears has had his chance to git me, but he won't take that chance.
That's the second time we met up since--since my wife left me. The third
time it'll be lights out for somebody. I ain't drunk."
"Then Sears has got a yellow streak?"
"Any man that uses a woman rough has. When Jimmy's ma left us, I reckon
I went loco. It wa'n't just her _leavin'_ us. But when I heard she had
took up with Sears, and knowin' what he was--I just quit. I was workin'
down here at the ranch, then. I went up North, figurin' to kill him.
Folks thought I was yellow, for not killin' him. They think so right
now. Mebby I am.
"I worked up North a spell, but I couldn't stay. So I lit out and come
down South again. First time I met up with Sears was over on the Tonto.
He stepped up and slapped my face, in front of a crowd, in the Lone
Star. And I took it. But I told him I'd sure see him again, and give him
another chance to slap my face.
"You see, Panhandle Sears is that kind--he's got to work himself up to
kill a man. And over there at Antelope, that night, he just about knowed
that if he lifted a finger, I'd git him. He figured to start a ruckus,
and then git me in the mix-up. Wishful was on, and he stopped that
chance. Folks think that because I come ridin' and singin' and joshin'
that I ain't no account. Mebby I ain't."
Cheyenne poured another drink for himself. Bartley declined to drink
again. He was thinking of this squalid tragedy and of its possible
outcome. The erstwhile sprightly Cheyenne held a new significance for
the Easterner. That a man could ride up and down the trails singing, and
yet carry beneath it all the grim intent some day to kill a man--
Bartley felt that Cheyenne had suddenly become a stranger, an unknown
quantity, a sinister jester, in fact, a dangerous man. He leaned forward
and touched Cheyenne's arm.
"Why not give up the idea of--er--getting Sears; and settle down, and
make a home for Little Jim?"
"When Aunt Jane took him, the understandin' was that Jimmy was to be
raised respectable, which is the same as tellin' me that I don't have
nothin' to do with raisin' him. Me, I got to keep movin'."
Bartley turned toward the doorway as a tall figure loomed through the
haze of tobacco smoke: a gaunt, heavy-boned man, bearded and limping
slightly. With him were several companions, booted and spurred;
evidently just in from a hard ride.
Cheyenne turned to Bartley. "That's Bill Sneed--and his crowd. I ain't
popular with 'em--right now."