DORRY COMES TO TOWN
At six, next morning, Bartley and Scott were on their way to San
Andreas, Bartley riding Dobe and Scott hazing two pack-burros. They took
a hill trail, which, Scott explained, was shorter by miles than the
valley road which Cheyenne and Bartley had taken to the gulch. Cheyenne
was forced to stay at the miner's cabin until Scott returned with the
pack-saddle and outfit left in the livery. Scott was after supplies and
tobacco.
At first Cheyenne had thought of going along with them. But he
reconsidered. He did not care to risk being arrested in San Andreas for
having disturbed the peace. If the authorities should happen to detain
him, there would be one broken head, one broken lamp, and possibly five
or six witnesses as evidence that he had been the aggressor in the
saloon. Sneed and his men would swear to anything, and the owner of the
saloon would add his bit of evidence. Bartley himself was liable to
arrest for assault and battery should Hull lodge a complaint against
him. Incidentally, Hull had been found by the stableman, curiously roped
and tied and his lower jaw somewhat out of plumb.
Bartley and Scott arrived in San Andreas about noon, saw to their stock
and had dinner together. Bartley engaged a room at the hotel. Scott
bought supplies. Then, unknown to Bartley, Scott hunted up the town
marshal and told him that the Easterner was a friend of his. The town
marshal took the hint. Scott assured the marshal that, if Sneed or his
men made any trouble in San Andreas, he would gladly come over and help
the marshal establish peace. Cheyenne's name was not mentioned.
An hour later Scott appeared in front of the hotel with his burros
packed. Bartley, loafing on the veranda, rose and stepped out.
"If you got time," said Scott, "you might walk along with me, out to the
edge of town."
Bartley wondered what Scott had in mind, but he agreed to the suggestion
at once.
Together they trudged through the sleepy town until they reached the
open.
"I guess you can find your way back," said Scott, his eyes twinkling.
"And, say, it's a good idea not to pack a shootin'-iron--and let folks
know you don't pack one."
"I think I understand," said Bartley.
"Ride over to my camp, any time, and if I'm not there, just make
yourself to home." And the big miner turned and started his burros
toward the hills.
"Give my regards to Cheyenne," called Bartley.
The miner nodded.
On his way back through town, Bartley wondered why the miner had asked
him to take that walk. Then suddenly he thought of a reason. They had
been seen in San Andreas, walking and talking together. That would
intimate that they were friends. And a man would have to be blind, not
to realize that it would be a mistake to pick a quarrel with Scott, or
one of his friends. Joe Scott never quarreled; but he had the reputation
of being a man of whom it was safe to step around.
With his sleeves rolled up, sitting in the quiet of his room, Bartley
spent the afternoon jotting down notes for a story. He thought he had
experienced enough adventure to make a good beginning. Of course, the
love element was lacking, yet he thought that might be supplied, later.
He had a heroine in mind. Bartley laid down his pencil, and sat back,
shaping daydreams. It was hot in the room. It would be cooler down on
the veranda. Well, he would finish his rough sketch of Cheyenne, and
then step down to the veranda. He caught himself drowsing over his work.
He sat up, scribbled a while, nodded sleepily, and, finally, with his
head on his arms, he fell asleep.
The rattle of wagon wheels wakened him. A ranch team had just pulled up
to the hitch-rail in front of the hotel and a small boy was tying the
horses. The boy's hat seemed familiar to Bartley. Then Bartley heard a
voice. Suddenly he was wide awake. Little Jim was down there, talking to
some one. Bartley rose and peered down. Little Jim's companion was
Dorothy. Bartley could not see her face, because of her wide hat-brim.
Stepping back into the room, Bartley picked up his pencil and, leaning
out of the window, started it rolling down the gentle slope of the
veranda roof. It dropped at Dorothy's feet. She started and glanced up.
Bartley waved a greeting and disappeared from the window.
Decently clothed, and, imagining that he was in his right mind, he
hastened downstairs.
Little Jim expressed no surprise at seeing Bartley, but the youngster's
eyes were eager.
He shook hands, like a grown-up. "Got that twenty-two, yet?"
"Haven't seen one, Jimmy. But I won't forget."
"There's a brand-new twenty-two over to Hodges' store, in the window,"
declared Little Jim.
"That so? Then we'll have to walk over and look at it."
"I done _looked_ at it already," said Little Jim.
"Well, then, let's go and price it."
"I done priced it. It's twelve-fifty."
"Well, what do you say to going over and buying it?"
"Sure! Is dad gone?"
"Yes. He left here last night. I thought Miss Gray was with you," said
Bartley.
"Sure! She had to come to town to buy some things. She's over to Hodges'
now."
Dorothy had not waited for him to appear. Bartley was a bit piqued. But
he asked himself why should he be? They were the merest acquaintances.
True, they had spent several hours together, reading and discussing
verse. But no doubt that had been purely impersonal, on her part. With
Little Jim as his guide, Bartley entered Hodges' general store. Dorothy
was at the back of the store making purchases. Bartley watched her a
moment. He felt a tug at his sleeve.
"The guns is over on this side," declared Little Jim.
"We'll have to wait until Mr. Hodges gets through waiting on Miss Gray,"
said Bartley.
Little Jim scampered across the aisle and stood on tiptoe peering into a
showcase. There were pistols, cheap watches, and a pair of spurs.
Little Jim gazed a moment and then shot over to Dorothy. "Say, Dorry,
can't you hurry up? Me and Mr. Bartley are waitin' to look at that
twenty-two in the window."
"Now, Jimmy! Oh, how do you do!" And Dorothy greeted Bartley with
considerable poise for a young woman who was as interested in the
Easterner as she was.
"Don't let us interrupt you," said Bartley. "Our business can wait."
Little Jim scowled, and grimaced at Dorothy, who excused herself to
Bartley and went on making her purchases. They were really insignificant
purchases--some pins, some thread, and a roll of binding tape.
Insignificant as they were, Bartley offered to carry them to the wagon
for her. Dorothy declined his offer and took them to the wagon herself.
"Now for that rifle," said Bartley.
Little Jim, itching all over to get hold of that new and shining weapon,
squirmed as Hodges took it from the window and handed it to Bartley.
Bartley examined it and passed it over to Little Jim.
"Is that the kind you wanted?" he asked.
"This is her! Twenty-two, long or short, genuwine repeater." Jimmy
pretended to read the tags tied to the trigger guard. "Yep! This is
her."
"And some cartridges," suggested Bartley.
"How many?" queried the storekeeper.
"All you got," said Little Jim.
But Bartley's good nature was not to be imposed upon to that extent.
"Give us five boxes, Mr. Hodges."
"That cleans me out of twenty-twos," declared Hodges.
Jimmy grinned triumphantly. Dorothy had come in and was viewing the
purchase with some apprehension. She knew Little Jim.
Bearing the rifle proudly, Jimmy marched from the store. Dorothy and
Bartley followed him, and Bartley briefly outlined Cheyenne's recent
sprightly exodus from San Andreas.
"I heard about it, from Mr. Hodges," said Dorothy. "And I also noticed
that you have hurt your hand."
Bartley glanced at his right hand--and then at Dorothy, who was gazing
at him curiously. It had become common news in town that Cheyenne
Hastings and the Easterner had engaged in a free-for-all fight with the
Sneed outfit, and that two of the Sneed boys were laid up for repairs.
That was Mr. Hodges' version.
"I also heard that you had left town," said Dorothy.
Bartley's egoism was slightly deflated. Then Dorothy had come to town to
buy a few trinkets, and not to find out how it fared with him.
"We have to get back before dark," she declared.
"And you got to drive," said Little Jim. "I want to try my new gun!"
"Did you thank Mr. Bartley for the gun?"
Little Jim admitted that he had forgotten to do so. He stuck out his
small hand. "Thanks, pardner," he said heartily.
Bartley laughed and patted Jimmy's shoulder--something that Jimmy
utterly detested, but suffered nobly, under the circumstances.
"You earned that gun--and thank you for fetching Miss Dorry to town."
"Huh! I didn't fetch _her_. She fetched me. Uncle Frank was comin', but
Dorry said she just had to get some things--"
"Jimmy, please don't point that gun at the horses."
Bartley felt better. He didn't know just why he felt better. Yet he felt
more than grateful to Little Jim.
Nevertheless, Dorothy met Bartley's eyes frankly as he said farewell. "I
hope you will find time to ride over to the ranch," she said. "I'm sure
Aunt Jane would be glad to see you."
"Thanks. Say, day after to-morrow?"
"Oh, it doesn't matter. Aunt Jane is nearly always at home."
"And I got lots of ca'tridges," chirruped Little Jim. "We can shoot all
day."
"I wouldn't miss such an opportunity for anything," declared Bartley,
yet he was looking at Dorothy when he spoke.