TWO TRAILS HOME
Bartley was the chief witness at the inquest. He told his story in a
manner that impressed the coroner's jury. Senator Brown was present, and
identified one of the dead outlaws as Sneed. Posmo, killed by
Panhandle's first shot, was known in Phoenix. Panhandle, riddled with
bullets, was also identified by the Senator, Cheyenne, and several
habitués of the gambling-hall. Bartley himself identified the body of
one man as that of Hull.
Cheyenne was the last witness called. He admitted that he had had
trouble with Panhandle Sears, and that he was looking for him when the
fight started; that Sneed and his men had unexpectedly taken the quarrel
out of his hands, and that he had fired exactly five shots at the men
who had killed Panhandle and it had been close work, and easy. Panhandle
had put up a game fight. The odds had been heavily against him. He had
been standing in the light of the gambling-hall doorway while the men
who had killed him had been in the shadow. "He didn't have a chance,"
concluded Cheyenne.
"You say you were looking for this man Sears, and yet you took his part
against Sneed's outfit?" queried the coroner.
"I didn't just say so. Mr. Bartley said that."
"Mr. Bartley seems to be the only disinterested witness of the
shooting," observed the coroner.
"If there is any further evidence needed to convince the jury that Mr.
Bartley's statements are impartial and correct, you might read this,"
declared the city marshal. "It is the antemortem statement of one of
Sneed's men, taken at the hospital at three-fifteen this morning. He
died at four o'clock."
The coroner read the statement aloud. Ten minutes later the verdict was
given. The deceased, named severally, had met death by gunshot wounds,
_at the hands of parties unknown_.
It was a caustic verdict, intended for the benefit of the cattle-and
horse-thieves of the Southwest. It conveyed the hint that the city of
Phoenix was prompt to resent the presence of such gentry within its
boundaries. One of the daily papers commented upon the fact that "the
parties unknown" must have been fast and efficient gunmen. Cheyenne's
name was not mentioned, and that was due to the influence of the
marshal, Senator Brown, and the mayor, which left readers of the papers
to infer that the police of Phoenix had handled the matter themselves.
Through the evidence of the outlaw who had survived long enough to make
a statement, the Box-S horses were traced to a ranch in the neighborhood
of Tucson, identified, and finally returned to their owner.
The day following the inquest, Bartley and Cheyenne left Phoenix, with
Fort Apache as their first tentative destination, and with the promise
of much rugged and wonderful country in between as an incentive to
journey again with his companion, although Bartley needed no special
incentive. At close range Bartley had beheld the killing of several men.
And he could not free himself from the vision of Panhandle crawling
toward him in the patch of white light, the flitting of horsemen back
and forth, and the red flash of six-guns. Bartley was only too anxious
to leave the place.
It was not until they were two days out of Phoenix that Cheyenne
mentioned the fight--and then he did so casually, as though seeking an
opinion from his comrade.
Bartley merely said he was glad Cheyenne had not killed Panhandle.
Cheyenne pondered a while, riding loosely, and gazing down at the trail.
"I reckon I would 'a' killed him--if I'd 'a' got the chance," he said.
"I meant to. No, it wasn't me or Panhandle that settled that argument:
it was somethin' bigger than us. Folks that reads about the fight,
knowin' I was in Phoenix, will most like say that I got him. Let 'em say
so. I know I didn't; and you know I didn't--and that's good enough for
me."
"And Dorothy and Aunt Jane and Little Jim," said Bartley.
"Meanin' Little Jim won't have to grow up knowin' that his father was a
killer."
"I was thinking of that."
"Well, right here is where I quit thinkin' about it and talkin' about
it. If that dog of yours there was to kill a coyote, in a fair fight, I
reckon he wouldn't think about it long."
A few minutes later Cheyenne spoke of the country they were in.
"She's rough and unfriendly, right here," he said. "But north a ways she
sure makes up for it. There's big spruce and high mesas and grass to
your pony's knees and water 'most anywhere you look for it. I ain't much
on huntin'. But there's plenty deer and wild turkey up that way, and
some bear. And with a bent pin and a piece of string a fella can catch
all the trout he wants. Arizona is a mighty surprisin' State, in spots.
Most folks from the East think she's sagebrush and sand, except the
Grand Cañon; but that's kind of rented out to tourists, most of the
time. I like the Painted Desert better."
"Where haven't you been?" said Bartley, laughing.
"Well, I ain't been North for quite a spell."
And Cheyenne fell silent, thinking of Laramie, of the broad prairies of
Wyoming, of his old homestead, and the days when he was happy with his
wife and Little Jim. But he was not silent long. He visioned a plan that
he might work out, after he had seen Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank again.
Meanwhile, the sun was shining, the road wound among the ragged hills,
and Filaree and Joshua stepped along briskly, their hoof-beats
suggesting the rhythm of a song.
That night they camped in the hill country not far from a crossroads
store. In the morning they bought a few provisions and an extra canteen.
"There's a piece of country between here and the real hills that is like
to be dry," explained Cheyenne. "We're leavin' the road, this mornin',
and cuttin' north. She's some rough, the way we're headed, but you'll
like it."
From the sagebrush of the southern slopes they climbed slowly up to a
country of scattered juniper. By noon they were among the piñons,
following a dim bridle trail that Cheyenne's horses seemed to know.
"In a couple of days, I aim to spring a surprise on you," said Cheyenne
as they turned in that night. "I figure to show you somethin' you been
wantin' to see."
"Bring on your bears," said Bartley, laughing.
Cheyenne's moodiness had vanished. Frequently he hummed his old trail
song as they rode. Next day, as they nooned among the spruce of the high
country, Cheyenne suddenly drew the dice from his pocket and, turning
them in his hands, finally tossed them over the rim-rock of the cañon
edging their camp. "It's a fool game," he said. And Bartley knew, by the
otter's tone, that he did not alone refer to the game of dice.
The air was thin, clear, and vital with a quality that the air of the
lower country lacked. Bartley felt an ambition to settle down and go to
writing. He thought that he now had material enough and to spare. They
were in a country, vast, fenceless, verdant--almost awesome in its
timbered silences. His imagination was stirred.
From their noon camp they rode into the timber and from the timber into
a mountain meadow, knee-deep with lush grass. There was no visible trail
across the meadow but the horses seemed to know which way to go. After
crossing the meadow, Filaree, leading the cavalcade, turned and took a
steep trail down the side of a hidden cañon, a mighty chasm, rock-walled
and somber. At the bottom the horses drank, and, crossing the stream,
climbed the farther side. In an hour they were again on the rim,
plodding noiselessly through the sun-flecked shadows of the giant
spruce.
"How about that surprise?" queried Bartley.
"Ain't this good enough?" said Cheyenne, gesturing roundabout.
"Gosh, yes! Lead on, Macduff."
About four that afternoon the horses pricked their ears and quickened
their pace. Filaree and Joshua especially seemed interested in getting
along the silent trail; and presently the trail merged with another
trail, more defined. A few hundred yards down this trail, and Bartley
saw a big log cabin; to the left and beyond it a corral, empty, and with
the bars down. Bartley had never seen the place before, and did not
realize where he was, yet he had noticed that the horses seemed to know
the place.
"We won't stop by," said Cheyenne.
"Any one live there?"
"Sneed used to," stated Cheyenne.
Then Bartley knew that they were not far from the San Andreas Valley
and--well, the Lawrence ranch.
They dropped down a long trail into another cañon which finally spread
to a green valley dotted with ranches. The horses stepped briskly.
Presently, rounding a bend, they saw a ranch-house, far below, and
sharply defined squares of alfalfa.
"That house with the red roof--" said Bartley.
"That's her," asserted Cheyenne, a trifle ambiguously.
"Then we've swung round in a circle."
"We done crossed the res'avation, pardner. And we didn't see a dog-gone
Injun."
Little Jim was the first to catch sight of them as they jogged down the
last stretch of trail leaving the foothills. He recognized the horses
long before their riders were near enough to be identified as his father
and Bartley.
Little Jim did not rush to Aunt Jane and tell her excitedly that they
were coming. Instead, he quietly saddled up his pony and rode out to
meet them. Part-way up the slope he waited.
His greeting was not effusive. "I just thought I'd ride up and tell you
folks that--'that I seen you comin'."
"How goes the hunting?" queried Bartley.
"Fine! I got six rabbits yesterday. Dorry is gittin' so she can shoot
pretty good, too. How you makin' it, dad?"
Cheyenne pushed back his hat and gazed at his young son. "Pretty fair,
for an old man," said Cheyenne presently. "You been behavin' yourself?"
"Sure."
"How would you like to ride a real hoss, once?"
"You mean _your_ hoss?"
"Uh-huh."
"I'll trade you, even."
"No, you won't, son. But you can ride him down to the ranch, if you
like."
Little Jim almost tumbled from his pony in his eagerness to ride Joshua,
his father's horse, with the big saddle and rope and the carbine under
the stirrup leather.
"You musta made a long ride," declared Jimmy, as he scrambled up on
Joshua. "Josh's shoes is worn thin. He'll be throwin' one, next."
Jimmy called attention to the horse's shoes, that his father and Bartley
might not see how really pleased he was to ride a "real horse."
"Yes, a long ride. How is Aunt Jane and Dorry?"
"Oh, they're all right. Uncle Frank he cut twenty-two tons of alfalfa
off the lower field last week."
Cheyenne sat sideways on Jimmy's pony as they rode down the last easy
slope and turned into the ranch gate. Aunt Jane, who was busy
cooking,--it seemed that Aunt Jane was always busy cooking something or
other, when she wasn't dressmaking or mending clothing or
ironing,--greeted them warmly. Frank was working down at the lower end.
Dorry had gone to San Andreas. She would be back 'most any time, now.
And weren't they hungry?
They were. And there was fresh milk and pie. But they put up the horses
first.
Later, Cheyenne and Little Jim decided to walk down to the lower end of
the ranch and see Uncle Frank. Cheyenne had washed his hands and face
before eating, as had Bartley. But Bartley did not let it go at that. He
begged some hot water and again washed and shaved, brushed his clothes,
and changed his flannel shirt for a clean one. Then he strolled to the
kitchen and chatted with Aunt Jane, who had read of the killing of the
outlaws in Phoenix, and had many questions to ask. It had been a
terrible tragedy. And Mr. Bartley had actually seen the shooting?
Aunt Jane was glad that Cheyenne had not been mixed up in it, especially
as that man Sears had been killed. But now that he had been killed,
people would talk less about her brother. It really had seemed an act of
Providence that Cheyenne had had nothing to do with the shooting. Of
course, Mr. Bartley knew about the trouble that her brother had had--and
why he had never settled down--
"His name was not mentioned in the papers," said Bartley, thinking that
he must say something.
"There's Dorry, now," said Aunt Jane, glancing through the kitchen
window.
Bartley promptly excused himself and stepped out to the gate, which he
vaulted and opened as Dorothy waved a greeting. Bartley carried the
groceries in, and later helped unhitch the team. They chatted casually
neither referring to the subject uppermost in their minds.
When Cheyenne returned, riding on a load of alfalfa with Uncle Frank and
Little Jim, Bartley managed to let Uncle Frank know that he was not
supposed to have had a hand in the Phoenix affair. Cheyenne thanked him.
"But you ain't talked with Dorry, yet, have you?" queried Cheyenne.
Bartley shook his head.
"She'll find out," stated Cheyenne. "You can't fool Dorry."
That evening, while Uncle Frank and Cheyenne were discussing a matter
which seemed confidential to themselves, and while Aunt Jane was quietly
keeping an eye on Jimmy, who could hardly keep from interrupting his
seniors--Bartley and Dorry didn't count, just then, for _they_ were
also talking together--Dorothy intimated to Bartley that she would like
to talk with him alone. She did not say so, nor make any gesture to
indicate her wish, yet Bartley interpreted her expression correctly.
He suggested that they step out to the veranda, where it was cooler.
From the veranda they strolled to the big gate, and there she asked him,
point-blank, to tell her just what had happened in Phoenix. She had read
the papers, and she surmised that there was more to the affair than the
papers printed. For instance, Senator Brown, upon his return to the
Box-S, had kindly sent word to Aunt Jane that Cheyenne was all right.
Bartley thought that the thoughtful Senator had rather spilled the
beans.
"Did Cheyenne--" and Dorothy hesitated.
"Cheyenne didn't kill Sears," stated Bartley.
"You talked with Cheyenne, and got him to keep out of it?"
"I tried to. He wouldn't listen. Then I wished him good luck and told
him I hoped he'd win."
Dorothy was puzzled. "How do you know he didn't?"
"Because I was standing beside him when it happened. I don't see why you
shouldn't know about it. Cheyenne and I were just about to cross the
street, that night, when we saw Panhandle coming down the opposite side.
Sneed and his men, who were evidently waiting for him, called to
Panhandle. Panhandle must have thought it was the sheriff, or the city
marshal. It happened suddenly. Panhandle began firing at Sneed and his
riders. They shot him down just as he reached the curb in front of us.
They kept on shooting at him as he lay in the street. Cheyenne couldn't
stand that. He emptied his gun, trying to keep them off--and he emptied
some saddles."
"Thank you for trying to--to give Cheyenne my message," said Dorothy.
And she shook hands with him.
"Do you know this is the loveliest vista I have seen since leaving
Phoenix--this San Andreas Valley," said Bartley.
"But you came through the Apache Forest," said Dorothy, not for the sake
of argument, but because Bartley was still holding her hand.
"Yes. But you don't happen to live in the Apache Forest."
"But, Mr. Bartley--"
"John, please."
"Cheyenne calls you Jack."
"Better still. Do you think Aunt Jane would mind if we walked up the
road as far as--well, as far as the spring?"
"Hadn't you better ask her?"
"No. But she wouldn't object. Would you?"
Slowly Dorothy withdrew her hand and Bartley opened the big gate. As
they walked down the dim, starlit road they were startled by the advent
of a yellow dog that bounded from the brush and whined joyously.
"And I had forgotten him," said Bartley. "Oh, he's mine! I can't get
away from the fact. He adopted me, and has followed me clear through. I
had forgotten that he is afraid to come into a ranch. And I am ashamed
to say that I forgot to feed him, to-night. He isn't at all beautiful,
but he's tremendously loyal."
"And he shall have a good supper when we get back," declared Dorothy.
The yellow dog padded along behind them in the dusk, content to be with
his master again. Bartley talked with Dorothy about his plans, his
hopes, and her promise to become the heroine of his new story. Then he
surprised her by stating that he had decided to make a home in the San
Andreas Valley.
"You really don't know anything about me, or my people," he said. "And I
want you to know. My only living relative is my sister, and she is
scandalously well-to-do. Her husband makes money manufacturing hooks and
eyes. He's not romantic, but he's solid. As for me--"
And Bartley spoke of his own income, just what he could afford to spend
each month, and just how much he managed to save, and his ambition to
earn more. Dorothy realized that he was talking to her just as he would
have talked to a chum--a man friend, without reserve, and she liked him
for it. She had been curious about him, his vocation, and even about his
plans; and she felt a glow of affection because he had seemed so loyal
to his friendship with Cheyenne, and because he had been kind to Little
Jim Hastings. While doing so with no other thought than to please the
boy, Bartley had made no mistake in buying him that new rifle.
As they came to the big rock by the roadside--a spot which Bartley had
good reason to remember--he paused and glanced at Dorothy. She was
laughing.
"You looked so funny that day. You were the most dilapidated-looking
person--for a writer--"
"I imagine I was, after Hull got through with me. Let's sit down awhile.
I want to tell you what I should like to do. Are you comfortable?"
Dorothy nodded.
"Well," said Bartley, seating himself beside her, "I should like to rent
a small place in the valley, a place just big enough for two, and then
settle down and write this story. Then, if I sold it, I think I should
lock up, get a pack-horse and another saddle-horse, outfit for a long
trip, and then take the trail north and travel for, say, six months,
seeing the country, camping along the way, visiting with folks, and
incidentally gathering material for another story. It could be done."
"But why rent a place, if you plan to leave it right away?"
"Because I should want a home to come to, a place to think of when I was
on the trails. You know a fellow can't wander up and down the world
forever. I like to travel, but I think a chap ought to spend at least
half a year under a roof. Don't you?"
"I was thinking of Cheyenne," said Dorothy musingly.
"I think of him a great deal," declared Bartley.
Dorothy glanced up at him from her pondering.
Bartley leaned toward her. "Dorothy, will you help me make that home,
here in the valley, and be my comrade on the trails?"
"Hadn't you better ask Aunt Jane?" said Dorothy softly, yet with a touch
of humor.
"Do you mean it?" Bartley's voice was boyishly enthusiastic, like the
voice of a chum, a hearty comrade. "But how about your own folks?"
Dorothy's answer was not given then and there, in words. Nor yet by
gesture, nor in any visible way--there being no moon that early in the
evening. After a brief interval--or, at least, it seemed brief--they
rose and strolled back down the road, the yellow dog padding faithfully
at their heels. Presently--
"Hey, Dorry!" came in a shrill voice.
"It's the scout!" exclaimed Bartley, laughing.
"We're coming, Jimmy," called Dorothy.
"But before we're taken into custody--" said Bartley; and as mentioned
before, the moon had not appeared.
Little Jim, astride of the ranch gate, querulously demanded where they
had been and why they had not told him they were going somewhere.
"And you left the gate open, and--everything!" concluded Jimmy.
"We just went for a walk," said Dorothy.
"What's the use of walkin' up the old road in the dark?" queried Jimmy.
"You can't see anything."
"What do you say to a rabbit hunt to-morrow morning early?" asked
Bartley.
"Nope!" declared Little Jim decisively. "'Cause my dad was talkin' with
Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank, and dad says me and him are goin' back to
Laramie where ma is. And we're goin' on the _train_. Aunt Jane she
cried. But shucks! We ain't goin' to stay in Laramie all the time. Dad
says if things rib up right, me and ma and him are comin' back to live
in the valley. Don't you wish you was goin', Dorry?"
"You run along and tell Aunt Jane we're coming," said Bartley.
Little Jim hesitated. But then, Mr. Bartley had bought him that new
rifle. Jimmy pattered down the path to the lighted doorway, delivered
his message, and pattered back again toward the gate, wasting no time
_en route_. Halfway to the gate he stopped. Mr. Bartley was standing
very close to Dorry--in fact, Jimmy was amazed to see him kiss her.
Jimmy turned and trotted back to the house.
"Shucks!" he exclaimed. "I thought he liked guns and things more'n
girls!"
But Jimmy was too loyal to tell what he had seen. After all, Dorry was
mighty fine, for a girl. She could ride and shoot, and she never told on
him when he had done wrong.
With a skip and a hop Jimmy burst into the room. "We're goin' on the
_train_," he declared. "Ain't we, dad?"
Dorothy and Bartley came in. Bartley glanced at Cheyenne, hesitated, and
then thrust out his hand.
"Good luck to your new venture," he said heartily.
"Same to you, pardner!" And Cheyenne included Dorry in his glance.
"I want to ask Aunt Jane's advice," stated Bartley.
"Then," said Cheyenne, "I reckon me and Frank and Jimmy'll step out and
take a look at the stars. She's a wonderful night."