CHAPTER VII
AT THE WATER-HOLE
Before Bartley had been riding an hour he knew that he had a good horseunder him. Dobe "followed his head" and did not flirt with his shadow,although he was grain-fed and ready to go. When Dobe trotted--an easy,swinging trot that ate into the miles--Bartley tried to post, Englishstyle. But Dobe did not understand that style of riding a trot. Eachtime Bartley raised in the stirrups, Dobe took it for a signal to lope.Finally Bartley caught the knack of leaning forward and riding a trotwith a straight leg, and to his surprise he found it was a mightysatisfactory method and much easier than posting.
The mesa trail was wide--in reality a cross-country road, so Bartley hadopportunity to try Dobe's different gaits. The running walk was a joy toexperience, the trot was easy, and the lope as regular and smooth as theswing of a pendulum. Finally Bartley settled to the best long-distancegait of all, the running walk, and began to enjoy the vista; thewide-sweeping, southern reaches dotted with buttes, the line of the farhills crowded against the sky, and the intense light in which there wasno faintest trace of blur or moisture. Everything within normal range ofvision stood out clean-edged and definite.
Unaccustomed to riding a horse that neck-reined at the merest touch, andone that stopped at the slightest tightening of the rein, Bartley had tolearn through experience that a spade bit requires delicate handling. Hewas jogging along easily when he turned to glance back at the town--nowa far, huddled group of tiny buildings. Inadvertently he tightened rein.Dobe stopped short. Bartley promptly went over the fork and slid to theground.
Dobe gazed down at his rider curiously, ears cocked forward, as thoughtrying to understand just what his rider meant to do next. Bartleyexpected to see the horse whirl and leave for home. But Dobe stoodpatiently until his rider had mounted. Bartley glanced round covertly,wondering if any one had witnessed his impromptu descent. Then helaughed, realizing that it was a long way to Central Park, flat saddlesand snaffles.
A little later he ate two of the sandwiches Wishful had thoughtfullyprovided, and drank from the canteen. Gradually the shadows of thebuttes lengthened. The afternoon heat ebbed away in little, infrequentpuffs of wind. The western reaches of the great mesa seemed to expand,while the southern horizon drew nearer.
Presently Bartley noticed pony tracks on the road, and either side ofthe tracks the mark of wheels. Here the wagon had swung aside to avoid abit of bad going, yet the tracks of two horses still kept the middle ofthe road. "Senator Brown--and Cheyenne," thought Bartley, studying thetracks. He became interested in them. Here, again, Cheyenne haddismounted, possibly to tighten a cinch. There was the stub of acigarette. Farther along the tracks were lost in the rocky ground of thepetrified forest. He had made twenty miles without realizing it.
Winding in and out among the shattered and fallen trunks of thoseprehistoric trees, Bartley forgot where he was until he passed thebluish-gray sweep of burned earth edging the forest. Presently a fewdwarf junipers appeared. He was getting higher, although the mesa seemedlevel. Again he discovered the tracks of the horses in the powdered redclay of the road.
He crossed a shallow arroyo, sandy and wide. Later he came suddenly upona red clay cutbank, and a hint of water where the bank shadowed themud-smeared rocks. He rode slowly, preoccupied in studying the country.The sun showed close to the rim of the world when he finally realizedthat, if he meant to get anywhere, he had better be about it. Dobepromptly caught the change of his rider's mental attitude and steppedout briskly. Bartley patted the horse's neck.
It was a pleasure to ride an animal that seemed to want to work with aman and not against him. The horse had cost one hundred dollars--a fairprice for such a horse in those days. Yet Bartley thought it a veryreasonable price. And he knew he had a bargain. He felt clearlyconfident that the big cow-pony would serve him in any circumstance orhazard.
As a long, undulating stretch of road appeared, softly brown in theshadows, Bartley began to look about for the water-hole which Wishfulhad spoken about. The sun slipped from sight. The dim, gray road reachedon and on, shortening in perspective as the quick night swept down.
Beyond and about was a dusky wall through which loomed queer shapes thatseemed to move and change until, approached, they became junipers.Bartley's gaze became fixed upon the road. That, at least, was areality. He reached back and untied his coat and swung into it. An earlystar flared over the southern hills. He wondered if he had passed thewater-hole. He had a canteen, but Dobe would need water. But Dobe wasthoroughly familiar with the trail from Antelope to the White Hills. AndDobe smelled the presence of his kind, even while Bartley, peering aheadin the dusk, rode on, not aware that some one was camped within callingdistance of the trail. A cluster of junipers hid the faint glow of thecamp-fire.
Dobe stopped suddenly. Bartley urged him on. For the first time the bighorse showed an inclination to ignore the rein. Bartley gazed round, sawnothing in particular, and spoke to the horse, urging him forward. Dobeturned and marched deliberately away from the road, heading toward thewest, and nickered. From behind the screen of junipers came an answeringnicker. Bartley hallooed. No one answered him. Yet Dobe seemed to knowwhat he was about. He plodded on, down a slight grade. Suddenly the softglow of a camp-fire illumined the hollow.
A blanket-roll, a saddle, a coil of rope, and a battered canteen and thefire--but no habitant of the camp.
"Hello!" shouted Bartley.
Dobe shied and snorted as a figure loomed in the dusk, and Cheyenne waspeering up at him.
"Is this the water-hole?" Bartley asked inanely.
"This is her. I'm sure glad to see you! I feel like a plumb fool forstandin' you up that way--but I didn't quite get you till I seen yourface. I thought I knowed your voice, but I never did see you in jeans,and ridin' a hoss before. And that hat ain't like the one you wore inAntelope."
"Then you didn't know just what to expect?"
"I wa'n't sure. But say, I got some coffee goin'--and some bacon. Lightdown and give your saddle a rest."
"I'll just water my horse and stake him out and--"
"I'll show you where. I see you're ridin' Dobe. Wishful rent him toyou?"
"No. I bought him."
"If you don't mind tellin' me--how much?"
"A hundred."
"Was Wishful drunk?"
"No."
"Well, you got a real hoss, there. The water is right close. Old Dobeknows where it is. Just lift off your saddle and turn him loose--ormebby you better hobble him the first night. He ain't used to travelin'with you, yet."
"I have a stake-rope," said Bartley.
"A hoss would starve on a stake-rope out here. I'll make you a pair ofhobbles, pronto. Then he'll stick with my hosses."
"Where are they?"
"Runnin' around out there somewhere. They never stray far from camp."
Bartley watched Cheyenne untwist a piece of soft rope and make a pair ofserviceable hobbles.
"Now he'll travel easy and git enough grass to keep him in shape. Andthem hobbles won't burn him. Any time you're shy of hobbles, that's howto make 'em."
Later, as Bartley sat by the fire and ate, Cheyenne asked him ifPanhandle had been seen in town since the night of the crap game.Bartley told him that he had seen nothing of Panhandle.
"He's ridin' this country, somewhere," said Cheyenne. "You're headed forSteve's ranch?"
"Yes."
"Well, Steve'll sure give you the time of your life."
"I think I'll stay there a few days, if the Senator can make room forme."
"Room! Wait till you see Steve's place. And say, if you want to get wiseto how they run a cattle outfit, just throw in with the boys, tell 'emyou're a plumb tenderfoot and can't ride a bronc, nohow, and that younever took down a rope in your life, and that all you know about cattleis what you've et, and then the boys will use you white. There's nothin'puts a fella in wrong with the boys quicker than for him to let on he isa hand when he ain't. 'Course the boys won't mind seem' you top a broncand get thr
owed, just to see if you got sand."
Meanwhile Cheyenne manipulated the coffee-pot and skillet mosteffectively. And while Bartley ate his supper, Cheyenne talked,seemingly glad to have a companion to talk to.
"You see," he began, apropos of nothing in particular, "entertainin'folks with the latest news is my long suit. I'm kind of a travelin'show, singin' and packin' the news around to everybody. 'Course folksread the paper and hear about somebody gettin' married, or gettin' shotor leavin' the country, and then they ask me the how of it. I beenramblin' so long that I know the pedigrees of 'most everybody down thisway.
"Newspapers is all right, but folks get plumb hungry to git their newswith human trimmin's. I recollec' I come mighty near gettin' in trouble,onct. Steve had some folks visitin' down to his ranch. They was new tothe country, and seems they locked horns with a outfit runnin' sheepjust south of Springerville. Now, I hadn't been down that way for aboutsix months, but I had heard of that ruckus. So after Steve lets me singa couple of songs, and I got to feelin' comfortable with them new folks,I set to and tells 'em about the ruckus down near Springerville. I guessthe fella that told me must 'a' got his reins crossed, for pretty soonSteve starts to laugh and turns to them visitors and says: 'How aboutit, Mr. Smith?'
"Now, Smith was the fella that had the ruckus, and I'd been tellin' howthat sheep outfit had run _him_ out of the country. He was a young,long, spindlin' hombre from Texas--a reg'lar Whicker-bill, with thatdrawlin' kind of a voice that hosses and folks listen to. I knowed hewas from Texas the minute I seen him, but I sure didn't know he was theman I was talkin' about.
"Everybody laughed but him and his wife. I reckon she was feelin' heroats, visitin' at the Senator's house. I don't know what she said to herhusband, but, anyhow, afore I left for the bunk-house that evenin', hesays, slow and easy, that if I was around there next mornin', he wouldexplain all about that ruckus to me, when the ladies weren't present, soI wouldn't get it wrong, next time. I seen I had made a mistake formyself, and I didn't aim to make another, so I just kind of eased offand faded away, bushin' down that night a far piece from Senator Steve'sranch. I know them Whicker-bills and I didn't want to tangle with any of'em."
"Afraid you'd get shot?" queried Bartley, laughing.
"Shot? Me? No, pardner. I was afraid that Texas gent would get shot. Yousee, he was married--and I--ain't."
Bartley lay back on his saddle and gazed up at the stars. The littlefire had died down to a dot of red. A coyote yelped in the far dusk.Another coyote replied. Cheyenne rose and threw some wood on the fire.Then he stepped down to the water-hole and washed the plates and cups.Bartley could hear the peculiar thumping sound of hobbled horses movingabout on the mesa. Cheyenne returned to the fire, picked up hisbed-roll, and marched off into the bushes. Bartley wondered why heshould take the trouble to move his bed-roll such a distance from thewater-hole.
"Pack your saddle and blanket over, when you feel like turnin' in," saidCheyenne. "And you might throw some dirt on that fire. I ain't lookin'for visitors down this way, but you can't tell."
Bartley carried his saddle out to the distant clump of junipers.
"Just shed your coat and boots and turn in," invited Cheyenne.
Bartley was not sleepy, and for a long time he lay gazing up at thestars. Presently he heard Cheyenne snore. The Big Dipper grew dim. Thena coyote yelped--a shrill cadence of mocking laughter. "I wonder whatthe joke is?" Bartley thought drowsily.
Sometime during the night he was awakened by the tramping of horses, asound that ran along the ground and diminished in the distance.
Cheyenne was sitting up. He touched Bartley. "Five or six of 'em,"whispered Cheyenne.
"Our horses?"
"Too many. Mebby some strays."
"Or cowboys," suggested Bartley.
"Night-ridin' ain't so popular out here."
Bartley turned over and fell asleep. It seemed but a moment later thathe was wide awake and Cheyenne was standing over him. It was daylight.
"They got our hosses," said Cheyenne.
"Who?"
"I dunno."
"What? _Our_ horses? Great Scott, how far is it to Senator Brown'sranch?"
"About twenty-five miles, by road. I know a short cut."
Bartley jumped up and pulled on his boots. From the far hills came thefaint yelp of a coyote, shrill and derisive.
"The joke is on us," said Bartley.
"This here ain't no joke," stated Cheyenne.