Partners of Chance Part 3

"Easy. Elimination. Now a tourist, regular, stares at folks and things.

But a painter or writer he takes things in without starin'. There's some difference. I knew you were a man who did things. It's in your eye."

"Well," laughed Bartley, "I took you for a cattleman the minute I saw you."

"Which was a minute too late, eh?"

"I don't know about that. Since I've been sitting here looking at the mesa and those wonderful b.u.t.tes over there, and watching the natives come and go, I have begun to feel that I don't care so much about that train, after all. I like this sort of thing. You see, I planned to visit California, but there was nothing definite about the plan. I chose California because I had heard so much about it. It doesn't matter much where I go. By the way, my name is Bartley."

"I'm Steve Brown--cattle and politics. I tell you, Mr. Bartley--"

"Suppose you say just Bartley?"

The Senator chuckled. "Suppose I said 'Green River'?"

"I haven't an objection in the world," laughed Bartley.

"Wishful, here, don't keep liquor," explained the Senator. "And he's right about that. Folks that stay at this hotel want to sleep nights."

The Senator heaved himself out of his chair, stood up, and stretched.

"I reckon you'll be wantin' to see all you can of this country. My ranch lays just fifty miles south of the railroad, and not a fence from here to there. Then, there's them Indians, up north a piece. And over yonder is where they dig up them prehistoric villages. And those b.u.t.tes over there used to be volcanoes, before they laid off the job. To the west is the petrified forest. I made a motion once, when the Legislature was in session, to have that forest set aside as a buryin'-ground for politicians,--State Senators and the like,--but they voted me down. They said I didn't specify _dead_ politicians.

"South of my place is the Apache reservation. There's good huntin' in that country. 'Course, Arizona ain't no Garden of Eden to some folks.

Two kinds of folks don't love this State a little bit'--homesteaders and tourists. But when it comes to cattle and sheep and mines, you can't beat her. She sure is the Tiger Lily of the West. But let's step over and see Tom. Excuse me a minute. There's a const.i.tuent who has somethin'

on his chest. I'll meet you at the station."

The Senator stepped out and talked with his const.i.tuent. Meanwhile, Bartley turned to gaze down the street. A string of empty freight wagons, followed by a lazy cloud of dust, rolled slowly toward town.

Here and there a bit of red showed in the dun ma.s.s of riders that accompanied the wagons. A gay-colored blanket flickered in the sun. The mesas radiated keen dry heat.

Bartley turned and crossed over to the station. He blinked the effects of the white light from his eyes as he entered the telegraph office. The operator, in shirt-sleeves, and smoking a brown-paper cigarette, nodded and handed Bartley a service message stating that his effects would be carried to Los Angeles and held for further orders.

"It's sure hot," said the operator. "Did you want to send another wire?"

Bartley shook his head. "Who is that stout man I b.u.mped into trying to catch my train?"

"That's Senator Steve Brown--State Senator. Thought you knew him."

"No. I just met him to-day."

The operator slumped down in his chair.

Bartley strode to the door and blinked in the Arizona sunshine. "By George!" he murmured, "I always thought they wore those big Stetsons for show. But all day in this sun--guess I'll have to have one."

CHAPTER IV

"A LITTLE GREEN RIVER"

To suddenly stop off at a cow-town station, without baggage or definite itinerary, was unconventional, to say the least. Bartley was amused and interested. Hitherto he had written more or less conventional stuff--acceptable stories of the subway, the slums, the docks, and the streets of Eastern cities. But now, as he strode over to the saloon, he forgot that he was a writer of stories. A boyish longing possessed him to see much of the life roundabout, even to the farthest, faint range of hills--and beyond.

He felt that while he still owed something to his original plan of visiting California, he could do worse than stay right where he was. He had thought of wiring to have his baggage sent back. Then it occurred to him that, aside from his shaving-kit and a few essentials, his baggage comprised but little that he could use out here in the mesa country. And he felt a certain relief in not having trunks to look after. Outing flannels and evening clothes would hardly fit into the present scheme of things. The local store would furnish him all that he needed. In this frame of mind he entered the Blue Front Saloon where he found Senator Steve and his foreman seated at a side table discussing the merits of "Green River."

"h.e.l.lo!" called the Senator. "Mr. Bartley, meet my foreman, Lon Pelly."

They shook hands.

"Lon says the source of Green River is Joy in the Hills," a.s.serted the Senator, smiling.

The long, lean cow-puncher grinned. "Steve, here, says the source of Green River is trouble."

"Now, as a writin' man, what would you say?" queried the Senator.

Bartley gazed at the label on the bottle under discussion. "Well, as a writer, I might say that it depends how far you travel up or down Green River. But as a mere individual enjoying the blessings of companionship, I should say, let's experiment, judiciously."

"Fetch a couple more gla.s.ses, Tom," called the Senator.

After the essential formalities, Bartley pushed back his chair, crossed one leg over the other, and lighted a cigar. "I'm rather inclined toward that Joy in the Hills theory, just now," he a.s.serted.

"That's all right," said Lon Pelly. "Bein' a little inclined don't hurt any. But if you keep on reachin' for Joy, your foot is like to slip.

Then comes Trouble."

"Lon's qualified for the finals once or twice," said the Senator. "Now, take _me_, for a horrible example. I been navigatin' Green River, off and on, for quite a spell, and I never got hung up bad."

"Speaking of rivers, they're rather scarce in this country, I believe,"

said Bartley.

"Yes. But some of 'em are noticeable in the rainy season," stated Senator Steve. "But you ain't seen Arizona. You've only been peekin'

through your fingers at her. Wait till you get on a cayuse and hit the trail for a few hundred miles--that's the only way to see the country.

Now, take 'Cheyenne.' He rides this here country from Utah to the border, and he can tell you somethin' about Arizona.

"Cheyenne is a kind of hobo puncher that rides the country with his little old pack-horse, stoppin' by to work for a grubstake when he has to, but ramblin' most of the time. He used to be a top-hand once. Worked for me a spell. But he can't stay in one place long. Wish you could meet him sometime. He can tell you more about this State than any man I know.

He's what you might call a character for a story. He stops by regular, at the ranch, mebby for a day or two, and then takes the trail, singin'

his little old song. He's kind of a outdoor poet. Makes up his own songs."

"What was that one about Arizona that you gave 'em over to the State House onct?" queried Lon Pelly.

"Oh, that wa'n't Cheyenne's own po'try. It was one he read in a magazine that he gave me. Let's see--

"Arizona! The tramp of cattle, The biting dust and the raw, red brand: Shuffling sheep and the smoke of battle: The upturned face--and the empty hand.

"Dawn and dusk, and the wide world singing, Songs that thrilled with the pulse of life, As we clattered down with our rein chains ringing To woo you--but never to make you wife."

The Senator smiled a trifle apologetically. "There's more of it. But po'try ain't just in my line. Once in a while I bust loose on po'try--that is, my kind of po'try. And I want to say that we sure clattered down from the b.u.t.te and the Blue in the old days, with our rein chains jinglin', thinkin'--some of us--that Arizona was ours to fare-ye-well.