Partners of Chance Part 8

Wishful stopped sweeping. His melancholy gaze was fixed on a defunct cigar. "Never heard either of his hosses object to his company," he replied.

Bartley grinned and glanced up and down the register. Wishful dug into a corner with his broom. Something shot rattling across the floor. Wishful laid down the broom and upon hands and knees began a search. Presently he rose. A slow smile illumined his face. He had found a pair of dice in the litter on the floor. He made a throw, shook his head, and picked up the dice. His sweeping became more sprightly. Amused by the preoccupation of the lank and cautiously humorous Wishful, Bartley touched the bell on the desk. Wishful promptly stood his broom against the wall, rolled down his sleeves, and stepped behind the counter.

"I think I'll pay my bill," said Bartley.

Wishful promptly named the amount. Bartley proffered a ten-dollar bill.

Wishful searched in the till for change. He shook his head. "You got two dollars comin'," he stated.

"I'll shake you for that two dollars," said Bartley.

Wishful's tired eyes lighted up. "You said somethin'." And he produced the dice.

Just then the distant "Zoom" of the westbound Overland shook the silence. Wishful hesitated, then gestured magnificently toward s.p.a.ce.

What was the arrival of a mere train, with possibly a guest or so for the hotel, compared with a game of c.r.a.ps?

While they played, the train steamed in and was gone. Wishful won the two dollars.

Bartley escaped to the veranda and his reflections. Presently he rose and strolled round to the corral. Wishful's three saddle-animals were lazying in the heat. Bartley was not unfamiliar with the good points of a horse. He rejected the sorrel with the Roman nose, as stubborn and foolish. The flea-bitten gray was all horse, but he had a white-rimmed eye. The chestnut bay was a big, hardy animal, but he appeared rather slow and deliberate. Yet he had good, solid feet, plenty of bone, deep withers, and powerful hindquarters.

Bartley stepped round to the hotel. "Have you a minute to spare?" he queried as Wishful finished rearranging the furniture of the lobby.

Wishful had. He followed Bartley round to the corral.

"I'm thinking of buying a saddle-horse," stated Bartley.

Wishful leaned his elbows on the corral bar. "Why don't you rent one--and turn him in when you're through with him."

"I'd rather own one, and I may use him a long time."

"I ain't sufferin' to sell any of my hosses, Mr. Bartley. But I wouldn't turn down a fair offer."

"Set a price on that sorrel," said Bartley.

Now, Wishful was willing to part with the sorrel, which was showy and looked fast. Bartley did not want the animal. He merely wanted to arrive at a basis from which to work.

"Well," drawled Wishful, "I'd let him go for a hundred."

"What will you take for the gray?"

"Him? Well, he's the best hoss I got. I don't think he's your kind of a hoss."

"The best, eh? And a hundred for the sorrel." Bartley appeared to reflect.

Wishful really wanted to sell the gray, describing him as the best horse he owned to awaken Bartley's interest. The best horse in the corral was the big bay cow-horse; but Wishful had no idea that Bartley knew that.

"Would you put a price on the gray?" queried Bartley.

"Why, sure! You can have him, for a hundred and twenty-five."

"A hundred for the sorrel--and a hundred and twenty-five for the gray; is that correct?"

"Yep."

"And you say the gray is the best horse in the corral?"

"He sure is!"

"All right. I'll give you a hundred for that big bay, there. I don't want to rob you of your best horse, Wishful."

Wishful saw that he was cornered. He had cornered himself, premising that the Easterner didn't know horses. "That bay ain't much account, Mr.

Bartley. He's slow--nothin' but a ole cow-hoss I kind of keep around for odd jobs of ropin' and such."

"Well, he's good enough for me. I'll give you a hundred for him."

Wishful scratched his head. He did not want to sell the bay for that sum, yet he was too good a sport to go back on his word.

"Say, where was you raised?" he queried abruptly.

"In Kentucky."

"h.e.l.l, I thought you was from New York?"

"I lived in Kentucky until I was twenty-five."

"Was your folks hoss-traders?"

"Not exactly," laughed Bartley. "My father always kept a few good saddle-horses, however."

"Uh-huh? I reckon he did. And you ain't forgot what a real hoss looks like, either." Wishful's pensive countenance lighted suddenly. "You'll be wantin' a rig--saddle and bridle and slicker and saddle-bags. Now I got just what you want."

Bartley stepped to the stable and inspected the outfit. It was old and worn, and worth, Bartley estimated, about thirty dollars, all told.

"I'll let you have the whole outfit--hoss and rig and all, for two hundred," stated Wishful unblushingly.

"I priced a saddle, over in the shop across from the station, this morning," said Bartley.

"With bridle and blanket and saddle-pockets it would only stand me ninety dollars. If the bay is the poorest horse you own, then at your figure this outfit would come rather high."

"I might 'a' knowed it!" stated Wishful. "Say, Mr. Bartley, give me a hundred and fifty for the hoss and I'll throw in the rig."

"No. I know friendship ceases when a horse-trade begins; but I am only taking you at your word."

"I sure done overlooked a bet, this trip," said Wishful. "Say, I reckon you must 'a' cut your first tooth on a cinch-ring. I done learnt somethin' this mornin'. Private eddication comes high, but I'm game.

Write your check for a hundred--and take the bay. By rights I ought to give him to you, seein as how you done roped and branded me for a blattin' yearlin' the first throw; and you been out West just three days! You'll git along in this country."

"I hope so," laughed Bartley. "Speaking of getting along, I plan to visit Senator Brown. How long will it take me to get there, riding the bay?"

"He's got a runnin' walk that is good for six miles an hour. He's a walkin' fool. And anything you git your rope on, he'll hold it till you're gray-headed and got whiskers. That ole hoss is the best cow-hoss in Antelope County--and I'm referrin' you to Steve Brown to back me up.