CHAPTER IX
AT THE BOX-S
When they emerged from the western end of the gulch, they paused to rest. Not over a half-mile south stood the ranch-house, just back of a row of giant cottonwoods.
Cheyenne pointed out the stables, corrals, and bunk-house. "A mighty neat little outfit," he remarked, as they started on again.
"Little?"
"Senator Steve's only got about sixty thousand acres under fence."
"Then I'd like to see a big ranch," laughed Bartley.
"You can't. They ain't nothin' to see more'n you see right now. Why, I know a outfit down in Texas that would call this here ranch their north pasture--and they got three more about the same size, besides the regular range. But standin' in any one place you can't see any more than you do right now. Steve just keeps up this here ranch so he can have elbow-room. Yonder comes one of his boys. Reckon he seen us."
A rider had just reined his horse round and was loping toward them.
"He seen we was afoot," said Cheyenne.
"Mighty decent of him--" began Bartley, but Cheyenne waved the suggestion aside. "Decent nothin'! A man afoot looks as queer to a waddie as we did to that ole bull."
The puncher loped up, recognized Cheyenne, nodded to Bartley, and seemed to hesitate. Cheyenne made no explanation of their plight, so the puncher simply turned back and loped toward the ranch-house.
"Just steppin' over to tell Steve we're here," said Cheyenne, as Bartley's face expressed astonishment.
They plodded on, came to a gate, limped down a long lane, came to another gate, and there Senator Steve met them.
"I'd 'a' sent a man with a buckboard if I had known you planned to walk over from Antelope," he asserted, and his eyes twinkled.
Cheyenne frowned prodigiously. "Steve," he said slowly, "you can lovin'ly and trustfully go plumb to hell!"
Cheyenne turned and limped slowly toward the bunk-house.
Mrs. Brown welcomed Bartley as the Senator ushered him into the living-room. The Senator half-filled a tumbler from a cold, dark bottle and handed it to Bartley.
"'Green River,'" he said.
"Mrs. Brown," said Bartley as he bowed.
Then the Senator escorted Bartley to the bathroom. The tub was already filled with steaming water. A row of snow-white towels hung on the rack. The Senator waved his hand and, stepping out, closed the door.
A few minutes later he knocked at the bathroom door. "There's a spare razor in the cabinet, and all the fixings. And when you're ready there's a pair of clean socks on the doorknob."
Bartley heard the Senator's heavy, deliberate step as he passed down the hallway.
"A little 'Green River,' a hot bath, and clean socks," murmured Bartley. "Things might be worse."
His tired muscles relaxed under the beneficent warmth of the bath. He shaved, dressed, and stepped out into the hall. He sniffed. "Chicken!" he murmured soulfully.
Mrs. Senator Brown was supervising the cooking of a dinner that Bartley never forgot. Boiled chicken, dumplings, rich gravy, mashed potatoes, creamed carrots, sliced tomatoes--to begin with. And then the pie! Bartley furnished the appetite.
But that was not until after the Senator had returned from the bunk-house. He had seen to it that Cheyenne had had a bucket of hot water, soap, and towels and grease for his sore feet. In direct and effectual kindliness, without obviously expressed sympathy, the Westerner is peculiarly supreme.
Back in the living-room Bartley made himself comfortable, admiring the generous proportions of the house, the choice Indian blankets, the wide fireplace, and the general solidity of everything, which reflected the personality of his hosts.
Presently the Senator came in. "Cheyenne tells me that somebody set you afoot, down at the water-hole."
"Did he also tell you about your bull?"
"No! Is that how he came to tear his jeans?"
Bartley nodded. And he told the Senator of their recent experience in the gulch.
The Senator chuckled. "Don't say a word to Mrs. Brown about it. I'll have Cheyenne in, after dinner, and sweat it out of him. You see, Cheyenne won't eat with us. He always eats with the boys. No use asking him to eat in here. And, say, Bartley, we've got a little surprise for you. One of my boys caught up your horse, old Dobe. Dobe was dragging a rope. Looks like he broke away from some one. I had him turned into the corral. Dobe was raised on this range."
"Broke loose and came back!" exclaimed Bartley. "That's good news, Senator. I like that horse."
"But Cheyenne is out of luck," said the Senator. "He thought more of those horses, Filaree and Joshua, than he did of anything on earth. I'll send one of the boys back to the water-hole to-morrow, for your saddles and outfit. But now you're here, how do you like the country?"
"Almost as much as I like some of the people living in it," stated Bartley.
"Not including Panhandle Sears, eh?"
"I'm pretty well fed up on walking," and Bartley smiled.
"Sears is a worthless hombre," stated the Senator. "He's one of a gang that steal stock, and generally live by their wits and never seem to get caught. But he made a big mistake when he lifted Cheyenne's horses. Cheyenne already has a grievance against Sears. Some day Cheyenne will open up--and that will be the last of Mr. Sears."
"I had an idea there was something like that in the wind," said Bartley. "Cheyenne hasn't said much about Sears, but I was present at that crap game."
The Senator chuckled. "I heard about it. Heard you offered to take on Sears if he would put his gun on the table."
Bartley flushed. "I must have been excited."
The Senator leaned forward in his big, easy-chair. "Cheyenne wants me to let him take a couple of horses to trail Panhandle. And, judging from what Cheyenne said, he thinks you are going along with him. There's lots of country right round here to see, without taking any unnecessary risks."
"I understand," said Bartley.
"And this is your headquarters, as long as you want to stay," continued the Senator.
"Thank you. It's a big temptation to stay, Senator."
"How?"
"Well, it was rather understood, without anything being said, that I would help Cheyenne find his horses and mine. Dobe came back; but that hardly excuses me from going with Cheyenne."
"But your horse is here; and you seem to be in pretty fair health, right now."
"I appreciate the hint, Senator."
"But you don't agree with me a whole lot."
"Well, not quite. Chance rather chucked us together, Cheyenne and me, and I think I'll travel with him for a while. I like to hear him sing."
"He likes to hear him sing!" scoffed the Senator, frowning. He sat back in his chair, blew smoke-rings, puffed out his cheeks, and presently rose. "Bartley, I see that you're set on chousin' around the country with that warbling waddie--just to hear him sing, as you say. I say you're a dam' fool.
"But you're the kind of a dam' fool I want to shake hands with. You aren't excited and you don't play to the gallery; so if there's anything you want on this ranch, from a posse to a pack-outfit, it's yours. And if either of you get Sears, I'll sure chip in my share to buy his headstone."
"I wouldn't have it inscribed until we get back," laughed Bartley.
"No; I don't think I will. Trailin' horse-thieves on their own stamping ground ain't what an insurance company would call a good risk."