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.