"Wishful doesn't look very warlike," said Bartley.
"Nope. That's right. He looks kind of like he'd been hit on the roof and hadn't come to, yet. But did you ever see him shoot craps?"
"No."
"Then you've got somethin' comin', besides buyin' me a drink."
Bartley laughed as he stepped down to the road. Bartley, a fair-sized man, was surprised to realize that the other was all of a head taller than himself. Cheyenne had not looked it in the saddle.
"Are you acquainted with Senator Brown?" queried Bartley as he strode along beside the stiff-gaited outlander.
Cheyenne stopped and pushed back his hat. "Senator Steve Brown? Say, pardner, me and Steve put this here country on the map. If kings was in style, Steve would be wearin' a crown. Why, last election I wore out a pair of jeans lopin' around this here country campaignin' for Steve. See this hat? Steve give me this hat--a genuwine J.B., the best they make. Inside he had printed on the band, in gold, 'From Steve to Cheyenne, hoping it will always fit.' Do I know Steve Brown? Next time you see him just ask him about Cheyenne Hastings."
"I met the Senator, yesterday. Come to think of it, he did mention your name--'Cheyenne--and said you knew the country."
"Was you lookin' for a guide, mebby?"
"Well, not exactly. But I hope to see something of Arizona."