Partners of Chance Part 38

Cheyenne sat sideways on Jimmy's pony as they rode down the last easy slope and turned into the ranch gate. Aunt Jane, who was busy cooking,--it seemed that Aunt Jane was always busy cooking something or other, when she wasn't dressmaking or mending clothing or ironing,--greeted them warmly. Frank was working down at the lower end.

Dorry had gone to San Andreas. She would be back 'most any time, now.

And weren't they hungry?

They were. And there was fresh milk and pie. But they put up the horses first.

Later, Cheyenne and Little Jim decided to walk down to the lower end of the ranch and see Uncle Frank. Cheyenne had washed his hands and face before eating, as had Bartley. But Bartley did not let it go at that. He begged some hot water and again washed and shaved, brushed his clothes, and changed his flannel s.h.i.+rt for a clean one. Then he strolled to the kitchen and chatted with Aunt Jane, who had read of the killing of the outlaws in Phoenix, and had many questions to ask. It had been a terrible tragedy. And Mr. Bartley had actually seen the shooting?

Aunt Jane was glad that Cheyenne had not been mixed up in it, especially as that man Sears had been killed. But now that he had been killed, people would talk less about her brother. It really had seemed an act of Providence that Cheyenne had had nothing to do with the shooting. Of course, Mr. Bartley knew about the trouble that her brother had had--and why he had never settled down--

"His name was not mentioned in the papers," said Bartley, thinking that he must say something.

"There's Dorry, now," said Aunt Jane, glancing through the kitchen window.

Bartley promptly excused himself and stepped out to the gate, which he vaulted and opened as Dorothy waved a greeting. Bartley carried the groceries in, and later helped unhitch the team. They chatted casually neither referring to the subject uppermost in their minds.

When Cheyenne returned, riding on a load of alfalfa with Uncle Frank and Little Jim, Bartley managed to let Uncle Frank know that he was not supposed to have had a hand in the Phoenix affair. Cheyenne thanked him.

"But you ain't talked with Dorry, yet, have you?" queried Cheyenne.

Bartley shook his head.

"She'll find out," stated Cheyenne. "You can't fool Dorry."

That evening, while Uncle Frank and Cheyenne were discussing a matter which seemed confidential to themselves, and while Aunt Jane was quietly keeping an eye on Jimmy, who could hardly keep from interrupting his seniors--Bartley and Dorry didn't count, just then, for _they_ were also talking together--Dorothy intimated to Bartley that she would like to talk with him alone. She did not say so, nor make any gesture to indicate her wish, yet Bartley interpreted her expression correctly.

He suggested that they step out to the veranda, where it was cooler.

From the veranda they strolled to the big gate, and there she asked him, point-blank, to tell her just what had happened in Phoenix. She had read the papers, and she surmised that there was more to the affair than the papers printed. For instance, Senator Brown, upon his return to the Box-S, had kindly sent word to Aunt Jane that Cheyenne was all right.

Bartley thought that the thoughtful Senator had rather spilled the beans.

"Did Cheyenne--" and Dorothy hesitated.

"Cheyenne didn't kill Sears," stated Bartley.

"You talked with Cheyenne, and got him to keep out of it?"

"I tried to. He wouldn't listen. Then I wished him good luck and told him I hoped he'd win."

Dorothy was puzzled. "How do you know he didn't?"

"Because I was standing beside him when it happened. I don't see why you shouldn't know about it. Cheyenne and I were just about to cross the street, that night, when we saw Panhandle coming down the opposite side.

Sneed and his men, who were evidently waiting for him, called to Panhandle. Panhandle must have thought it was the sheriff, or the city marshal. It happened suddenly. Panhandle began firing at Sneed and his riders. They shot him down just as he reached the curb in front of us.

They kept on shooting at him as he lay in the street. Cheyenne couldn't stand that. He emptied his gun, trying to keep them off--and he emptied some saddles."

"Thank you for trying to--to give Cheyenne my message," said Dorothy.

And she shook hands with him.

"Do you know this is the loveliest vista I have seen since leaving Phoenix--this San Andreas Valley," said Bartley.

"But you came through the Apache Forest," said Dorothy, not for the sake of argument, but because Bartley was still holding her hand.

"Yes. But you don't happen to live in the Apache Forest."

"But, Mr. Bartley--"

"John, please."

"Cheyenne calls you Jack."

"Better still. Do you think Aunt Jane would mind if we walked up the road as far as--well, as far as the spring?"

"Hadn't you better ask her?"

"No. But she wouldn't object. Would you?"

Slowly Dorothy withdrew her hand and Bartley opened the big gate. As they walked down the dim, starlit road they were startled by the advent of a yellow dog that bounded from the brush and whined joyously.

"And I had forgotten him," said Bartley. "Oh, he's mine! I can't get away from the fact. He adopted me, and has followed me clear through. I had forgotten that he is afraid to come into a ranch. And I am ashamed to say that I forgot to feed him, to-night. He isn't at all beautiful, but he's tremendously loyal."

"And he shall have a good supper when we get back," declared Dorothy.

The yellow dog padded along behind them in the dusk, content to be with his master again. Bartley talked with Dorothy about his plans, his hopes, and her promise to become the heroine of his new story. Then he surprised her by stating that he had decided to make a home in the San Andreas Valley.

"You really don't know anything about me, or my people," he said. "And I want you to know. My only living relative is my sister, and she is scandalously well-to-do. Her husband makes money manufacturing hooks and eyes. He's not romantic, but he's solid. As for me--"

And Bartley spoke of his own income, just what he could afford to spend each month, and just how much he managed to save, and his ambition to earn more. Dorothy realized that he was talking to her just as he would have talked to a chum--a man friend, without reserve, and she liked him for it. She had been curious about him, his vocation, and even about his plans; and she felt a glow of affection because he had seemed so loyal to his friends.h.i.+p with Cheyenne, and because he had been kind to Little Jim Hastings. While doing so with no other thought than to please the boy, Bartley had made no mistake in buying him that new rifle.

As they came to the big rock by the roadside--a spot which Bartley had good reason to remember--he paused and glanced at Dorothy. She was laughing.

"You looked so funny that day. You were the most dilapidated-looking person--for a writer--"

"I imagine I was, after Hull got through with me. Let's sit down awhile.

I want to tell you what I should like to do. Are you comfortable?"

Dorothy nodded.

"Well," said Bartley, seating himself beside her, "I should like to rent a small place in the valley, a place just big enough for two, and then settle down and write this story. Then, if I sold it, I think I should lock up, get a pack-horse and another saddle-horse, outfit for a long trip, and then take the trail north and travel for, say, six months, seeing the country, camping along the way, visiting with folks, and incidentally gathering material for another story. It could be done."

"But why rent a place, if you plan to leave it right away?"

"Because I should want a home to come to, a place to think of when I was on the trails. You know a fellow can't wander up and down the world forever. I like to travel, but I think a chap ought to spend at least half a year under a roof. Don't you?"

"I was thinking of Cheyenne," said Dorothy musingly.

"I think of him a great deal," declared Bartley.

Dorothy glanced up at him from her pondering.

Bartley leaned toward her. "Dorothy, will you help me make that home, here in the valley, and be my comrade on the trails?"