Читать книгу Partners of Chance - Henry Herbert Knibbs - Страница 12

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Bartley happened to be alone on the veranda of the Antelope House that evening. Senator Brown and his "missus" had departed for their ranch. Mrs. Senator Brown had been a bit diffident when first meeting Bartley, but he soon put her at her ease with some amusing stories of Eastern experiences. The dinner concluded with an invitation from Mrs. Brown that anticipated Bartley visiting the ranch and staying as long as he wished. The day following the Senator's departure Bartley received a telegram from his friend in California, wishing him good luck and a pleasant journey in the Arizona country. The friend would see to Bartley's baggage, as Bartley had forwarded the claim checks in his letter.

The town was quiet and the stars were serenely brilliant. The dusty, rutted road past the hotel, dim gray in the starlight, muffled the tread of an occasional Navajo pony passing in the faint glow of light from the doorway. Bartley was content with things as he found them, just then. But he knew that he would eventually go away from there--from the untidy town, the railroad, the string of box-cars on the siding, and seek the new, the unexpected, an experience to be had only by kicking loose from convention and stepping out for himself. He thought of writing a Western story. He realized that all he knew of the West was from hearsay, and a brief contact with actual Westerners. He would do better to go out in the fenceless land and live a story, and then write it. And better still, he would let chance decide where and when he would go.

His first intimation that chance was in his vicinity was the distant, faint cadence of a song that floated over the night-black mesa from the north. Presently he heard the soft, muffled tread of horses and a distinct word or two of the song. He leaned forward, interested, amused, alert. The voice was a big voice, mellowed by distance. There was a take-it-or-leave-it swing to the melody that suggested the singer's absolute oblivion to anything but the joy of singing. Again the plod, plod of the horses, and then:

I was top-hand once for the T-Bar-T,

In the days of long ago,

But I took to seein' the scenery

Where the barbed-wire fence don't grow.

I was top-hand once--but the trail for mine,

And plenty of room to roam;

So now I'm ridin' the old chuck line,

And any old place is home … for me …

And any old place is home.

Bartley grinned. Whoever he was, drifting in from the northern spaces, he had evidently lost the pack-horse that bore his troubles. Suddenly, out of the wall of dusk that edged the strip of road loomed a horse's head, and then another. The lead horse bore a pack. The second horse was ridden by an individual who leaned slightly forward, his hands clasped comfortably over the saddle horn. The horses stopped in the light of the doorway.

"Well, I reckon we're here," said a voice. "But hotels and us ain't in the same class. I stop at the Antelope House, take a look at her, and then spread my roll in the brush, same as always. Nobody to home? They don't know what they're missin'."

Bartley struck a match and lighted his cigar. The pack-horse jerked its head up.

"Hello, stranger! Now I didn't see you settin' there."

"Good-evening! But why 'stranger' when you say you can't see me?"

"Why? 'Cause everybody knows me, and you didn't whoop when I rode up. Me, I'm Cheyenne, from no place, and likewise that's where I'm goin'. This here town of Antelope got in the way--towns is always gittin' in my way--but nobody can help that. Is Wishful bedded down for the night or is he over to the Blue Front shootin' craps?"

"I couldn't say. I seem to be the only one around here, just now."

"That sure excuses me and the hosses. Wishful is down to the Blue Front, all right. It's the only exercise he gets, regular." Cheyenne pushed back the brim of his faded black Stetson and sighed heavily. Bartley caught a glimpse of a face as care-free as that of a happy child--the twinkle of humorous eyes and a flash of white teeth as the other grinned. "Reckon you never heard tell of me," said the rider, hooking his leg over the horn.

I just arrived yesterday. I have not heard of you--but I heard you down the road, singing. I like that song."

"One of my own. Yes, I come into town singin' and I go out singin'. 'Course, we eat, when it's handy. Singin' sure keeps a fellow's appetite from goin' to sleep. Guess I'll turn the hosses into Wishful's corral and go find him. Reckon you had your dinner."

"Several hours ago."

"Well, I had mine this mornin'. The dinner I had this mornin' was the one I ought to had day before yesterday. But I aim to catch up--and mebby get ahead a couple of eats, some day. But the hosses get theirs, regular. Come on, Filaree, we'll go prospect the sleepin'-quarters."

Bartley sat back and smiled to himself as Cheyenne departed for the corral. This wayfarer, breezing in from the spaces, suggested possibilities as a character for a story No doubt the song was more or less autobiographical. "A top-hand once, but the trail for mine," seemed to explain the singer's somewhat erratic dinner schedule. Bartley thought that he would like to see more of this strange itinerant, who sang both coming into and going out of town.

Presently Cheyenne was back, singing something about a Joshua tree as he came.

He stopped at the veranda rail. His smile was affable. "Guess I'll go over and hunt up Wishful. I reckon you'll have to excuse me for not refusin' to accompany you to the Blue Front to get a drink."

Bartley was puzzled. "Would you mind saying that again?"

"Sure I don't mind. I thought, mebby, you bein' a stranger, settin' there alone and lookin' at the dark, that you was kind of lonesome. I said I reckoned you'd have to excuse me for not refusin' to go over to the Blue Front and take a drink."

"I think I get you. I'll buy. I'll try anything, once."

Cheyenne grinned. "I kind of hate to drink alone, 'specially when I'm broke."

Bartley grinned in turn. "So do I. I suppose it is all right to leave. The door is wide open and there doesn't seem to be any one in charge.

"She sure is an orphan, to-night. But, honest, Mr.--"

"Bartley."

"Mr. Bartley, nobody'd ever think of stealin' anything from Wishful. Everybody likes Wishful 'round here. And strangers wouldn't last long that tried to lift anything from his tepee. That is, not any longer than it would take Wishful to pull a gun--and that ain't long."

"If he caught them."

"Caught 'em? Say, stranger, how far do you think a man could travel out of here, before somebody'd get him? Anyhow, Wishful ain't got nothin' in his place worth stealin'."

"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."

"Uh-huh. Well, I travel alone, mostly. But right now I'm flat broke. If you was headin' south--"

"I expect to visit Mr. and Mrs. Brown some day. Their ranch is south of here, I believe."

"Yep. Plumb south, on the Concho road. I'm ridin' down that way."

"Well, we will talk about it later," said Bartley as they entered the saloon.

With a few exceptions, the men in the place were grouped round a long table, in the far end of the room, at the head of which stood Wishful evidently about to make a throw with the dice. No one paid the slightest attention to the arrival of Bartley and his companion, with the exception of the proprietor, who nodded to Bartley and spoke a word of greeting to Cheyenne.

Bartley did the honors which included a sandwich and a glass of beer for Cheyenne, who leaned with his elbow on the bar gazing at the men around the table. Out of the corner of his eye Bartley saw the proprietor touch Cheyenne's arm and, leaning across the bar, whisper something to him. Cheyenne straightened up and seemed to be adjusting his belt. Bartley caught a name: "Panhandle." He turned and glanced at Cheyenne.

The humorous expression had faded from Cheyenne's face and in its stead there was a sort of grim, speculative line to the mouth, and no twinkle in the blue eyes. Bartley stepped over to the long table and watched the game. Craps, played by these free-handed sons of the open, had more of a punch than he had imagined possible. A pile of silver and bills lay on the table--a tidy sum--no less than two hundred dollars.

Wishful, the sad-faced, seemed to be importuning some one by the name of "Jimmy Hicks" to make himself known, as the dice rattled across the board. The players laughed as Wishful relinquished the dice. A lean outlander, with a scarred face, took up the dice and made a throw. He evidently did not want to locate an individual called "Little Joe," whom he importuned incessantly to stay away.

Side bets were made and bills and silver withdrawn or added to the pile with a rapidity which amazed Bartley. Hitherto craps had meant to him three or four newsboys in an alley and a little pile of nickels and pennies. But this game was of robust proportions. It had pep and speed.

Bartley became interested. His fingers itched to grasp the dice and try his luck. But he realized that his amateurish knowledge of the game would be an affront to those free-moving sons of the mesa. So he contented himself with watching the game and the faces of the men as they won or lost. Bartley felt that some one was close behind him looking over his shoulder. Cheyenne's eyes were fixed on the player known as "Panhandle," and on no other person at that table. Bartley turned back to the game.

Just then some one recognized Cheyenne and spoke his name. The game stopped and Bartley saw several of the men glance curiously from Cheyenne to the man known as "Panhandle." Then the game was resumed, but it was a quieter game. One or two of the players withdrew.

"Play a five for me," said Bartley, turning to Cheyenne.

"I'll do that--fifty-fifty," said Cheyenne as Bartley stepped back and handed him a bill.

Cheyenne straightway elbowed deeper into the group and finally secured the dice. Wishful, for some unknown reason, remarked that he would back Cheyenne to win--"shootin' with either hand," Wishful concluded. Bartley noticed that again one or two players withdrew and strolled to the bar. Meanwhile, Cheyenne threw and sang a little song to himself.

His throws were wild, careless, and lucky. Slowly he accumulated easy wealth. His forehead was beaded with sweat. His eyes glistened. He forgot his song. Bartley stepped over to the bar and chatted for a few minutes with the proprietor, mentioning Senator Steve and his wife.

When Bartley returned to the game the players had dwindled to a small group--'Wishful, the man called "Panhandle," a fat Mexican, a railroad engineer, and Cheyenne.

Bartley turned to a bystander.

"Cheyenne seems to be having all the luck," he said.

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"Never saw him until to-night."

"He ain't as lucky as you think," stated the other significantly.

"How is that?"

"Panhandle, the man with the scar on his face, ain't no friend of Cheyenne's."

"Oh, I see."

Bartley turned from the man, and watched the players. Wishful had withdrawn from the game, but he stood near the table, watching closely. Presently the fat Mexican quit playing and left. Cheyenne threw and won. He played as though the dice were his and he was giving an exhibition for the benefit of the other players. Finally the engineer quit, and counted his winnings. Cheyenne and the man, Panhandle, faced each other, with Bartley standing close to Cheyenne and Wishful, who had moved around the table, standing close to Panhandle.

Panhandle took up the dice. There was no joy in his play. He shot the dice across the table viciously. Every throw was a, sort of insidious insult to his competitor, Cheyenne. Bartley was more interested in the performance than the actual winning or losing, although he realized that Cheyenne was still a heavy winner.

Presently Wishful stepped over to Bartley and touched his arm. Panhandle and Cheyenne were intent upon their game.

"You kin see better from that side of the table," said Wishful mildly, yet with a peculiar significance.

Bartley glanced up, his face expressing bewilderment.

"I seen you slip Cheyenne a bill," murmured Wishful. "Accordin' to that, you're backin' him. Thought I'd just mention it."

"I don't understand what you're driving at," said Bartley.

"That's just why I spoke to you." And Wishful's face expressed a sort of sad wonder. But then, the Easterner had not been in town long and he did not know Panhandle.

Wishful turned away casually. Bartley noticed that he again took up his position near Panhandle.

This time Panhandle glanced up and asked Wishful if he didn't want to come into the game.

Wishful shook his head. "No use tryin' to bust his luck," he said, indicating Cheyenne.

"Oh, I don't know," said Panhandle.

"And he's got good backin'," continued Wishful.

Panhandle slanted a narrow glance toward Bartley, and Bartley felt that the other had somehow or other managed to convey an insult and a challenge in that glance, which suggested the contempt of the tough Westerner for the supposedly tender Easterner.

Bartley did not know just what was on the boards, aside from dice and money, but he took Wishful's hint and moved around to Panhandle's side of the table, leaving Cheyenne facing his competitor alone. Bartley happened to catch Cheyenne's eye. The happy-go-lucky expression was gone. Cheyenne's face seemed troubled, yet he played with his former vigor and luck.

Panhandle posed insolently, his thumb in his belt, watching the dice. He was all but broke. Cheyenne kept rolling the bones, but now he evoked no aid from the gods of African golf. His lips were set in a thin line.

Suddenly he tossed up the dice, caught them and transferred them to his right hand. Hitherto he had been shooting with his left. "I'll shoot you, either hand," he said.

"And win," murmured Wishful.

Panhandle whirled and confronted Wishful. "I don't see any of your money on the table," he snarled.

"I'll come in--on the next game," stated Wishful mildly.

Panhandle's last dollar was on the table. He reached forward and drew a handful of bills from the pile and counted them. "Fifty," he said; "fifty against the pot that you don't make your next throw."

"Suits me," said Cheyenne, picking up the dice and shaking them.

Cheyenne threw and won on the third try. Panhandle reached toward the pile of money again.

Cheyenne, who had not picked up the dice, stopped him. "You can't play on that money," he stated tensely. "Half of it belongs to Mr. Bartley, there."

"What have you got to say about it," challenged Panhandle, turning to Bartley.

"Half of the money on the table is mine, according to agreement. I backed Cheyenne to win."

"No dam' tenderfoot can tell me where to head in!" exclaimed Panhandle. "Go on and shoot, you yella-bellied waddie!" And Panhandle reached toward the money.

"Just a minute," said Bartley quietly. "The game is finished."

"Take your mouth out of this, you dam' dude!"

"Put your gun on the table--and then tell me that," said Bartley.

Panhandle lowered his hand to his gun, hesitated, and then whirling, slapped Bartley's face.

Wishful, the silent, jerked out his own gun and rapped Panhandle on the head. Panhandle dropped in a heap.

It had happened so quickly that Bartley hardly realized what had happened. Panhandle was on the floor, literally down and out. Bartley was surprised that such an apparently light tap on the head should put a man out.

"Get him out of here," said Tom, the proprietor. "I don't want any rough stuff in here. And if I were in your boots, Cheyenne, I'd leave town for a while."

"I'm leavin' to-morrow mornin'." Cheyenne was coolly counting his winnings.

Wishful, the silent, doused a glass of water in Panhandle's face. Presently Panhandle was revived and helped from the saloon. His former attitude of belligerency had entirely evaporated. Wishful followed him to the hitch-rail and saw him mount his horse.

"Your best bet is to fan it back where you come from, and stay there," said Wishful softly. "You don't belong in this town, and you can't go slappin' any of my guests in the face and get away with it. And when you git so you can think it over, just figure that if I hadn't 'a' slowed you down, Cheyenne would 'a' killed you."

Panhandle did not feel like discussing the question just then. He left without even turning to glance back. If he had glanced back, he would have seen that Wishful had disappeared. Wishful, familiar with the ways of Panhandle and his kind, immediately sought the shadows, leaving the lighted doorway a blank. He entered the saloon from the rear.