CHAPTER X
TO TRY HIM OUT
Two days later Cheyenne was able to get his feet into his boots, buteven then he walked as though he did not care to let his left foot knowwhat his right foot was doing. Lon Pelly, just in from a ride out to theline shack, remarked to the boys in the bunk-house that Cheyenne walkedas though his brains were in his feet and he didn't want to get stonebruises stepping on them.
Cheyenne made no immediate retort, but later he delivered himself of anew stanza of his trail song, wherein the first line ended with "Pelly"followed by the rhymed assertion that the gentleman who bore thatpeculiar name had slivers in his anatomy due to a fondness for leaningagainst the bar of the Blue Front Saloon.
The boys were mightily pleased with the stanza, and they also improviseduntil, according to their versions, Long Lon bore a marked resemblanceto a porcupine. Lon, being a real person, felt that Cheyenne'sretaliation was just. Moreover, Lon, who never did anything hastily, letit be known casually that he had seen three riders west of the lineshack some two days past, and that the riders were leading two horses, abuckskin and a gray. They were too far away to be distinguishedabsolutely, but he could tell the color of the horses.
"Panhandle?" queried a puncher.
"And two riders with him," said Long Lon.
"Goin' to trail him, Cheyenne?" came presently.
"That's me."
"Then let's pass the hat," suggested the first speaker.
"Wait!" said Cheyenne, drawing a pair of dice from his pocket. "Somehow,and sometime, I aim to shoot Panhandle a little game. Then you guys canpass the hat for the loser. Panhandle left them dice on the flat rock,by the water-hole. My pardner, Bartley, found them."
"Kind of sign talk that Pan pulled one on you," said Lon Pelly.
"He sure left his brains behind him when he left them dice," assertedCheyenne. "I suspicioned that it was him--but the dice told me, plain."
"So you figure to walk up to Pan and invite him to shoot a little game,when you meet up with him?" queried a puncher.
"That's me."
"The tenderfoot"--he referred to Bartley--"is he goin' along with you?"
"He ain't so tender as you might think," said Cheyenne. "He's green, butnot so dam' tender."
"Well, it's right sad. He looks like a pretty decent hombre."
"What's sad?" queried Cheyenne belligerently.
"Why, gettin' that tenderfoot all shot up, trailin' a couple oftwenty-dollar cayuses. They ain't worth it."
"They ain't, eh?"
"Course, they make a right good audience, when you're singin'. They doall the listenin'," said another puncher.
"Huh! They ain't one of you got a hoss that can listen to you, withoutblushin'. You fellas think you're a hard-ridin'--"
"Ridin' beats walkin'," suggested Long Lon.
"Keep a-joshin'. I like it. Shows how much you don't know. I--hello, Mr.Bartley! Shake hands with Lon Pelly--but I guess you met him, over toAntelope. You needn't to mind the rest of these guys. They're harmless."
"I don't want to interrupt--" began Bartley.
"Set right in!" they invited in chorus. "We're just listenin' toCheyenne preachin' his own funeral sermon."
Bartley seated himself in the doorway of the bunk-house. The joshingceased. Cheyenne, who could never keep his hands still, toyed with thedice. Presently one of the boys suggested that Cheyenne show them somefancy work with a six-gun--"just to keep your wrist limber," heconcluded.
Cheyenne shook his head. But, when Bartley intimated that he would liketo see Cheyenne shoot, Cheyenne rose.
"All right. I'll shoot any fella here for ten bucks--him to name thetarget."
"No, you don't," said a puncher. "We ain't givin' our dough away, justto git rid of it."
"And right recent they was talkin' big," said Cheyenne. "I'll shoot thespot of a playin'-card, if you'll hold it," he asserted, indicatingBartley.
The boys glanced at Bartley and then lowered their eyes, wondering whatthe Easterner would do. Bartley felt that this was a test of his nerve,and, while he didn't like the idea of engaging in a William Tellperformance he realized that Cheyenne must have had a reason forchoosing him, out of the men present, and that Cheyenne knew hisbusiness.
"Cheyenne wants to git out of shootin'," suggested a puncher.
That settled it with Bartley. "He won't disappoint you," he statedquietly. "Give me the card."
One of the boys got up and fetched an old deck of cards. Bartley chosethe ace of spades. Back of the corrals, with nothing but mesa in sight,he took up his position, while Cheyenne stepped off fifteen paces.Bartley's hand trembled a little. Cheyenne noticed it and turned to thegroup, saying something that made them laugh. Bartley's fingers tensed.He forgot his nervousness. Cheyenne whirled and shot, apparently withoutaim. Bartley drew a deep breath, and glanced at the card. The black pipwas cut clean from the center.
"That's easy," asserted Cheyenne. Then he took a silver dollar from hispocket, laid it in the palm of his right hand, hung the gun, by itstrigger guard on his right forefinger, lowered his hand and tossed thecoin up. As the coin went up the gun whirled over. Then came the whiz ofthe coin as it cut through space.
"About seventy-five shots like that and I'm broke," laughed Cheyenne."Anybody's hat need ventilatin'?"
"Not this child's," asserted Lon Pelly. "I sailed my hat for him onct.It was a twenty-dollar J.B., when I sailed it. When it hit it surewouldn't hold water. Six holes in her--and three shots."
"Six?" exclaimed Bartley.
"The three shots went clean through both sides," said Lon.
Cheyenne reloaded his gun and dropped it into the holster.
Later, Bartley had a talk with Cheyenne about the proposed trailing ofthe stolen horses. Panhandle's name was mentioned. And the name ofanother man--Sneed. Cheyenne seemed to know just where he would look,and whom he might expect to meet.
Bartley and Cheyenne were in the living-room that evening talking withthe Senator and his wife. Out in the bunk-house those of the boys whohad not left for the line shack were discussing horse-thieves in generaland Panhandle and Sneed in particular. Bill Smalley, a saturnine memberof the outfit, who seldom said anything, and who was a good hand but asurly one, made a remark.
"That there Cheyenne is the fastest gun artist--and the biggest cowardthat ever come out of Wyoming. Ain't that right, Lon?"
"I never worked in Wyoming," said Long Lon.