Partners of Chance

  CHAPTER XII

  JIMMY AND THE LUGER GUN

  Two days of riding toward the west, along the edge of the hills, andBartley and Cheyenne found themselves approaching the high country. Thetrail ran up a wide valley, on either side of which were occasionalranches reaching back toward the slopes. In reality they were graduallyclimbing the range on an easy grade and making good time.

  Their course now paralleled the theoretical course of Panhandle and hisfellows. Dodging the rugged land to the south, Cheyenne had swung roundin a half-circle, hoping to head off Panhandle on the desert side of therange. Since abandoning the tracks of the stolen horses, Cheyenne hadresumed his old habit of singing as he rode. He seemed to know the nameof every ranch, and of every person they met.

  Once or twice some acquaintance expressed surprise that Cheyenne did notstop and spend the night with him. But Cheyenne jokingly declined allinvitations, explaining to Bartley that in stopping to visit they wouldnecessarily waste hours in observing the formalities of arrival anddeparture, although Cheyenne did not put it just that way.

  They found water and plenty of feed, made their camps early, broke campearly, and rode steadily. With no visible incentive to keep going,Bartley lost his first keen interest in the hunt, and contented himselfwith listening to Cheyenne's yarns about the country and its folk, oroccasionally chatting with some wayfarer. But never once did Cheyennehint, to those they met, just why he was riding south.

  There were hours at a stretch, when the going was level, when Cheyennedid nothing but roll his gun, throw down on different objects, toss uphis gun, and catch it by the handle; and once he startled Bartley bymaking a quick fall from the saddle and shooting from the ground.Cheyenne explained to Bartley that often, when riding alone, he hadspent hour after hour figuring out the possibilities of gun-play, tillit became evident to the Easterner that, aside from being naturallyquick, there was a very good reason for Cheyenne's proficiency with thesix-gun. He practiced continually. And yet, thought Bartley, one of theBox-S punchers had said that Cheyenne had never killed anything biggerthan a coyote, and never would--intimating that he was too good-naturedever to take advantage of his own proficiency with a gun.

  Bartley wondered just how things would break if they did happen to meetPanhandle unexpectedly. Panhandle would no doubt dispose of the stolenhorses as soon as he could. What excuse would Cheyenne have to callPanhandle to account? And when it came to a show-down, _would_ Cheyennecall him to account?

  Bartley was thinking of this when they made an early camp, the afternoonof the third day out. After the horses were hobbled and the packsarranged, Bartley decided to experiment a little with his new Lugerautomatic. Cheyenne declined to experiment with the gun.

  "It's a mean gat," he asserted, "and it's fast. But I'll bet you a newhat I can empty my old smoke-wagon quicker than you can that pocketmachine gun."

  For the fun of the thing, Bartley took him up. He selected as target ajuniper stump, and blazed away.

  "I'm leavin' the decision to you," said Cheyenne, as he braced his rightarm against his body and fanned the Colt, emptying it before Bartleycould realize that he had fired three shots--and Cheyenne had firedfive.

  "I'll buy you that hat when we get to town," laughed Bartley. "You beatme, hands down."

  "Hands down is right, old-timer. Fannin' a gun is show stuff, but it'swicked, at close range."

  Meanwhile, Bartley had been experimenting further with the Luger. Whenhe got through he had a hat full of pieces and Cheyenne was staring atwhat seemed to be the wreck of a once potent weapon.

  "Why, you done pulled that little lead sprinkler all to bits!" exclaimedCheyenne, "and you didn't have no tools to do it with."

  "You can take down and assemble this gun without tools," stated Bartley."All you need is your fingers."

  "But what in Sam Hill did you pull her apart for?"

  "Just to see if I could put her together again."

  Cheyenne scratched his head, and stepped over to inspect the juniperstump. He stooped, whistled, and turned to Bartley. "Man, you like tosawed that stub in two. Why didn't you say you could shoot?"

  "I can't, in your class. But tell me why you Westerners always seem tothink it strange that an Easterner can sit a horse or shoot fairly well?Is it because you consider that the average tourist represents theentire East?"

  "I dunno. But, then, I've met up with Easterners that weren't just likeyou."

  Bartley was busy, assembling the Luger, and Cheyenne was watching him,when they glanced up simultaneously. A shadow drifted between them.

  Cheyenne hesitated and then stepped forward. "I'll be dinged if it ain'tJimmy! What you doin' up here in the brush, anyhow?"

  The boy, who rode a well-mannered gray pony, kicked one foot out of thestirrup and hooked his small leg over the horn. He nodded to Cheyenne,but his interest was centered on Bartley and the Luger.

  "It's Jimmy--my boy," said Cheyenne. "His Aunt Jane lives over yonder, apiece."

  "Why, hello!" exclaimed Bartley, laying the pistol aside. And he steppedup and shook hands with the boy, who grinned.

  "How's the folks?" queried Cheyenne.

  "All right. That there is a Luger gun, ain't it?"

  "Yes," said Bartley. "Would you like to try it?"

  The boy scrambled down from the saddle. "Honest?"

  "Ain't you goin' to say hello to your dad?" queried Cheyenne.

  "Sure! Only I was lookin' at that Luger gun--"

  Jimmy shook hands perfunctorily with his father and turned to Bartley,expectancy in his gaze.

  Bartley reloaded the gun and handed it to the boy, who straightawayselected the juniper stump and blazed away. Bartley watched him, asturdy youngster, brown-fisted, blue-eyed, with sandy hair, and dressedin jeans and a rowdy--a miniature cow-puncher, even to his walk.

  "Ever shoot one before?" queried Bartley as the boy gave back thepistol.

  "Nope. There's one like it, over to the store in San Andreas. It's inthe window. I never got to look at it right close."

  "Try it again," said Bartley.

  The boy grinned. "I reckon you're rich?"

  "Why?"

  "'Cause you got a heap of ca'tridges. They cost money."

  "Never mind. Go ahead and shoot."

  Jimmy blazed away again and ran to see where his bullets had hit thestump. "She's a pretty fair gun," he said as he handed it back. "But Ireckon I'll have to stick to my ole twenty-two rifle. She's gettin' woreout, but I can hit things with her, yet. I git rabbits."

  "Now, mebby you got time to tell us something about Aunt Jane and UncleFrank and Dorry," suggested Cheyenne.

  "Why, they're all right," said the boy. "Why didn't you stop by to ourplace instead of bushin' way up here?"

  Cheyenne hesitated. "I reckon I'll be comin' over," he said finally.

  Bartley put the Luger away. The boy turned to his father. Cheyenne'sface expressed happiness, yet Bartley was puzzled. The boy was not whatcould be termed indifferent in any sense, yet he had taken his father'spresence casually, showing no special interest in their meeting. And whyhad Cheyenne never mentioned the boy? Bartley surmised that there wassome good reason for Cheyenne's silence on that subject--and because itwas obvious that there was a good reason, Bartley accepted theyoungster's presence in a matter-of-fact manner, as though he had knownall along that Cheyenne had a son. In fact, Cheyenne had not stopped tothink about it at all. If he had, he would have reasoned that Bartleyhad heard about it. Almost every one in Arizona knew that Cheyenne hadbeen married and had separated from his wife.

  "That would be a pretty good gun to git hoss-thieves with," asserted theboy, still thinking of the Luger.

  "What do you know about hoss-thieves?" queried Cheyenne.

  "You think I didn't see you was ridin' different hosses!" said Jimmy."Mebby you think I don't know where Josh and Filaree are."

  "You quit joshin' your dad," said Cheyenne.

  "I ain't joshin' _nobody_. Ole 'Clubfoot' Sneed, over by there'savation's
got Josh and Filaree. I seen 'em in his corral, yesterday.I was up there, huntin'."

  "Did you talk to him?" queried Cheyenne.

  "Nope. He just come out of his cabin an' told me to fan it. I wasn'tdoin' nothin'. He said it was against the law to be huntin' up there.Mebby he don't hunt when he feels like it!"

  "Did you tell Uncle Frank?"

  "Yep. Wish I hadn't. He says for me to stay away from the highcountry--and not to ride by Sneed's place any more."

  Cheyenne turned to Bartley. "I done made one guess right," he said.

  "You goin' to kill Sneed?" queried young Jim enthusiastically.

  "Nobody's goin' to get killed. But I aim to git my hosses."

  Cheyenne turned to Jimmy. "You ride over and tell Uncle Frank and AuntJane that me and Mr. Bartley'll be over after we eat."

  "Will you sing that 'Git Along' song for me, dad?"

  "You bet!"

  "But why don't you come over and eat to our place? You always stop by,every time you ride down this way," said Jimmy.

  "You ride right along, like I told you, or you'll be late for yoursupper."

  Little Jim climbed into the saddle, and, turning to cast a lingering andhopeful glance at Bartley,--a glance which suggested the possibilitiesof further practice with the Luger gun,--he rode away, a manful figure,despite his size.

  "They're bringin' my kid up right," said Cheyenne, as though inexplanation of something about which he did not care to talk.