CHAPTER XVIII
JOE SCOTT
Just before daybreak Cheyenne turned from the road and picked his waythrough the scattered brush to a gulch in the western foothills.Cheyenne's horses seemed to know the place, when they stopped at anarrow, pole gate across the upper end of the gulch, for on beyond thegate the horses again stopped of their own accord. Bartley could barelydiscern the outlines of a cabin. Cheyenne hallooed.
A muffled answer from the cabin, then a twinkle of light, then the opendoorway framing a gigantic figure.
"That you, Shy?" queried the figure.
"Me and a friend."
"You're kind of early," rumbled the figure as the riders dismounted.
"Shucks! You'd be gettin' up, anyway, right soon. We come early so asnot to delay your breakfast."
In the cabin, Cheyenne and the big man shook hands. Bartley wasintroduced. The man was a miner, named Joe Scott.
"Joe, here, is a minin' man--when he ain't runnin' a all-nightlunch-stand," explained Cheyenne. "He can't work his placer when it'sdark, but he sure can work a skillet and a coffee-mill."
"What you been up to?" queried the giant slowly, as he made a fire inthe stove, and set about getting breakfast.
"Up to Clubfoot Sneed's place, to get a couple of hosses that belongedto me. He was kind of hostile. Followed us down to San Andreas and donespoiled our night's rest. But I got the hosses."
"Hosses seems to be his failin'," said the big man.
"So some folks say. I'm one of 'em."
"How are the folks up Antelope way?"
"Kinda permanent, as usual. I hear Panhandle's drifted south again.Wishful, he shoots craps, reg'lar."
Scott nodded, shifted the coffee-pot and sat down on the edge of hisbunk. "Got any smokin'?" he queried presently.
Bartley offered the miner a cigar. "I'm afraid it's broken," apologizedBartley.
"That's all right. I was goin' to town this mornin', to get some tobaccoand grub. But this will help." And doubling the cigar Scott thrust it inhis mouth and chewed it with evident satisfaction.
The gray edge of dawn crept into the room. Scott blew out the light andopened the door.
Bartley felt suddenly sleepy and he drowsed and nodded, realizing thatScott and Cheyenne were talking, and that the faint aroma of coffeedrifted toward him, mingling with the chill, fresh air of morning. Hepulled himself together and drank the coffee and ate some bacon. Fromtime to time he glanced at Scott, fascinated by the miner's tremendousforearms, his mighty chest and shoulders. Even Cheyenne, who was afair-sized man, appeared like a boy beside the miner. Bartley wonderedthat such tremendous strength should be isolated, hidden back therebehind the foothills. Yet Scott himself, easy-going and dryly humorous,was evidently content right where he was.
Later the miner showed Bartley about the diggings, quietly proud of hisestablishment, and enthusiastic about the unfailing supply of water--infact, Scott talked more about water than he did about gold. Bartleyrealized that the big miner would have been a misfit in town, that hebelonged in the rugged hills from which he wrested a scant six dollars aday by herculean toil.
In a past age, Scott would have been a master builder of castles or oftriremes or a maker of armor, but never a fighting man. It was evidentthat the miner was, despite his great strength, a man of peace. Bartleyrather regretted, for some romantic reason or other, that the big minerwas not a fighting man.
Yet when they returned to the shack, where Cheyenne sat smoking, Bartleylearned that Big Joe Scott had a reputation in his own country. That waswhen Scott suggested that they needed sleep. He spread a blanket-roll onthe cabin floor for Cheyenne and offered Bartley his bunk. Then Scottpicked up his rifle and strode across to a shed. Cheyenne pulled off hisboots, stretched out on the blanket-roll, and sighed comfortably.Bartley could see the big miner busily twisting something in his hands,something that looked like a leather bag from which occasional tinyspurts of silver gleamed and trickled. Bartley wondered what Scott wasdoing. He asked Cheyenne.
"He's squeezin' 'quick.'" And Cheyenne explained the process ofsqueezing quicksilver through a chamois skin. "And I'm glad it ain't myneck," added Cheyenne. "Joe killed a man, with his bare hands, onct.That's why he never gets in a fight, nowadays. He dassn't. 'Course, hehad to kill that man, or get killed."
"I noticed he picked up his rifle," said Bartley.
"Nobody'll disturb our sleep," said Cheyenne drowsily.
* * * * *
The afternoon shadows were long when Bartley awakened. Through thedoorway he could see Cheyenne out in the shed, talking with Joe Scott.
"Hello!" called Bartley, sitting up. "Lost any horses, Cheyenne?"
Presently Scott and Cheyenne came over to the cabin.
"I'm cook, this trip," stated Cheyenne as he bustled about the kitchen."I reckon Joe needs a rest. He ain't lookin' right strong."
An early supper, and the three men forgathered outside the cabin andsmoked and talked until long after dark. Cheyenne had told Scott of thehappenings since leaving Antelope, and jokingly he referred to SanAndreas and Bartley's original plan of staying there awhile.
Bartley nodded. "And now that the smoke has blown away, I think I'll goback and finish my visit," he said.
Cheyenne's face expressed surprise and disappointment. "Honest?" hequeried.
"Why not?" asked Bartley, and it was a hard question to answer.
After all, Bartley had stuck to him when trouble seemed inevitable,reasoned Cheyenne.
Now the Easterner felt free to do as he pleased. And why shouldn't he?There had been no definite or even tentative agreement as to when theywould dissolve partnership. And Bartley's evident determination to carryout his original plan struck Cheyenne as indicative of considerablespirit. It was plain that Sneed's unexpected presence in San Andreas hadnot affected Bartley very much. With a tinge of malice, born ofdisappointment, Cheyenne suggested to Bartley that the man he hadknocked out, back of the livery barn, would no doubt be glad to see himagain.
Bartley turned to Joe Scott. "He's trying to 'Out-West' me a bit, isn'the?"
Scott laughed heartily. "Cheyenne is getting tired of rambling up anddown the country alone. He wants a pardner. Seems he likes your company,from what he says. But you can't take him serious. He'll be singin' thateverlastin' trail song of his next."
"He hasn't sung much, recently."
Cheyenne bridled and snorted like a colt. "Huh! Just try this on yourpiano." And seemingly improvising, he waved his arm toward the burrocorral.
One time I had a right good pal, Git along, cayuse, git along; But he quit me cold for a little ranch gal, Git along, cayuse, git along.
And now he's took to pitchin' hay On a rancho down San Andreas way; He's done tied up and he's got to stay; Git along, cayuse, git along.
"I was just learnin' him the ropes, and he quit me cold," complainedCheyenne, appealing to Scott.
"He aims to keep out of trouble," suggested Scott.
"I ain't got no friends," said Cheyenne, grinning.
"Thanks for that," said Scott.
Cheyenne reached in his pocket and drew out the dice. His eyesbrightened. He rattled the dice and shot them across the hardpackedground near the doorstep. Then he struck a match to see what he hadthrown. "I'm hittin' the road five minutes after six, to-morrowmornin'," he declared, as he picked up the dice.