CHAPTER XXI
"GIT ALONG CAYUSE"
It was dark when Bartley arrived at his hotel in San Andreas. Not caringto parade his black eye and his swollen mouth, he took his evening mealat a little Mexican restaurant, and then went back to his room, where hespent the evening adding a few more pertinent notes to his story; notesthat were fresh in his mind. He knew what it felt like to take a goodlicking. In fact, the man is unfortunate who does not. Bartley thoughthe could write effectively upon the subject.
He had found Dorothy's quiet sympathy rather soothing. She had made nofuss whatever about the matter. And she had not insisted that he stop atthe ranch and get doctored up. Little Jim had promptly asked Bartley,"Who done it?" and Bartley had told him. Little Jim asked more questionsand was silenced only by a promise from Dorothy to buy him morecartridges. "That is, if you promise not to say anything about it toAunt Jane or Uncle Frank," she stipulated. Little Jim gravely shookhands upon the agreement. Dorothy knew that he would keep his word.
This agreement had been made after Bartley had left them. Dorothy hadsworn Little Jim to silence, not so much on Bartley's account as on herown. Should the news of the fight become public, there would be muchbucolic comment, wherein her name would be mentioned and the wholeaffair interpreted to suit the crude imaginings of the community.Bartley also realized this and, because of it, stuck close to his roomfor two days, meanwhile making copious notes for the new story.
But the making of notes for the story was a rather tame occupationcompared with the possibilities of actual adventure on the road. He hada good saddle-horse, plenty of optimism, and enough money to pay his waywherever he chose to go. Incidentally he had a notebook and pencil. Whatmore did a man need to make life worth while?
And then, somewhere along the southern highway Cheyenne was jogging withFilaree and Joshua:
Seems like I don't git anywhere: Git along, cayuse, git along.
Bartley rose and stepped to the window. San Andreas drowsed in the noonsun. Far to the north he could see a dot of fresh green--the cottonwoodsof the Lawrence rancho. Again he found himself in the grip ofindecision. After all, a fellow didn't have to journey up and down theland to find material for a story. There was plenty of material rightwhere he was. All he had to do was to stop, look, and listen. "Hang thestory!" he exclaimed peevishly. "I'll just go out and _live_--and thenwrite the story."
It did not take him long to pack his saddle-bags, nor to get togetherthe few articles of clothing he had had washed by a Mexican woman intown. He wrote a brief note to Dorothy, stating that he was on his way.He paid his hotel bill, stepped round to the livery and paid for Dobe'sentertainment, saddled up, and, literally shaking the dust of SanAndreas from his feet, rode down the long trail south, headed for JoeScott's placer, as his first stop.
He would spend the night there and then head south again. The onlyliving thing that seemed interested in Bartley's exodus was a stray dogthat seemed determined to follow him. Turning from the road, Bartleytook the short cut to Scott's placer. Glancing back he saw that the dogwas still following. Bartley told him to go home. The dog, a veryordinary yellow dog, didn't happen to have a home--and he was hungry. Sohe ignored Bartley's command.
Whether or not he imagined that Bartley was different from the run oftownsfolk is a question. Possibly he imagined Bartley might give himsomething to eat. In any event, the dog stuck to the trail clear up toScott's placer.
Scott was not at the cabin. Bartley hallooed, glanced round, anddismounted. On the cabin door was a note: "Gone to Phoenix. J. Scott."
Bartley turned from the cabin to find the dog gazing up at himmournfully; his expression seemed to convey the idea that they were bothin hard luck. Nobody home and nothing to eat.
"What, you here!" exclaimed Bartley.
The yellow dog wagged his tail. He was young and as yet had some faithin mankind.
Bartley tied his horse and strode up the trail to the workings.Everything had been put in order. The dog helped investigate, sniffingat the wheelbarrow, the buckets, the empty sacks weighted down with rockto keep them from blowing away, the row of tools, picks and shovels andbars. Evidently the owner of the place was not concealed beneath any ofthese things.
Meanwhile the afternoon shadows warned Bartley that a camp with waterand feed was the next thing in order. He strode back to the cabin. Therewas no problem to solve, although he thought there was. The yellow dog,an old campaigner in the open, though young in years, solved his problemby a suggestion. He was tired. There seemed to be no food in sight. Hephilosophically trotted to the open shed opposite the cabin and made abed for himself in a pile of gunny-sacks. Bartley grinned. Why not?
Experience had taught Bartley to carry something else, besides anotebook and pencil, in his saddle-bags. Hence the crackers and can ofcorned beef came in handy. The mountain water was cold and refreshing.There was hay in the burro stable. Moreover, Bartley now had a happycompanion who licked his chops, wagged his tail, and grinned as hefinished a bit of corned beef. Bartley tossed him a cracker. The dogcaught it and it disappeared. This was something like it! Here was a manwho rode a big horse, didn't kick stray dogs, and even shared a mealwith a fellow! Such a man was worth following forever.
"It would seem that you have adopted me," declared Bartley. The dog hadshown no inclination to leave since being fed. There might possibly beanother meal coming, later.
"But what am I going to do with you?" queried Bartley, as the dog curledup on the pile of gunny-sacks. "You don't look as though you habituallystopped at hotels, and I'll have to, until I catch up with Cheyenne.What's the answer?"
The yellow dog, all snuggled down in the sacks, peered at Bartley withunblinking eyes. Bartley laughed. Then he made his own bed withgunny-sacks, and after smoking a cigarette, turned in and slept well.
He did not expect to find the dog there in the morning. But the dog wasthere, most evidently waiting for breakfast, grinning his delight at notbeing cursed or kicked at, and frisking round the cabin yard in a madrace after nothing in particular, and indicating in every way possiblethat he was the happiest dog that ever wagged a tail.
Crackers and corned beef again, and spring water for breakfast. Andwhile Dobe munched his hay, Bartley smoked and roughly planned hisitinerary. He would travel south as far as Phoenix and then swing backagain, over the old Apache Trail--if he did not overtake Cheyenne.
If he did overtake him, the plan might be changed. It did not matter. Hehad set out to find his erstwhile traveling companion. If he found him,they could just as well travel together. If he did not, Bartleydetermined to see much of the country. In so far as influencing Cheyennein any way--that would have to be determined by chance. Bartley feltthat his influence with the sprightly Cheyenne weighed very littleagainst Cheyenne's hatred for Panhandle Sears.
Once more upon the road, with the early morning shadows slanting acrossthe valley, Bartley felt that it was his own fault if he did not enjoyhimself. Swinging into an easy trot he turned to see if the yellow dogwere following him. At first Bartley thought the dog had shown wisdomand had departed for San Andreas, but, happening to glance down on theother side of his horse, he saw the dog trotting along, close to Dobe'sheels.
Bartley felt a pity for the dog's dumb, insistent attachment. Reiningin, Bartley told the dog he had better go home. For answer the dog laydown in the horse's shadow, his head on his paws, and his eyes fixed onBartley's face. He did not seem to know what the words meant. But he didknow--only pretended he did not. His rooftree was the Arizona sky, andhis home the place where his adopted master camped at night.
"Oh, very well," said Bartley, smiling in spite of himself.
That noon they stopped at a ranch where Bartley had dinner and fed hishorse. Cheyenne had passed that way several days ago, the ranch folktold him. It was about twenty miles to the next town. Bartley wasinvited to stop by and spend the night, but he declined the invitation,even as they had declined to accept money for their hospitality.Meanwhile the dog had d
isappeared. He had not followed Bartley into theranch. And it was some twenty minutes or so after Bartley was on theroad again that he discovered the dog, coming round a bend on the run.There was no getting rid of him.
The dog, who had often been chased from ranches by other dogs, had atfirst waited patiently for Bartley to appear. Then, as Bartley did notappear, the dog made a short scout through the near-by brush. Finally hestirred up a rabbit. It was a long, hard chase, but the dog got hisdinner. Then, circling, he took up Bartley's trail from the ranch,overtaking him with grim determination not to lose sight of him again.
Arriving at the town of Stacey early that afternoon, Bartley arrangedwith the local liveryman for the dog's keep that night. From that nighton, the dog never let Dobe out of his sight. It was evidently intendedthat he should sleep in stalls and guard Dobe against the approach ofany one save his master.
Bartley learned that Cheyenne had passed through Stacey headed south. Hehad stopped at the local store to purchase provisions. Estimatingroughly, Bartley was making better time than had Cheyenne, yet it wouldbe several days before he could possibly overtake him.
Next day Bartley had ridden better than forty miles, and that night hestayed at a ranch, where he was made welcome. In fact, any one who rodea good horse and appeared to be even halfway civil never suffered forwant of a meal or a bed in those days. Gasoline has somewhat dilutedsuch hospitality, yet there are sections of Arizona still unspoiled,where the stranger is made to feel that the word "home" has retained itsancient and honorable significance.