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All it needed was a house and ditches and buildings and fences, and to be planted with crops. Such chances and considerations should sober a man and make him careful what he did. "I'd take in Cheyenne on our wedding-trip, and after that I'd settle right down to improving Box Elder," concluded Mr. McLean, suddenly. His real intentions flashed upon me for the first time.
"I'm just a-ridin'. I wa'n't goin' no place." "Well, you took the wrong trail to get there. You fan it back to the folks." "Aunt Jane is my boss!" said Jimmy defiantly. "'Course she is," agreed Cheyenne. "You and me, we're just pardners. But, honest, Jimmy, you can't do no good, doggin' along after me. Your Aunt Jane would sure stretch my hide if she knowed I let you come along."
Deep in the Wyoming hills lay a valley watered by a stream that ran down from Cheyenne Pass; a band of Sioux Indians had an encampment there. Viewed from the summit of a grassy ridge, the scene was colorful and idle and quiet, in keeping with the lonely, beautiful valley.
My friend, were you an artillerist, and were you to sight a two-hundred-pounder to throw a shell into Cheyenne from where we stand, "setting your sights for three thousand yards," more than your mile and a half, the shell would rip up the prairie turf somewhere down there where you see the road crossing that acequia.
Then, as an afterthought, "But he ain't showin' 'em." Tresler looked up and studied the cadaverous face before him. "You mean about " "Wal, I wus jest figgerin' on how you wus standin'. Seems likely you're standin' lookin' east wi' a feller due west who's got the drop on yer; which, to my reckonin', ain't as safe as handin' trac's to a lodge o' Cheyenne neches on the war-path."
Worthington's own ideas, from his confidential instructions to me." Conscious that he was now environed in the house of his enemies, Randall Clayton sat for some time there, silently pondering the suddenness of a proposal which affected his whole future career. "You are wanted as general superintendent of all of our Western ranches. Headquarters at Cheyenne.
When hoboes pass the word along, concerning a town, that "the bulls is horstile," avoid that town, or, if you must, go through softly. There are some towns that one must always go through softly. Such a town was Cheyenne, on the Union Pacific. Jeff Carr could size up the "front" of a hobo on the instant. He never entered into discussion.
Cheyenne explained to Bartley that often, when riding alone, he had spent hour after hour figuring out the possibilities of gun-play, till it became evident to the Easterner that, aside from being naturally quick, there was a very good reason for Cheyenne's proficiency with the six-gun. He practiced continually.
He was riding a great, clean-limbed horse, his left hand grasping its mane. His right hand was raised aloft, directing his forces. If ever the moulds of Nature turned out physical perfection, she realized her ideal in that superb Cheyenne. He stood six feet and three inches in his moccasins. He was built like a giant, with a muscular symmetry that was artistically beautiful.
The next down coach brought to Cheyenne the comforting news that Boone and Stocking had killed four of the bandits and stampeded the other three. Within six months after Boone was employed, both Dune Blackburn and Jack Wadkins disappeared from the stage road, dropped out of sight as if the earth had opened and swallowed them, as it probably had.
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