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"Cheyenne's in a hurry to-night, Sam." "Yeah. Ride hell out of his horse. I dunno, me." Sam grinned amiably at his boss. "I wish you would camp on his trail, Sam. He'll maybe ride somewhere to-night." "Yeah. Uh-huh. You bet," acquiesced Sam, and leaned forward a little, meaning to gallop after Cheyenne. "Hold on a minute! What did Scotty have to say, Sam?" "Him?
One of Sneed's men had evidently managed to get his horse loose from the reata. A solitary house, far out on the level, flickered past. Bartley glanced back. The house door opened. A ray of yellow light shot across the road. "Hey, Cheyenne!" called Bartley. But Cheyenne's little buckskin was drumming down the night road at a pace that astonished the Easterner.
By noon they were among the piñons, following a dim bridle trail that Cheyenne's horses seemed to know. "In a couple of days, I aim to spring a surprise on you," said Cheyenne as they turned in that night. "I figure to show you somethin' you been wantin' to see." "Bring on your bears," said Bartley, laughing. Cheyenne's moodiness had vanished. Frequently he hummed his old trail song as they rode.
"You say you saw him, on your way down here?" "Yes. He didn't seem to recognize me. He was walking fast." "How was Little Jim when you left?" "Just fine!" "And the folks?" "Same as ever. Miss Gray " "Well, I reckon I'll be steppin' along. Glad I saw you again." "Going to leave town to-night?" "I aim to." Bartley could no longer ignore Cheyenne's attitude.
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.
Bartley did the honors which included a sandwich and a glass of beer for Cheyenne, who leaned with his elbow on the bar gazing at the men around the table. Out of the corner of his eye Bartley saw the proprietor touch Cheyenne's arm and, leaning across the bar, whisper something to him. Cheyenne straightened up and seemed to be adjusting his belt. Bartley caught a name: "Panhandle."
I'll just step down first." At the foot of the stairs Cheyenne paused and glanced up and down the street. Directly across the way the Hole-in-the-Wall was ablaze with light. A few doors east of the gambling-hall an indistinct group of riders sat their horses as though waiting for some one. Cheyenne drew back into the shadows of the hallway. Bartley peered out over Cheyenne's shoulder.
In earthquakes and eruptions people end by expecting anything; and in the total eclipse that was now over all Cheyenne's ordinary standards and precedents the bewildered community saw in this threat nothing more unusual than if he had said twice two made four. The purse was handed over. "I'm obliged," said Hilbrun, simply.
The escape of the Cheyennes from Custer's grasp was but an earnest of what Kiowa, Arapahoe and Comanche could do later. These Cheyennes were setting an example worthy of their emulation. Not quite, to the Cheyenne's lordly spirit, not quite had the cavalry conquered the Plains.
One of Sneed's men spurred forward and shot Panhandle in the back. He sank down, his body twitching. Bartley gasped as he saw the rider deliberately throw another shot into the dying man. Then Cheyenne's arm jerked up. The rider swerved and pitched from the saddle. Another of Sneed's men crossed the patch of light, and a splinter ripped from the door-casing where Cheyenne stood.
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