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Updated: June 20, 2025
Sneed ain't popular with the Apaches. Sneed's cabin is right clost to the res'avation line." "What will the Indian do with the horses?" queried Bartley. "Most like trade 'em to his friends." Bartley gestured toward a spot of green far across the valley. "Looks like a town," he said. "San Andreas and that's where we stop, to-night.
Now and again Mrs. Minerva Slade sought to interpose in their behalf, and many a tempting trencher was thrust to his elbow to divert the tenor of his discourse. But despite his youthful vulnerability to the dainty which had won him his sobriquet, Persimmon Sneed's palate was not more susceptible to the allurements of flattery than his hard head or his obdurate heart.
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.
"I won't tell her." "But she'd find out. You just ride back and wait down at my camp. I'll find them hosses, all right." Little Jim hesitated, twisting his fingers in his pony's mane. "Suppose," he ventured, "that a bunch of Sneed's riders was to run on to you? You'd sure need help." "That's just it! Supposin' they did?
"Up to Clubfoot Sneed's place, to get a couple of hosses that belonged to me. He was kind of hostile. Followed us down to San Andreas and done spoiled 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.
The conversation drifted to books and plays, but never once did it approach the subject of guns and Little Jim, who had hoped that the subject of horse-thieves might be broached, felt altogether out of the running. He waited patiently, for a while. Then during a lull in the talk he mentioned Sneed's name. "Jimmy!" reprimanded his Uncle Frank. "Yes, sir?"
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.
The latter grinned, nodded, and, jerking his pony round, rode after the horses as they drifted ahead. Bartley saw the Apache bunch the animals again, and turn them off the road toward the hills. "Didn't expect to meet up with luck, so soon," declared Cheyenne. "I figured to turn Sneed's hosses loose when I'd got 'em far enough from the ranch. But that Injun'll take care of 'em.
Little Jim had succeeded in noosing the cat's neck. That sadly molested animal jumped, rolled over, and clawed at the rope, and left hurriedly with the bit of clothesline trailing in its wake. "I got to git that cat afore he hangs himself," stated Little Jim, diving out of the house and heading for the barn. Thus he avoided acknowledging his uncle's command to stay away from Sneed's place.
Cheyenne dissuaded Bartley from accompanying him, arguing that he could travel faster and more cautiously alone. "One man ridin' in to Sneed's camp wouldn't look as suspicious as two," said Cheyenne. "And if I thought you could help any, I'd say to come along. That's on the square. Me and my little old carbine will make out, I guess."
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