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Updated: May 31, 2025
A naked creek-bed showed white and shimmering at the bottom of the slope. Again a slug whined through the sunlight and Cheyenne's hat spun from his head and settled squarely on a low bush. It was characteristic of Cheyenne that he grabbed for his hat and got it as he dashed past. "Keep the change," said Cheyenne as he ducked beneath a branch and straightened up again.
He knew that something had happened or was about to happen. Cheyenne's manner did not invite question or suggestion. Yet Bartley had promised Dorothy that he would exert what influence he had and it seemed a critical time, just at that moment. "I'd like to talk with you a minute, if you have time," said Bartley. "Won't do no good, pardner."
However, he took it for granted that Phoenix had been Cheyenne's destination. And Bartley wanted to see the town for himself, in any event. Cheyenne, arriving in Phoenix, stabled his horses at the Top-Notch livery, and took a room for himself directly opposite the Hole-in-the-Wall gambling-house.
Yet, with all her capabilities, her gentle wisdom, and her unobtrusive sympathy, she was unable to influence her Brother Jim known by every one as "Cheyenne" toward a settled habit of life. So it became her fondest desire to see that Cheyenne's boy, Little Jim, should be brought up in a home that he would always cherish and respect.
"Never saw him until to-night." "He ain't as lucky as you think," stated the other significantly. "How is that?" "Panhandle, the man with the scar on his face, ain't no friend of Cheyenne's." "Oh, I see." Bartley turned from the man, and watched the players. Wishful had withdrawn from the game, but he stood near the table, watching closely. Presently the fat Mexican quit playing and left.
Cheyenne gathered up the dice and threw. Calling his point, he snapped his fingers and threw again. The men crowded round, momentarily interested in Cheyenne's sprightly monologue. Happening to glance through the doorway as he gathered up the dice for another throw, Cheyenne noticed that his horse had turned and was standing, with ears and eyes alert, looking toward the corral.
He's what you might call a character for a story. He stops by regular, at the ranch, mebby for a day or two, and then takes the trail, singin' his little old song. He's kind of a outdoor poet. Makes up his own songs." "What was that one about Arizona that you gave 'em over to the State House onct?" queried Lon Pelly. "Oh, that wa'n't Cheyenne's own po'try.
Doors opened and men came out, questioning each other, gathering in a group in front of the Hole-in-the-Wall. Stunned by the sudden shock of events, the snakelike flash of guns in the semi-darkness, and the realization that several men had been gravely wounded, perhaps killed, Bartley heard Cheyenne's voice as though from a distance. Cheyenne's hand was on Bartley's arm. "Come on.
Cheyenne's gun came down again and the rider pitched forward and fell. His horse galloped down the street. Again Cheyenne fired, and again. Then, in the sudden stillness that followed, Cheyenne stepped out and dragged Panhandle into the hallway. Some one shouted. A window above the saloon opposite was raised.
But as Lon Pelly reined up it was something like two hours since they had started and pointed to a cross-trail leading south, Bartley's mental attitude changed instantly. Hitherto he had been leaving a pleasant habitation. Now he was going somewhere. He felt the distinction keenly. Cheyenne's verse came back to him.
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