Enraged by what he thought was a trap, and with drunken contempt for the man he had cheated, Panhandle jerked out his gun and fired at the Mexican; fired again at the bulky figure behind Posmo, and staggered back as a slug shattered his shoulder. Cursing, he swung round and emptied his gun into the blur of riders that separated and spread across the street, returning his fire from the vantage of the shadows. Flinging his empty gun at the nearest rider, Panhandle lurched toward the doorway where Cheyenne and Bartley stood watching. He had almost made the curb when he lunged and fell. He rose and tried to crawl to the shelter of the doorway. 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. 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. 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. The game is closed for the night."

As they stepped from the doorway a man stopped them and asked what had happened.

"We're goin' for a doctor," said Cheyenne. "Somebody got hurt."

Hastening along the shadowy wall of the building, they turned a corner and by a roundabout way reached the city marshal's office.

The marshal, who had been summoned in haste, was at his desk. "Sneed and his bunch got Panhandle," stated Cheyenne quietly. "Mr. Bartley, here, saw the row. Four of Sneed's men are down. One got away."

"Sure it was Sneed?"

"I reckon your men will fetch him in, right soon. Panhandle got Sneed and a Mexican, before they stopped him."

Colonel Stevenson glanced at Cheyenne's belt and holster. Cheyenne drew his gun and handed it to the marshal. "She's fresh loaded," he said.

"Cheyenne emptied his gun trying to fight off the men who killed Panhandle," said Bartley, stepping forward.

"And you're sure they were Sneed's men?" queried the marshal.

Cheyenne nodded.

"I am obliged to you," said the marshal. "But I'll have to detain you both until after the inquest."



CHAPTER XXV

TWO TRAILS HOME

Bartley was the chief witness at the inquest. He told his story in a manner that impressed the coroner's jury. Senator Brown was present, and identified one of the dead outlaws as Sneed. Posmo, killed by Panhandle's first shot, was known in Phoenix. Panhandle, riddled with bullets, was also identified by the Senator, Cheyenne, and several habitues of the gambling-hall. Bartley himself identified the body of one man as that of Hull.

Cheyenne was the last witness called. He admitted that he had had trouble with Panhandle Sears, and that he was looking for him when the fight started; that Sneed and his men had unexpectedly taken the quarrel out of his hands, and that he had fired exactly five shots at the men who had killed Panhandle and it had been close work, and easy. Panhandle had put up a game fight. The odds had been heavily against him. He had been standing in the light of the gambling-hall doorway while the men who had killed him had been in the shadow. "He didn't have a chance," concluded Cheyenne.

"You say you were looking for this man Sears, and yet you took his part against Sneed's outfit?" queried the coroner.

"I didn't just say so. Mr. Bartley said that."

"Mr. Bartley seems to be the only disinterested witness of the shooting," observed the coroner.

"If there is any further evidence needed to convince the jury that Mr. Bartley's statements are impartial and correct, you might read this," declared the city marshal. "It is the antemortem statement of one of Sneed's men, taken at the hospital at three-fifteen this morning. He died at four o'clock."

The coroner read the statement aloud. Ten minutes later the verdict was given. The deceased, named severally, had met death by gunshot wounds, at the hands of parties unknown.

It was a caustic verdict, intended for the benefit of the cattle-and horse-thieves of the Southwest. It conveyed the hint that the city of Phoenix was prompt to resent the presence of such gentry within its boundaries. One of the daily papers commented upon the fact that "the parties unknown" must have been fast and efficient gunmen. Cheyenne's name was not mentioned, and that was due to the influence of the marshal, Senator Brown, and the mayor, which left readers of the papers to infer that the police of Phoenix had handled the matter themselves.

Through the evidence of the outlaw who had survived long enough to make a statement, the Box-S horses were traced to a ranch in the neighborhood of Tucson, identified, and finally returned to their owner.

The day following the inquest, Bartley and Cheyenne left Phoenix, with Fort Apache as their first tentative destination, and with the promise of much rugged and wonderful country in between as an incentive to journey again with his companion, although Bartley needed no special incentive. At close range Bartley had beheld the killing of several men. And he could not free himself from the vision of Panhandle crawling toward him in the patch of white light, the flitting of horsemen back and forth, and the red flash of six-guns. Bartley was only too anxious to leave the place.

It was not until they were two days out of Phoenix that Cheyenne mentioned the fight—and then he did so casually, as though seeking an opinion from his comrade.

Bartley merely said he was glad Cheyenne had not killed Panhandle. Cheyenne pondered a while, riding loosely, and gazing down at the trail.

"I reckon I would 'a' killed him—if I'd 'a' got the chance," he said. "I meant to. No, it wasn't me or Panhandle that settled that argument: it was somethin' bigger than us. Folks that reads about the fight, knowin' I was in Phoenix, will most like say that I got him. Let 'em say so. I know I didn't; and you know I didn't—and that's good enough for me."

"And Dorothy and Aunt Jane and Little Jim," said Bartley.

"Meanin' Little Jim won't have to grow up knowin' that his father was a killer."

"I was thinking of that."

"Well, right here is where I quit thinkin' about it and talkin' about it. If that dog of yours there was to kill a coyote, in a fair fight, I reckon he wouldn't think about it long."

A few minutes later Cheyenne spoke of the country they were in.

"She's rough and unfriendly, right here," he said. "But north a ways she sure makes up for it. There's big spruce and high mesas and grass to your pony's knees and water 'most anywhere you look for it. I ain't much on huntin'. But there's plenty deer and wild turkey up that way, and some bear. And with a bent pin and a piece of string a fella can catch all the trout he wants. Arizona is a mighty surprisin' State, in spots. Most folks from the East think she's sagebrush and sand, except the Grand Canon; but that's kind of rented out to tourists, most of the time. I like the Painted Desert better."

"Where haven't you been?" said Bartley, laughing.

"Well, I ain't been North for quite a spell."

And Cheyenne fell silent, thinking of Laramie, of the broad prairies of Wyoming, of his old homestead, and the days when he was happy with his wife and Little Jim. But he was not silent long. He visioned a plan that he might work out, after he had seen Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank again. Meanwhile, the sun was shining, the road wound among the ragged hills, and Filaree and Joshua stepped along briskly, their hoof-beats suggesting the rhythm of a song.

That night they camped in the hill country not far from a crossroads store. In the morning they bought a few provisions and an extra canteen.

"There's a piece of country between here and the real hills that is like to be dry," explained Cheyenne. "We're leavin' the road, this mornin', and cuttin' north. She's some rough, the way we're headed, but you'll like it."

From the sagebrush of the southern slopes they climbed slowly up to a country of scattered juniper. By noon they were among the pinons, 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. Next day, as they nooned among the spruce of the high country, Cheyenne suddenly drew the dice from his pocket and, turning them in his hands, finally tossed them over the rim-rock of the canon edging their camp. "It's a fool game," he said. And Bartley knew, by the otter's tone, that he did not alone refer to the game of dice.

The air was thin, clear, and vital with a quality that the air of the lower country lacked. Bartley felt an ambition to settle down and go to writing. He thought that he now had material enough and to spare. They were in a country, vast, fenceless, verdant—almost awesome in its timbered silences. His imagination was stirred.

From their noon camp they rode into the timber and from the timber into a mountain meadow, knee-deep with lush grass. There was no visible trail across the meadow but the horses seemed to know which way to go. After crossing the meadow, Filaree, leading the cavalcade, turned and took a steep trail down the side of a hidden canon, a mighty chasm, rock-walled and somber. At the bottom the horses drank, and, crossing the stream, climbed the farther side. In an hour they were again on the rim, plodding noiselessly through the sun-flecked shadows of the giant spruce.

"How about that surprise?" queried Bartley.

"Ain't this good enough?" said Cheyenne, gesturing roundabout.

"Gosh, yes! Lead on, Macduff."

About four that afternoon the horses pricked their ears and quickened their pace. Filaree and Joshua especially seemed interested in getting along the silent trail; and presently the trail merged with another trail, more defined. A few hundred yards down this trail, and Bartley saw a big log cabin; to the left and beyond it a corral, empty, and with the bars down. Bartley had never seen the place before, and did not realize where he was, yet he had noticed that the horses seemed to know the place.

"We won't stop by," said Cheyenne.

"Any one live there?"

"Sneed used to," stated Cheyenne.

Then Bartley knew that they were not far from the San Andreas Valley and—well, the Lawrence ranch.

They dropped down a long trail into another canon which finally spread to a green valley dotted with ranches. The horses stepped briskly. Presently, rounding a bend, they saw a ranch-house, far below, and sharply defined squares of alfalfa.

"That house with the red roof—" said Bartley.

"That's her," asserted Cheyenne, a trifle ambiguously.

"Then we've swung round in a circle."

"We done crossed the res'avation, pardner. And we didn't see a dog-gone Injun."

Little Jim was the first to catch sight of them as they jogged down the last stretch of trail leaving the foothills. He recognized the horses long before their riders were near enough to be identified as his father and Bartley.

Little Jim did not rush to Aunt Jane and tell her excitedly that they were coming. Instead, he quietly saddled up his pony and rode out to meet them. Part-way up the slope he waited.

His greeting was not effusive. "I just thought I'd ride up and tell you folks that—'that I seen you comin'."

"How goes the hunting?" queried Bartley.

"Fine! I got six rabbits yesterday. Dorry is gittin' so she can shoot pretty good, too. How you makin' it, dad?"

Cheyenne pushed back his hat and gazed at his young son. "Pretty fair, for an old man," said Cheyenne presently. "You been behavin' yourself?"

"Sure."

"How would you like to ride a real hoss, once?"

"You mean your hoss?"

"Uh-huh."

"I'll trade you, even."

"No, you won't, son. But you can ride him down to the ranch, if you like."

Little Jim almost tumbled from his pony in his eagerness to ride Joshua, his father's horse, with the big saddle and rope and the carbine under the stirrup leather.

"You musta made a long ride," declared Jimmy, as he scrambled up on Joshua. "Josh's shoes is worn thin. He'll be throwin' one, next."

Jimmy called attention to the horse's shoes, that his father and Bartley might not see how really pleased he was to ride a "real horse."

"Yes, a long ride. How is Aunt Jane and Dorry?"

"Oh, they're all right. Uncle Frank he cut twenty-two tons of alfalfa off the lower field last week."

Cheyenne sat sideways on Jimmy's pony as they rode down the last easy slope and turned into the ranch gate. Aunt Jane, who was busy cooking,—it seemed that Aunt Jane was always busy cooking something or other, when she wasn't dressmaking or mending clothing or ironing,—greeted them warmly. Frank was working down at the lower end. Dorry had gone to San Andreas. She would be back 'most any time, now. And weren't they hungry?

They were. And there was fresh milk and pie. But they put up the horses first.

Later, Cheyenne and Little Jim decided to walk down to the lower end of the ranch and see Uncle Frank. Cheyenne had washed his hands and face before eating, as had Bartley. But Bartley did not let it go at that. He begged some hot water and again washed and shaved, brushed his clothes, and changed his flannel shirt for a clean one. Then he strolled to the kitchen and chatted with Aunt Jane, who had read of the killing of the outlaws in Phoenix, and had many questions to ask. It had been a terrible tragedy. And Mr. Bartley had actually seen the shooting?

Aunt Jane was glad that Cheyenne had not been mixed up in it, especially as that man Sears had been killed. But now that he had been killed, people would talk less about her brother. It really had seemed an act of Providence that Cheyenne had had nothing to do with the shooting. Of course, Mr. Bartley knew about the trouble that her brother had had—and why he had never settled down—

"His name was not mentioned in the papers," said Bartley, thinking that he must say something.

"There's Dorry, now," said Aunt Jane, glancing through the kitchen window.

Bartley promptly excused himself and stepped out to the gate, which he vaulted and opened as Dorothy waved a greeting. Bartley carried the groceries in, and later helped unhitch the team. They chatted casually neither referring to the subject uppermost in their minds.

When Cheyenne returned, riding on a load of alfalfa with Uncle Frank and Little Jim, Bartley managed to let Uncle Frank know that he was not supposed to have had a hand in the Phoenix affair. Cheyenne thanked him.

"But you ain't talked with Dorry, yet, have you?" queried Cheyenne.

Bartley shook his head.

"She'll find out," stated Cheyenne. "You can't fool Dorry."

That evening, while Uncle Frank and Cheyenne were discussing a matter which seemed confidential to themselves, and while Aunt Jane was quietly keeping an eye on Jimmy, who could hardly keep from interrupting his seniors—Bartley and Dorry didn't count, just then, for they were also talking together—Dorothy intimated to Bartley that she would like to talk with him alone. She did not say so, nor make any gesture to indicate her wish, yet Bartley interpreted her expression correctly.

He suggested that they step out to the veranda, where it was cooler. From the veranda they strolled to the big gate, and there she asked him, point-blank, to tell her just what had happened in Phoenix. She had read the papers, and she surmised that there was more to the affair than the papers printed. For instance, Senator Brown, upon his return to the Box-S, had kindly sent word to Aunt Jane that Cheyenne was all right. Bartley thought that the thoughtful Senator had rather spilled the beans.

"Did Cheyenne—" and Dorothy hesitated.

"Cheyenne didn't kill Sears," stated Bartley.

"You talked with Cheyenne, and got him to keep out of it?"

"I tried to. He wouldn't listen. Then I wished him good luck and told him I hoped he'd win."

Dorothy was puzzled. "How do you know he didn't?"

"Because I was standing beside him when it happened. I don't see why you shouldn't know about it. Cheyenne and I were just about to cross the street, that night, when we saw Panhandle coming down the opposite side. Sneed and his men, who were evidently waiting for him, called to Panhandle. Panhandle must have thought it was the sheriff, or the city marshal. It happened suddenly. Panhandle began firing at Sneed and his riders. They shot him down just as he reached the curb in front of us. They kept on shooting at him as he lay in the street. Cheyenne couldn't stand that. He emptied his gun, trying to keep them off—and he emptied some saddles."

"Thank you for trying to—to give Cheyenne my message," said Dorothy. And she shook hands with him.

"Do you know this is the loveliest vista I have seen since leaving Phoenix—this San Andreas Valley," said Bartley.

"But you came through the Apache Forest," said Dorothy, not for the sake of argument, but because Bartley was still holding her hand.

"Yes. But you don't happen to live in the Apache Forest."

"But, Mr. Bartley—"

"John, please."

"Cheyenne calls you Jack."

"Better still. Do you think Aunt Jane would mind if we walked up the road as far as—well, as far as the spring?"

"Hadn't you better ask her?"

"No. But she wouldn't object. Would you?"

Slowly Dorothy withdrew her hand and Bartley opened the big gate. As they walked down the dim, starlit road they were startled by the advent of a yellow dog that bounded from the brush and whined joyously.

"And I had forgotten him," said Bartley. "Oh, he's mine! I can't get away from the fact. He adopted me, and has followed me clear through. I had forgotten that he is afraid to come into a ranch. And I am ashamed to say that I forgot to feed him, to-night. He isn't at all beautiful, but he's tremendously loyal."

"And he shall have a good supper when we get back," declared Dorothy.

The yellow dog padded along behind them in the dusk, content to be with his master again. Bartley talked with Dorothy about his plans, his hopes, and her promise to become the heroine of his new story. Then he surprised her by stating that he had decided to make a home in the San Andreas Valley.

"You really don't know anything about me, or my people," he said. "And I want you to know. My only living relative is my sister, and she is scandalously well-to-do. Her husband makes money manufacturing hooks and eyes. He's not romantic, but he's solid. As for me—"

And Bartley spoke of his own income, just what he could afford to spend each month, and just how much he managed to save, and his ambition to earn more. Dorothy realized that he was talking to her just as he would have talked to a chum—a man friend, without reserve, and she liked him for it. She had been curious about him, his vocation, and even about his plans; and she felt a glow of affection because he had seemed so loyal to his friendship with Cheyenne, and because he had been kind to Little Jim Hastings. While doing so with no other thought than to please the boy, Bartley had made no mistake in buying him that new rifle.

As they came to the big rock by the roadside—a spot which Bartley had good reason to remember—he paused and glanced at Dorothy. She was laughing.

"You looked so funny that day. You were the most dilapidated-looking person—for a writer—"

"I imagine I was, after Hull got through with me. Let's sit down awhile. I want to tell you what I should like to do. Are you comfortable?"

Dorothy nodded.

"Well," said Bartley, seating himself beside her, "I should like to rent a small place in the valley, a place just big enough for two, and then settle down and write this story. Then, if I sold it, I think I should lock up, get a pack-horse and another saddle-horse, outfit for a long trip, and then take the trail north and travel for, say, six months, seeing the country, camping along the way, visiting with folks, and incidentally gathering material for another story. It could be done."

"But why rent a place, if you plan to leave it right away?"

"Because I should want a home to come to, a place to think of when I was on the trails. You know a fellow can't wander up and down the world forever. I like to travel, but I think a chap ought to spend at least half a year under a roof. Don't you?"

"I was thinking of Cheyenne," said Dorothy musingly.

"I think of him a great deal," declared Bartley.

Dorothy glanced up at him from her pondering.

Bartley leaned toward her. "Dorothy, will you help me make that home, here in the valley, and be my comrade on the trails?"

"Hadn't you better ask Aunt Jane?" said Dorothy softly, yet with a touch of humor.

"Do you mean it?" Bartley's voice was boyishly enthusiastic, like the voice of a chum, a hearty comrade. "But how about your own folks?"

Dorothy's answer was not given then and there, in words. Nor yet by gesture, nor in any visible way—there being no moon that early in the evening. After a brief interval—or, at least, it seemed brief—they rose and strolled back down the road, the yellow dog padding faithfully at their heels. Presently—

"Hey, Dorry!" came in a shrill voice.

"It's the scout!" exclaimed Bartley, laughing.

"We're coming, Jimmy," called Dorothy.

"But before we're taken into custody—" said Bartley; and as mentioned before, the moon had not appeared.

Little Jim, astride of the ranch gate, querulously demanded where they had been and why they had not told him they were going somewhere.

"And you left the gate open, and—everything!" concluded Jimmy.

"We just went for a walk," said Dorothy.

"What's the use of walkin' up the old road in the dark?" queried Jimmy. "You can't see anything."

"What do you say to a rabbit hunt to-morrow morning early?" asked Bartley.

"Nope!" declared Little Jim decisively. "'Cause my dad was talkin' with Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank, and dad says me and him are goin' back to Laramie where ma is. And we're goin' on the train. Aunt Jane she cried. But shucks! We ain't goin' to stay in Laramie all the time. Dad says if things rib up right, me and ma and him are comin' back to live in the valley. Don't you wish you was goin', Dorry?"

"You run along and tell Aunt Jane we're coming," said Bartley.

Little Jim hesitated. But then, Mr. Bartley had bought him that new rifle. Jimmy pattered down the path to the lighted doorway, delivered his message, and pattered back again toward the gate, wasting no time en route. Halfway to the gate he stopped. Mr. Bartley was standing very close to Dorry—in fact, Jimmy was amazed to see him kiss her. Jimmy turned and trotted back to the house.

"Shucks!" he exclaimed. "I thought he liked guns and things more'n girls!"

But Jimmy was too loyal to tell what he had seen. After all, Dorry was mighty fine, for a girl. She could ride and shoot, and she never told on him when he had done wrong.

With a skip and a hop Jimmy burst into the room. "We're goin' on the train," he declared. "Ain't we, dad?"

Dorothy and Bartley came in. Bartley glanced at Cheyenne, hesitated, and then thrust out his hand.

"Good luck to your new venture," he said heartily.

"Same to you, pardner!" And Cheyenne included Dorry in his glance.

"I want to ask Aunt Jane's advice," stated Bartley.

"Then," said Cheyenne, "I reckon me and Frank and Jimmy'll step out and take a look at the stars. She's a wonderful night."

THE END