They strode down the street and stopped in at a saloon where the
cattleman called for cigars. Bartley noticed that the proprietor of the
place addressed the big cattleman as "Senator."

"This here is a dry climate, and a cigar burns up right quick, if you
don't moisten it a little," said the cattleman. "I 'most always moisten
mine."

Bartley grinned. "I think the occasion calls for it, Senator."

"Oh, shucks! Just call me Steve--Steve Brown. And just give us a little
Green River Tom."

A few minutes later Bartley and his stout companion were seated on the
veranda of the hotel, gazing out across the mesas. They were both
comfortable, and quite content to watch the folk go past, out there in
the heat. Bartley wondered if the title "Senator" were a nickname, or if
the portly gentleman placidly smoking his cigar and gazing into space
was really a politician.

A dusty cow-puncher drifted past the hotel, waving his hand to the
Senator, who replied genially. A little later a Navajo buck rode up on a
quick-stepping pony. He grunted a salutation and said something in his
native tongue. The Senator replied in kind. Bartley was interested.
Presently the Navajo dug his heels into his pony's ribs, and clattered
up the road.

The Senator turned to Bartley. "Politics and cattle," he said, smiling.

Having learned the Senator's vocation, Bartley gave his own as briefly.