Back in his room Bartley paced up and down, keeping time to the tune of
Cheyenne's trail song. The morning sun poured down upon the station roof
opposite, and danced flickering across the polished tracks of the
railroad. Presently Bartley stopped pacing his room and stood at the
window. Far out across the mesa he saw a rider, drifting along in the
sunshine, followed by a gray pack-horse.

"By George!" exclaimed Bartley. "He may be a sort of wandering joke to
the citizens of this State, but he's doing what he wants to do, and
that's more than I'm doing. Just fifty miles to Senator Brown's ranch.
Drop in and see us. As the chap in Denver said when he wrote to his
friend in El Paso: 'Drop into Denver some evening and I'll show you the
sights.' Distance? Negligible. Time? An inconsequent factor. Big stuff!
As for me, I think I'll go downstairs and interview the pensive
Wishful."

Wishful had the Navajo blankets and chairs piled up in the middle of the
hotel office and was thoughtfully sweeping out cigar ashes, cigarette
stubs, and burned matches. Wishful, besides being proprietor of the
Antelope House, was chambermaid, baggage-wrangler, clerk, advertising
manager, and, upon occasion, waiter in his own establishment. And he
kept a neat place.

Bartley walked over to the desk. Wishful kept on sweeping. Bartley
glanced at the signatures on the register. Near the bottom of the page
he found Cheyenne's name, and opposite it "Arizona."

"Where does Cheyenne belong, anyway?" queried Bartley.

Wishful stopped sweeping and leaned on his broom. "Wherever he happens