that sheep outfit had run _him_ out of the country. He was a young,
long, spindlin' hombre from Texas--a reg'lar Whicker-bill, with that
drawlin' kind of a voice that hosses and folks listen to. I knowed he
was from Texas the minute I seen him, but I sure didn't know he was the
man I was talkin' about.

"Everybody laughed but him and his wife. I reckon she was feelin' her
oats, visitin' at the Senator's house. I don't know what she said to her
husband, but, anyhow, afore I left for the bunk-house that evenin', he
says, slow and easy, that if I was around there next mornin', he would
explain all about that ruckus to me, when the ladies weren't present, so
I wouldn't get it wrong, next time. I seen I had made a mistake for
myself, and I didn't aim to make another, so I just kind of eased off
and faded away, bushin' down that night a far piece from Senator Steve's
ranch. I know them Whicker-bills and I didn't want to tangle with any of
'em."

"Afraid you'd get shot?" queried Bartley, laughing.

"Shot? Me? No, pardner. I was afraid that Texas gent would get shot. You
see, he was married--and I--ain't."

Bartley lay back on his saddle and gazed up at the stars. The little
fire had died down to a dot of red. A coyote yelped in the far dusk.
Another coyote replied. Cheyenne rose and threw some wood on the fire.
Then he stepped down to the water-hole and washed the plates and cups.
Bartley could hear the peculiar thumping sound of hobbled horses moving
about on the mesa. Cheyenne returned to the fire, picked up his
bed-roll, and marched off into the bushes. Bartley wondered why he
should take the trouble to move his bed-roll such a distance from the