Mrs. Senator Brown was supervising the cooking of a dinner that Bartley
never forgot. Boiled chicken, dumplings, rich gravy, mashed potatoes,
creamed carrots, sliced tomatoes--to begin with. And then the pie!
Bartley furnished the appetite.

But that was not until after the Senator had returned from the
bunk-house. He had seen to it that Cheyenne had had a bucket of hot
water, soap, and towels and grease for his sore feet. In direct and
effectual kindliness, without obviously expressed sympathy, the
Westerner is peculiarly supreme.

Back in the living-room Bartley made himself comfortable, admiring the
generous proportions of the house, the choice Indian blankets, the wide
fireplace, and the general solidity of everything, which reflected the
personality of his hosts.

Presently the Senator came in. "Cheyenne tells me that somebody set you
afoot, down at the water-hole."

"Did he also tell you about your bull?"

"No! Is that how he came to tear his jeans?"

Bartley nodded. And he told the Senator of their recent experience in
the gulch.

The Senator chuckled. "Don't say a word to Mrs. Brown about it. I'll
have Cheyenne in, after dinner, and sweat it out of him. You see,
Cheyenne won't eat with us. He always eats with the boys. No use asking