The cattleman forged ahead, and in the telegraph office, got the
immediate attention of the operator, who took Bartley's message.

The cattleman paid for it. "'Tain't the first time my size has cost me
money," he said, as Bartley protested. "Now, let's go over and get
another cigar. Then we can mill around and see Wishful. You'll like
Wishful. He's different."

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.
The Senator nodded.

"It is as obvious as all that, then?" queried Bartley.

"I wouldn't say that," stated the Senator carefully. "But after you
bumped into me, and then stepped into the agent, and then turned around
and took in my scenery, noticin' the set of my legs, I says to myself,
'painter-man or writer.' It was kind of in your eye. I figured you
wa'n't no painter-man when you looked at the oil paintin' over the bar.

"A painter-man would 'a' looked sad or said somethin', for that there
paintin' is the most gosh-awful picture of what a puncher might look
like after a cyclone had hit him. I took a painter-man in there once, to
get a drink. He took one look at that picture, and then he says, ki