a good horse and appeared to be even halfway civil never suffered for
want of a meal or a bed in those days. Gasoline has somewhat diluted
such hospitality, yet there are sections of Arizona still unspoiled,
where the stranger is made to feel that the word "home" has retained its
ancient and honorable significance.

CHAPTER XXII

BOX-S BUSINESS

A few days later, Bartley stopped at a small town to have his horse
shod. The blacksmith seemed unusually interested in the horse and
complimented Bartley upon owning such a good mount.

"Comes from up San Andreas way," said the smith, noticing the brand on
Dobe's flank.

"Yes. I picked him up at Antelope. I understand he was raised on Senator
Brown's ranch."

"That's Steve Brown's brand, all right. Heard the news from up that
way?"

"Nothing special."

"Seems somebody run off a bunch of Senator Steve's horses, last week.
Thought mebby you'd heard."

"No."

"Well, thought I'd just tell you. I seen one posse ride through
yesterday. They'll be lookin' for strangers along the road."

"Thanks. I bought this horse--and I happen to know Senator Brown."

"No offense, stranger. If I'd 'a' suspicioned you'd stole that horse,
you wouldn't take him out of here. Like I said to Cheyenne, last week;
he could fetch a whole carload of stock in here and take 'em out again
without trouble. He was tellin' me how he lost his horses, and we got to
talkin' about some folks bein' blind when they're facin' a brand on a
critter. Mebby you heard tell of Cheyenne Hastings?"

"I have traveled with him. You say he stopped here a few days ago?"

"Well, not just stopped; he kind of looked in to see how I was gettin'
along. He acted queerlike, for him. I've knowed Cheyenne for years. Said
he was feelin' all right. He ast me if I'd seen Panhandle Sears down
this way, recent. Seemed kind of disappointed when I told him no.
Cheyenne used to be a right-smart man, before he had trouble with that
woman of his."

"Yes? He told me about it," said Bartley, not caring to hear any more of
the details of Cheyenne's trouble.

"'Most everybody knows it," stated the smith. "And if I was Sears I'd
sure leave this country."

"So should I. I've seen Cheyenne handle a gun."

"You got the right idea!" exclaimed the blacksmith, evidently pleased.
"All Cheyenne's friends have been waitin' for years for him to clean
that slate and start fresh again. He used to be a right-smart hand,
before he had