rose. On their way
out they stopped at Cheyenne's table.

"Don't forget to stop by when you ride our way," said one of the women.

Bartley noticed the toil-worn hands, and the lines that hard work and
worry had graven in her face. Her "best clothes" rather accentuated
these details. But back of it all he sensed the resolute spirit of the
West, resourceful, progressive, large-visioned.

"Meet Mr. Bartley," said Cheyenne unexpectedly.

Which was just what the two women had been itching to do. Bartley rose
and shook hands with them.

"A couple of lady friends of mine," said Cheyenne when they had gone.

Cheyenne made no mention of the previous evening's game, or its climax.
Yet Bartley had gathered from Wishful that Panhandle Sears and Cheyenne
had an unsettled quarrel between them.

In the hotel office Cheyenne purchased cigars and proffered Bartley a
half-dozen. Bartley took one. Cheyenne seemed disappointed. When cigars
were going round, it seemed strange not to take full advantage of the
circumstance. As they stepped out to the veranda, the horses recognized
Cheyenne and nickered gently.

"Going south?" queried Bartley.

"That's me. I got the silver changed to bills and some of the bills
changed to grub. I reckon I'll head south. Kind of wish you was headed
that way."

Bartley bit the end from his cigar and lighted it, as he gazed out
across the morning mesa. A Navajo buck loped past and jerked his little
paint horse to a stop at the drug-store.

Cheyenne, pulling up a cinch, smiled at Bartley.

"That Injun was in a hurry till he got here. And he'll be in a hurry,
leavin'. But you notice how easy he takes it right now. Injuns has got
that dignity idea down fine."

"Did he come in for medicine, perhaps?"

"Mebby. But most like he's after chewin'-gum for his squaw, and
cigarettes for himself, with a bottle of red pop on the side. Injuns
always buy red pop."

"Cigarettes and chewing-gum?"

"Sure thing! Didn't you ever see a squaw chew gum and smoke a
tailor-made cigarette at the same time? You didn't, eh? Well, then, you
got somethin' comin'."

"Romance!" laughed Bartley.

"Ever sleep in a Injun hogan?" queried Cheyenne as he busied himself
adjusting the pack.

"No. This is my first trip West."

"I was forgettin'. Well, I ain't what you'd call a dude, but, honest, if
I was prospectin' round lookin' for Injun romance I'd use a pair of
field-glasses. Injuns is all right if you're far enough up wi