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  CHAPTER III

  A MINUTE TOO LATE

  The Overland, westbound, was late. Nevertheless, it had to stop atAntelope, but it did so grudgingly and left with a snort of disdain forthe cow-town of the high mesa. Curious-eyed tourists had a brief glimpseof a loading-chute, cattle-pens, a puncher or two, and an Indianfreighter's wagon just pulling in from the spaces, and accompanied by aplodding cavalcade of outriders on paint ponies.

  Incidentally the westbound left one of those momentarily interestedEasterners on the station platform, without baggage, sense of direction,or companion. He had stepped off the train to send a telegram to afriend in California. He discovered that he had left his address book inhis grip. Meanwhile the train had moved forward some sixty yards, totake water. Returning for his address book, he boarded the wrongPullman, realized his mistake, and hastened on through to his car. Outto the station again--delay in getting the attention of the telegraphoperator, the wire finally written--and the Easterner heard the rumbleof the train as it pulled out.

  Even then he would have made it had it not been for a portly individualin shirt-sleeves who inadvertently blocked the doorway of the telegraphoffice. Bartley bumped into this portly person, tried to squeeze past,did so, and promptly caromed off the station agent whom he met head on,halfway across the platform. Gazing at the departing train, Bartleyreached in his pocket for a cigar which he lighted casually.

  The portly individual touched him on the shoulder. "'Nother one, thisafternoon."

  "Thanks. But my baggage is on that one."

  "You're lucky it ain't two sections behind, this time of year. Travel isheavy."

  Bartley's quick glance took in the big man from his high-heeled boots tohis black Stetson. A cattleman, evidently well to do, and quiteevidently not flustered by the mishaps of other folks.

  "There's a right comfortable little hotel, just over there," stated thecattleman. "Wishful runs her. It ain't a bad place to wait for yourtrain."

  Bartley smiled in spite of his irritation.

  The cattleman's eyes twinkled. "You'll be sending a wire to have 'emtake care of your war bag. Well, come on in and send her. You can catchNumber Eight about Winslow."

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

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

  They strode down the street and stopped in at a saloon where thecattleman called for cigars. Bartley noticed that the proprietor of theplace addressed the big cattleman as "Senator."

  "This here is a dry climate, and a cigar burns up right quick, if youdon't moisten it a little," said the cattleman. "I 'most always moistenmine."

  Bartley grinned. "I think the occasion calls for it, Senator."

  "Oh, shucks! Just call me Steve--Steve Brown. And just give us a littleGreen River Tom."

  A few minutes later Bartley and his stout companion were seated on theveranda of the hotel, gazing out across the mesas. They were bothcomfortable, and quite content to watch the folk go past, out there inthe heat. Bartley wondered if the title "Senator" were a nickname, or ifthe portly gentleman placidly smoking his cigar and gazing into spacewas really a politician.

  A dusty cow-puncher drifted past the hotel, waving his hand to theSenator, who replied genially. A little later a Navajo buck rode up on aquick-stepping pony. He grunted a salutation and said something in hisnative tongue. The Senator replied in kind. Bartley was interested.Presently the Navajo dug his heels into his pony's ribs, and clatteredup 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 youbumped into me, and then stepped into the agent, and then turned aroundand 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 youwa'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 therepaintin' is the most gosh-awful picture of what a puncher might looklike after a cyclone had hit him. I took a painter-man in there once, toget a drink. He took one look at that picture, and then he says, kind ofsorrowful: 'Is this the only place in town where they serve liquor?' Itold him it was. 'Let's go over and tackle the pump,' he says. But wehad our drink. I told him just to turn his back on that picture when hetook his."

  "I might be anything but a writer," said Bartley.

  "That's correct. But you ain't."

  "You hit the nail on the head. However, I can't just follow your line ofreasoning it out."

  "Easy. Elimination. Now a tourist, regular, stares at folks and things.But a painter or writer he takes things in without starin'. There's somedifference. I knew you were a man who did things. It's in your eye."

  "Well," laughed Bartley, "I took you for a cattleman the minute I sawyou."

  "Which was a minute too late, eh?"

  "I don't know about that. Since I've been sitting here looking at themesa and those wonderful buttes over there, and watching the nativescome and go, I have begun to feel that I don't care so much about thattrain, after all. I like this sort of thing. You see, I planned to visitCalifornia, but there was nothing definite about the plan. I choseCalifornia because I had heard so much about it. It doesn't matter muchwhere I go. By the way, my name is Bartley."

  "I'm Steve Brown--cattle and politics. I tell you, Mr. Bartley--"

  "Suppose you say just Bartley?"

  The Senator chuckled. "Suppose I said 'Green River'?"

  "I haven't an objection in the world," laughed Bartley.

  "Wishful, here, don't keep liquor," explained the Senator. "And he'sright about that. Folks that stay at this hotel want to sleep nights."

  The Senator heaved himself out of his chair, stood up, and stretched.

  "I reckon you'll be wantin' to see all you can of this country. My ranchlays just fifty miles south of the railroad, and not a fence from hereto there. Then, there's them Indians, up north a piece. And over yonderis where they dig up them prehistoric villages. And those buttes overthere used to be volcanoes, before they laid off the job. To the west isthe petrified forest. I made a motion once, when the Legislature was insession, to have that forest set aside as a buryin'-ground forpoliticians,--State Senators and the like,--but they voted me down. Theysaid I didn't specify _dead_ politicians.

  "South of my place is the Apache reservation. There's good huntin' inthat country. 'Course, Arizona ain't no Garden of Eden to some folks.Two kinds of folks don't love this State a little bit'--homesteaders andtourists. But when it comes to cattle and sheep and mines, you can'tbeat her. She sure is the Tiger Lily of the West. But let's step overand see Tom. Excuse me a minute. There's a constituent who has somethin'on his chest. I'll meet you at the station."

  The Senator stepped out and talked with his constituent. Meanwhile,Bartley turned to gaze down the street. A string of empty freightwagons, followed by a lazy cloud of dust, rolled slowly toward town.Here and there a bit of red showed in the dun mass of riders thataccompanied the wagons. A gay-colored blanket flickered in the sun. Themesas radiated keen dry heat.

  Bartley turned and crossed over to the station. He blinked the effectsof the white light from his eyes as he entered the telegraph office. Theoperator, in shirt-sleeves, and smoking a brown-paper cigarette, noddedand handed Bartley a service message stating that his effects would becarried to Los Angeles and held for further orders.

  "It's sure hot," said the operator. "Did you want to send another wire?"

  Bartley shook his head. "Who is that stout man I bumped into trying tocatch my trai
n?"

  "That's Senator Steve Brown--State Senator. Thought you knew him."

  "No. I just met him to-day."

  The operator slumped down in his chair.

  Bartley strode to the door and blinked in the Arizona sunshine. "ByGeorge!" he murmured, "I always thought they wore those big Stetsons forshow. But all day in this sun--guess I'll have to have one."