Presently Cheyenne was back, singing something about a Joshua tree as he came.

He stopped at the veranda rail.  His smile was affable.  “Guess I’ll go over and hunt up Wishful.  I reckon you’ll have to excuse me for not refusin’ to accompany you to the Blue Front to get a drink.”

Bartley was puzzled.  “Would you mind saying that again?”

“Sure I don’t mind.  I thought, mebby, you bein’ a stranger, settin’ there alone and lookin’ at the dark, that you was kind of lonesome.  I said I reckoned you’d have to excuse me for not refusin’ to go over to the Blue Front and take a drink.”

“I think I get you.  I’ll buy.  I’ll try anything, once.”

Cheyenne grinned.  “I kind of hate to drink alone, ’specially when I’m broke.”

Bartley grinned in turn.  “So do I. I suppose it is all right to leave.  The door is wide open and there doesn’t seem to be any one in charge.

“She sure is an orphan, to-night.  But, honest, Mr.—­”

“Bartley.”

“Mr. Bartley, nobody’d ever think of stealin’ anything from Wishful.  Everybody likes Wishful ’round here.  And strangers wouldn’t last long that tried to lift anything from his tepee.  That is, not any longer than it would take Wishful to pull a gun—­and that ain’t long.”

“If he caught them.”

“Caught ’em?  Say, stranger, how far do you think a man could travel out of here, before somebody’d get him?  Anyhow, Wishful ain’t got nothin’ in his place worth stealin’.”

“Wishful doesn’t look very warlike,” said Bartley.

“Nope.  That’s right.  He looks kind of like he’d been hit on the roof and hadn’t come to, yet.  But did you ever see him shoot craps?”

“No.”

“Then you’ve got somethin’ comin’, besides buyin’ me a drink.”

Bartley laughed as he stepped down to the road.  Bartley, a fair-sized man, was surprised to realize that the other was all of a head taller than himself.  Cheyenne had not looked it in the saddle.

“Are you acquainted with Senator Brown?” queried Bartley as he strode along beside the stiff-gaited outlander.

Cheyenne stopped and pushed back his hat.  “Senator Steve Brown?  Say, pardner, me and Steve put this here country on the map.  If kings was in style, Steve would be wearin’ a crown.  Why, last election I wore out a pair of jeans lopin’ around this here country campaignin’ for Steve.  See this hat?  Steve give me this hat—­a genuwine J.B., the best they make.  Inside he had printed on the band, in gold, ’From Steve to Cheyenne, hoping it will always fit.’  Do I know Steve Brown?  Next time you see him just ask him about Cheyenne Hastings.”

“I met the Senator, yesterday.  Come to think of it, he did mention your name—­’Cheyenne—­and said you knew the country.”

“Was you lookin’ for a guide, mebby?”

“Well, not exactly.  But I hope to see something of Arizona.”

“Uh-huh.  Well, I travel alone, mostly.  But right now I’m flat broke.  If you was headin’ south—­”