When Bartley came down to breakfast next morning he noticed two horses tied at the hitch-rail in front of the hotel.  One of the horses, a rather stocky gray, bore a pack.  The other, a short-coupled, sturdy buckskin, was saddled.  Evidently Cheyenne was trying to catch up with his dinner schedule, for as Bartley entered the dining-room he saw him, sitting face to face with a high stack of flapjacks, at the base of which reposed two fried eggs among some curled slivers of bacon.

Two railroad men, a red-eyed Eastern tourist who looked as though he had not slept for a week, a saturnine cattleman in from the mesas, and two visiting ladies from an adjacent town comprised the tale of guests that morning.  As Bartley came in the guests glanced at him curiously.  They had heard of the misunderstanding at the Blue Front.

Cheyenne immediately rose and offered Bartley a chair at his table.  The two women, alone at their table, immediately became subdued and watchful.  They were gazing their first upon an author.  Wishful had made the fact known, with some pride.  The ladies, whom Cheyenne designated as “cow-bunnies,”—–­or wives of ranchers,—­were dressed in their “best clothes,” and were trying to live up to them.  They had about finished breakfast, and shortly after Bartley was seated they 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.”