Part 2 (1/2)

”It ain't our fault ma ain't goin' with us, is it?” he queried timidly.

Big Jim shrugged his shoulders.

”Say, dad, we're headed west. Thought you said we was goin' to Arizona?”

”We'll turn south, after a while.”

Little Jim asked no more questions. His father knew everything--why they were going and where. Little Jim glanced back to where Smiler padded along, his tongue out and his eyes already rimmed with dust, for he would insist upon traveling tight to Lazy's heels.

Little Jim leaned back. ”Stick it out, ole-timer! But don't you go to cuttin' dad's trail till he gets kind of used to seein' you around.

Sabe?”

Smiler grinned through a dust-begrimed countenance. He wagged his tail.

Little Jim plunked his horse in the ribs and drew up beside his father.

Little Jim felt big and important riding beside his dad. There had been some kind of trouble at home--and they were leaving it behind. It would be a long trail, and his father sure would need help.

Little Jim drew a deep breath. He wanted to express his unwavering loyalty to his father. He wanted to talk of his willingness to go anywhere and share any kind of luck. But his resolve to speak evaporated in a sigh of satisfaction. This was a real holiday, an adventure.

”Smiler's makin' it fine, dad.”

But Big Jim did not seem to hear. He was gazing ahead, where in the distance loomed an approaching figure on horseback. Little Jim knew who it was, and was about to say so when his father checked him with a gesture. Little Jim saw his father s.h.i.+ft his belt round so that his gun hung handy. He said nothing and showed by no other sign that he had recognized the approaching rider, who came on swiftly, his high-headed pinto fighting the bit.

Within twenty yards of them, the rider reined his horse to a walk.

Little Jim saw the two men eye each other closely. The man on the pinto rode past. Little Jim turned to his father.

”I guess Panhandle is goin' to town,” said the boy, not knowing just what to say, yet feeling that the occasion called for some remark.

”Panhandle” Sears and his father knew each other. They had pa.s.sed on the road, neither speaking to the other. And Little Jim was not blind to the significant movement of s.h.i.+fting a belt that a gun might hang ready to hand.

Yet he soon forgot the incident in visioning the future. Arizona, Aunt Jane, and stingin' lizards!

Big Jim rode with head bowed. He was thinking of the man who had just pa.s.sed them. If it had not been for the boy, Big Jim and that man would have had it out, there on the road. And Jenny Hastings would have been the cause of their quarrel. ”Panhandle” Sears had ”kept company” with Jenny before she became Big Jim's wife. Now that she had left him--

Big Jim turned and gazed back along the road. A far-away cloud of dust rolled toward the distant town of Laramie.

CHAPTER III

A MINUTE TOO LATE

The Overland, westbound, was late. Nevertheless, it had to stop at Antelope, but it did so grudgingly and left with a snort of disdain for the cow-town of the high mesa. Curious-eyed tourists had a brief glimpse of a loading-chute, cattle-pens, a puncher or two, and an Indian freighter's wagon just pulling in from the s.p.a.ces, and accompanied by a plodding cavalcade of outriders on paint ponies.

Incidentally the westbound left one of those momentarily interested Easterners on the station platform, without baggage, sense of direction, or companion. He had stepped off the train to send a telegram to a friend in California. He discovered that he had left his address book in his grip. Meanwhile the train had moved forward some sixty yards, to take water. Returning for his address book, he boarded the wrong Pullman, realized his mistake, and hastened on through to his car. Out to the station again--delay in getting the attention of the telegraph operator, the wire finally written--and the Easterner heard the rumble of the train as it pulled out.

Even then he would have made it had it not been for a portly individual in s.h.i.+rt-sleeves who inadvertently blocked the doorway of the telegraph office. Bartley b.u.mped 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, Bartley reached in his pocket for a cigar which he lighted casually.

The portly individual touched him on the shoulder. ”'Nother one, this afternoon.”