Joe Scott never quarreled; but he had the reputation
of being a man of whom it was safe to step around.
With his sleeves rolled up, sitting in the quiet of his room, Bartley
spent the afternoon jotting down notes for a story. He thought he had
experienced enough adventure to make a good beginning. Of course, the
love element was lacking, yet he thought that might be supplied, later.
He had a heroine in mind. Bartley laid down his pencil, and sat back,
shaping daydreams. It was hot in the room. It would be cooler down on
the veranda. Well, he would finish his rough sketch of Cheyenne, and
then step down to the veranda. He caught himself drowsing over his work.
He sat up, scribbled a while, nodded sleepily, and, finally, with his
head on his arms, he fell asleep.
The rattle of wagon wheels wakened him. A ranch team had just pulled up
to the hitch-rail in front of the hotel and a small boy was tying the
horses. The boy's hat seemed familiar to Bartley. Then Bartley heard a
voice. Suddenly he was wide awake. Little Jim was down there, talking to
some one. Bartley rose and peered down.
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