look after. Outing
flannels and evening clothes would hardly fit into the present scheme of
things. The local store would furnish him all that he needed. In this
frame of mind he entered the Blue Front Saloon where he found Senator
Steve and his foreman seated at a side table discussing the merits of
"Green River."

"Hello!" called the Senator. "Mr. Bartley, meet my foreman, Lon Pelly."

They shook hands.

"Lon says the source of Green River is Joy in the Hills," asserted the
Senator, smiling.

The long, lean cow-puncher grinned. "Steve, here, says the source of
Green River is trouble."

"Now, as a writin' man, what would you say?" queried the Senator.

Bartley gazed at the label on the bottle under discussion. "Well, as a
writer, I might say that it depends how far you travel up or down Green
River. But as a mere individual enjoying the blessings of companionship,
I should say, let's experiment, judiciously."

"Fetch a couple more glasses, Tom," called the Senator.

After the essential formalities, Bartley pushed back his chair, crossed
one leg over the other, and lighted a cigar. "I'm rather inclined toward
that Joy in the Hills theory, just now," he asserted.

"That's all right," said Lon Pelly. "Bein' a little inclined don't hurt
any. But if you keep on reachin' for Joy, your foot is like to slip.
Then comes Trouble."

"Lon's qualified for the finals once or twice," said the Senator. "Now,
take _me_, for a horrible example. I been navigatin' Green River, off
and on, for quite a spell, and I never got hung up bad."

"Speaking of rivers, they're rather scarce in this country, I believe,"
said Bartley.

"Yes. But some of 'em are noticeable in the rainy season," stated
Senator Steve. "But you ain't seen Arizona. You've only been peekin'
through your fingers at her. Wait till you get on a cayuse and hit the
trail for a few hundred miles--that's the only way to see the country.
Now, take 'Cheyenne.' He rides this here country from Utah to the
border, and he can tell you somethin' about Arizona.

"Cheyenne is a kind of hobo puncher that rides the country with his
little old pack-horse, stoppin' by to work for a grubstake when he has
to, but ramblin' most of the time. He used to be a top-hand once. Worked
for me a spell. But he can't stay in one place long. Wish you could meet
him sometime. He can tell you more about this State than any man I know.
He's what you might call a character for a story. He stops b