presently the navajo dug his heels into his ponys ribs, and clattered up the road. the senator turned to bartley. politics and cattle, he said, smiling. having learned the senators vocation, bartley gave his own as briefly. the senator nodded. it is as obvious as all that, then? queried bartley. i wouldnt say that, stated the senator carefully. but after you bumped into me, and then stepped into the agent, and then turned around and took in my scenery, noticin the set of my legs, i says to myself, painterman or writer. it was kind of in your eye. i figured you want no painterman when you looked at the oil paintin over the bar. a painterman would a looked sad or said somethin, for that there paintin is the most goshawful picture of what a puncher might look like after a cyclone had hit him. i took a painterman in there once, to get a drink. he took one look at that picture, and then he says, kind of sorrowful: is this the only place in town where they serve liquor? i told him it was. lets go over and tackle the pump, he says. but we had our drink. i told him just to turn his back on that picture when he took his. i might be anything but a writer, said bartley. thats correct. but you aint. you hit the nail on the head. however, i cant just follow your line of reasoning it out. easy. elimination. now a tourist, regular, stares at folks and things. but a painter or writer he takes things in without starin. theres some difference. i knew you were a man who did things. its in your eye. well, laughed bartley, i took you for a cattleman the minute i saw you. which was a minute too late, eh? i dont know about that. since ive been sitting here looking at the mesa and those wonderful buttes over there, and watching the natives come and go, i have begun to feel that i dont care so much about that train, after all. i like this sort of thing. you see, i planned to visit california, but there was nothing definite about the plan. i chose california because i had heard so much about it. it doesnt matter much where i go. by the way, my name is bartley. im steve browncattle and politics. i tell you, mr. bartley suppose you say just bartley? the senator chuckled. suppose i said green river? i havent an objection in the world, laughed bartley. wishful, here, dont keep liquor, explained the senator. and hes right about that. folks that stay at this hotel want to sleep nights. the senator heaved himself out of his chair, stood up, and stretched. i reckon youll be wantin to see all you can of this country. my ranch lays just fifty miles south of the railroad, and not a fence from here to there. then, theres them indians, up north a piece. and over yonder is where they dig up them prehistoric villages. and those buttes over there used to be volcanoes, before they laid off the job. to the west is the petrified forest