THAT MESCAL
"The man who had your horses?" queried Bartley.
Cheyenne nodded. "The one at the end of the bar. The hombre next to him
is Lawson, who claims he bought my hosses from a Mexican, down here.
Lawson is the one that is huntin' trouble. Sneed don't care nothin'
about a couple of cayuses. He won't start anything. He's here just to
back up Lawson if things git interestin'."
"But what can they do? We're here, in town, minding our own business.
They know well enough that Panhandle stole your horses. And you said the
people in San Andreas don't like Sneed a whole lot."
"Because they're scared of him and his crowd. And we're strangers here.
It's just me and Lawson, this deal. Sneed is sizin' you up, back of his
whiskers, right now. He's tryin' to figure out who you are. Sneed ain't
one to run into the law when they's anybody lookin' on. He works
different.
"Now, while he is figurin', you just git up easy and step out and slip
over to the barn and saddle up Joshua. I'm goin' to need him. Take the
tie-rope off Filaree and leave him loose in his stall. Just say 'Adios'
to me when you git up, like you was goin' back to the hotel. And if
you'll settle what we owe--"
"That's all right. But my feet aren't cold, yet."
"You figure to stay in town a spell, don't you? Well, I figure to leave,
right soon. I'm tryin' to dodge trouble. It's your chanct to help out."
"Why can't we both walk out?"
"'Cause they'd follow us. They won't follow you."
Bartley glanced at the men ranged along the bar, rose, and, shaking
hands with Cheyenne, strode out, nodding pleasantly to the one-eyed
proprietor as he went.
Sneed eyed the Easterner sharply, and nudged one of his men as Bartley
passed through the doorway.
"Just step out and see where he goes, Hull," he ordered in an undertone.
"Keep him in sight."
The man spoken to hitched up his chaps, and, turning to finish his
drink, strolled out casually.
Bartley saw a row of saddle-horses tied at the rail. He noticed the
slickers on the saddles and the carbines under the stirrup leathers. It
was evident that the riders were not entirely on pleasure bent. He
crossed the street, wakened the stableman, paid the bill, and saddled
Joshua. Then he took the tie-rope off Filaree, as Cheyenne had directed.
Bartley led Joshua through the barn to the back, where he was tying him
to a wagon wheel when a figure loomed up in the semi-darkness.
"Ridin', stranger?"
The figure struck a match and lighted a cigarette. Bartley at once
recognized him as one of Sneed's men. Resenting the other's question and
his attitude of easy familiarity, Bartley ignored his presence.
"Hard of hearin'?" queried Hull.
"Rather."
"I said: Was you ridin'?"
"Yesterday," replied Bartley.
Hull blew a whiff of smoke in Bartley's face. It seemed casual, but was
intended as an insult. Bartley flushed, and realizing that the other was
there to intercept any action on his part to aid Cheyenne, he dropped
Joshua's reins, and without the slightest warning of his intent--in
fact, Hull thought the Easterner was stooping to pick up the
reins--Bartley launched a haymaker that landed with a loud crack on
Hull's unguarded chin, and Hull's head snapped back. Bartley jumped
forward and shot another one to the same spot. Hull's head hit the edge
of the doorway as he went down.
He lay there, inert, a queer blur in the half-light. Bartley licked his
skinned knuckles.
"He may resent this, when he wakes up," he murmured. "I believe I'll tie
him."
Bartley took Joshua's tie-rope and bound Mr. Hull's arms and legs,
amateurishly, but securely.
Then he strode through to the front of the barn. He could hear loud
talking in the saloon opposite and thought he could distinguish
Cheyenne's voice. Bartley wondered what would happen in there, and when
things would begin to pop, if there was to be any popping. He felt
foolishly helpless and inefficient--rather a poor excuse for a partner,
just then. Yet there was that husky rider, back there in the straw. He
was even more helpless and inefficient. Bartley licked his knuckles, and
grinned.
"There must have been a little mescal in that second punch," he thought.
"I never hit so hard in my life."
The stableman had retired to his bunk--a habit of night stablemen. The
stable was dark and still, save for the munching of the horses. In the
saloon across the way Cheyenne was facing Sneed and his men, alone.
Bartley felt like a quitter. Indecision irritated him, and curiosity
urged him to do something other than to stand staring at the saloon
front. He recalled his plan to sojourn in San Andreas a few days, and
incidently to ride over to the Lawrence ranch--frankly, to have another
visit with Dorothy. He shrugged his shoulders. That idea now seemed
insignificant, compared with the present possibilities.
"I'm a free agent," he soliloquized. "I think I'll take a hand in this,
myself."
He snapped his fingers as he turned and hastened to Dobe's stall. He led
Dobe out to the stable floor, got his saddle from the office, told the
sleepy stableman that he was going to take a little ride, and saddled
Dobe. And he led Dobe back to where Joshua was tied. He had forgotten
his victim on the floor, for a moment, but was aware of him when he
stumbled over him in the dark. The other mumbled and struggled faintly.
"I left your gun in the wagon-box," said Bartley. "I wouldn't move
around much, if I were you. One of the horses might step on your face
and hurt his foot."
Mr. Hull was not pleased at this, and he said as much. Bartley tied Dobe
to the back of the wagon.
"Just keep your eye on the horses a minute," he told Hull. "I'll be back
soon."
Bartley felt unusually and inexplicably elated. He had not realized the
extreme potency of mescal. The proprietor of the hotel was mildly
surprised when Bartley, remarking that he had been called away
unexpectedly, paid the hotel bill. Bartley hastened back to the stable.
Across the way the horses of the mountain men drowsed in the faint
lamplight. Turning, Bartley saw Joshua and Dobe dimly silhouetted in the
opening at the far end of the stable. Cheyenne was still in the saloon.
Bartley grinned. "It might help," he said as he stepped across the
street. Taking down the rope from the nearest horse, he tied the end of
the rope in the horse's bridle and threaded the end through the bridles
of all five horses, tying the loose end to the last horse's bridle.
"Just like stringing fish!" he murmured soulfully. "When those gentlemen
from the interior try to mount, there'll be something doing."
He had just turned to walk back to the stable when he heard a shot, and
the lighted doorway of the saloon became suddenly dark. Without waiting
to see what would happen next, Bartley ran to the rear of the stable and
untied the horses. Behind him he heard the quick trample of feet. He
turned. A figure appeared in the front doorway of the stable, a figure
that dashed toward him, and, with a leap and a swing, mounted Joshua and
spurred out and down the alley back of the building.
Bartley grabbed for his own stirrup, missed it, grabbed again and swung
up. Dobe leaped after the other horse, turned at the end of the alley,
and, reaching into a long, swinging gallop, pounded across the
night-black open. San Andreas had but one street. The backs of its
buildings opened to space.
Ahead, Cheyenne thundered across a narrow bridge over an arroyo. Dobe
lifted and leaped forward, as though in a race. From behind came the
quick patter of hoofs. One of Sneed's men had evidently managed to get
his horse loose from the reata. A solitary house, far out on the level,
flickered past. Bartley glanced back. The house door opened. A ray of
yellow light shot across the road.
"Hey, Cheyenne!" called Bartley.
But Cheyenne's little buckskin was drumming down the night road at a
pace that astonished the Easterner. Dobe seemed to be doing his best,
yet he could not overtake the buckskin. Behind Bartley the patter of
hoofs sounded nearer. Bartley thought he heard Cheyenne call back to
him. He leaned forward, but the drumming of hoofs deadened all other
sound.
They were on a road, now--a road that ran south across the spaces,
unwinding itself like a tape flung from a reel. Suddenly Cheyenne pulled
to a stop. Bartley raced up, bracing himself as the big cow-horse set up
in two jumps.
"I thought you was abidin' in San Andreas," said Cheyenne.
"There's some one coming!" warned Bartley, breathing heavily.
"And his name is Filaree," declared Cheyenne. "You sure done a good job.
Let's keep movin'." And Cheyenne let Joshua out as Filaree drew
alongside and nickered shrilly.
"Now I reckon we better hold 'em in a little," said Cheyenne after they
had gone, perhaps, a half-mile. "We got a good start."
They slowed the horses to a trot. Filaree kept close to Joshua's flank.
A gust of warm air struck their faces.
"Ain't got time to shake hands, pardner," said Cheyenne. "Know where
you're goin'?"
"South," said Bartley.
"Correc'. And I don't hear no hosses behind us."
"I strung them together on a rope," said Bartley.
"How's that?"
"I tied Sneed's horses together, with a rope. Ran it through the
bridles--like stringing fish. Not according to Hoyle, but it seems to
have worked."
Cheyenne shook his head. He did not quite get the significance of
Bartley's statement.
"Any one get hurt?" queried Bartley presently.
"Nope. I spoiled a lamp, and I reckon I hit somebody on the head, in the
dark, comin' through. Seems like I stepped on somethin' soft, out there
back of the barn. It grunted like a human. But I didn't stop to look."
"I had to do it," declared Bartley ambiguously.
"Had to do what?"
"Punch a fellow that wanted to know what I was doing with your horse. I
let him have it twice."
"Then you didn't hit him with your gun?"
"No. I wish I had. I've got a fist like a boiled ham. I can feel it
swell, right now."
"That there mescal is sure pow'ful stuff."
"Thanks!" said Bartley succinctly.
"Got a kick like white lightin'," said Cheyenne.
"And I paid our hotel bill," continued Bartley.
"Well, that was mighty thoughtful. I plumb forgot it."