Partners of Chance Part 26

"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 pa.s.sed 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 att.i.tude 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 fis.h.!.+" 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 s.p.a.ce.

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 s.p.a.ces, 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.