Partners of Chance Part 31

"Thank you," laughed Bartley. "And because of the privilege which I really appreciate, I'll agree to look for another heroine."

Dorothy had not expected just such an answer. "In San Andreas?" she queried.

"I can't say. I'll be lucky if I find another, anywhere, to compare--"

"If you had asked me, first," interrupted Dorothy, "I might have said 'yes.'"

"I'm sorry I didn't. Won't you reconsider?"

Dorothy shook her head. Then she looked up at him frankly, steadily. "I think you took me for granted. That is what I didn't like."

"But--I didn't! It didn't occur to me to really begin my story until after I had seen you. Of course I knew I would write a new story sooner or later. I hope you will believe that."

"Yes. But I think I know why you decided to stay in San Andreas, instead of riding south, with Cheyenne. Aunt Jane and Little Jim and your heroine were within easy riding distance."

"I'll admit I intended to write about Aunt Jane and Jimmy. I actually adore Aunt Jane. And Little Jim, he's what one might call an unknown quant.i.ty--"

"He seems to be, just now."

"Oh, he won't go far," said Bartley, smiling.

Dorothy tossed her head. "And Cheyenne--"

"Oh, he is the moving figure in the story. That is not a pun, if you please. I had no idea that Cheyenne could actually hate any one, until the other night when he told me about--Laramie, and that man Sears."

"Did he talk much about Sears?"

"Not much--but enough. Frankly, I think Cheyenne will kill Sears if he happens to meet him again."

"And that will furnish the climax for your story!" said Dorothy scornfully.

"Well, if it has to happen--" Bartley paused.

Dorothy's face was troubled. Finally she rose and picked up her gloves and hat.

"I wish some one or something would stop him," she said slowly. "He liked you. All the years he has been riding up and down the country he has ridden alone, until he met you. I'm sorry you didn't go with him."

"He did pretend that he was disappointed when I told him I was going to stay in San Andreas for a while."

"You thought he was joking, but he wasn't. We have all tried to get him to settle down; but he would not listen. If I were a man--"

"Then you think I could have influenced him?" queried Bartley.

"You might have tried, at least."

"Well, he's gone. And I'll have to make the best of it--and also find another heroine," said Bartley lightly, trying to make her smile.

"I'll be the heroine of your story, upon one condition," Dorothy said, finally.

"And that is--"

"If you will try and find Cheyenne and--and just be a friend to him. I suppose it sounds silly, and I would not think of asking you to try and keep him from doing anything he decided to do. But you might happen to be able to say the right word at the right time."

"I hardly took myself as seriously as that, in connection with Cheyenne," declared Bartley. "I suppose, if I should saddle up and ride south to-morrow, I might overtake him along the road, somewhere. He travels slowly."

"But you won't go, just because I spoke as I did?"

"Not altogether because of that. I like Cheyenne."

Impetuously Dorothy stepped close to Bartley and laid her hand on his arm. "I knew you were like that! And what does writing about people amount to, when you can really do something for them? It isn't just Cheyenne. There's Little Jim--"

"Yes. But where _is_ Little Jim?"

Dorothy called in her high, clear voice. There was no answering halloo.

"His horse is there. I can't understand--"

"I'll look around a bit," said Bartley. "He's probably ambus.h.i.+ng us, somewhere, and expects us to be tremendously surprised."

"I'll catch up my horse," said Dorothy. "No, you had better let me catch him. He knows me."

And Dorothy stepped from the clearing round the spring and walked toward the horses. They were grazing quite a ways off, up the hillside.

Bartley recalled having glimpsed Little Jim crawling through the brush on the south side of the spring. No doubt Jimmy had grown tired of waiting, and had dropped down to the mesa on foot to hunt rabbits. Once clear of the hillside brush, Bartley was able to overlook the mesa below. Presently he discerned a black hat moving along slowly. Evidently the young hunter was stalking game.

Bartley hesitated to call out. He doubted that Jimmy could hear him at that distance. Stepping down the gentle slope of the hillside to the road, Bartley watched Jimmy for a while, hoping that he would turn and see him. But Jimmy was busy. "Might as well go back and get the horses and ride over to him," said Bartley.

He had turned to cross the road, when he heard the sound of quick hoof-beats. Surely Dorothy had not caught up the horses so soon? Bartley turned toward the bend of the road. Presently a rider, his worn chaps flapping, his shapeless hat pulled low, and his quirt swinging at every jump of the horse, pounded up and had almost pa.s.sed Bartley, when he set up his horse and dismounted. Bartley did not recognize him until he spoke.

"My name's Hull. I was lookin' for you."

"All right, Mr. Hull. What do you want?"

Hull's gaze traveled up and down the Easterner. Hull was looking to see if the other carried a gun. Bartley expected argument and inwardly braced himself. Meanwhile he wondered if he could find Hull's chin again, and as easily as he had found it that night back of the livery barn. Hull loomed big and heavy, and it was evident from the minute he dismounted that he meant business.

Without a word, Hull swung at Bartley, smas.h.i.+ng in with right and left, fighting like a wild-cat, forcing his weight into the fight, and kicking wickedly when he got a chance. Finally, after taking a straight blow in the face, Hull clinched--and the minute Bartley felt those tough-sinewed arms around him he knew that he was in for a licking.

Bartley's only chance, and that a pretty slim one, lay in getting free from the grip of those arms. He used his knee effectively. Hull grunted and staggered back. Bartley jumped forward and bored in, knocking Hull off his feet. The cow-puncher struck the ground, rolled over, and was up and coming like a cyclone. It flashed through Bartley's mind that the only thing to do was to stay with it till the finish. Hull was beating him down slowly, but surely.

Dully conscious that some one was calling, behind him, Bartley struck out, straight and clean, but he might as well have tried to stop a runaway freight with a whisk-broom. He felt the smas.h.i.+ng impact of a blow--then suddenly he was on his back in the road--and he had no desire to get up. Free from the hammering of those heavy fists, he felt comparatively comfortable.

"You brute!" It was Dorothy's voice, tense with anger.

Bartley heard another voice, thick with heavy breathing. "That's all right, Miss Gray. But the dude had it comin'."

Then Bartley heard the sound of hoof-beats--and somehow or other, Dorothy was helping him to his feet. He tried to grin--but his lips would not obey his will.

"I'm all right," he mumbled.

"Perhaps," said Dorothy, steady and cool. "But you'll want to wash your face at the spring. I fetched your horse."