As they came out of the livery barn again, Bartley happened to glance at the lighted doorway of the cantina opposite. From within the saloon came the sound of glasses clinking occasionally, and voices engaged in lazy conversation. Cheyenne fingered the dice in his pocket and hummed a tune. Slowly he moved toward the lighted doorway, and Bartley walked beside him.
"I got a thirst," stated Cheyenne.
Bartley laughed. "Well, as we are about to dissolve partnership, I don't mind taking one myself."
"Tough joint," declared Cheyenne as he stepped up to the doorway.
"All the better," said Bartley.
A young rancher, whose team stood at the hitch-rail, nodded pleasantly as they entered.
"Mescal," said Cheyenne, and he laid a silver dollar on the bar.
Bartley glanced about the low-ceilinged room. The place, poorly lighted with oil lamps, looked sinister enough to satisfy the most hardy adventurer, although it was supposed to be a sort of social center for the enjoyment of vino and talk. The bar was narrow, made of some kind of soft wood, and painted blue. The top of it was almost paintless in patches.
Back of the bar a narrow shelf, also painted blue, offered a lean choice of liquors. Several Mexicans lounged at the side tables along the wall. The young American rancher stood at the bar, drinking. The proprietor, a fat, one-eyed Mexican whose face was deeply pitted from smallpox, served Bartley and Cheyenne grudgingly. The mescal was fiery stuff. Bartley coughed as he swallowed it.
"Why not just whiskey, and have it over with?" he queried, grinning at Cheyenne.