"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."