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 smashing 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."
"Lord, Miss Gray, let's walk. I'm more used to it."
"It was that man Hull, from the mountain, wasn't it?"
"I don't know his name. I did meet him once, in San Andreas, after dark."
"I'll just tie the horses, here. It's not far to the spring. Feel dizzy?"