"And I had forgotten him," said Bartley. "Oh, he's mine! I can't get away from the fact. He adopted me, and has followed me clear through. I had forgotten that he is afraid to come into a ranch. And I am ashamed to say that I forgot to feed him, to-night. He isn't at all beautiful, but he's tremendously loyal."
"And he shall have a good supper when we get back," declared Dorothy.
The yellow dog padded along behind them in the dusk, content to be with his master again. Bartley talked with Dorothy about his plans, his hopes, and her promise to become the heroine of his new story. Then he surprised her by stating that he had decided to make a home in the San Andreas Valley.
"You really don't know anything about me, or my people," he said. "And I want you to know. My only living relative is my sister, and she is scandalously well-to-do. Her husband makes money manufacturing hooks and eyes. He's not romantic, but he's solid. As for me--"
And Bartley spoke of his own income, just what he could afford to spend each month, and just how much he managed to save, and his ambition to earn more. Dorothy realized that he was talking to her just as he would have talked to a chum--a man friend, without reserve, and she liked him for it. She had been curious about him, his vocation, and even about his plans; and she felt a glow of affection because he had seemed so loyal to his friendship with Cheyenne, and because he had been kind to Little Jim Hastings. While doing so with no other thought than to please the boy, Bartley had made no mistake in buying him that new rifle.
As they came to the big rock by the roadside--a spot which Bartley had good reason to remember--he paused and glanced at Dorothy. She was laughing.
"You looked so funny that day. You were the most dilapidated-looking person--for a writer--"
"I imagine I was, after Hull got through with me. Let's sit down awhile. I want to tell you what I should like to do. Are you comfortable?"
Dorothy nodded.
"Well," said Bartley, seating himself beside her, "I should like to rent a small place in the valley, a place just big enough for two, and then settle down and write this story. Then, if I sold it, I think I should lock up, get a pack-horse and another saddle-horse, outfit for a long trip, and then take the trail north and travel for, say, six months, seeing the country, camping along the way, visiting with folks, and incidentally gathering material for another story. It could be done."