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."

He snapped his fingers as he turned and hastened to Dobe's stall. He led
Dobe out to the stable floor, got his saddle from the office, told the
sleepy stableman that he was going to take a little ride, and saddled