Bartley smiled. "The road for mine," he quoted.

Cheyenne nodded. "Reckon I'll go see how the hosses are makin' it."

"I'll walk over with you," said Bartley.

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.

"Whiskey ain't whiskey, here," Cheyenne replied. "But mescal is just
what she says she is. I like to know the kind of poison I'm drinkin'."

Bartley began to experience an inner glow that was not unpleasant. Once
down, this native Mexican drink was not so bad. He laid a coin on the
bar and the glasses were filled again.

Cheyenne nodded and drank Bartley's health. Bartley suggested that they
sit at one of the side tables and study the effects of mescal on the
natives present.

"Let joy be unconfined," said Cheyenne.

"Where in the world did you get that?"

"Oh, I can read," declared Cheyenne. "Before I took to ramblin', I used
to read some, nights. I reckon that's where I got the idea