ed
and tied and his lower jaw somewhat out of plumb.

Bartley and Scott arrived in San Andreas about noon, saw to their stock
and had dinner together. Bartley engaged a room at the hotel. Scott
bought supplies. Then, unknown to Bartley, Scott hunted up the town
marshal and told him that the Easterner was a friend of his. The town
marshal took the hint. Scott assured the marshal that, if Sneed or his
men made any trouble in San Andreas, he would gladly come over and help
the marshal establish peace. Cheyenne's name was not mentioned.

An hour later Scott appeared in front of the hotel with his burros
packed. Bartley, loafing on the veranda, rose and stepped out.

"If you got time," said Scott, "you might walk along with me, out to the
edge of town."

Bartley wondered what Scott had in mind, but he agreed to the suggestion
at once.

Together they trudged through the sleepy town until they reached the
open.

"I guess you can find your way back," said Scott, his eyes twinkling.
"And, say, it's a good idea not to pack a shootin'-iron--and let folks
know you don't pack one."

"I think I understand," said Bartley.

"Ride over to my camp, any time, and if I'm not there, just make
yourself to home." And the big miner turned and started his burros
toward the hills.

"Give my regards to Cheyenne," called Bartley.

The miner nodded.

On his way back through town, Bartley wondered why the miner had asked
him to take that walk. Then suddenly he thought of a reason. They had
been seen in San Andreas, walking and talking together. That would
intimate that they were friends. And a man would have to be blind, not
to realize that it would be a mistake to pick a quarrel with Scott, or
one of his friends. Joe Scott never quarreled; but he had the reputation
of being a man of whom it was safe to step around.

With his sleeves rolled up, sitting in the quiet of his room, Bartley
spent the afternoon jotting down notes for a story. He thought he had
experienced enough adventure to make a good beginning. Of course, the
love element was lacking, yet he thought that might be supplied, later.
He had a heroine in mind. Bartley laid down his pencil, and sat back,
shaping daydreams. It was hot in the room. It would be cooler down on
the veranda. Well, he would finish his rough sketch of Cheyenne, and
then step down to the veranda. He caught himself drowsing over his work.
He sat up, scribbled a while, nodded sleepily, and, finally, wit