cyclone. It flashed through Bartley's mind that the
only thing to do was to stay with it till the finish. Hull was beating
him down slowly, but surely.

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?"

"A little. But I can walk without help, thank you. Little Jim is down
there, stalking rabbits."

At the spring Bartley knelt and washed the blood from his face and felt
tenderly of his half closed eye, twisted his neck round and felt a sharp
click--and then his head became clearer. His light shirt was half-torn
from his shoulders, and he was scandalously mussed up, to put it mildly.
He got to his feet and faced Dorothy.

"There's a formula for this sort of thing, in books," he said. "Just now
I can't recall it. First, however, you say you're 'all right,' if you
are alive. If you are not, it doesn't matter. Then you say, 'a mere
scratch!' But I'm certain of one thing. I never needed a heroine more
than I did when you arrived."

Dorothy smiled in spite of herself. "You aren't pretending, are you? I
mean--about your condition?"

"I should say not. My eye is closed. My right arm won't work, and my
head feels queer--and I am _not_ hungry. But my soul goes marching on."

"Then we'll have to find Jimmy. It's getting late."

CHAPTER XXI

"GIT ALONG CAYUSE"

It was dark when Bartley arrived at his hotel in San Andreas. Not caring
to parade his black e