ye and his swollen mouth, he took his evening meal
at a little Mexican restaurant, and then went back to his room, where he
spent the evening adding a few more pertinent notes to his story; notes
that were fresh in his mind. He knew what it felt like to take a good
licking. In fact, the man is unfortunate who does not. Bartley thought
he could write effectively upon the subject.

He had found Dorothy's quiet sympathy rather soothing. She had made no
fuss whatever about the matter. And she had not insisted that he stop at
the ranch and get doctored up. Little Jim had promptly asked Bartley,
"Who done it?" and Bartley had told him. Little Jim asked more questions
and was silenced only by a promise from Dorothy to buy him more
cartridges. "That is, if you promise not to say anything about it to
Aunt Jane or Uncle Frank," she stipulated. Little Jim gravely shook
hands upon the agreement. Dorothy knew that he would keep his word.

This agreement had been made after Bartley had left them. Dorothy had
sworn Little Jim to silence, not so much on Bartley's account as on her
own. Should the news of the fight become public, there would be much
bucolic comment, wherein her name would be mentioned and the whole
affair interpreted to suit the crude imaginings of the community.
Bartley also realized this and, because of it, stuck close to his room
for two days, meanwhile making copious notes for the new story.

But the making of notes for the story was a rather tame occupation
compared with the possibilities of actual adventure on the road. He had
a good saddle-horse, plenty of optimism, and enough money to pay his way
wherever he chose to go. Incidentally he had a notebook and pencil. What
more did a man need to make life worth while?

And then, somewhere along the southern highway Cheyenne was jogging with
Filaree and Joshua:

Seems like I don't git anywhere:
Git along, cayuse, git along.

Bartley rose and stepped to the window. San Andreas drowsed in the noon
sun. Far to the north he could see a dot of fresh green--the cottonwoods
of the Lawrence rancho. Again he found himself in the grip of
indecision. After all, a fellow didn't have to journey up and down the
land to find material for a story. There was plenty of material right
where he was. All he had to do was to stop, look, and listen. "Hang the
story!" he exclaimed peevishly. "I'll just go out and _live_--and then
write the story."

It did not take him long