“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 of makin’ up po’try, later.”

“I really beg your pardon,” said Bartley.

“The mescal must of told you.”

“I don’t quite get that,” said Bartley.

“No?  Well, you ain’t the first.  Josh and Filaree is the only ones that sabes me.  Let’s sit in this corner and watch the mescal work for a livin’.”

It was a hot night.  Sweat prickled on Bartley’s forehead.  His nose itched.  He lit a cigar.  It tasted bitter, so he asked Cheyenne for tobacco and papers, and rolled a cigarette.  He inhaled a whiff, and felt more comfortable.  The Mexicans, who had ceased to talk when Bartley and Cheyenne entered, were now at it again, making plenty of noise.

Cheyenne hummed to himself and tapped the floor with his boot-heel. 
“She’s a funny old world,” he declared.

Bartley nodded and blew a smoke-ring.

“Miss Dorry’s sure a interestin’ girl,” asserted Cheyenne.

Bartley nodded again.

“Kind of young and innocent-like.”

Again Bartley nodded.

“It ain’t a bad country to settle down in, for folks that likes to settle,” said Cheyenne.

Bartley glanced sharply at his companion.  Cheyenne was gazing straight ahead.  His face was unreadable.

“Now if I was the settlin’ kind—­” He paused and slowly turned toward Bartley.  “A man could raise alfalfa and chickens and kids.”