“There must have been a little mescal in that second punch,” he thought.  “I never hit so hard in my life.”

The stableman had retired to his bunk—­a habit of night stablemen.  The stable was dark and still, save for the munching of the horses.  In the saloon across the way Cheyenne was facing Sneed and his men, alone.  Bartley felt like a quitter.  Indecision irritated him, and curiosity urged him to do something other than to stand staring at the saloon front.  He recalled his plan to sojourn in San Andreas a few days, and incidently to ride over to the Lawrence ranch—­frankly, to have another visit with Dorothy.  He shrugged his shoulders.  That idea now seemed insignificant, compared with the present possibilities.

“I’m a free agent,” he soliloquized.  “I think I’ll take a hand in this, myself.”

He snapped his fingers as he turned and hastened to Dobe’s stall.  He led Dobe out to the stable floor, got his saddle from the office, told the sleepy stableman that he was going to take a little ride, and saddled Dobe.  And he led Dobe back to where Joshua was tied.  He had forgotten his victim on the floor, for a moment, but was aware of him when he stumbled over him in the dark.  The other mumbled and struggled faintly.

“I left your gun in the wagon-box,” said Bartley.  “I wouldn’t move around much, if I were you.  One of the horses might step on your face and hurt his foot.”

Mr. Hull was not pleased at this, and he said as much.  Bartley tied Dobe to the back of the wagon.

“Just keep your eye on the horses a minute,” he told Hull.  “I’ll be back soon.”

Bartley felt unusually and inexplicably elated.  He had not realized the extreme potency of mescal.  The proprietor of the hotel was mildly surprised when Bartley, remarking that he had been called away unexpectedly, paid the hotel bill.  Bartley hastened back to the stable.  Across the way the horses of the mountain men drowsed in the faint lamplight.  Turning, Bartley saw Joshua and Dobe dimly silhouetted in the opening at the far end of the stable.  Cheyenne was still in the saloon.

Bartley grinned.  “It might help,” he said as he stepped across the street.  Taking down the rope from the nearest horse, he tied the end of the rope in the horse’s bridle and threaded the end through the bridles of all five horses, tying the loose end to the last horse’s bridle.  “Just like stringing fish!” he murmured soulfully.  “When those gentlemen from the interior try to mount, there’ll be something doing.”

He had just turned to walk back to the stable when he heard a shot, and the lighted doorway of the saloon became suddenly dark.  Without waiting to see what would happen next, Bartley ran to the rear of the stable and untied the horses.  Behind him he heard the quick trample of feet.  He turned.  A figure appeared in the front doorway of the stable, a figure that dashed toward him, and, with a leap and a swing, mounted Joshua and spurred out and down the alley back of the building.