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"Well, that's pretty much my complaint, too," said Bartley, "though I couldn't have expressed it so well." "Oh, you express!" she murmured, with the pride in him which implied that there were no thoughts worth expressing to which he could not give a monumental utterance.
"But it's paint that you can use in moderation." Marcia cast her arms round his neck and kissed him. "O Bartley, I think I'm the happiest girl in the world! I was just wondering what I should do. There are places in that Clover Street house that need touching up so dreadfully. I shall be very careful. You needn't be afraid I shall overdo. But, this just saves my life. Did you BUY it, Bartley?
"That's the sort most of us marry." "No, we don't," said Lapham. "Most of us marry silly little girls grown up to LOOK like women." "Well, I guess that's about so," assented Bartley, as if upon second thought. "If it hadn't been for her," resumed Lapham, "the paint wouldn't have come to anything.
Uncle Frank helped them haze Sneed's horses out of the yard on to the road, where Cheyenne waited to head them from taking the hill trail, again. Just as he left, Bartley turned to Dorothy who stood twisting a pomegranate bud in her fingers. "May I have it?" he asked, half in jest. She tossed the bud to him and he caught it.
"Yes," said Bartley, firmly; "the rest had better be done in writing. Why, Mary, what is the use of staying on now? We are going to live here in a month or two." "I forgot that," said Mary, with a little sigh. It seemed so ungracious to get what they wanted, and then turn their backs directly. She hinted as much, very timidly. But Bartley was inexorable, and they reached home next day.
From up the street in the opposite direction came the distant click of boot-heels. A figure strode swiftly toward the patch of white light in front of the gambling-hall. "Just stand back a little, pardner," said Cheyenne. Bartley felt his heart begin to thump as Cheyenne gently loosened his gun in the holster.
Hubbard! Is it you? What in the world are you doing here?" "Halleck," said Bartley, who was unsteadily straightening himself upon his feet, "glad to find you at home. Been looking for your house all night. Want to introduce you to partic-ic-ular friend of mine. Mr. Halleck, Mr. . Curse me if I know your name " "Hold on a minute," said Halleck.
The only living thing that seemed interested in Bartley's exodus was a stray dog that seemed determined to follow him. Turning from the road, Bartley took the short cut to Scott's placer. Glancing back he saw that the dog was still following. Bartley told him to go home. The dog, a very ordinary yellow dog, didn't happen to have a home and he was hungry. So he ignored Bartley's command.
Hope was expected to return came a letter to Mary to say that he should be detained a day or two longer, as he had a sore throat and fever, but nothing alarming. Three or four days later came a letter only signed by him, to say he had a slight attack of typhoid fever, and was under medical care. Mary implored Mr. Bartley to let her go to him.
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.
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