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He paid his hotel bill, stepped round to the livery and paid for Dobe's entertainment, saddled up, and, literally shaking the dust of San Andreas from his feet, rode down the long trail south, headed for Joe Scott's placer, as his first stop. He would spend the night there and then head south again.
A few days later, Bartley stopped at a small town to have his horse shod. The blacksmith seemed unusually interested in the horse and complimented Bartley upon owning such a good mount. "Comes from up San Andreas way," said the smith, noticing the brand on Dobe's flank. "Yes. I picked him up at Antelope. I understand he was raised on Senator Brown's ranch." "That's Steve Brown's brand, all right.
At first Bartley thought the dog had shown wisdom and had departed for San Andreas, but, happening to glance down on the other side of his horse, he saw the dog trotting along, close to Dobe's heels. Bartley felt a pity for the dog's dumb, insistent attachment. Reining in, Bartley told the dog he had better go home.
Each time Bartley raised in the stirrups, Dobe took it for a signal to lope. Finally Bartley caught the knack of leaning forward and riding a trot with a straight leg, and to his surprise he found it was a mighty satisfactory method and much easier than posting. The mesa trail was wide in reality a cross-country road, so Bartley had opportunity to try Dobe's different gaits.
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.
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