“Did Cheyenne—­” and Dorothy hesitated.

“Cheyenne didn’t kill Sears,” stated Bartley.

“You talked with Cheyenne, and got him to keep out of it?”

“I tried to.  He wouldn’t listen.  Then I wished him good luck and told him I hoped he’d win.”

Dorothy was puzzled.  “How do you know he didn’t?”

“Because I was standing beside him when it happened.  I don’t see why you shouldn’t know about it.  Cheyenne and I were just about to cross the street, that night, when we saw Panhandle coming down the opposite side.  Sneed and his men, who were evidently waiting for him, called to Panhandle.  Panhandle must have thought it was the sheriff, or the city marshal.  It happened suddenly.  Panhandle began firing at Sneed and his riders.  They shot him down just as he reached the curb in front of us.  They kept on shooting at him as he lay in the street.  Cheyenne couldn’t stand that.  He emptied his gun, trying to keep them off—­and he emptied some saddles.”

“Thank you for trying to—­to give Cheyenne my message,” said Dorothy.  And she shook hands with him.

“Do you know this is the loveliest vista I have seen since leaving Phoenix—­this San Andreas Valley,” said Bartley.

“But you came through the Apache Forest,” said Dorothy, not for the sake of argument, but because Bartley was still holding her hand.

“Yes.  But you don’t happen to live in the Apache Forest.”

“But, Mr. Bartley—­”

“John, please.”

“Cheyenne calls you Jack.”

“Better still.  Do you think Aunt Jane would mind if we walked up the road as far as—­well, as far as the spring?”

“Hadn’t you better ask her?”

“No.  But she wouldn’t object.  Would you?”

Slowly Dorothy withdrew her hand and Bartley opened the big gate.  As they walked down the dim, starlit road they were startled by the advent of a yellow dog that bounded from the brush and whined joyously.

“And I had forgotten him,” said Bartley.  “Oh, he’s mine!  I can’t get away from the fact.  He adopted me, and has followed me clear through.  I had forgotten that he is afraid to come into a ranch.  And I am ashamed to say that I forgot to feed him, to-night.  He isn’t at all beautiful, but he’s tremendously loyal.”

“And he shall have a good supper when we get back,” declared Dorothy.

The yellow dog padded along behind them in the dusk, content to be with his master again.  Bartley talked with Dorothy about his plans, his hopes, and her promise to become the heroine of his new story.  Then he surprised her by stating that he had decided to make a home in the San Andreas Valley.

“You really don’t know anything about me, or my people,” he said.  “And I want you to know.  My only living relative is my sister, and she is scandalously well-to-do.  Her husband makes money manufacturing hooks and eyes.  He’s not romantic, but he’s solid.  As for me—­”