"Not on this trip, thanks. A good sleep and a stiff cussin' out'll help a little I guess. Mebbe he's learnt a lesson an' he may go back home an' behave himself." He shouldered open the screen door and, led by the wheezing landlord who carried a lamp at a reckless angle in his trembling hand, started clumping up the resounding stairway, while the group that had been about the lamp-post drifted off into the darkness. Only the sorrel horse, Abe, remained, bridle-reins down, one hip slumped, great, intelligent eyes watching occasional figures that passed, ears moving to catch the scattered sounds that went up toward the Arizona stars. CHAPTER III THE LODGER NEXT DOOR "Now, this is fine, Uncle," Bayard said, as he stood erect and surveyed the lax body he had deposited on the bed. His great height made the low, tiny room seem lower, smaller, and in the pale lamplight the fat hotel proprietor peered up into his face with little greedy green eyes, chewing briskly with his front teeth, scratching the fringe of red whiskers speculatively. "Well, Bayard, you're all right," he blurted out, huskily, as if he had reached that decision only after lengthy debate. "Th' room's a dollar, but I'll wait till mornin' as a favor to you. I wouldn't trust most cowboys, but your reputation's gild-edged, fine!" "Thanks! Seein' nobody's around to overhear, I'll take a chance an' return th' compliment." And as the other, turning in the doorway, looked back to determine, if he could, the meaning of that last remark, Bayard stooped and gingerly lifted the wounded forearm from which the sleeve had been rolled back. "What a lookin' human bein'!" he whispered slowly, a moment later, shaking his head and letting his whole-hearted disgust find expression in deep lines about his mouth, as he scanned the bloated, bruised, muddied face below him. "You've got just about as low down, Pardner, as anybody can get! Lord, that face of yourn would scare the Devil himself ... even if it is his own work!" He kicked out of his chaps, flung off jumper and vest, rolled up his sleeves and, turning to the rickety washstand, sloshed water into the bowl from the cracked pitcher and vigorously applied lather to his hands and forearms. From the next room came the sounds of a person moving; the creak of a board, the tinkle of a glass, even the low brushing of a garment being hung on a hook, for the partitions were of inch boards covered only by wallpaper. "Th' privacies of this here establishment ain't exactly perfect, are they?" the man asked, raising his voice and smiling. "I've got a friend here who needs to have things done for him an' he may wake up and object, but it ain't nothin' serious so don't let us disturb your sleep any more'n you can help," he added and paused, stooped over, to listen for an answer.