And Bartley spoke of his own income, just what he could afford to spend each month, and just how much he managed to save, and his ambition to earn more. Dorothy realized that he was talking to her just as he would have talked to a chum--a man friend, without reserve, and she liked him for it. She had been curious about him, his vocation, and even about his plans; and she felt a glow of affection because he had seemed so loyal to his friendship with Cheyenne, and because he had been kind to Little Jim Hastings. While doing so with no other thought than to please the boy, Bartley had made no mistake in buying him that new rifle. As they came to the big rock by the roadside--a spot which Bartley had good reason to remember--he paused and glanced at Dorothy. She was laughing. "You looked so funny that day. You were the most dilapidated-looking person--for a writer--" "I imagine I was, after Hull got through with me. Let's sit down awhile. I want to tell you what I should like to do. Are you comfortable?" Dorothy nodded. "Well," said Bartley, seating himself beside her, "I should like to rent a small place in the valley, a place just big enough for two, and then settle down and write this story. Then, if I sold it, I think I should lock up, get a pack-horse and another saddle-horse, outfit for a long trip, and then take the trail north and travel for, say, six months, seeing the country, camping along the way, visiting with folks, and incidentally gathering material for another story. It could be done." "But why rent a place, if you plan to leave it right away?" "Because I should want a home to come to, a place to think of when I was on the trails. You know a fellow can't wander up and down the world forever. I like to travel, but I think a chap ought to spend at least half a year under a roof. Don't you?" "I was thinking of Cheyenne," said Dorothy musingly. "I think of him a great deal," declared Bartley. Dorothy glanced up at him from her pondering. Bartley leaned toward her. "Dorothy, will you help me make that home, here in the valley, and be my comrade on the trails?" "Hadn't you better ask Aunt Jane?" said Dorothy softly, yet with a touch of humor. "Do you mean it?" Bartley's voice was boyishly enthusiastic, like the voice of a chum, a hearty comrade. "But how about your own folks?" Dorothy's answer was not given then and there, in words. Nor yet by gesture, nor in any visible way--there being no moon that early in the evening. After a brief interval--or, at least, it seemed brief--they rose and strolled back down the road, the yellow dog padding faithfully at their heels. Presently-- "Hey, Dorry!" came in a shrill voice. "It's the scout!" exclaimed Bartley, laughing. "We're coming, Jimmy," called Dorothy. "But before we're taken into custody--" said Bartley; and as mentioned before, the moon had not appeared.