"Well, perhaps we may agree to dissolve partnership temporarily," suggested Bartley. "I think I'll stay here a few days, at least." "That's all right, pardner. I don't aim to tell no man how to live. But me, I aim to live in the open." "Do you think that man Sneed will ride down this way?" queried Bartley, struck by a sudden idea. "That ain't why I figure to keep movin'," said Cheyenne. "But seein' as you figure to stay, I'll stick around to-day, and light out to-morrow mornin'. Mebby you'll change your mind, and come along." Bartley spent the forenoon with Cheyenne, prowling about the old town, interested in its quaint unusualness. The afternoon heat drove him to the shade of the hotel veranda, and, feeling unaccountably drowsy, he finally went to his room, and, stretching out on the bed, fell asleep. He was awakened by Cheyenne's knock at the door. Supper was ready. After supper they strolled out to the street and watched the town wake up. From down the street a ways came the sound of a guitar and singing. A dog began to howl. Then came a startled yelp, and the howl died away in the dusk. The singing continued. A young Mexican in a blue serge suit, tan shoes, and with a black sombrero set aslant on his head, walked down the street beside a Mexican girl, young, fat, and giggling. They passed the hotel with all the self-consciousness of being attired in their holiday raiment. A wagon rattled past and stopped at the saloon a few doors down the street. Then a ragged Mexican, hazing two tired burros, appeared in the dim light cast from a window--a quaint silhouette that merged in the farther shadows. Cheyenne moved his feet restlessly. Bartley smiled. "The road for mine," he quoted. Cheyenne nodded. "Reckon I'll go see how the hosses are makin' it." "I'll walk over with you," said Bartley. As they came out of the livery barn again, Bartley happened to glance at the lighted doorway of the cantina opposite. From within the saloon came the sound of glasses clinking occasionally, and voices engaged in lazy conversation. Cheyenne fingered the dice in his pocket and hummed a tune. Slowly he moved toward the lighted doorway, and Bartley walked beside him. "I got a thirst," stated Cheyenne. Bartley laughed. "Well, as we are about to dissolve partnership, I don't mind taking one myself." "Tough joint," declared Cheyenne as he stepped up to the doorway. "All the better," said Bartley. A young rancher, whose team stood at the hitch-rail, nodded pleasantly as they entered. "Mescal," said Cheyenne, and he laid a silver dollar on the bar. Bartley glanced about the low-ceilinged room. The place, poorly lighted with oil lamps, looked sinister enough to satisfy the most hardy adventurer, although it was supposed to be a sort of social center for the enjoyment of vino and talk. The bar was narrow, made of some kind of soft wood, and painted blue. The top of it was almost paintless in patches.