Bartley grabbed for his own stirrup, missed it, grabbed again and swung up. Dobe leaped after the other horse, turned at the end of the alley, and, reaching into a long, swinging gallop, pounded across the night-black open. San Andreas had but one street. The backs of its buildings opened to space. Ahead, Cheyenne thundered across a narrow bridge over an arroyo. Dobe lifted and leaped forward, as though in a race. From behind came the quick patter of hoofs. One of Sneed's men had evidently managed to get his horse loose from the reata. A solitary house, far out on the level, flickered past. Bartley glanced back. The house door opened. A ray of yellow light shot across the road. "Hey, Cheyenne!" called Bartley. But Cheyenne's little buckskin was drumming down the night road at a pace that astonished the Easterner. Dobe seemed to be doing his best, yet he could not overtake the buckskin. Behind Bartley the patter of hoofs sounded nearer. Bartley thought he heard Cheyenne call back to him. He leaned forward, but the drumming of hoofs deadened all other sound. They were on a road, now--a road that ran south across the spaces, unwinding itself like a tape flung from a reel. Suddenly Cheyenne pulled to a stop. Bartley raced up, bracing himself as the big cow-horse set up in two jumps. "I thought you was abidin' in San Andreas," said Cheyenne. "There's some one coming!" warned Bartley, breathing heavily. "And his name is Filaree," declared Cheyenne. "You sure done a good job. Let's keep movin'." And Cheyenne let Joshua out as Filaree drew alongside and nickered shrilly. "Now I reckon we better hold 'em in a little," said Cheyenne after they had gone, perhaps, a half-mile. "We got a good start." They slowed the horses to a trot. Filaree kept close to Joshua's flank. A gust of warm air struck their faces. "Ain't got time to shake hands, pardner," said Cheyenne. "Know where you're goin'?" "South," said Bartley. "Correc'. And I don't hear no hosses behind us." "I strung them together on a rope," said Bartley. "How's that?" "I tied Sneed's horses together, with a rope. Ran it through the bridles--like stringing fish. Not according to Hoyle, but it seems to have worked." Cheyenne shook his head. He did not quite get the significance of Bartley's statement. "Any one get hurt?" queried Bartley presently. "Nope. I spoiled a lamp, and I reckon I hit somebody on the head, in the dark, comin' through. Seems like I stepped on somethin' soft, out there back of the barn. It grunted like a human. But I didn't stop to look." "I had to do it," declared Bartley ambiguously. "Had to do what?" "Punch a fellow that wanted to know what I was doing with your horse. I let him have it twice." "Then you didn't hit him with your gun?" "No. I wish I had. I've got a fist like a boiled ham. I can feel it swell, right now." "That there mescal is sure pow'ful stuff." "Thanks!" said Bartley succinctly. "Got a kick like white lightin'," said Cheyenne.