Again he found himself in the grip of
indecision. After all, a fellow didn't have to journey up and down the
land to find material for a story. There was plenty of material right
where he was. All he had to do was to stop, look, and listen. "Hang the
story!" he exclaimed peevishly. "I'll just go out and _live_--and then
write the story."
It did not take him long to pack his saddle-bags, nor to get together
the few articles of clothing he had had washed by a Mexican woman in
town. He wrote a brief note to Dorothy, stating that he was on his way.
He paid his hotel bill, stepped round to the livery and paid for Dobe's
entertainment, saddled up, and, literally shaking the dust of San
Andreas from his feet, rode down the long trail south, headed for Joe
Scott's placer, as his first stop.
He would spend the night there and then head south again. The only
living thing that seemed interested in Bartley's exodus was a stray dog
that seemed determined to follow him. Turning from the road, Bartley
took the short cut to Scott's placer. Glancing back he saw that the dog
was still following.
Pages:
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225