the law?"

"The law is all right, in spots. But they's a whole lot of country
between them spots."

Cheyenne cached the bed-roll, saddles, and cooking-outfit back in the
brush, taking only a canteen and a little food. He proffered a pair of
moccasins, parfleche-soled and comfortable, to Bartley.

"You wear these. Them new ridin'-boots'll sure kill you dead, walkin'.
You can pack 'em along with you."

"How about your feet?"

"Say, you wouldn't call me a tenderfoot, would you?"

"Not exactly."

"Then slip on them moccasins. But first I aim to make a circle and see
just where they caught up our stock."

Bartley drew on the moccasins and, tying his boots together, rolled them
in his blanket. Meanwhile, Cheyenne circled the camp far out, examining
the scattered tracks of horses. When he returned the morning sun was
beginning to make itself felt.

"I'll toss up to see who wears the moccasins," said Bartley. "I'm more
used to hiking than you are."

"Spin her!"

As Bartley tossed the coin, Cheyenne called. The half-dollar dropped and
stuck edge-up in the sand.

"You wear 'em the first fifteen miles and then we'll swap," said
Cheyenne.

Bartley filled the canteen and scraped dirt over the fire. Cheyenne took
a last look around, and turned toward the south.

"You didn't say nothin' about headin' back to Antelope," said Cheyenne.

"Why, no. I started out to visit Senator Brown's ranch."

Cheyenne laughed. "Well, you're out to see the country, anyhow. We'll
see lots, to-day."

Once more upon the road Cheyenne's manner changed. He seemed to ignore
the fact that he was afoot, in country where there was little prospect
of getting a lift from a passing rancher or freighter. And he said
nothing about his horses, Filaree and Joshua, although Bartley knew that
their loss must have hit him hard.

A mile down the road, and Cheyenne was singing his trail song,
bow-legging ahead as though he were entirely alone and indifferent to
the journey:

Seems like I don't git anywhere:
Git along, cayuse, git along!
But I'm leavin' here and I'm goin' there,
Git along, cayuse, git along--

He stopped suddenly, pulled his faded black Stetson over one eye, and
then stepped out again, singing on:

They ain't no water and they ain't no shade:
They ain't no beer or lemonade,
But I reckon most like we'll make the grade
Git along, cayuse, git along.

"That's the stuff!" laughed Bartley. "A s