tanza or two of that every few
miles, and we'll make the grade all right. That last was improvised,
wasn't it?"

"Nope. Just naturalized. I make 'em up when I'm ridin' along, to kind of
fit into the scenery. Impervisin' gets my wind."

"Well, if you are singing when we finish, you're a wonder," stated
Bartley.

"Oh, I'm a wonder, all right! And mebby I don't feel like a plumb fool,
footin' it into Steve's ranch with no hosses and no bed-roll and no
reputation. And I sure lose mine this trip. Why, folks all over the
country will josh me to death when they hear Panhandle Sears set me
afoot on the big mesa. I reckon I'll have to kind of change my route
till somethin' happens to make folks forget this here bobble."

Another five miles of hot and monotonous plodding, and Cheyenne stopped
and sat down. He pulled off his boots.

Bartley offered the moccasins, but Cheyenne waved the offer aside.

"Just coolin' my feet," he explained. "It ain't so much the kind of
boots, because these fit. It's scaldin' your feet that throws you."

They smoked and drank from the canteen. Five minutes' rest, and they
were on the road again. The big mesa reached on and on toward the south,
seemingly limitless, without sign of fence or civilization save for the
narrow road that swung over each slight, rounded rise and ran away into
the distance, narrowing to a gray line that disappeared in space.

Occasionally singing, Cheyenne strode along, Bartley striding beside
him.

"You got a stride like a unbroke yearlin'," said; Cheyenne, as Bartley
unconsciously drew ahead.

Bartley stopped and turned into step as Cheyenne caught up. He held
himself to a slower pace, realizing that, while his companion could have
outridden him by days and miles, the other was not used to walking.

As they topped a low rise a coyote sprang up and floated away. Bartley
flinched as Cheyenne whipped up his gun and fired. The coyote
jack-knifed and lay still. Cheyenne punched the empty shell from his
gun, slipped in a cartridge, and strode on.

"Pretty fast work," remarked Bartley.

"Huh! I just throwed down on him to see if I was gettin' slow."

"It seems to me that if I could shoot like that, I wouldn't let any man
back me down," said Bartley.

"Mebby so. But you're wrong, old-timer. Bein' fast with a gun is just
like advertisin' for the coroner. Me, I'm plumb peaceful."

A few miles farther along they nooned in the shade of a pinion. When
they started dow