"I got to git that cat afore he hangs himself," stated Little Jim,
diving out of the house and heading for the barn. Thus he avoided
acknowledging his uncle's command to stay away from Sneed's place.

Supper was over and the dishes were washed and put away when Cheyenne
and Bartley appeared. Clean-shaven, his dark hair brushed smoothly, a
small, dark-blue, silk muffler knotted loosely about his throat, and in
a new flannel shirt and whipcord riding-breeches--which he wore under
his jeans when on the trail--Bartley pretty well approximated Little
Jim's description of him as a dude. And the word "dude" was commonly
used rather to differentiate an outlander from a native than in an
exactly scornful sense. Without a vestige of self-consciousness, Bartley
made himself felt as a distinct entity, physically fit and mentally
alert. Cheyenne, with his cow-puncher gait and his general
happy-go-lucky attitude, furnished a strong contrast to the trim and
well-poised Easterner. Dorothy was quick to appreciate this. She thought
that she rather liked Bartley. He was different from the young men whom
she knew. Bartley was pleased with her direct and natural manner of
answering his many questions about Western life.

Presently he found himself talking about his old home in Kentucky, and
the thorough-bred horses of the Blue Grass. The conversation drifted to
books and plays, but never once did it approach the subject of guns--and
Little Jim, who had hoped that the subject of horse-thieves might be
broached, felt altogether out of the running.

He waited patiently, for a while. Then during a lull in the talk he
mentioned Sneed's name.

"Jimmy!" reprimanded his Uncle Frank.