planned to ride until he got so far into the mountains that when he did
overtake his father and offer his assistance in locating the stolen
horses, it would hardly seem worth while to send him back. Jimmy
expected to be ordered back, but he had his own argument ready in that
event.

Little Jim's pony carried him swiftly up the grade. Meanwhile, Cheyenne
had traveled rather slowly, saving his horse. At a bend in the trail he
drew rein to breathe the animal. On the lookout for any moving thing, he
glanced back and down--and saw an old black hat bobbing along through
the brush below. He leaned forward and peered down. "The little cuss!"
he exclaimed, grinning. Then his expression changed. "Won't do, a-tall!
His aunt will be havin' fits--and Miss Dorry'll be helpin' her to have
'em, if she hears of it. Dog-gone that boy!"

Nevertheless, Cheyenne was pleased. His boy had sand, and liked
adventure. Little Jim might have stayed in camp, with Bartley, and spent
a joyous day shooting at a mark, incidentally hinting to the Easterner
that "his ole twenty-two was about worn out." But Little Jim had chosen
to follow his father into the hills.

"Reckon he figures to see what'll happen," muttered Cheyenne as he led
his horse off the trail and waited for Jimmy to come up.

Little Jim's black hat bobbed steadily up the switchbacks. Presently he
was on the stretch of trail at the end of which his father waited,
concealed in the brush.

As Little Jim's pony approached the bend it pricked its ears and
snorted. "Git along, you!" said Jimmy.