bidding farewell to Cheyenne.

"And I won't forget to send you that rifle," said Bartley as he nodded
to Little Jim.

Uncle Frank helped them haze Sneed's horses out of the yard on to the
road, where Cheyenne waited to head them from taking the hill trail,
again.

Just as he left, Bartley turned to Dorothy who stood twisting a
pomegranate bud in her fingers. "May I have it?" he asked, half in jest.

She tossed the bud to him and he caught it. Then he spurred out after
Cheyenne who was already hazing the horses down the road. Occasionally
one of the horses tried to break out and take to the hills, but Cheyenne
always headed it back to the bunch, determined, for some reason unknown
to Bartley, to keep the horses together and going south.

The road climbed gradually, winding in and out among the foothills. As
the going became stiffer, the rock outcropped and the dust settled.

The horses slowed to a walk. Bartley wondered why his companion seemed
determined to drive Sneed's stock south. He thought it would be just as
well to let them break for the hills, and not bother with them. But
Cheyenne offered no explanation. He evidently knew what he was about.

To their right lay the San Andreas Valley across which the long,
slanting shadows of sunset crept slowly. Still Cheyenne kept the bunch
of horses going briskly, when the going permitted speed. Just over a
rise they came suddenly upon an Apache, riding a lean, active paint