Feedin' good and a-feelin' fine:
Oh, some folks eat and some folks dine,
Git along, cayuse, git along!"

Bartley smiled. Here was the real hobo, the irrepressible absolute.
Cheyenne stepped up and swung to the saddle with the effortless ease of
the old hand. Bartley noticed that the pack-horse had no lead-rope, nor
had he been tied. Bartley did not know that Filaree, the pack-horse,
would never let Joshua, the saddle-horse, out of his sight. They had
traveled the Arizona trails together for years.

In spite of his happy-go-lucky indifference to persons and events,
Cheyenne had a sort of intuitive shrewdness in reading humans. And he
read in Bartley's glance a half-awakened desire to outfit and hit the
trail himself. But Cheyenne departed without suggesting any such idea.
Every man for himself was his motto. "And as for me," he added, aloud:

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

With little ole Josh that steps right free,
And my ole gray pack-hoss, Filaree,
The world ain't got no rope on me:
Git along, cayuse, git along!

Bartley watched him as he crossed the railroad tracks and turned down a
side street.