a far, huddled group of tiny buildings. Inadvertently he tightened rein.
Dobe stopped short. Bartley promptly went over the fork and slid to the
ground.

Dobe gazed down at his rider curiously, ears cocked forward, as though
trying to understand just what his rider meant to do next. Bartley
expected to see the horse whirl and leave for home. But Dobe stood
patiently until his rider had mounted. Bartley glanced round covertly,
wondering if any one had witnessed his impromptu descent. Then he
laughed, realizing that it was a long way to Central Park, flat saddles
and snaffles.

A little later he ate two of the sandwiches Wishful had thoughtfully
provided, and drank from the canteen. Gradually the shadows of the
buttes lengthened. The afternoon heat ebbed away in little, infrequent
puffs of wind. The western reaches of the great mesa seemed to expand,
while the southern horizon drew nearer.

Presently Bartley noticed pony tracks on the road, and either side of
the tracks the mark of wheels. Here the wagon had swung aside to avoid a
bit of bad going, yet the tracks of two horses still kept the middle of
the road. "Senator Brown--and Cheyenne," thought Bartley, studying the
tracks. He became interested in them. Here, again, Cheyenne had
dismounted, possibly to tighten a cinch. There was the stub of a
cigarette. Farther along the tracks were lost in the rocky ground of the
petrified forest. He had made twenty miles without realizing it.

Winding in and out among the shattered and fallen trunks of those
prehistoric trees, Bartley forgot where he was until he passed the
bluish-gray sweep of burned earth edging the forest. Presently a few