"The law is all right, in spots. But they's a whole lot of country
between them spots."

Cheyenne cached the bed-roll, saddles, and cooking-outfit back in the
brush, taking only a canteen and a little food. He proffered a pair of
moccasins, parfleche-soled and comfortable, to Bartley.

"You wear these. Them new ridin'-boots'll sure kill you dead, walkin'.
You can pack 'em along with you."

"How about your feet?"

"Say, you wouldn't call me a tenderfoot, would you?"

"Not exactly."

"Then slip on them moccasins. But first I aim to make a circle and see
just where they caught up our stock."

Bartley drew on the moccasins and, tying his boots together, rolled them
in his blanket. Meanwhile, Cheyenne circled the camp far out, examining
the scattered tracks of horses. When he returned the morning sun was
beginning to make itself felt.

"I'll toss up to see who wears the moccasins," said Bartley. "I'm more
used to hiking than you are."

"Spin her!"