He stopped suddenly, pulled his faded black Stetson over one eye, and
then stepped out again, singing on:

They ain't no water and they ain't no shade:
They ain't no beer or lemonade,
But I reckon most like we'll make the grade
Git along, cayuse, git along.

"That's the stuff!" laughed Bartley. "A stanza or two of that every few
miles, and we'll make the grade all right. That last was improvised,
wasn't it?"

"Nope. Just naturalized. I make 'em up when I'm ridin' along, to kind of
fit into the scenery. Impervisin' gets my wind."

"Well, if you are singing when we finish, you're a wonder," stated
Bartley.

"Oh, I'm a wonder, all right! And mebby I don't feel like a plumb fool,
footin' it into Steve's ranch with no hosses and no bed-roll and no
reputation. And I sure lose mine this trip. Why, folks all over the
country will josh me to death when they hear Panhandle Sears set me
afoot on the big mesa. I reckon I'll have to kind of change my route
till somethin' happens to make folks forget this here bobble."

Another five miles of hot and monotonous plodding, and Cheyenne stopped
and sat down. He pulled off his boots.

Bartley offered the moccasins, but Cheyenne waved the offer aside.