back me down," said Bartley.

"Mebby so. But you're wrong, old-timer. Bein' fast with a gun is just
like advertisin' for the coroner. Me, I'm plumb peaceful."

A few miles farther along they nooned in the shade of a piñion. When
they started down the road again, Bartley noticed that Cheyenne limped
slightly. But Cheyenne still refused to put on the moccasins. Bartley
argued that his own feet were getting tender. He was unaccustomed to
moccasins. Cheyenne turned this argument aside by singing a stanza of
his trail song.

Also, incidentally, Cheyenne had been keeping his eye on the
horse-tracks; and just before they left the main road taking a short
cut, he pointed to them. "There's Filaree's tracks, and there's
Joshua's. Your hoss has been travelin' over here, on the edge. Them
hoss-thieves figure to hit into the White Hills and cut down through the
Apache forest, most like."

"Will they sell the horses?"

"Yes. Or trade 'em for whiskey. Panhandle's got friends up in them
hills."

"How far is it to the ranch?" queried Bartley.

"We done reached her. We're on Steve's ranch, right now. It's about five
miles from that first fence over there to his house, by trail. It's
fifteen by road."