"Then here is where you take the moccasins."

"Nope. My feet are so swelled you couldn't start my boots with a fence
stretcher. They's no use both of us gettin' cripped up."

Bartley's own feet ached from the constant bruising of pebbles.

Presently Cheyenne dropped back and asked Bartley to set the pace.

"I'll just tie to your shadow," said Cheyenne. "Keeps me interested.
When I'm drillin' along ahead I can't think of nothin' but my feet."

Because there was now no road and scarcely a trail, Bartley began to
choose his footing, dodging the rougher places. The muscles of his
calves ached under the unaccustomed strain of walking without heels.
Cheyenne dogged along behind, suffering keenly from blistered feet, but
centering his attention on Bartley's bobbing shadow. They had made about
two miles across country when the faint trail ran round a butte and
dipped into a shallow arroyo.

The arroyo deepened to a gulch, narrow and rocky. Up the gulch a few
hundred yards they came suddenly upon a bunch of Hereford cattle headed
by a magnificent bull. The trail ran in the bottom of the gulch. On
either side the walls were steep and rocky. Angling junipers stuck out
from the walls in occasional dots of green.

"That ole white-face sure looks hostile," Cheyenne remarked. "Git along,
you ole Mormon; curl your tail and drift."

Cheyenne heaved a stone which took the bull fairly between the eyes. The