Presently Cheyenne began to sing, and his singing seemed to fit into the
mood of the morning. He ceased, and nothing but the faint jingle of rein
chains and the steady plod of hoofs disturbed the vast silence. A
flicker of smoke drifted back as Cheyenne lighted a cigarette. Long Lon
drilled on, wrapped in his reflections. Their moving shadows shortened.
Occasionally a staring-eyed cow strayed directly in their way and stood
until Long Lon struck his chaps with his quirt, when the cow, swinging
its head, would whirl and bounce off to one side, stiff-legged and
ridiculous.

Bartley unbuttoned his shirt-collar and pushed back his hat. Far across
the mesa a dust devil spun up and writhed away toward the distant hills.
As the horses slowed to cross a sandy draw, Bartley turned and glanced
back. The ranch buildings--a dot of white in a clump of green--shimmered
vaguely in the morning sunlight.

Thus far, Bartley felt that he had been leaving the ranch and the
cheerful companionship of the Senator and his wife. But as Lon Pelly
reined up--it was something like two hours since they had started--and
pointed to a cross-trail leading south, Bartley's mental attitude
changed instantly. Hitherto he had been leaving a pleasant habitation.
Now he was going somewhere. He felt the distinction keenly. Cheyenne's
verse came back to him.

Seems like I don't git anywhere,
Git along, cayuse, git along;
But we're leavin' here and we're goin' there,
Git along, cayuse, git along--

"Just drop a line when you get there," said Long Lon as he reined round