and set off toward the far western sky-line. That was his casual
farewell.

Cheyenne now turned directly toward the south and a range of hills that
marked the boundary of the mesa level. Occasionally he got off his horse
and stooped to examine tracks. Once he made a wide circle, leaving
Bartley to haze the pack-horse along. Slowly they drew nearer to the
hills. During the remainder of that forenoon, Cheyenne said nothing, but
rode, slouched forward, his hand on the horn, his gaze on the ground.

They nooned in the foothills. The horses grazed along the edge of a tiny
stream while Cheyenne and Bartley ate the cold chicken sandwiches. In
half an hour they were riding again, skirting the foothills, and, it
seemed to Bartley, simply meandering about the country, for now they
were headed west again.

Presently Cheyenne spoke. "I been makin' a plan."

"I didn't say a word," laughed Bartley.

"You didn't need to. I kind of got what you were thinkin'. This here is
big country. When you're ridin' this kind of country with some fella,
you can read his mind almost as good as a horse can. You was thinkin' I
was kind of twisted and didn't know which way to head. Now take that
there hoss, Joshua. Plenty times I've rode him up to a fork in the
trail, and kep' sayin' to myself, 'We'll take the right-hand fork.' And
Joshua always took the fork I was thinkin' about. You try it with Dobe,
sometime."

"I have read of such things," said Bartley.