It was a pleasure to ride an animal that seemed to want to work with a man and not against him.  The horse had cost one hundred dollars—­a fair price for such a horse in those days.  Yet Bartley thought it a very reasonable price.  And he knew he had a bargain.  He felt clearly confident that the big cow-pony would serve him in any circumstance or hazard.

As a long, undulating stretch of road appeared, softly brown in the shadows, Bartley began to look about for the water-hole which Wishful had spoken about.  The sun slipped from sight.  The dim, gray road reached on and on, shortening in perspective as the quick night swept down.

Beyond and about was a dusky wall through which loomed queer shapes that seemed to move and change until, approached, they became junipers.  Bartley’s gaze became fixed upon the road.  That, at least, was a reality.  He reached back and untied his coat and swung into it.  An early star flared over the southern hills.  He wondered if he had passed the water-hole.  He had a canteen, but Dobe would need water.  But Dobe was thoroughly familiar with the trail from Antelope to the White Hills.  And Dobe smelled the presence of his kind, even while Bartley, peering ahead in the dusk, rode on, not aware that some one was camped within calling distance of the trail.  A cluster of junipers hid the faint glow of the camp-fire.

Dobe stopped suddenly.  Bartley urged him on.  For the first time the big horse showed an inclination to ignore the rein.  Bartley gazed round, saw nothing in particular, and spoke to the horse, urging him forward.  Dobe turned and marched deliberately away from the road, heading toward the west, and nickered.  From behind the screen of junipers came an answering nicker.  Bartley hallooed.  No one answered him.  Yet Dobe seemed to know what he was about.  He plodded on, down a slight grade.  Suddenly the soft glow of a camp-fire illumined the hollow.

A blanket-roll, a saddle, a coil of rope, and a battered canteen and the fire—­but no habitant of the camp.

“Hello!” shouted Bartley.

Dobe shied and snorted as a figure loomed in the dusk, and Cheyenne was peering up at him.

“Is this the water-hole?” Bartley asked inanely.

“This is her.  I’m sure glad to see you!  I feel like a plumb fool for standin’ you up that way—­but I didn’t quite get you till I seen your face.  I thought I knowed your voice, but I never did see you in jeans, and ridin’ a hoss before.  And that hat ain’t like the one you wore in Antelope.”

“Then you didn’t know just what to expect?”

“I wa’n’t sure.  But say, I got some coffee goin’—­and some bacon.  Light down and give your saddle a rest.”

“I’ll just water my horse and stake him out and—­”

“I’ll show you where.  I see you’re ridin’ Dobe.  Wishful rent him to you?”

“No.  I bought him.”

“If you don’t mind tellin’ me—­how much?”