Once more upon the road Cheyenne’s manner changed.  He seemed to ignore the fact that he was afoot, in country where there was little prospect of getting a lift from a passing rancher or freighter.  And he said nothing about his horses, Filaree and Joshua, although Bartley knew that their loss must have hit him hard.

A mile down the road, and Cheyenne was singing his trail song, bow-legging ahead as though he were entirely alone and indifferent to the journey: 

    Seems like I don’t git anywhere: 
      Git along, cayuse, git along! 
    But I’m leavin’ here and I’m goin’ there,
      Git along, cayuse, git along—­

He stopped suddenly, pulled his faded black Stetson over one eye, and then stepped out again, singing on: 

    They ain’t no water and they ain’t no shade: 
    They ain’t no beer or lemonade,
    But I reckon most like we’ll make the grade
      Git along, cayuse, git along.

“That’s the stuff!” laughed Bartley.  “A stanza or two of that every few miles, and we’ll make the grade all right.  That last was improvised, wasn’t it?”

“Nope.  Just naturalized.  I make ’em up when I’m ridin’ along, to kind of fit into the scenery.  Impervisin’ gets my wind.”

“Well, if you are singing when we finish, you’re a wonder,” stated Bartley.

“Oh, I’m a wonder, all right!  And mebby I don’t feel like a plumb fool, footin’ it into Steve’s ranch with no hosses and no bed-roll and no reputation.  And I sure lose mine this trip.  Why, folks all over the country will josh me to death when they hear Panhandle Sears set me afoot on the big mesa.  I reckon I’ll have to kind of change my route till somethin’ happens to make folks forget this here bobble.”

Another five miles of hot and monotonous plodding, and Cheyenne stopped and sat down.  He pulled off his boots.

Bartley offered the moccasins, but Cheyenne waved the offer aside.

“Just coolin’ my feet,” he explained.  “It ain’t so much the kind of boots, because these fit.  It’s scaldin’ your feet that throws you.”

They smoked and drank from the canteen.  Five minutes’ rest, and they were on the road again.  The big mesa reached on and on toward the south, seemingly limitless, without sign of fence or civilization save for the narrow road that swung over each slight, rounded rise and ran away into the distance, narrowing to a gray line that disappeared in space.

Occasionally singing, Cheyenne strode along, Bartley striding beside him.

“You got a stride like a unbroke yearlin’,” said; Cheyenne, as Bartley unconsciously drew ahead.

Bartley stopped and turned into step as Cheyenne caught up.  He held himself to a slower pace, realizing that, while his companion could have outridden him by days and miles, the other was not used to walking.

As they topped a low rise a coyote sprang up and floated away.  Bartley flinched as Cheyenne whipped up his gun and fired.  The coyote jack-knifed and lay still.  Cheyenne punched the empty shell from his gun, slipped in a cartridge, and strode on.