“Now don’t forget where you live,” said the Senator as Bartley mounted.

With a cheery farewell to their hosts, Cheyenne and Bartley rode away.  The first warmth of the sun touched them as they headed into the western spaces.  Long Lon closed the big gate, stepped up on his horse, and jogged along beside them.

Bartley felt as though he had suddenly left the world of reality and was riding in a sort of morning dream.  He could feel the pleasant warmth of the sun on his back.  He sniffed the thin dust cast up by the horses.  On either side of him the big mesa spread to the sky-line.  Cattle were scattered in the brush, some of them lying down, some of them grazing indolently.

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 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.