“My dad is huntin’ his hosses,” he said.  “And I know who’s got ’em!”

“Was the other man a deputy?” queried Uncle Frank.

“He didn’t have a badge on him.  He kind of acted like everything was a joke—­shootin’ at that stump, and everything.  He wasn’t mad at nobody.  And he looked kind of like a dude.”

Little Jim meanwhile amused himself by trying to rope the family cat with a piece of clothesline.  Uncle Frank, who took everything seriously, asked Little Jim if he had told his father where the horses were.

“Sure I told him.  Wouldn’t you?  They’re dad’s hosses, Filaree and Josh.  I guess he’ll make ole Clubfoot Sneed give ’em back!”

“You want to be careful what you say about Mr. Sneed, Jimmy.  And don’t you go to ridin’ over that way again.  We aim to keep out of trouble.”

Little Jim had succeeded in noosing the cat’s neck.  That sadly molested animal jumped, rolled over, and clawed at the rope, and left hurriedly with the bit of clothesline trailing in its wake.

“I got to git that cat afore he hangs himself,” stated Little Jim, diving out of the house and heading for the barn.  Thus he avoided acknowledging his uncle’s command to stay away from Sneed’s place.

Supper was over and the dishes were washed and put away when Cheyenne and Bartley appeared.  Clean-shaven, his dark hair brushed smoothly, a small, dark-blue, silk muffler knotted loosely about his throat, and in a new flannel shirt and whipcord riding-breeches—­which he wore under his jeans when on the trail—­Bartley pretty well approximated Little Jim’s description of him as a dude.  And the word “dude” was commonly used rather to differentiate an outlander from a native than in an exactly scornful sense.  Without a vestige of self-consciousness, Bartley made himself felt as a distinct entity, physically fit and mentally alert.  Cheyenne, with his cow-puncher gait and his general happy-go-lucky attitude, furnished a strong contrast to the trim and well-poised Easterner.  Dorothy was quick to appreciate this.  She thought that she rather liked Bartley.  He was different from the young men whom she knew.  Bartley was pleased with her direct and natural manner of answering his many questions about Western life.

Presently he found himself talking about his old home in Kentucky, and the thorough-bred horses of the Blue Grass.  The conversation drifted to books and plays, but never once did it approach the subject of guns—­and Little Jim, who had hoped that the subject of horse-thieves might be broached, felt altogether out of the running.

He waited patiently, for a while.  Then during a lull in the talk he mentioned Sneed’s name.

“Jimmy!” reprimanded his Uncle Frank.

“Yes, sir?”

Uncle Frank merely gestured, significantly.