Riding the soundless upland trail that meandered among the spruce and pine, skirting the edges of the mountain meadows and keeping within the timber, Cheyenne finally reached the main ridge of the range.  Occasionally he dismounted and examined the tracks of horses.

It was evident that Sneed had quite a bunch of horses running in the meadows.  Presently Cheyenne came to a narrow trail which crossed a meadow.  At the far end of the trail, close to the timber, was a spring, fenced with poles.  The spring itself was boxed, and roundabout were the marks of high-heeled boots.  Cheyenne realized that he must be close to Sneed’s cabin.  He wondered if he had been seen.

If he had, the only thing to do was to act natural.  He was now too close to a habitation—­although he could see none—­to do otherwise.  So he dismounted and, tying his horse to the spring fence, he stepped through the gate and picked up the rusted tin cup and dipped it in the cold mountain water.  He had the cup halfway to his lips when his horse nickered.  From somewhere in the brush came an answering nicker.  Cheyenne, kneeling, threw the water from the cup as though he had discovered dirt in it, and dipped the cup again.

Behind him he heard his horse moving restlessly.  As Cheyenne raised the cup to drink, he half closed his eyes, and glancing sideways, caught a glimpse of a figure standing near the upper end of the spring fence.  Cheyenne drank, set down the cup, and, rising, turned his back on the figure, and, stretching his arms, yawned heartily.  He strode to his horse, untied the reins, mounted, and began to sing: 

    Seems like I don’t get anywhere
      Git along, cayuse, git along! 
    But we’re leavin’ here and—­

“What’s your hurry?” came from behind him.

Cheyenne turned and glanced back.  “Hello, neighbor!  Now, if I’d ‘a’ knowed you was around, I’d ‘a’ asked you to have a drink with me.”

A tall, heavy-set mountain man, bearded, and limping noticeably, stepped round the end of the spring fence and strode toward him.  From Uncle Frank’s description, Cheyenne at once recognized the stranger as Sneed.  Across Sneed’s left arm lay a rifle.  Cheyenne saw him let down the hammer as he drew near.

“Where you headed?” queried Sneed.

“Me, I’m lookin’ for Bill Sneed’s cabin.  You ain’t Sneed, are you?”

“Yes, I’m Sneed.”

“Well, I’m in luck.  I’m Cheyenne Hastings.”

“That don’t buy you nothin’ around here.  What do you want to see me about?”

“Why, I done lost a couple of hosses the other night.  I reckon somethin’ stampeded ’em, for they never strayed far from camp before.  I trailed ’em up to the hills and then lost their tracks on the rocks.  Thought I’d ride up and see if you had seen ’em—­a little ole buckskin and a gray.”

Sneed waved his hand toward the east.  “My corrals are over there.  You’re welcome to look my stock over.”