“Thanks.  This way, you said?”

“Straight ahead.”

Cheyenne hesitated, hoping that Sneed would take the lead.  But the mountain man merely gestured again and followed Cheyenne through a patch of timber, and across another meadow—­and Cheyenne caught a glimpse of the ridge of a cabin roof, and smoke above it.  Close to the cabin was a large pole corral.  Cheyenne saw the backs of Filaree and Joshua, among the other horses, long before he came to the corral.  Yet, not wishing to appear too eager, he said nothing until he arrived at the corner of the fence.

Then he turned and pointed.  “Them’s my hosses—­the gray and the buckskin.  I’m mighty glad you caught ’em up.”

Sneed nodded.  “One of my boys found them in with a bunch of my stock and run them in here.”

A few rods from the corral stood the cabin, larger than Cheyenne had imagined, and built of heavy logs, with a wide-roofed porch running across the entire front.  On the veranda lay several saddles.  Tied to the hitch rail stood two chunky mountain ponies that showed signs of recent hard use.

Cheyenne smiled as he turned toward Sneed.  “You got a mighty snug homestead up here, neighbor.”

“Tie your horse and step in,” invited Sneed.

“He’ll stand,” said Cheyenne, dismounting and dropping the reins.

Cheyenne was in the enemy’s country.  But he trusted to his ability to play up to his reputation for an easy-going hobo to get him out again, without trouble.  He appeared unaware of the covert suspicion with which Sneed watched his every movement.

“Meet the boys,” said Sneed as they entered the cabin.

Cheyenne nodded to the four men who sat playing cards at a long table in the main room.  They returned his nod indifferently and went on with their game.  Cheyenne pretended an interest in the game, meanwhile studying the visible characteristics of the players.  One and all they were hard-boiled, used to the open, rough-spoken, and indifferent to Cheyenne’s presence.

Sneed stepped to the kitchen and pulled the coffee-pot to the front of the stove.  Finally Cheyenne strolled out to the veranda and seated himself on the long bench near the doorway.  He picked up a stick and began to whittle, and as he whittled his gaze traveled from the log stable to the corral, and from there to the edge of the clearing.  He heard Sneed speak to one of the men in a low voice.  Cheyenne slipped his knife into his pocket and his fingers touched the pair of dice.

He drew out the dice and rattled them.  “Go ’way, you snake eyes!” he chanted as he threw the dice along the bench.  “Little Jo, where you bushin’ out?  You sure are bashful!” He threw again.  “Roll on, you box-car!  I don’t like you, nohow!  Nine?  Nine?  Five and a four!  Six and a three!  Just as easy!”

Sneed came to the doorway and glanced at Cheyenne, who continued shooting craps with himself, oblivious to Sneed’s muttered comment.  Sneed turned and stepped in.  “Crazy as a hoot owl,” he said as one of the card-players glanced up.