* * * * *

An hour later Bartley and Cheyenne were at the Lawrence ranch, where they changed packs, saddled Filaree and Joshua, and turned the horses borrowed from Steve Brown into Uncle Frank’s back pasture.

Little Jim watched these operations with keen interest.  He wanted to help, but refrained for fear that he would muss up his hair—­and he wanted Uncle Frank to notice his hair as it was.

Aunt Jane hastily prepared a meal and Dorothy helped.

In a few minutes Cheyenne and Bartley had eaten, and were ready for the road.  Cheyenne stepped up and shook hands with Jimmy, as though Jimmy were a grown-up.  Jimmy felt elated.  There was no one just like his father, even if folks did say that Cheyenne Hastings could do better than ride around the country singing and joking with everybody.

“And don’t forget to stop by when you come back,” said Aunt Jane, bidding farewell to Bartley.

Dorothy shook hands with the Easterner and wished him a pleasant journey, rather coolly, Bartley thought.  She was much more animated when bidding farewell to Cheyenne.

“And I won’t forget to send you that rifle,” said Bartley as he nodded to Little Jim.

Uncle Frank helped them haze Sneed’s horses out of the yard on to the road, where Cheyenne waited to head them from taking the hill trail, again.

Just as he left, Bartley turned to Dorothy who stood twisting a pomegranate bud in her fingers.  “May I have it?” he asked, half in jest.

She tossed the bud to him and he caught it.  Then he spurred out after Cheyenne who was already hazing the horses down the road.  Occasionally one of the horses tried to break out and take to the hills, but Cheyenne always headed it back to the bunch, determined, for some reason unknown to Bartley, to keep the horses together and going south.

The road climbed gradually, winding in and out among the foothills.  As the going became stiffer, the rock outcropped and the dust settled.

The horses slowed to a walk.  Bartley wondered why his companion seemed determined to drive Sneed’s stock south.  He thought it would be just as well to let them break for the hills, and not bother with them.  But Cheyenne offered no explanation.  He evidently knew what he was about.

To their right lay the San Andreas Valley across which the long, slanting shadows of sunset crept slowly.  Still Cheyenne kept the bunch of horses going briskly, when the going permitted speed.  Just over a rise they came suddenly upon an Apache, riding a lean, active paint horse.  Cheyenne pulled up and talked with the Indian.  The latter grinned, nodded, and, jerking his pony round, rode after the horses as they drifted ahead.  Bartley saw the Apache bunch the animals again, and turn them off the road toward the hills.

“Didn’t expect to meet up with luck, so soon,” declared Cheyenne.  “I figured to turn Sneed’s hosses loose when I’d got ’em far enough from the ranch.  But that Injun’ll take care of ’em.  Sneed ain’t popular with the Apaches.  Sneed’s cabin is right clost to the res’avation line.”