Experience had taught Bartley to carry something else, besides a notebook and pencil, in his saddle-bags.  Hence the crackers and can of corned beef came in handy.  The mountain water was cold and refreshing.  There was hay in the burro stable.  Moreover, Bartley now had a happy companion who licked his chops, wagged his tail, and grinned as he finished a bit of corned beef.  Bartley tossed him a cracker.  The dog caught it and it disappeared.  This was something like it!  Here was a man who rode a big horse, didn’t kick stray dogs, and even shared a meal with a fellow!  Such a man was worth following forever.

“It would seem that you have adopted me,” declared Bartley.  The dog had shown no inclination to leave since being fed.  There might possibly be another meal coming, later.

“But what am I going to do with you?” queried Bartley, as the dog curled up on the pile of gunny-sacks.  “You don’t look as though you habitually stopped at hotels, and I’ll have to, until I catch up with Cheyenne.  What’s the answer?”

The yellow dog, all snuggled down in the sacks, peered at Bartley with unblinking eyes.  Bartley laughed.  Then he made his own bed with gunny-sacks, and after smoking a cigarette, turned in and slept well.

He did not expect to find the dog there in the morning.  But the dog was there, most evidently waiting for breakfast, grinning his delight at not being cursed or kicked at, and frisking round the cabin yard in a mad race after nothing in particular, and indicating in every way possible that he was the happiest dog that ever wagged a tail.

Crackers and corned beef again, and spring water for breakfast.  And while Dobe munched his hay, Bartley smoked and roughly planned his itinerary.  He would travel south as far as Phoenix and then swing back again, over the old Apache Trail—­if he did not overtake Cheyenne.

If he did overtake him, the plan might be changed.  It did not matter.  He had set out to find his erstwhile traveling companion.  If he found him, they could just as well travel together.  If he did not, Bartley determined to see much of the country.  In so far as influencing Cheyenne in any way—­that would have to be determined by chance.  Bartley felt that his influence with the sprightly Cheyenne weighed very little against Cheyenne’s hatred for Panhandle Sears.

Once more upon the road, with the early morning shadows slanting across the valley, Bartley felt that it was his own fault if he did not enjoy himself.  Swinging into an easy trot he turned to see if the yellow dog were following him.  At first Bartley thought the dog had shown wisdom and had departed for San Andreas, but, happening to glance down on the other side of his horse, he saw the dog trotting along, close to Dobe’s heels.

Bartley felt a pity for the dog’s dumb, insistent attachment.  Reining in, Bartley told the dog he had better go home.  For answer the dog lay down in the horse’s shadow, his head on his paws, and his eyes fixed on Bartley’s face.  He did not seem to know what the words meant.  But he did know—­only pretended he did not.  His rooftree was the Arizona sky, and his home the place where his adopted master camped at night.