slowly. Far ahead, in the dim southern
distances, lay the hills that walled the San Andreas Valley from the
desert.

Dorothy noticed that Bartley gazed intently at those hills. "Cheyenne?"
she queried, smiling.

"I beg your pardon. I was dreaming. Yes, I was thinking of him, and--"
Bartley gestured toward Little Jim.

"Then you know?"

"Cheyenne told me, night before last, in San Andreas."

"Of course, Jimmy is far better off right where he is," asserted
Dorothy, although Bartley had said nothing. "I don't think Cheyenne will
ever settle down. At least, not so long as that man Sears is alive. Of
course, if anything happens to Sears--"

Dorothy was interrupted by Little Jim, who turned in the saddle to
address her. "Say, Dorry, if you keep on talkin' out loud, the Injuns is
like to jump us! Scoutin' parties don't keep talkin' when they're on the
trail."

"Don't be silly, Jimmy," laughed Dorothy.

"Well, they _used_ to be Injuns in these hills, once."

"We'll behave," said Bartley. "But can't we ride toward the foothills
and get in the shade?"

"You just follow me," said Little Jim. "I know this country."

It was Little Jim's day. It was his hunt. Dorothy and Bartley were
merely his guests. He had allowed them to come with him--possibly
because he wanted an audience. Presently Little Jim reined his horse to
the left and rode up a dim trail among the boulders. By an exceedingly
devious route he led the way to the spring, meanwhile playing the scout
with intense concentration on some cattle tracks which were at least a
month old. Bartley recognized the spot. Cheyenne and he had camped there
upon their quest for the stolen horses. Little Jim assured his charges
that all was safe, and he suggested that they "light down and rest a
spell."

The contrasting coolness of the shade was inviting. Jimmy explained that
there would be no rabbits visible until toward evening. Below and beyond
them stretched the valley floor, shimmering in the sun. Behind them the
hills rose and dipped, rose and dipped again, finally reaching up to the
long slope of the mother range. Far above a thin, dark line of timber
showed against the eastern sky.

"Ole Clubfoot Sneed lives up there," asserted Jimmy, pointing toward the
distant ridge. "I been up there."

"Yes. And your father saved you from a whipping. Uncle Frank was very
angry."

"I got that new rifle, anyhow," declared Little Jim.

"And they lived happily ever afterward," s