y 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