eight."

"Git along! And if anybody gits the best of you in a hoss-trade, wire me
collect. It'll sure be news!"

Bartley settled himself in the saddle and touched Dobe with the spurs.

"Give my regards to Senator Steve--and Cheyenne," called Wishful.

Wishful stood gazing after his recent guest until he had disappeared
around a corner.

Then Wishful strode into the hotel office and marked a blue cross on the
big wall calendar. A humorous smile played about his mouth. It was a
mark to indicate the day and date that an Eastern tenderfoot had got the
best of him in a horse-deal.

CHAPTER VII

AT THE WATER-HOLE

Before Bartley had been riding an hour he knew that he had a good horse
under him. Dobe "followed his head" and did not flirt with his shadow,
although he was grain-fed and ready to go. When Dobe trotted--an easy,
swinging trot that ate into the miles--Bartley tried to post, English
style. But Dobe did not understand that style of riding a trot. Each
time Bartley raised in the stirrups, Dobe took it for a signal to lope.
Finally Bartley caught the knack of leaning forward and riding a trot
with a straight leg, and to his surprise he found it was a mighty
satisfactory method and much easier than posting.

The mesa trail was wide--in reality a cross-country road, so Bartley had
opportunity to try Dobe's different gaits. The running walk was a joy to
experience, the trot was easy, and the lope as regular and smooth as the
swing of a pendulum. Finally Bartley settled to the best long-distance
gait of all, the running walk, and began to enjoy the vista; the
wide-sweeping, southern reaches dotted with buttes, the line of the far
hills crowded against the sky, and the intense light in which there was
no faintest trace of blur or moisture. Everything within normal range of
vision stood out clean-edged and definite.

Unaccustomed to riding a horse that neck-reined at the merest touch, and
one that stopped at the slightest tightening of the rein, Bartley had to
learn through experience that a spade bit requires delicate handling. He
was jogging along easily when he turned to glance back at the town--now
a far, huddled group of tiny buildings. Inadvertently he tightened rein.
Dobe stopped short. Bartley promptly went over the fork and slid to the
ground.

Dobe gazed down at his rider curiously, ears cocked forward, as though
trying to understand just what his rider meant to do next. Bartley
expected t