Cheyenne knew enough about Sneed, by reputation, to make him cautious. He decided to play ace for ace and, if possible, steal the stolen horses from Sneed. The difficulty was to locate them without being seen. Little Jim had said the horses were in Sneed’s corral, somewhere up in the mountain meadows. And because Cheyenne knew little about that particular section of the mountains, he rolled a blanket and packed some provisions to see him through. Bartley and he had returned to their camp after their visit to the ranch, and next morning, as Cheyenne made preparation to ride, Bartley offered to go with him.

Cheyenne dissuaded Bartley from accompanying him, arguing that he could travel faster and more cautiously alone. “One man ridin’ in to Sneed’s camp wouldn’t look as suspicious as two,” said Cheyenne. “And if I thought you could help any, I’d say to come along. That’s on the square. Me and my little old carbine will make out, I guess.”

So Bartley, somewhat against his inclination, stayed in camp, with the understanding that, if Cheyenne did not return in two days, he was to report the circumstance to the authorities in San Andreas, the principal town of the valley.

Meanwhile, the regular routine prevailed at the Lawrence ranch. Uncle Frank had the irrigation plant to look after; and Aunt Jane was immersed in the endless occupation of housekeeping. Little Jim had his regular light tasks to attend to, and that morning he made short work of them. It was not until noon that Aunt Jane missed him. He had disappeared completely, as had his saddle-pony.

At first, Jimmy had thought of riding over to his father’s camp, but he was afraid his father would guess his intent and send him back home. So he tied his pony to a clump of junipers some distance from the camp, and, crawling to a rise, he lay and watched Cheyenne saddle up and take the trail that led into the high country. A half-hour later, Jimmy mounted his pony and, riding wide of the camp, he cut into the hill trail and followed it on up through the brush to the hillside timber. He planned to ride until he got so far into the mountains that when he did overtake his father and offer his assistance in locating the stolen horses, it would hardly seem worth while to send him back. Jimmy expected to be ordered back, but he had his own argument ready in that event.

Little Jim’s pony carried him swiftly up the grade. Meanwhile, Cheyenne had traveled rather slowly, saving his horse. At a bend in the trail he drew rein to breathe the animal. On the lookout for any moving thing, he glanced back and down and saw an old black hat bobbing along through the brush below. He leaned forward and peered down. “The little cuss!” he exclaimed, grinning. Then his expression changed. “Won’t do, a-tall! His aunt will be havin’ fits and Miss Dorry’ll be helpin’ her to have ’em, if she hears of it. Dog-gone that boy!”

Nevertheless, Cheyenne was pleased. His boy had sand, and liked adventure. Little Jim might have stayed in camp, with Bartley, and spent a joyous day shooting at a mark, incidentally hinting to the Easterner that “his olé twenty-two was about worn out.” But Little Jim had chosen to follow his father into the hills.

“Reckon he figures to see what’ll happen,” muttered Cheyenne as he led his horse off the trail and waited for Jimmy to come up.

Little Jim’s black hat bobbed steadily up the switchbacks. Presently he was on the stretch of trail at the end of which his father waited, concealed in the brush.

As Little Jim’s pony approached the bend it pricked its ears and snorted. “Git along, you!” said Jimmy.

“Where you goin’?” queried Cheyenne, stepping out on the trail.

Little Jim gazed blankly at his father. “I’m just a-ridin’. I wa’n’t goin’ no place.”

“Well, you took the wrong trail to get there. You fan it back to the folks.”

“Aunt Jane is my boss!” said Jimmy defiantly. “’Course she is,” agreed Cheyenne. “You and me, we’re just pardners. But, honest, Jimmy, you can’t do no good, doggin’ along after me. Your Aunt Jane would sure stretch my hide if she knowed I let you come along.”

“I won’t tell her.”

“But she’d find out. You just ride back and wait down at my camp. I’ll find them hosses, all right.”

Little Jim hesitated, twisting his fingers in his pony’s mane. “Suppose,” he ventured, “that a bunch of Sneed’s riders was to run on to you? You’d sure need help.”

“That’s just it! Supposin’ they did? And supposin’ they took a crack at us, they might git you for you sure look man-size, a little piece off.”

Jimmy grinned at the compliment, but compliments could not alter his purpose. “I got my olé twenty-two loaded,” he asserted hopefully.

“Then you just ride back and help Mr. Bartley take care of the hosses. He ain’t much of a hand with stock.”

“Can’t I go with you?”

“Not this trip, son. But I’ll tell you somethin’. Mr. Bartley, down there, said to me this mornin’ that he was goin’ to buy you a brand-new twenty-two rifle, one of these days: mebby after we locate the hosses. You better have a talk with him about it.”

This was a temptation to ride back: yet Jimmy had set his heart on going with his father. And his father had said that he was simply going to ride up to Sneed’s place and have a talk with him. Jimmy wanted to hear that talk. He knew that his father meant business when he had told him to go back.

“All right for you!” said Jimmy finally. And he reined his pony round and rode back down the trail sullenly, his black hat pulled over his eyes, and his small back very straight and stiff.

Cheyenne watched him until the brush of the lower levels intervened. Then Cheyenne began the ascent, his eye alert, his mind upon the task ahead. When Little Jim realized that his father was so far into the timber that the trail below was shut from view, he reined his pony round again and began to climb the grade, slowly, this time, for fear that he might overtake his father too soon.

Riding the soundless upland trail that meandered among the spruce and pine, skirting the edges of the mountain meadows and keeping within the timber, Cheyenne finally reached the main ridge of the range. Occasionally he dismounted and examined the tracks of horses.

It was evident that Sneed had quite a bunch of horses running in the meadows. Presently Cheyenne came to a narrow trail which crossed a meadow. At the far end of the trail, close to the timber, was a spring, fenced with poles. The spring itself was boxed, and roundabout were the marks of high-heeled boots. Cheyenne realized that he must be close to Sneed’s cabin. He wondered if he had been seen.

If he had, the only thing to do was to act natural. He was now too close to a habitation although he could see none to do otherwise. So he dismounted and, tying his horse to the spring fence, he stepped through the gate and picked up the rusted tin cup and dipped it in the cold mountain water. He had the cup halfway to his lips when his horse nickered. From somewhere in the brush came an answering nicker. Cheyenne, kneeling, threw the water from the cup as though he had discovered dirt in it, and dipped the cup again.

Behind him he heard his horse moving restlessly. As Cheyenne raised the cup to drink, he half closed his eyes, and glancing sideways, caught a glimpse of a figure standing near the upper end of the spring fence. Cheyenne drank, set down the cup, and, rising, turned his back on the figure, and, stretching his arms, yawned heartily. He strode to his horse, untied the reins, mounted, and began to sing:

Seems like I don’t get anywhere
Git along, cayuse, git along!
But were leavin here and

“What’s your hurry?” came from behind him.

Cheyenne turned and glanced back. “Hello, neighbor! Now, if I’d ‘a’ knowed you was around, I’d ‘a’ asked you to have a drink with me.”

A tall, heavy-set mountain man, bearded, and limping noticeably, stepped round the end of the spring fence and strode toward him. From Uncle Frank’s description, Cheyenne at once recognized the stranger as Sneed. Across Sneed’s left arm lay a rifle. Cheyenne saw him let down the hammer as he drew near.

“Where you headed?” queried Sneed.

“Me, I’m lookin’ for Bill Sneed’s cabin. You ain’t Sneed, are you?”

“Yes, I’m Sneed.”

“Well, I’m in luck. I’m Cheyenne Hastings.”

“That don’t buy you nothin’ around here. What do you want to see me about?”

“Why, I done lost a couple of hosses the other night. I reckon somethin’ stampeded ’em, for they never strayed far from camp before. I trailed ’em up to the hills and then lost their tracks on the rocks. Thought I’d ride up and see if you had seen ’em a little olé buckskin and a gray.”

Sneed waved his hand toward the east. “My corrals are over there. You’re welcome to look my stock over.”

“Thanks. This way, you said?”

“Straight ahead.”

Cheyenne hesitated, hoping that Sneed would take the lead. But the mountain man merely gestured again and followed Cheyenne through a patch of timber, and across another meadow and Cheyenne caught a glimpse of the ridge of a cabin roof, and smoke above it. Close to the cabin was a large pole corral. Cheyenne saw the backs of Filaree and Joshua, among the other horses, long before he came to the corral. Yet, not wishing to appear too eager, he said nothing until he arrived at the corner of the fence.

Then he turned and pointed. “Them’s my hosses the gray and the buckskin. I’m mighty glad you caught ’em up.”

Sneed nodded. “One of my boys found them in with a bunch of my stock and run them in here.”

A few rods from the corral stood the cabin, larger than Cheyenne had imagined, and built of heavy logs, with a wide-roofed porch running across the entire front. On the veranda lay several saddles. Tied to the hitch rail stood two chunky mountain ponies that showed signs of recent hard use.

Cheyenne smiled as he turned toward Sneed. “You got a mighty snug homestead up here, neighbor.”

“Tie your horse and step in,” invited Sneed.

“He’ll stand,” said Cheyenne, dismounting and dropping the reins.

Cheyenne was in the enemy’s country. But he trusted to his ability to play up to his reputation for an easy-going hobo to get him out again, without trouble. He appeared unaware of the covert suspicion with which Sneed watched his every movement.

“Meet the boys,” said Sneed as they entered the cabin.

Cheyenne nodded to the four men who sat playing cards at a long table in the main room. They returned his nod indifferently and went on with their game. Cheyenne pretended an interest in the game, meanwhile studying the visible characteristics of the players. One and all they were hard-boiled, used to the open, rough-spoken, and indifferent to Cheyenne’s presence.

Sneed stepped to the kitchen and pulled the coffee-pot to the front of the stove. Finally Cheyenne strolled out to the veranda and seated himself on the long bench near the doorway. He picked up a stick and began to whittle, and as he whittled his gaze traveled from the log stable to the corral, and from there to the edge of the clearing. He heard Sneed speak to one of the men in a low voice. Cheyenne slipped his knife into his pocket and his fingers touched the pair of dice.

He drew out the dice and rattled them. “Go ’way, you snake eyes!” he chanted as he threw the dice along the bench. “Little Jo, where you bushin’ out? You sure are bashful!” He threw again. “Roll on, you box-car! I don’t like you, nohow! Nine? Nine? Five and a four! Six and a three! Just as easy!”

Sneed came to the doorway and glanced at Cheyenne, who continued shooting craps with himself, oblivious to Sneed’s muttered comment. Sneed turned and stepped in. “Crazy as a hoot owl,” he said as one of the card-players glanced up.

Cheyenne picked up the dice and listened. He heard Sneed stepping heavily about the kitchen, and he heard an occasional and vivid exclamation from one of the card-players. He glanced at the distant edge of timber. He shook his head. “Can’t make it!” he declared, and again he threw the dice.

One of the cubes rolled off the bench. He stooped and picked it up. As he straightened, he stared. Just at the edge of the timber he saw Little Jim’s pony, and Little Jim’s black hat. Some one in the cabin pushed back a chair. Evidently the card game was finished.

Then Cheyenne heard Sneed’s voice: “Just lay off that game, if you want to eat. Come and get it.”

Wondering what Little Jim was up to, Cheyenne turned and walked into the cabin. “Guess I’ll wash up, first,” he said, gazing about as though looking for the wherewithal to wash. He knew well enough where the basin was. He had noticed it out by the kitchen door, when he rode up to the cabin. Sneed told him where to find the basin. Cheyenne stepped round the cabin. Covertly he glanced toward the edge of the timber. Little Jim had disappeared.

Entering the cabin briskly, Cheyenne took his place at the table and ate heartily.

Lawson, who seemed to be Sneed’s right-hand man, was the first to speak to him. “Bill tells me you are huntin’ hosses.”

“Yep! That little gray and the buckskin, out in your corral, are my hosses. They strayed

“Didn’t see no brand on ’em,” declared Lawson.

“Nope. They never was branded. I raised ’em both, when I was workin’ for Senator Steve, over to the Box-S.”

“That sounds all right. But you got to show me. I bought them cayuses from a Chola, down in the valley.”

Cheyenne suspected that Lawson was trying to create argument and, in so doing, open up a way to make him back down and leave or take the consequences of his act in demanding the horses.

“Honest, they’re my hosses,” declared Cheyenne, turning to Sneed.

“You’ll have to talk to Lawson,” said Sneed.

Cheyenne frowned and scratched his head. Suddenly his face brightened. “Tell you what I’ll do! I’ll shoot you craps for ’em.”

“That’s all right, but what’ll you put up against ’em?” asked Lawson.

“What did you pay for ’em?” queried Cheyenne.

“Fifty bucks.”

“You got ’em cheap. They’re worth that much to me.” Cheyenne pushed back his chair and, fishing in his jeans, dug up a purse. “Here’s my fifty. As soon as you get through eatin’ we’ll shoot for the ponies.”

Lawson, while finishing his meal, made up his mind that Cheyenne would not get away with that fifty dollars, game or no game; and, also, that he would not get the horses. Cheyenne knew this knew the kind of man he was dealing with. But he had a reason to keep the men in the cabin. Little Jim was out there somewhere, and up to something. If any of the men happened to catch sight of Little Jim, they would suspect Cheyenne of some trickery. Moreover, if Little Jim were caught but Cheyenne refused to let himself think of what might happen in that event.

Cheyenne threw the dice on the table as Lawson got up. “Go ahead and shoot.”

“Show me what I got to beat,” said Lawson.

“All right. Watch ’em close.”

Cheyenne gathered up the dice and threw. Calling his point, he snapped his fingers and threw again. The men crowded round, momentarily interested in Cheyenne’s sprightly monologue. Happening to glance through the doorway as he gathered up the dice for another throw, Cheyenne noticed that his horse had turned and was standing, with ears and eyes alert, looking toward the corral.

Cheyenne tossed up the dice, caught them and purposely made a wild throw. One of the little cubes shot across the table and clattered on the floor. Cheyenne barely had time to glance through the kitchen doorway and the window beyond as he recovered the cube. But he had seen that the corral bars were down and that the corral was empty. Quickly he resumed his place at the table and threw again, meanwhile talking steadily. He had not made his point nor had he thrown a seven. Sweat prickled on his forehead. Little Jim had seen his father’s horses and knew that the men were in the cabin. With the rashness of boyhood he had sneaked up to the corral, dropped the bars, and had then flung pine cones at the horses, starting them to milling and finally to a dash through the gateway and out into the meadow.

Cheyenne brushed his arm across his face. “Come on you, Filaree!” he chanted.

Somebody would be mightily surprised when the ownership of Filaree and Joshua was finally decided. Unwittingly, Little Jim had placed his father in a still more precarious position. Sneed and his men, finding the corral empty, would naturally conclude that Cheyenne had kept them busy while some friend had run off the horses. Cheyenne knew the risks he ran; but, above all, he wanted to prolong the game until Little Jim got safely beyond reach of Sneeds men. As for himself

Again Cheyenne threw, but he did not make his point, nor throw a seven. He threw several times; and still he did not make his point. Finally he made his point. Smiling, he gathered up his money and tucked it in his pocket.

“I reckon that settles it,” he said cheerfully.

Sneed and Lawson exchanged glances. Cheyenne, rolling a cigarette, drew a chair toward them and sat down. He seemed at home, and altogether friendly. One of the men picked up a deck of cards and suggested a game. Sneed lighted his pipe and stepped to the kitchen to get a drink of water. Cheyenne glanced casually round the cabin, drew his feet under himself, and jumped for the doorway. He heard Sneed drop the dipper and knew that Sneed would pick up something else, and quickly.

Cheyenne made the saddle on the run, reined toward the corral, and, passing it on the run, turned in the saddle to glance back. Sneed was in the doorway. Cheyenne jerked his horse to one side and dug in the spurs. Sneed’s rifle barked and a bullet whined past Cheyenne’s head. He crouched in the saddle. Again a bullet whistled across the sunlit clearing. The cow-horse was going strong. A tree flicked past, then another and another.

Cheyenne straightened in the saddle and glanced back through the timber. He saw a jumble of men and horses in front of the cabin. “They got just two hosses handy, and they’re rode down,” he muttered as he sped through the shadows of the forest.

Across another sun-swept meadow he rode, and into the timber again and before he realized it he was back on the mountain trail that led to the valley. He took the first long, easy grade on the run, checked at the switchback, and pounded down the succeeding grade, still under cover of the hillside timber, but rapidly nearing the more open country of brush and rock.

As he reined in at the second switchback he saw, far below, and going at a lively trot, seven or eight horses, and behind them, hazing them along as fast as the trail would permit, Little Jim.

“If Sneed’s outfit gets to the rim before he makes the next turn, they’ll get him sure,” reasoned Cheyenne.

He thought of turning back and trying to stop Sneed’s men. He thought of turning his horse loose and ambushing the mountainmen, afoot. But Cheyenne did not want to kill. His greatest fear was that Little Jim might get hurt. As he hesitated, a rifle snarled from the rim above, and he saw Little Jim’s horse flinch and jump forward.

“I reckon it’s up to us, old Steel Dust,” he said to his horse.

Hoping to draw the fire of the men above, he eased his horse round the next bend and then spurred him to a run. Below, Little Jim was jogging along, within a hundred yards or so of the bend that would screen him from sight. Realizing that he could never make the next turn on the run, Cheyenne gripped with his knees, and leaned back to meet the shock as Steel Dust plunged over the end of the turn and crashed through the brush below. A slug whipped through the brush and clipped a twig in front of the horse.

Steel Dust swerved and lunged on down through the heavy brush. A naked creek-bed showed white and shimmering at the bottom of the slope. Again a slug whined through the sunlight and Cheyenne’s hat spun from his head and settled squarely on a low bush. It was characteristic of Cheyenne that he grabbed for his hat and got it as he dashed past.

“Keep the change,” said Cheyenne as he ducked beneath a branch and straightened up again. He was almost to the creek-bed, naked to the sunlight, and a bad place to cross with guns going from above. He pulled up, slipped from his horse, and slapped him on the flank.

The pony leaped forward, dashed across the creek-bed, and cut into the trail beyond. A bullet flattened to a silver splash on a boulder. Another bullet shot a spurt of sand into the air. Cheyenne crouched tense, and then made a rush. A slug sang past his head. Heat palpitated in the narrow draw. He gained the opposite bank, dropped, and crawled through the brush and lay panting, close to the trail. From above him somewhere came the note of a bird: Chirr-up! Chirr-up! Again a slug tore through the brush scattering twigs and tiny leaves on Cheyenne’s hat.

“That one didn’t say, ‘Cheer up!’” murmured Cheyenne.

When he had caught his breath he crawled out and into the narrow trail. The shooting had ceased. Evidently the men were riding. Stepping round the shoulder of the next bend, he peered up toward the rim of the range. A tiny figure appeared riding down the first long grade, and then another figure. Turning, he saw his own horse quietly nipping at the grass in the crevices of the rocks along the trail.

He walked down to the horse slowly and caught him up. Loosening his carbine from the scabbard, and deeming himself lucky to have it, after that wild ride down the mountain, he stepped back to the angle of the bend, rested the carbine against a rocky shoulder and dropped a shot in front of the first rider, who stopped suddenly and took to cover.

“That’ll hold ’em for a spell,” said Cheyenne, stepping back. He mounted and rode on down the trail, eyeing the tracks of the horses that Little Jim was hazing toward the valley below. Cheyenne shook his head. “He’s done run off the whole dog-gone outfit! There’s nothin’ stingy about that kid.”

Striking to the lower level, Cheyenne cut across country to his camp. He found Bartley leaning comfortably back against a saddle, reading aloud, and opposite him sat Dorry, so intent upon the reading that she did not hear Cheyenne until he spoke.

“Evenin’, folks! Seen anything of Jimmy?”

“Oh Cheyenne! No, have you?” It was Dorothy who spoke, as Bartley closed the book and got to his feet.

“Was you lookin’ for Jimmy’s address in that there book?” queried Cheyenne, grinning broadly.

Dorothy flushed and glanced at Bartley, who immediately changed the subject by calling attention to Cheyenne’s hat. Cheyenne also changed the subject by stating that Jimmy had recently ridden down the trail toward the ranch with some horses.

“Then you got your horses?” said Bartley.

“I reckon they’re over to the ranch about now.”

“Jimmy has been gone all day,” said Dorothy. “Aunt Jane is terribly worried about him.”

“Jimmy and me took a little ride in the hills,” said Cheyenne casually. “But you needn’t to tell Aunt Jane that Jimmy was with me. It turned out all right.”

“I rode over to your camp to look for Jimmy,” said Dorothy, “but Mr. Bartley had not seen him.”

Cheyenne nodded and reined his horse round.

“Why, your shirt is almost ripped from your back!” said Bartley.

“My hoss shied, back yonder, and stepped off into the brush. We kept on through the brush. It was shorter.”

Dorothy mounted her horse, and, nodding farewell to Bartley, accompanied Cheyenne to the ranch. When they were halfway there, Dorothy, who had been riding thoughtfully along, saying nothing, turned to her companion: “Cheyenne, you had trouble up there. You might at least tell me about it.”

“Well, Miss Dorry ” And Cheyenne told her how Jimmy had followed him, how he had sent Jimmy back, and the unexpected appearance of that young hopeful in the timber near Sneed’s cabin. “I was in there, figurín’ hard how to get my hosses and get away, when, somehow, Jimmy got to the corral and turned Sneed’s stock loose and hazed ’em down the trail. But where he run ’em to is the joke. I figured he would show up at our camp. It would be just like him to run the whole bunch into the ranch corral. And I reckon he done it.”

“But, Mr. Sneed!” exclaimed Dorothy. “If he finds out we had anything to do with running off his horses

“He never saw Jimmy clost enough to tell who he was. ’Course, Sneed knows Aunt Jane is my sister, and most he’ll suspicion is that I got help from some of my folks. But so far he don’t know who helped me turn the trick.”

“You don’t seem to be very serious about it,” declared Dorothy.

“Serious? Me? Why, ain’t most folks serious enough without everybody bein’ took that way?”

“Perhaps. But I knew something had happened the minute you rode into camp.”

“So did I,” asserted Cheyenne, and he spoke sharply to his horse.

Dorothy flushed. “Cheyenne, I rode over to find Jimmy. You needn’t Oh, there’s Aunt Jane now! And there’s Jimmy, and the corral is full of horses!”

“Reckon we better step along,” and Cheyenne put Steel Dust to a lope.