Dobe seemed to be doing his best,
yet he could not overtake the buckskin. Behind Bartley the patter of
hoofs sounded nearer. Bartley thought he heard Cheyenne call back to
him. He leaned forward, but the drumming of hoofs deadened all other
sound.
They were on a road, now--a road that ran south across the spaces,
unwinding itself like a tape flung from a reel. Suddenly Cheyenne pulled
to a stop. Bartley raced up, bracing himself as the big cow-horse set up
in two jumps.
"I thought you was abidin' in San Andreas," said Cheyenne.
"There's some one coming!" warned Bartley, breathing heavily.
"And his name is Filaree," declared Cheyenne. "You sure done a good job.
Let's keep movin'." And Cheyenne let Joshua out as Filaree drew
alongside and nickered shrilly.
"Now I reckon we better hold 'em in a little," said Cheyenne after they
had gone, perhaps, a half-mile. "We got a good start."
They slowed the horses to a trot. Filaree kept close to Joshua's flank.
A gust of warm air struck their faces.
"Ain't got time to shake hands, pardner," said Cheyenne. "Know where
you're goin'?"
"South," said Bartley.
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