"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.
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