It was hot and they rode slowly. Far ahead, in the dim southern distances, lay the hills that walled the San Andreas Valley from the desert.
Dorothy noticed that Bartley gazed intently at those hills. "Cheyenne?" she queried, smiling.
"I beg your pardon. I was dreaming. Yes, I was thinking of him, and--" Bartley gestured toward Little Jim.
"Then you know?"
"Cheyenne told me, night before last, in San Andreas."
"Of course, Jimmy is far better off right where he is," asserted Dorothy, although Bartley had said nothing. "I don't think Cheyenne will ever settle down. At least, not so long as that man Sears is alive. Of course, if anything happens to Sears--"
Dorothy was interrupted by Little Jim, who turned in the saddle to address her. "Say, Dorry, if you keep on talkin' out loud, the Injuns is like to jump us! Scoutin' parties don't keep talkin' when they're on the trail."
"Don't be silly, Jimmy," laughed Dorothy.
"Well, they used to be Injuns in these hills, once."
"We'll behave," said Bartley. "But can't we ride toward the foothills and get in the shade?"