"I'll be the heroine of your story, upon one condition," Dorothy said, finally.
"And that is--"
"If you will try and find Cheyenne and--and just be a friend to him. I suppose it sounds silly, and I would not think of asking you to try and keep him from doing anything he decided to do. But you might happen to be able to say the right word at the right time."
"I hardly took myself as seriously as that, in connection with Cheyenne," declared Bartley. "I suppose, if I should saddle up and ride south to-morrow, I might overtake him along the road, somewhere. He travels slowly."
"But you won't go, just because I spoke as I did?"
"Not altogether because of that. I like Cheyenne."
Impetuously Dorothy stepped close to Bartley and laid her hand on his arm. "I knew you were like that! And what does writing about people amount to, when you can really do something for them? It isn't just Cheyenne. There's Little Jim--"
"Yes. But where is Little Jim?"
Dorothy called in her high, clear voice. There was no answering halloo. "His horse is there. I can't understand--"
"I'll look around a bit," said Bartley. "He's probably ambushing us, somewhere, and expects us to be tremendously surprised."