"Well, we're in a fix," asserted Bartley.
"Yes; we're afoot. But we'll make it. And right here I'm tellin' you that I aim to shoot a game of craps with Panhandle, usin' these here dice, that'll be fast and won't last long."
"How about the law?"
"The law is all right, in spots. But they's a whole lot of country between them spots."
Cheyenne cached the bed-roll, saddles, and cooking-outfit back in the brush, taking only a canteen and a little food. He proffered a pair of moccasins, parfleche-soled and comfortable, to Bartley.
"You wear these. Them new ridin'-boots'll sure kill you dead, walkin'. You can pack 'em along with you."
"How about your feet?"
"Say, you wouldn't call me a tenderfoot, would you?"
"Not exactly."
"Then slip on them moccasins. But first I aim to make a circle and see just where they caught up our stock."