“Where haven’t you been?” said Bartley, laughing.

“Well, I ain’t been North for quite a spell.”

And Cheyenne fell silent, thinking of Laramie, of the broad prairies of Wyoming, of his old homestead, and the days when he was happy with his wife and Little Jim.  But he was not silent long.  He visioned a plan that he might work out, after he had seen Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank again.  Meanwhile, the sun was shining, the road wound among the ragged hills, and Filaree and Joshua stepped along briskly, their hoof-beats suggesting the rhythm of a song.

That night they camped in the hill country not far from a crossroads store.  In the morning they bought a few provisions and an extra canteen.

“There’s a piece of country between here and the real hills that is like to be dry,” explained Cheyenne.  “We’re leavin’ the road, this mornin’, and cuttin’ north.  She’s some rough, the way we’re headed, but you’ll like it.”

From the sagebrush of the southern slopes they climbed slowly up to a country of scattered juniper.  By noon they were among the pinons, following a dim bridle trail that Cheyenne’s horses seemed to know.

“In a couple of days, I aim to spring a surprise on you,” said Cheyenne as they turned in that night.  “I figure to show you somethin’ you been wantin’ to see.”

“Bring on your bears,” said Bartley, laughing.

Cheyenne’s moodiness had vanished.  Frequently he hummed his old trail song as they rode.  Next day, as they nooned among the spruce of the high country, Cheyenne suddenly drew the dice from his pocket and, turning them in his hands, finally tossed them over the rim-rock of the canon edging their camp.  “It’s a fool game,” he said.  And Bartley knew, by the otter’s tone, that he did not alone refer to the game of dice.

The air was thin, clear, and vital with a quality that the air of the lower country lacked.  Bartley felt an ambition to settle down and go to writing.  He thought that he now had material enough and to spare.  They were in a country, vast, fenceless, verdant—­almost awesome in its timbered silences.  His imagination was stirred.

From their noon camp they rode into the timber and from the timber into a mountain meadow, knee-deep with lush grass.  There was no visible trail across the meadow but the horses seemed to know which way to go.  After crossing the meadow, Filaree, leading the cavalcade, turned and took a steep trail down the side of a hidden canon, a mighty chasm, rock-walled and somber.  At the bottom the horses drank, and, crossing the stream, climbed the farther side.  In an hour they were again on the rim, plodding noiselessly through the sun-flecked shadows of the giant spruce.

“How about that surprise?” queried Bartley.

“Ain’t this good enough?” said Cheyenne, gesturing roundabout.

“Gosh, yes!  Lead on, Macduff.”