ss, he felt to be the true life for him.

It was evening; the sun had not yet set, but it was dipping low
over the western hills, casting long shadows from behind the
gorgeous-colored heat clouds. Its dying lustre shone like a fire of
molten matter through the tree-tops, and lit the forest-crowned hills,
until the densest foliage appeared like the most delicate fretwork of
Nature's own cutting. And in the shadow cast by the hilly background
there nestled the ranch, overlooking its vast, wide-spreading pastures
of succulent grass.

Yes, Tresler was glad to be back to it all, no matter what the future
might hold for him. He had missed his companions; he had missed
Arizona, with his fierce, untamed spirit; he had missed Joe, with his
quaint face and staunch heart; but more than all, he had longed to get
back to Diane, looking forward to the greeting she would extend him as
only a lover can. But there was something more in his longing than
that. Every day he had been away he had fretted and chafed at the
thought of what might be happening to her. Joe was there to send him
word, but even this was insufficient. There had been times when he
felt that he could not stay to finish the work put upon him; there had
been times when his patience utterly gave way before the nervous
tension of his feelings, and he had been ready to saddle his mare and
offer her a race against time back to the girl he loved.

His feelings were stirred to their very depths as he came up the trail
from the ford. He had no words for either of his companions, nor did
they seem inclined for speech. They passed the corrals in silence and
reached the bunkhouse, where several of their comrades greeted them
with a nod or a casual "Hello!" They might have just returned from a
day's work on the range for all the interest displayed at their
coming. But, then, effusiveness is no part of the cowboy's manner.
There is rarely a "good-bye" on the prairie, unless it is when a
comrade "hits the one-way trail." Even then it is more often a quiet
"s'long," without any demonstrativeness, but which may mean far more
than a flood of tears.

Jake was at his door when Tresler rode over to report. He was still
bearing the marks of the quirt on his face, and the author of them
beheld his handiwork with some qualms of regret. However, there was
none of this in his manner as he made his report. And, much to his
astonishment, Jake displayed a cold civility. He surpassed himself.