ng in review. And he sat there
on his pony, singling out the more important personages of the
army--the officers, the guiding spirits of the invisible columns.

Five miles into the distance, at a point where the river doubled
sharply, rose the roofs of several ranch buildings--his father's ranch,
the Lazy Y. Upon the buildings Calumet's army of memories descended
and he forgot the desert, the long ride, the bleak days of his exile,
as he yielded to solemn introspection.

Yet, even now, the expression of his face did not change. A little
longer he scanned the valley and then the army of memories marched out
of his vision and he took up the reins and sent the pony forward. The
little animal tossed its head impatiently, perhaps scenting food and
companionship, but Calumet's heavy hand on the reins discouraged haste.

For Calumet was in no hurry. He had not yet worked out an explanation
for the strange whim that had sent him home after an absence of
thirteen years and he wanted time to study over it. His lips took on a
satiric curl as he meditated, riding slowly down into the valley. It
was inexplicable, mysterious, this notion of his to return to a father
who had never taken any interest in him. He could not account for it.
He had not been sent for, he had not sent word; he did not know why he
had come. He had been in the Durango country when the mood had struck
him, and without waiting to debate the wisdom of the move he had ridden
in to headquarters, secured his time, and--well, here he was. He had
pondered much in an effort to account for the whim, carefully
considering all its phases, and he was still uncertain.

He knew he would receive no welcome; he knew he was not wanted. Had he
felt a longing to revisit the old place? Perhaps it had been that.
And yet, perhaps not, for he was here now, looking at it, living over
the life of his youth, riding again through the long bunch grass, over
the barren alkali flats, roaming again in the timber that fringed the
river--going over it all again and nothing stirred in his heart--no
pleasure, no joy, no satisfaction, no emotion whatever. If he felt any
curiosity he was entirely unconscious of it; it was dormant if it
existed at all. As he was able to consider her dispassionately he knew
that he had not come to look at his mother's grave. She had been
nothing to him, his heart did not beat a bit faster when he thought of
her.

Then, why had he come? He did not