ode with Andy toward the hill-trail that led to
his old home on the Blue Mesa, where he finally surveyed the traces of
old man Annersley's patient toil. The fences had been pulled down and
the water-hole enlarged. The cabin, now a rendezvous for occasional
riders of the T-Bar-T, had suffered from weather and neglect. The door
sagging from one hinge, the grimy, cobwebbed windows, the unswept
floor, and the litter of tin cans about the yard, stirred bitter
memories in Pete's heart. Andy spoke of Annersley, "A fine old man,"
but Pete had no comment to make. They loafed outside in the afternoon
sunshine, momentarily expecting the two men from the T-Bar-T.
Presently Andy White rose and wandered off toward the spring. Pete sat
idly tossing pellets of earth at a tin can. He was thinking of
Annersley, of the old man's unvarying kindliness and quaint humor. He
wished that Annersley were alive, could know of his success--Pete had
done pretty well for a lad of sixteen--and that they could talk
together as in the old days. He rose presently and entered the
abandoned cabin. The afternoon sunlight flickered palely through the
dusty windows. Several window-panes had been broken out, but the one
marked with two bullet holes, radiating tiny cracks in the glass, was
still there. The oilcloth on the table was torn and soiled. The mud
of wet weather had been tracked about the floor. The stove was rusted
and cracked. Pete wondered why men must invariably abuse things that
were patently useful, when those things did not belong to any one
especially; for the stove, the windows, the table, the two home-made
chairs showed more than disuse. They had been wantonly broken, hacked,
or battered. Some one had pried the damper from the stove, broken it
in two, and had used half of it for a lid-lifter. A door had been torn
from the wall-cupboard and split into kindling, as a few painted
splinters attested. And some one had shot several holes in the door,
evidently endeavoring to make the initial "T" with a forty-five. An
old pair of discarded overalls lay in one corner, a worn and useless
glove in another. Pete was glad that Annersley would never know of all
this--and yet it seemed as though Annersley _could_ see these
things--and Pete, standing alone in the room, felt as though he were in
some way to blame for this disorder and squalidness. Time and
occupation had rather dulled Pete's remembrance of the actual detail of
the place,