om as nice people as ever dragged saddles through a
bunk-house at midnight. But that ain't it. He's takin' old black hoss
away with him, and it don't jest set. I shore do hate to see you go."

Which seemed to express the opinions of the others. And somehow, even
when his master was in the saddle and everything pointing to a final
departure, Pat found himself hating to go. But duty was duty, and after
his master had gathered up the reins and all had cordially shaken hands
he broke into a canter, and, followed by a chorus of mighty yells,
headed into the interminable desert, within him the feeling of one upon
the threshold of new life, or of old and delightful life returned.
Before he realized either the lapse of time or the distance traveled, he
found himself cantering into the little railroad town he had visited so
hurriedly in the winter. And there followed another experience new to
Pat--a journey by train back to his home.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE REUNION

Stephen awoke quite late in the morning after his arrival in Pat's home
town. Standing before a window in his room at the hotel, he saw a young
woman cantering across the railroad tracks in the direction of the mesa.
It was Helen, and, at sight of her, for a brief and awful moment he
wavered in his decision. Then he remembered his suffering, and the
determination made while convalescing, and, hastening his toilet, he
hurried through breakfast and made his way to the livery-stable where
Pat had spent the night. Pat nickered joyful greeting, as if
understanding what was to come. Bridling and saddling him, Stephen
mounted and rode into the street at a canter. He turned into the avenue,
crossed the railroad tracks, and mounted the long, slow rise to the mesa
at a walk. He moved slowly because he wanted time to think, to pull
himself together, to the end that he might hold himself firmly to his
decision in this last talk. And yet--and this was the conflict he
suffered--he could hardly restrain himself, hold himself back, from
urging Pat to his utmost.

He reached the first flat in the long rise. Absorbed in troubled
reflections, he was barely conscious of the nods from two men he passed
whom he knew--Hodgins, kindly old soul, book in hand; Maguire, truest of
Celts, a twenty-inch slide-rule under his arm. Nodding in friendly
recognition, both men gazed at the horse, seeming to understand, and
glad to know that he was back. Mounting the second rise, he saw another