whom he knew. A quarter of a mile to his left, on the tiny porch of a
lone adobe, sat Skeet under a hat, feet elevated to the porch railing,
head turned in a listening attitude, as though heeding a call, or many
calls, from the direction of a brick-and-stone structure to the
southwest. Everywhere familiar objects, scenes, stray people, caught his
eye as he rode slowly out upon the mesa, trying to get his thoughts away
from the immediate future, from Helen, his successful return of the
horse, and that other thing, his determination to leave this spacious
land for ever.

Suddenly he saw her. She was standing beside her brown saddler, her hand
upon the bridle, gazing thoughtfully toward the mountains, now in their
morning splendor. He rode Pat to a point perhaps twenty feet behind her,
and then quietly let go of the reins and dropped to earth. For a moment
he stood, his heart a well of bitterness; then, taking Pat's rein, he
stepped toward her, quietly and slowly, intent upon making her surprise
complete, because of her great love for the horse. She continued
motionless, her hand upon the bridle, facing the mountains, and he came
close before she turned.

He stopped. She stood perfectly still, eyes upon him, upon the horse, a
slow pallor creeping into her face. Presently, as one in a spell, she
let fall the reins, slowly, mechanically, and stepped toward him, a step
ever quickening, her face drawn, in her eyes a strange, unchanging glow,
until, when almost upon him, she held out both arms in trembling welcome
and uttered a pitiful outcry.

"Stephen! Pat!" she sobbed. "Why--why didn't you--" She checked herself,
came close, reached one arm around Pat, the other around Stephen, and
went on. "I am--am glad you--you have come back--back to me." Her white
face quivered. "Both of you. I--I have suffered."

And Stephen, swept away by the tide of his great love, and forgetting
his determination, forgetting everything, bent his head and kissed her.
She did not shrink, and he kissed her again. Then he began to talk, to
tell her of her wonderful horse. Slowly at first, hesitating, then, as
the spirit of the drama gripped him, rapidly, sometimes incoherently, he
told of his adventures with the horse, and of Pat's unwavering loyalty
throughout, and of that last dread situation when both their lives
depended upon Pat's winning in a death-grapple with a wild horse. And
then, as the gates of speech were opened, he showed her his own p