Apparently there was a bite at length.  The pole bent almost double and the reel played back and forth rapidly as the fisher wore down his victim.  Finally he came close to the edge of the stream, dipped his net into the water, and jerked it up at once bearing a twisting, shining trout enwrapped in the meshes.  Swinging about as he did so, Drew caught his first full glimpse of Anthony’s face, and knew him for the man who had ridden the wild horse at Madison Square Garden those weeks before.

Perhaps it was astonishment that moved the big man—­surely it could not have been fear—­yet he knelt there behind the sheltering tree grey-faced, wide, and blank of eye, as a man might look who dreamed and awoke to see his vision standing before him in full sunlit life.  What his expression became then could not be said, for he buried his face in his hands and his great body shook with a tremor.  If this was not fear it was something very like.

And very like a man in fear he stole back among the trees as cautiously as he had made his approach.  Resuming his horse he rode straight for Logan.

“Couldn’t find your young friend,” he said, “along the creek.”

“Why,” said Logan, “I can reach him with a holler from here, I think.”

“Never mind; just tell him that he’s welcome to do what he pleases on the place; and he can bunk down at the house if he wants to.  I’d like to know his name, though.”

“That’s easy.  Anthony Bard.”

“Ah,” said Drew slowly, “Anthony Bard!”

“That’s it,” nodded Logan, and fixed a curious eye upon the big grey rider.

As if to escape from that inquiring scrutiny, Drew wheeled his horse and spurred at a sharp gallop up the hill, leaving Logan frowning behind.

“No stay over night,” muttered the shepherd.  “No fooling about that damned old shack of a house; what’s wrong with Drew?”

He answered himself, for all shepherds are forced by the bitter loneliness of their work to talk with themselves.  “The old boy’s worried.  Damned if he isn’t!  I’ll keep an eye on this Bard feller.”

And he loosened the revolver in its holster.

He might have been even more concerned had he seen the redoubled speed with which Drew galloped as soon as the hilltop was between him and Logan.  Straight on he pushed his horse, not exactly like one who fled but rather more like one too busy with consuming thoughts to pay the slightest heed to the welfare of his mount.  It was a spent horse on which he trotted late that night up to the big, yawning door of his barn.

“Where’s Nash?” he asked of the man who took his horse.

“Playing a game with the boys in the bunk-house, sir.”

So past the bunk-house Drew went on his way to his dwelling, knocked, and threw open the door.  Inside, a dozen men, seated at or standing around a table, looked up.

“Nash!”

“Here.”

“On the jump, Nash.  I’m in a hurry.”