As though his subconscious mind directed the movement, the young man looked away from Kitty’s home to the distant mountain ridge where the night before on the summit of the Divide he had met the stranger.  All the way home the cowboy had wondered about the man; evolving many theories, inventing many things to account for his presence, alone and on foot, so far from the surroundings to which he was so clearly accustomed.  Of one thing Phil was sure—­the man was in trouble—­deep trouble.  The more that the clean-minded, gentle-hearted lad of the great out-of-doors thought about it, the more strongly he felt that he had unwittingly intruded at a moment that was sacred to the stranger—­sacred because the man was fighting one of those battles that every man must fight—­and fight alone.  It was this feeling that had kept the young man from speaking of the incident to anyone—­even to the Dean, or to “Mother,” as he called Mrs. Baldwin.  Perhaps, too, this feeling was the real reason for Phil’s sense of kinship with the stranger, for the cowboy himself had moments in his life that he could permit no man to look upon.  But in his thinking of the man whose personality had so impressed him one thing stood out above all the rest—­the stranger clearly belonged to that world of which, from experience, the young foreman of the Cross-Triangle knew nothing.  Phil Acton had no desire for the world to which the stranger belonged, but in his heart there was a troublesome question.  If—­if he himself were more like the man whom he had met on the Divide; if—­if he knew more of that other world; if he, in some degree, belonged to that other world, as Kitty, because of her three years in school belonged, would it make any difference?

From the distant mountain ridge that marks the eastern limits of the Williamson Valley country, and thus, in a degree, marked the limit of Phil’s world, the lad’s gaze turned again to the scene immediately before him.

The band of horses, followed by the cowboys, were trotting from the narrow pass out into the open flats.  Some of the band—­the mothers—­went quietly, knowing from past experience that they would in a few hours be returned to their freedom.  Others—­the colts and yearlings—­bewildered, curious and fearful, followed their mothers without protest.  But those who in many a friendly race or primitive battle had proved their growing years seemed to sense a coming crisis in their lives, hitherto peaceful.  And these, as though warned by that strange instinct which guards all wild things, and realizing that the open ground between the pass and the gate presented their last opportunity, made final desperate efforts to escape.  With sudden dashes, dodging and doubling, they tried again and again for freedom.  But always between them and the haunts they loved there was a persistent horseman.  Running, leaping, whirling, in their efforts to be everywhere at once, the riders worked their charges toward the gate.