There are also two sides to the Dean.  Or, rather, to be accurate, there is a front and a back.  The back—­flat and straight and broad—­indicates one side of his character—­the side that belongs with the square chin and the blue eyes that always look at you with such frank directness.  It was this side of the man that brought him barefooted and penniless to Arizona in those days long gone when he was only a boy and Arizona a strong man’s country.  It was this side of him that brought him triumphantly through those hard years of the Indian troubles, and in those wild and lawless times made him respected and feared by the evildoers and trusted and followed by those of his kind who, out of the hardships and dangers of those turbulent days, made the Arizona of to-day.  It was this side, too, that finally made the barefoot, penniless boy the owner of the Cross-Triangle Ranch.

I do not know the exact number of the Dean’s years—­I only know that his hair is grey, and that he does not ride as much as he once did.  I have heard him say, though, that for thirty-five years he lived in the saddle, and that the Cross-Triangle brand is one of the oldest irons in the State.  And I know, too, that his back is still flat and broad and straight.

The Dean’s front, so well-rounded and hearty, indicates as clearly the other side of his character.  And it is this side that belongs to the full red cheeks, the ever-ready chuckle or laugh; that puts the twinkle in the blue eyes, and the kindly tones in his deep voice.  It is this side of the Dean’s character that adds so large a measure of love to the respect and confidence accorded him by neighbors and friends, business associates and employees.  It is this side of the Dean, too, that, in these days, sits in the shade of the big walnut trees—­planted by his own hand—­and talks to the youngsters of the days that are gone, and that makes the young riders of this generation seek him out for counsel and sympathy and help.

Three things the Dean knows—­cattle and horses and men.  One thing the Dean will not, cannot tolerate—­weakness in one who should be strong.  Even bad men he admires, if they are strong—­not for their badness, but for their strength.  Mistaken men he loves in spite of their mistakes—­if only they be not weaklings.  There is no place anywhere in the Dean’s philosophy of life for a weakling.  I heard him tell a man once—­nor shall I ever forget it—­“You had better die like a man, sir, than live like a sneaking coyote.”

The Dean’s sons, men grown, were gone from the home ranch to the fields and work of their choosing.  Little Billy, a nephew of seven years, was—­as Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin said laughingly—­their second crop.

When Phil’s horse—­satisfied—­lifted his dripping muzzle from the watering trough, the Dean walked with his young foreman to the saddle shed.  Neither of the men spoke, for between them there was that companionship which does not require a constant flow of talk to keep it alive.  Not until the cowboy had turned his horse loose, and was hanging saddle and bridle on their accustomed peg did the older man speak.