A student of men would have said that Nature made this man to be in physical strength and spiritual prowess, a comrade and leader of men—­a man’s man—­a man among men.  The same student, looking more closely, might have added that in some way—­through some cruel trick of fortune—­this man had been cheated of his birthright.

The day was still young when the stranger gained the top of the first hill where the road turns to make its steep and winding way down through scattered pines and scrub oak to the Burnt Ranch.

Behind him the little city—­so picturesque in its mountain basin, with the wild, unfenced land coming down to its very dooryards—­was slowly awakening after the last mad night of its celebration.  The tents of the tawdry shows that had tempted the crowds with vulgar indecencies, and the booths that had sheltered the petty games of chance where loud-voiced criers had persuaded the multitude with the hope of winning a worthless bauble or a tinsel toy, were being cleared away from the borders of the plaza, the beauty of which their presence had marred.  In the plaza itself—­which is the heart of the town, and is usually kept with much pride and care—­the bronze statue of the vigorous Rough Rider Bucky O’Neil and his spirited charger seemed pathetically out of place among the litter of colored confetti and exploded fireworks, and the refuse from various “treats” and lunches left by the celebrating citizens and their guests.  The flags and bunting that from window and roof and pole and doorway had given the day its gay note of color hung faded and listless, as though, spent with their gaiety, and mutely conscious that the spirit and purpose of their gladness was past, they waited the hand that would remove them to the ash barrel and the rubbish heap.

Pausing, the man turned to look back.

For some minutes he stood as one who, while determined upon a certain course, yet hesitates—­reluctant and regretful—­at the beginning of his venture.  Then he went on; walking with a certain reckless swing, as though, in ignorance of that land toward which he had set his face, he still resolutely turned his back upon that which lay behind.  It was as though, for this man, too, the gala day, with its tinseled bravery and its confetti spirit, was of the past.

A short way down the hill the man stopped again.  This time to stand half turned, with his head in a listening attitude.  The sound of a vehicle approaching from the way whence he had come had reached his ear.

As the noise of wheels and hoofs grew louder a strange expression of mingled uncertainty, determination, and something very like fear came over his face.  He started forward, hesitated, looked back, then turned doubtfully toward the thinly wooded mountain side.  Then, with tardy decision he left the road and disappeared behind a clump of oak bushes, an instant before a team and buckboard rounded the turn and appeared in full view.