The maneuvers of the black brought Phil to that side of the corral, and, as he coolly dodged the fighting horse, he glanced up with his boyish smile and a quick nod of welcome to the man perched above him.  The stranger smiled in return, but did not speak.  He must have thought, though, that this cowboy appeared quite different from the picturesque rider he had seen at the celebration and on the summit of the Divide. That Phil Acton had been—­as the cowboy himself would have said—­“all togged out in his glad rags.”  This man wore chaps that were old and patched from hard service; his shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, was the color of the corral dirt, and a generous tear revealed one muscular shoulder; his hat was greasy and battered; his face grimed and streaked with dust and sweat, but his sunny, boyish smile would have identified Phil in any garb.

When the rider was ready to mount, and Bob went to open the gate, the stranger climbed down and drew a little aside.  And when Phil, passing where he stood, looked laughingly down at him from the back of the bucking, plunging horse, he made as if to applaud, but checked himself and went quickly to the top of the knoll to watch the riders until they disappeared over the ridge.

“Howdy!  Fine weather we’re havin’.”  It was the Dean’s hearty voice.  He had gone forward courteously to greet the stranger while the latter was watching the riders.

The man turned impulsively, his face lighted with enthusiasm.  “By Jove!” he exclaimed, “but that man can ride!”

“Yes, Phil does pretty well,” returned the Dean indifferently.  “Won the championship at Prescott the other day.”  Then, more heartily:  “He’s a mighty good boy, too—­take him any way you like.”

As he spoke the cattleman looked the stranger over critically, much as he would have looked at a steer or horse, noting the long limbs, the well-made body, the strong face and clear, dark eyes.  The man’s dress told the Dean simply that the stranger was from the city.  His bearing commanded the older man’s respect.  The stranger’s next statement, as he looked thoughtfully over the wide Land of valley and hill and mesa and mountain, convinced the Dean that he was a man of judgment.

“Arizona is a wonderful country, sir—­wonderful!”

“Finest in the world, sir,” agreed the Dean promptly.  “There just naturally can’t be any better.  We’ve got the climate; we’ve got the land; and we’ve got the men.”

The stranger looked at the Dean quickly when he said “men.”  It was worth much to hear the Dean speak that word.

“Indeed you have,” he returned heartily.  “I never saw such men.”

“Of course you haven’t,” said the Dean.  “I tell you, sir, they just don’t make ’em outside of Arizona.  It takes a country like this to produce real men.  A man’s got to be a man out here.  Of course, though,” he admitted kindly, “we don’t know much except to ride, an’ throw a rope, an’ shoot, mebby, once in a while.”