An unmistakable cattleman—­grizzly-haired, square-shouldered and substantial—­was driving the wild looking team.  Beside him sat a motherly woman and a little boy.

As they passed the clump of bushes the near horse of the half-broken pair gave a catlike bound to the right against his tracemate.  A second jump followed the first with flash-like quickness; and this time the frightened animal was accompanied by his companion, who, not knowing what it was all about, jumped on general principles.  But, quick as they were, the strength of the driver’s skillful arms met their weight on the reins and forced them to keep the road.

“You blamed fools”—­the driver chided good-naturedly, as they plunged ahead—­“been raised on a cow ranch to get scared at a calf in the brush!”

Very slowly the stranger came from behind the bushes.  Cautiously he returned to the road.  His fine lips curled in a curious mocking smile.  But it was himself that he mocked, for there was a look in his dark eyes that gave to his naturally strong face an almost pathetic expression of self-depreciation and shame.

As the pedestrian crossed the creek at the Burnt Ranch, Joe Conley, leading a horse by a riata which was looped as it had fallen about the animal’s neck, came through the big corral gate across the road from the house.  At the barn Joe disappeared through the small door of the saddle room, the coil of the riata still in his hand, thus compelling his mount to await his return.

At sight of the cowboy the stranger again paused and stood hesitating in indecision.  But as Joe reappeared from the barn with bridle, saddle blanket and saddle in hand, the man went reluctantly forward as though prompted by some necessity.

“Good morning!” said the stranger, courteously, and his voice was the voice that fitted his dress and bearing, while his face was now the carefully schooled countenance of a man world-trained and well-poised.

With a quick estimating glance Joe returned the stranger’s greeting and, dropping the saddle and blanket on the ground, approached his horse’s head.  Instantly the animal sprang back, with head high and eyes defiant; but there was no escape, for the rawhide riata was still securely held by his master.  There was a short, sharp scuffle that sent the gravel by the roadside flying—­the controlling bit was between the reluctant teeth—­and the cowboy, who had silently taken the horse’s objection as a matter of course, adjusted the blanket, and with the easy skill of long practice swung the heavy saddle to its place.

As the cowboy caught the dangling cinch, and with a deft hand tucked the latigo strap through the ring and drew it tight, there was a look of almost pathetic wistfulness on the watching stranger’s face—­a look of wistfulness and admiration and envy.

Dropping the stirrup, Joe again faced the stranger, this time inquiringly, with that bold, straightforward look so characteristic of his kind.