And now, when the man spoke, his voice had a curious note, as if the speaker had lost a little of his poise.  It was almost a note of apology, and again in his eyes there was that pitiful look of self-depreciation and shame.

“Pardon me,” he said, “but will you tell me, please, am I right that this is the road to the Williamson Valley?”

The stranger’s manner and voice were in such contrast to his general appearance that the cowboy frankly looked his wonder as he answered courteously, “Yes, sir.”

“And it will take me direct to the Cross-Triangle Ranch?”

“If you keep straight ahead across the valley, it will.  If you take the right-hand fork on the ridge above the goat ranch, it will take you to Simmons.  There’s a road from Simmons to the Cross-Triangle on the far side of the valley, though.  You can see the valley and the Cross-Triangle home ranch from the top of the Divide.”

“Thank you.”

The stranger was turning to go when the man in the blue jumper and fringed leather chaps spoke again, curiously.

“The Dean with Stella and Little Billy passed in the buckboard less than an hour ago, on their way home from the celebration.  Funny they didn’t pick you up, if you’re goin’ there!”

The other paused questioningly.  “The Dean?”

The cowboy smiled.  “Mr. Baldwin, the owner of the Cross-Triangle, you know.”

“Oh!” The stranger was clearly embarrassed.  Perhaps he was thinking of that clump of bushes on the mountain side.

Joe, loosing his riata from the horse’s neck, and coiling it carefully, considered a moment.  Then:  “You ain’t goin’ to walk to the Cross-Triangle, be you?”

That self-mocking smile touched the man’s lips; but there was a hint of decisive purpose in his voice as he answered, “Oh, yes.”

Again the cowboy frankly measured the stranger.  Then he moved toward the corral gate, the coiled riata in one hand, the bridle rein in the other.  “I’ll catch up a horse for you,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if reaching a decision.

The other spoke hastily.  “No, no, please don’t trouble.”

Joe paused curiously.  “Any friend of Mr. Baldwin’s is welcome to anything on the Burnt Ranch, Stranger.”

“But I—­ah—­I—­have never met Mr. Baldwin,” explained the other lamely.

“Oh, that’s all right,” returned the cowboy heartily.  “You’re a-goin’ to, an’ that’s the same thing.”  Again he started toward the gate.

“But I—­pardon me—­you are very kind—­but I—­I prefer to walk.”

Once more Joe halted, a puzzled expression on his tanned and weather-beaten face.  “I suppose you know it’s some walk,” he suggested doubtfully, as if the man’s ignorance were the only possible solution of his unheard-of assertion.

“So I understand.  But it will be good for me.  Really, I prefer to walk.”

Without a word the cowboy turned back to his horse, and proceeded methodically to tie the coiled riata in its place on the saddle.  Then, without a glance toward the stranger who stood watching him in embarrassed silence, he threw the bridle reins over his horse’s head, gripped the saddle horn and swung to his seat, reining his horse away from the man beside the road.