As they silently faced each other it seemed for a moment that each instinctively recognized this kinship.  Then into the dark eyes of the stranger—­as when he had watched the cowboy at the Burnt Ranch—­there came that look of wistful admiration and envy.

And at this, as if the man had somehow made himself known, the horseman relaxed his attitude of tense readiness.  The hand that had held the bridle rein to command instant action of his horse, and the hand that had rested so near the rider’s hip, came together on the saddle horn in careless ease, while a boyish smile of amusement broke over the young man’s face.

That smile brought a flash of resentment into the eyes of the other and a flush of red darkened his untanned cheeks.  A moment he stood; then with an air of haughty rebuke he deliberately turned his back, and, seating himself again, looked away over the landscape.

But the smiling cowboy did not move.  For a moment as he regarded the stranger his shoulders shook with silent, contemptuous laughter; then his face became grave, and he looked a little ashamed.  The minutes passed, and still he sat there, quietly waiting.

Presently, as if yielding to the persistent, silent presence of the horseman, and submitting reluctantly to the intrusion, the other turned, and again the two who were so like and yet so unlike faced each other.

It was the stranger now who smiled.  But it was a smile that caused the cowboy to become on the instant kindly considerate.  Perhaps he remembered one of the Dean’s favorite sayings:  “Keep your eye on the man who laughs when he’s hurt.”

“Good evening!” said the stranger doubtfully, but with a hint of conscious superiority in his manner.

“Howdy!” returned the cowboy heartily, and in his deep voice was the kindliness that made him so loved by all who knew him.  “Been having some trouble?”

“If I have, it is my own, sir,” retorted the other coldly.

“Sure,” returned the horseman gently, “and you’re welcome to it.  Every man has all he needs of his own, I reckon.  But I didn’t mean it that way; I meant your horse.”

The stranger looked at him questioningly.  “Beg pardon?” he said.

“What?”

“I do not understand.”

“Your horse—­where is your horse?”

“Oh, yes!  Certainly—­of course—­my horse—­how stupid of me!” The tone of the man’s answer was one of half apology, and he was smiling whimsically now as if at his own predicament, as he continued.  “I have no horse.  Really, you know, I wouldn’t know what to do with one if I had it.”

“You don’t mean to say that you drifted all the way out here from Prescott on foot!” exclaimed the astonished cowboy.

The man on the ground looked up at the horseman, and in a droll tone that made the rider his friend, said, while he stretched his long legs painfully:  “I like to walk.  You see I—­ah—­fancied it would be good for me, don’t you know.”