The cowboy laughingly considered—­trying, as he said afterward, to figure it out.  It was clear that this tall stranger was not in search of health, nor did he show any of the distinguishing marks of the tourist.  He certainly appeared to be a man of means.  He could not be looking for work.  He did not seem a suspicious character—­quite the contrary—­and yet—­there was that significant hurried movement as if to escape when the horseman had surprised him.  The etiquette of the country forbade a direct question, but—­

“Yes,” he agreed thoughtfully, “walking comes in handy sometimes.  I don’t take to it much myself, though.”  Then he added shrewdly, “You were at the celebration, I reckon.”

The stranger’s voice betrayed quick enthusiasm, but that odd wistfulness crept into his eyes again and he seemed to lose a little of his poise.

“Indeed I was,” he said.  “I never saw anything to compare with it.  I’ve seen all kinds of athletic sports and contests and exhibitions, with circus performances and riding, and that sort of thing, you know, and I’ve read about such things, of course, but”—­and his voice grew thoughtful—­“that men ever actually did them—­and all in the day’s work, as you may say—­I—­I never dreamed that there were men like that in these days.”

The cowboy shifted his weight uneasily in the saddle, while he regarded the man on the ground curiously.  “She was sure a humdinger of a celebration,” he admitted, “but as for the show part I’ve seen things happen when nobody was thinking anything about it that would make those stunts at Prescott look funny.  The horse racing was pretty good, though,” he finished, with suggestive emphasis.

The other did not miss the point of the suggestion.  “I didn’t bet on anything,” he laughed.

“It’s funny nobody picked you up on the road out here,” the cowboy next offered pointedly.  “The folks started home early this morning—­and Jim Reid and his family passed me about an hour ago—­they were in an automobile.  The Simmons stage must have caught up with you somewhere.”

The stranger’s face flushed, and he seemed trying to find some answer.

The cowboy watched him curiously; then in a musing tone added the suggestion, “Some lonesome up here on foot.”

“But there are times, you know,” returned the other desperately, “when a man prefers to be alone.”

The cowboy straightened in his saddle and lifted his reins.  “Thanks,” he said dryly, “I reckon I’d better be moving.”

But the other spoke quickly.  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Acton, I did not mean that for you.”

The horseman dropped his hands again to the saddle horn, and resumed his lounging posture, thus tacitly accepting the apology.  “You have the advantage of me,” he said.

The stranger laughed.  “Everyone knows that ‘Wild Horse Phil’ of the Cross-Triangle Ranch won the bronco-riding championship yesterday.  I saw you ride.”