Dennison Grant | Page 9

the mighty
range lay the country of the foothills, its great valleys lost to the vision
which leapt only from summit to summit. In the clear air the peaks
themselves seemed not a dozen miles away, but Y.D. had not ridden
cactus, sagebrush and prairie from the Rio Grande to the St. Mary's for
twenty years to be deceived by a so transparent illusion. Far over the
plains his eye could trace the dark outline of a trail leading
mountainward.
The heifers drowsed lazily in the brown grass. Y.D., shading his eyes
the better with his hand, gazed long and thoughtfully at the purple
range. Then he spat decisively over his horse's shoulder and made a
strange "cluck" in his throat. The knowing animal at once set out on a
trot to stir the lazy heifers into movement, and presently they were
trailing slowly up into the foothill country.
Far up, where the trail ahead apparently dropped over the end of the
world, a horse and rider hove in view. They came on leisurely, and half
an hour elapsed before they met the rancher trailing west.
The stranger was a rancher of fifty, wind-whipped and weather- beaten
of countenance. The iron grey of his hair and moustache suggested the
iron of the man himself; iron of figure, of muscle, of will.
"'Day," he said, affably, coming to a halt a few feet from Y.D. "Trailing
into the foothills?"
Y.D. lolled in his saddle. His attitude did not invite conversation, and,
on the other hand, intimated no desire to avoid it.
"Maybe," he said, noncommittally. Then, relaxing somewhat,--"Any
water farther up?"

"About eight miles. Sundown should see you there, and there's a decent
spot to camp. You're a stranger here?" The older man was evidently
puzzling over the big "Y.D." branded on the ribs of the little herd.
"It's a big country," Y.D. answered. "It's a plumb big country, for sure,
an' I guess a man can be a stranger in some corners of it, can't he?"
Y.D. began to resent the other man's close scrutiny of his brand.
"Well, what's wrong with it?" he demanded.
"Oh, nothing. No offense. I just wondered what 'Y.D.' might stand for."
"Might stand for Yankee devil," said Y.D., with a none-of-your-
business curl of his lip. But he had carried his curtness too far, and was
not prepared for the quick retort.
"Might also stand for yellow dog, and be damned to you!" The
stranger's strong figure sat up stern and knit in his saddle.
Y.D.'s hand went to his hip, but the other man was unarmed. You can't
draw on a man who isn't armed.
"Listen!" the older man continued, in sharp, clear-cut notes. "You are a
stranger not only to our trails, but our customs. You are a young man.
Let me give you some advice. First--get rid of that artillery. It will do
you more harm than good. And second, when a stranger speaks to you
civilly, answer him the same. My name is Wilson--Frank Wilson, and if
you settle in the foothills you'll find me a decent neighbor, as soon as
you are able to appreciate decency."
To his own great surprise, Y.D. took his dressing down in silence.
There was a poise in Wilson's manner that enforced respect. He
recognized in him the English rancher of good family; usually a man of
fine courtesy within reasonable bounds; always a hard hitter when
those bounds are exceeded. Y.D. knew that he had made at least a
tactical blunder; his sensitiveness about his brand would arouse, rather
than allay, suspicion. His cheeks burned with a heat not of the

afternoon sun as he submitted to this unaccustomed discipline, but he
could not bring himself to express regret for his rudeness.
"Well, now that the shower is over, we'll move on," he said, turning his
back on Wilson and "clucking" to his horse.
Y.D. followed the stream which afterwards bore his name as far as the
Upper Forks. As he entered the foothills he found all the advantages of
the plains below, with others peculiar to the foothill country. The richer
herbage, induced by a heavier precipitation; the occasional belts of
woodland; the rugged ravines and limestone ridges affording good
natural protection against fire; abundant fuel and water
everywhere--these seemed to constitute the ideal ranch conditions. At
the Upper Forks, through some freak of formation, the stream divided
into two. From this point was easy access into the valleys of the Y.D.
and the South Y.D., as they were subsequently called. The stream
rippled over beds of grey gravel, and mountain trout darted from the
rancher's shadow as it fell across the water. Up the valley, now ruddy
gold with the changing colors of autumn, white-capped mountains
looked down from amid the infinite silences;