When A Mans A Man | Page 3

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.
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