He reached the first flat in the long rise. Absorbed
in troubled reflections, he was barely conscious
of the nods from two men he passed whom
he knew -- Hodgins, kindly old soul, book in hand;
Maguire, truest of Celts, a twenty-inch slide-rule
under his arm. Nodding in friendly recognition,
both men gazed at the horse, seeming to
understand, and glad to know that he was back.
Mounting the second rise, he saw another whom
he knew. A quarter of a mile to his left, on the
tiny porch of a lone adobe, sat Skeet under a hat,
feet elevated to the porch railing, head turned in
a listening attitude, as though heeding a call, or
many calls, from the direction of a brick-and-stone
structure to the southwest. Everywhere familiar
objects, scenes, stray people, caught his eye as he
rode slowly out upon the mesa, trying to get his
thoughts away from the immediate future, from
Helen, his successful return of the horse, and that
other thing, his determination to leave this spacious
land for ever.

Suddenly he saw her. She was standing beside
her brown saddler, her hand upon the bridle,
gazing thoughtfully toward the mountains, now in
their morning splendor. He rode Pat to a point perhaps
twenty feet behind her, and then quietly
let go of the reins and dropped to earth. For a
moment he stood, his heart a well of bitterness;
then, taking Pat's rein, he stepped toward her,
quietly and slowly, intent upon making her surprise
complete, because of her great love for the
horse. She continued motionless, her hand upon

[[286]]

p285 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p286w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p287

v?