It was hardly noon.  Here the county road, cutting straight through the rolling fields, was broad, wet and black, glistening under the sun.  Out yonder in front of him the stage, driven rapidly by Hap Smith that he might make up a little of the lost time, topped a gentle rise, stood out briefly against the sky line, shot down into the bed of Dry Creek and was lost to him.  A little puzzled frown crept into Thornton’s eyes.

“A man would almost say old Pop was right,” he told himself.  “This state is getting too settled up for this kind of game to be pulled off so all-fired regularly.  Cole Dalton must be blind in his off eye....  Oh, hell!  It is none of my business.  Any way ... not yet.”

He pulled his horse out into the trail paralleling the muddy road, jerked his hat down lower over his forehead, slumped forward a little in the saddle, and gave himself over to the sleepy thirty mile ride to Harte’s Camp.  He rode slowly now, allowing Hap Smith’s speeding horses to draw swiftly away ahead of him.  He saw the stage once more climbing a distant ridge; then it was lost to him in the steepening hills.  A little more than an hour later he turned off to the left, leaving the county road and entering the mouth of the canyon through which his trail led.  He would not see the road again although after a while he would parallel it with some dozen miles of rolling land between him and it.

Behind him lay the wide stretch of plain in which Dry Town was set; about him were the small shut-in valleys where the “little fellows” had their holdings and small herds of long horns and saddle ponies.  Before him were the mountains with Kemble’s place upon their far slope and his own home range lying still farther to the east.  There were many streams to ford in the country through which he was now riding, all muddy-watered, laced with white, frothing edgings, but none to rise higher than his horse’s belly.

Here there was a tiny valley, hardly more than a cup in the hills, but valuable for its rich feed and for the big spring set in the middle of it.  He dismounted, slipped the Spanish bit from his horse’s mouth, and waited for the animal to drink.  It was a still, sleepy afternoon.  The storm had left no trace in the deep blue of the sky; the hills were rapidly drying under the hot sun.  Man and horse seemed sleepy, slow moving figures to fit into a glowing landscape, harmoniously.  The horse drank slowly, shook its head in half tolerant protest at the flies singing before its eyes, and played with the water with twitching lips as though, with no will to take up the trail again, it sought to deceive its master into thinking that it was still drinking.  The man yawned and his drowsy eyes came away from the wood-topped hills before him to the moist earth under foot.  For the moment they did not seem the eyes of the Buck Thornton who had ridden to the bank in Dry Town a little before noon, but were gentle and dreamily meditative with all of the earlier sharp alertness gone.  And then suddenly there came into them a quick change, a keen brightness, as he jerked his head forward and stared down at the ground at his feet.

“Now what is she doing out this way?” he asked himself aloud.  “And where is she going?”

Though the soil was cut and beaten with the sharp hoofs of the many cattle that had drunk here earlier in the day, it was not so rough that it hid the thing which the quick eyes of the cattle man found and understood.  There, close to the water’s edge and almost under his own horse’s body, were the tracks a shod horse had left not very long ago.  The spring water was still trickling into one of them.  There, too, a little to the side was the imprint of the foot of the rider who had gotten down to drink from the same stream, the mark of a tiny, high heeled boot.

“It might be some other girl,” he told himself by way of answer to his own question.  “And it might be a Mex with a proud, blue-blooded foot.  But,” and he leaned further forward studying the foot print, “it’s a mighty good bet I could tell what she looks like from the shape of her head to the colour of her eyes!  Now, what do you suppose she’s tackling?  Something that Mr. Templeton says is plumb foolish and full of danger?”

He slipped the bit back into his horse’s mouth and swung up into the saddle.

“She didn’t come out the way I came,” he reflected as for a moment he sat still, looking down at the medley of tracks.  “I’d have seen her horse’s tracks.  She must have made a big curve somewhere.  I wonder what for?”

Then slowly the gravity left his eyes and a slow smile came into them.  He surprised his horse with a touch of the spurs.

“Get into it, you long-legged wooden horse, you!” he chuckled.  “We’ve got something to ride for now!  We’re going to see Miss Grey Eyes again.  There’s something besides stick-up men worth a man’s thinking about, little horse!”

He reined back into the trail, rode through the little valley, climbed the ridge beyond and so pushed on deeper and ever deeper into the long sweep of flat country upon the other side.  Often his eyes ran far ahead, seeking swiftly for the slender figure he constantly expected to see riding eastward before him; often they dropped to the trail underfoot to see that her horse’s tracks had not turned to right or left should she leave this main horseman’s highway for some one of the countless cross trails.

The afternoon wore on, the miles dropped away behind him; and he came to the end of the flat country and again was in low rolling hills.  Her horse’s tracks were there always before him, and yet he had had no sight of any rider that day since leaving the county road.  Again much gravity came back into his eyes.

“Where’s she going?” he asked himself again.  “It looks like she was headed for Harte’s Camp too.  And then on to Hill’s Corners?  All alone?  It’s funny.”

Twenty miles he had come from Dry Town.  He was again riding slowly, remembering that his horse had carried the great weight of him many long miles yesterday and today.  Now the hills grew steep and shot up high and rugged against the sky.  The trail was harder, steeper, narrower where it wound along the edges of the many ravines.  Again and again the ground was so flinty that it held no sign to show whether shod horse had passed over it or not.  But he told himself that there was scant likelihood of her having turned out here; there was but the one trail now.  And then, suddenly when he came down into another little valley through which a small drying stream wandered, he came upon the tracks he had been so long following.  And he noted, with a little lift to the eyebrows, that here were the fresh hoof marks of two horses leading on toward the Camp.

“Somebody else has cut in from the side,” he pondered.  “Lordy, but this cattle country is sure getting shot all to pieces with folks.  Who’d you suppose this new pilgrim is?”

Once or twice he drew rein, studying the signs of the trail.  The tracks he had picked up at the stream with the print of the tiny boot were the small marks of a pony.  This second horse for which he was seeking to account was certainly a larger animal, leaving bigger tracks, deeper sunk.  There was little difficulty in distinguishing one from the other.  And there was as little trouble in reading that the larger horse had followed the pony, for again and again the big, deep track lay over the other, now and then blotting it out.

A man, with a long solitary ride ahead of him, has much time for conjecture, idle and otherwise.  Here lay the hint of a story; who was the second rider, what was his business?  Whence had he come and whither was he riding?  And did his following the girl mean anything?

Thornton came at last, in the late afternoon, to the last stream he would ford before reaching Harte’s Camp.  Another half mile, the passing over a slight rise, and he would be in sight of the end of his day’s ride.  He crossed the stream, and then, looking for the tracks he had been following, he saw that again the pony was pushing on ahead of him, that the horseman had turned aside.  He jerked his horse back seeking for the lost tracks.  And presently he found them, turning to the south and leading off into the mountains.

With thoughtful eyes he returned to his trail.  He rode over the little ridge and so came into sight of the three log cabins under the oaks of Harte’s place.  Beyond was the barn.  He would go there, find her horse at the manger.  Then he would go up to the cabin in which the Hartes’ lived and there find her.

Twenty minutes later, his face and hands washed at the well, his short cropped hair brushed back with the palm of his hand, he went to the main cabin.  The door was shut but the smoke from the rough stone chimney spoke eloquently of supper being cooked within.  But he was not thinking a great deal of the supper.  He had found the pony in the barn, had even seen a quirt which he remembered, knew that he had not been mistaken in the matter of ownership of the trim boots that had left their marks at the spring, and realized that he was rather gladder of the circumstance than the mere facts of the case would seem to warrant.  And then, with brows lifted and mouth puckered into a silent whistle, he read the words on a bit of paper tacked to the cabin door: 

“We’ve gone over to Dave Wendells.  The old woman is took sick.  Back in the morning most likely make yourself to home.  W. Harte.”

He paused a moment, frowning, his hat in his hand.  It seemed to be in his thought to go back to his horse.  While he hesitated the door was flung open and a pair of troubled grey eyes looked out at him searchingly; a pair of red lips tremulously trying to be firm smiled at him, and a very low voice faltered, albeit with a brave attempt to be steady: 

“Won’t you come in...  Mr. Thornton?  And ... and make yourself at home, too?  I’ve done it.  I suppose it’s all right....”

And then when still he hesitated, and his embarrassment began to grow and hers seemed to melt away, she added brightly and quite coolly: 

“Supper is ready ... and waiting.  And I’m simply starved.  Aren’t you?”

Thornton laughed.

“Come to think of it,” he admitted, “I believe I am.”