Once this wish was granted. The weather was quite cold, and his round-faced friend came to him that morning showing every sign of haste. Hurriedly he bridled and saddled Pat, rushed him out of the stable, flung up across his back, and put spur to him with such vigor that he was forced into a gait the like of which he had not taken since his breathless speeding to the accompaniment of shots. Out across the desert he raced, breasting a cold wind, on and on till he found himself in a small railroad town. Here he was pulled up before a little cottage, and saw his friend mount the front steps and pull a tiny knob in the frame of the door. A moment of waiting and he saw a portly man appear, heard sharp conversation, saw his friend run down the steps. Then again he felt the prick of spurs, and found himself once more cantering across the desert. But not toward home. Late in the afternoon, wearied and suffering hunger pangs, he found himself in another small town and before another tiny cottage, with his friend pulling at a knob as before, and entering into crisp conversation with the person who answered, a lean man this time, who nodded his head and withdrew. After this he once more breasted the cold winds, worse now because of the night, and continued to breast them until he found himself back in the stable.
Thus he had his wish. But it was really more than he had wanted, and thereafter he was content to remain in peace and rest in the stable. But he was not always confined to the stable now. His friend began to permit him privileges, and one of these was the spending of long hours outdoors in a private corral. Here, basking in the sunlight, which was not free from winter chill, he would spend whole days dreaming and wondering–wondering for the most part about his master, the master he liked, and finding himself ever more distressed because of his continued absence. Sometimes, in the corral, he would see men walk slowly in and out of the ranch-house, or come to a halt outside his fence and stand for long minutes gazing at him, a look in their eyes, he thought, though he was not quite sure, of pity mingled with sorrow. But though these men came to him frequently, yet they rarely ever spoke to him; even as his round-faced friend, though still regularly attentive, rarely ever spoke to him now. It was all mysterious. He knew that something of a very grave nature was in the air, but what it was and why his real master never came to him as did the other men, he did not know, though sometimes he would be obsessed with troubled thoughts that all was not well with the young man.
Then one day, with spring descending upon the desert, he saw something that quickened his interest in life. He saw a door open in the house, saw a very thin young man appear on the threshold, saw him slowly descend the steps and walk toward him. It was his master. Yet was it? He pressed close to the fence, gazed at the man long and earnestly. Then he knew. It was indeed the same young man. He was much thinner now than when last he had come to him, and he seemed to lack his old-time energy, but nevertheless it was he. In a moment he knew it for certain, for the man held out a long, thin, white hand and called his name.
This was the beginning of the end. Thereafter two and three times a day the young man came to him, sometimes in the corral, sometimes in the stable, but always with each successive visit, it seemed to Pat, revealing increasing buoyancy and strength. And finally there came a day, bright and warm, when his master came to him, as it proved, to remain with him. The young man was dressed for riding, and he was surrounded by all the men Pat had ever seen about the place, and not a few whose faces were new to him. They led him out of the stable into the open, a dozen hands bridled and saddled him, then all crowded close in joyful conversation.
“Well, sir,” began the round-faced young man, slapping Pat resoundingly upon the rump, “you’re off again! And believe me I’m one that’s right sorry to see you go. I don’t care nothin’ about this pardner o’ yours–he don’t count nohow, anyway. He’s been sick ’most to death, shore, but he’s all right now as far as that goes. His arm is all healed up, and he’s fit in every other way–some ways–yet he’s takin’ himself off from as nice people as ever dragged saddles through a bunk-house at midnight. But that ain’t it. He’s takin’ old black hoss away with him, and it don’t jest set. I shore do hate to see you go.”
Which seemed to express the opinions of the others. And somehow, even when his master was in the saddle and everything pointing to a final departure, Pat found himself hating to go. But duty was duty, and after his master had gathered up the reins and all had cordially shaken hands he broke into a canter, and, followed by a chorus of mighty yells, headed into the interminable desert, within him the feeling of one upon the threshold of new life, or of old and delightful life returned. Before he realized either the lapse of time or the distance traveled, he found himself cantering into the little railroad town he had visited so hurriedly in the winter. And there followed another experience new to Pat–a journey by train back to his home.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE REUNION
Stephen awoke quite late in the morning after his arrival in Pat’s home town. Standing before a window in his room at the hotel, he saw a young woman cantering across the railroad tracks in the direction of the mesa. It was Helen, and, at sight of her, for a brief and awful moment he wavered in his decision. Then he remembered his suffering, and the determination made while convalescing, and, hastening his toilet, he hurried through breakfast and made his way to the livery-stable where Pat had spent the night. Pat nickered joyful greeting, as if understanding what was to come. Bridling and saddling him, Stephen mounted and rode into the street at a canter. He turned into the avenue, crossed the railroad tracks, and mounted the long, slow rise to the mesa at a walk. He moved slowly because he wanted time to think, to pull himself together, to the end that he might hold himself firmly to his decision in this last talk. And yet–and this was the conflict he suffered–he could hardly restrain himself, hold himself back, from urging Pat to his utmost.
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.