The Marshalls and Billy Winthrop came in their car. The ride through the cañon had been pleasant. They were talking about Overland. They had been discussing the rearrangement of a great many things since the news of Louise's heritage had become known.
"You had better close the muffler, Billy. You are frightening that pony!"
"That's the Yuma colt," said Winthrop. "Overland is riding her."
"Overland?"
"Yes. He's coming to meet us."
Plunging through the crackling greasewood at the side of the road, the Yuma colt leaped toward the car. In broad sombrero, blue silk neckerchief, blue flannel shirt, and silver-studded leather chaps, was a strangely familiar figure. The great silver spurs rang musically as the pony reared. The figure gave easily to the wild plunging of the horse, yet was as firm as iron in the saddle.
Anne drew a deep breath. It was not the grotesque, frock-coated Overland of a recent visit, nor was it the ragged, unkempt vision Louise had conjured up for her in relating the Old Meadow story. In fact, it was not Overland Red at all, but Jack Summers, the range-rider of the old red Abilene days. He was clean-shaven, vigorous, splendidly strong, and confident. In the saddle, bedecked in his showy trappings, surrounded by his friends, Jack Summers had found his youth again, and the past was as a closed book, for the nonce.
"I'm the boss's envy extraordinary," said Overland, by way of greeting. "Walt said something else, too, about bein' a potentiary, but I reckon that was a joke."
"Good-morning! Don't get down! Glad to see you again!"
But Overland was in the road, hat in hand, and Yuma's bridle-reins over one arm.