“Then I’ll be going,” he said, stepping to the door.
“To––to Dry Lake?” she found the voice to ask.
“Yes. To Dry Lake.”
He left the house and in a few minutes reappeared from the direction of the barn, riding his dun-colored horse. He did not stop, but galloped down the valley, waving a hand in farewell which the boy answered.
The day was nearly spent. The sun was low in the west, sliding down like a ball of gold toward the rim of the blue mountains. A stiff breeze had sprung up, driving the heat before it. At the lower end of the valley Rathburn found the trail he had left when he detoured to the ranch. He turned westward upon it, put spurs to his horse, and sped toward town.
It was just as well that the girl could not see the look which came to his face as he rode into the sunset.