Ross could scarcely believe the evidence of his own senses when he saw Lon Weston riding along the trail below the dump. The boy had pushed the car with its load of ore out to the bumper and dumped it before he saw the horseman in the sheepskin coat, the hairy chaps, and a fur cap drawn over forehead and ears. The horse shied at the chunks of ore rolling almost to its feet, and Weston looked up.
"Hello, there!" shouted Ross. "What on earth are you doing here?"
Weston drew in his horse. "Hello, Doc!" he returned with gruff pleasantness without answering the question.
"Doc" slipped and slid down the snowy path to the trail, and held out a cordial hand.
"How’s your leg?"
"All right." Weston gripped the extended hand heartily. "Almost as good ’s new."
His brown eyes above his heavy stubby beard held a pleasanter expression than Ross had seen in them while nursing their owner. They were deep eyes, capable of mirroring accurately the varied moods of the man looking out of them.
"I didn’t recognize you in Cody three weeks ago," Ross was beginning when Weston interrupted him.
Leaning down from his saddle he met the boy’s eyes steadily. "Remember," he said slowly and meaningly, "that you didn’t see me–nor hear from me–in Cody."
"All right," agreed Ross, embarrassed by the fixity of the other’s stare. "I’ll forget it hereafter, but I want to thank––"