In the corral the men were watering their teams; above them on the edge of a mesa, against the rosy sky, the other ponies, out all night on the range, were trooping, driven by a cowboy who darted here and there on his nimble pony, giving shrill cries. In the clear air every syllable was sharp to the ear, every tint and line sharp to the eye. It was beautiful, very beautiful, and it was near and dear to her, native to her—this loveliness of quick action, of inarticulate calling to dumb beasts, of work, of simple, often repeated beginnings. She was glad that she was working with her hands. She twisted up her hair and went over to the ranch-house where she began soberly and thankfully to light her kitchen fire.
It was after breakfast, two or three mornings later, when a stranger on a chestnut pony rode into Yarnall’s ranch, tied his pony to a tree, and, striding across the cobbled square, came to knock at the office door. At the moment, Yarnall, on the other side of the house, was saying farewell to his guests, and helping the men pile the baggage into the two-seated wagon, so this other visitor, getting no answer to his knock, turned and looked about the court. He did not, it was evident, mind waiting. It was to be surmised from the look of him that he was used to it; patient and not to be discouraged by delay. He was a very brown young man of quite astounding beauty and his face had been schooled to keenness and restraint. He was well-dressed, very clean, an outdoor man, a rider, but a man who had, in some sense, arrived. He had the inimitable stamp of achievement. He had been hard driven—the look of that, too, was there; he had been driven to more than ordinary effort. One of the men, seeing him, walked over and spoke respectfully.
“You want to see Mr. Yarnall?”
“Yes, sir.” The man’s eyes were searching the ranch-house wistfully again. “I would like to see him if I can. I have some questions to ask him.”
“He’s round the house, gettin’ rid of a bunch of dudes. Some job. Both hands tied up. Will you go round or wait?”
The stranger dropped to his heels, squatted, and rolled a cigarette.
“I’ll wait,” he murmured. “You can let him know when the dudes make their get-away. He’ll get round to me. My name? It won’t mean anything to him—Pierre Landis.”
He did not go round the house, and Yarnall, being very busy and perturbed for some time after the departure of his guests, did not get round to him till nearly noon. By that time he was sitting on the step, his back against the wall, still smoking and still wistfully observant of his surroundings.
He stood up when Yarnall came.
“Sorry,” said the latter; “that fool boy didn’t tell me you were here till ten minutes ago. Come in. You’ll stop for dinner—if we get any to-day.”