Waring had told her that it was useless to plead.  He remembered how her eyes had grown dull and sullen at his word.  He told her that he was simply doing his duty.  She had turned on him like a panther, her little knife glittering in the dusk as she drove it at his breast.  The Mexican lover had jerked free and was running toward the foothills.  Waring recalled his first surprise at the wiry strength of her wrist as he had twisted the knife from her.  If the Mexican lover had not turned and shot at him—­The black figure of the Mexican had dropped just where the road entered the foothills.  The light had almost gone.  The vague bulk of the Sierras wavered.  Outlines vanished, leaving a sense of something gigantic, invisible, that slumbered in the night.  The stars were big and softly brilliant as he had ridden north.

The old wound in his shoulder ached.  The Mexican had made a good shot—­for a Mexican.

Out on the Arizona mesa, against the half disk of gold, was the black silhouette of a horseman.  Waring stepped to the doorway.  Ramon was seated just outside the door, smoking a cigarette.  The southern stars were almost visible.  Each star seemed to have found its place, and yet no star could be seen.

“It is Lorry,” said Ramon.  “He has ridden far.”

Waring smiled.  Fifty miles had not been considered a big day’s ride in his time. In his time! But his day was past.  The goddess he had followed had left him older than his years, crippled, unable to ride more than a few hours at a time; had left him fettered to the monotony of the far mesa levels and the changeless hills.  Was this his punishment, or simply a black trick of fate, that the tang of life had evaporated, leaving a stagnant pool wherein he gazed to meet the blurred reflection of a face weary with waiting for—­what end?

Unused to physical inactivity, Waring had grown somber of mind these latter days.  Despite the promise of more comfortable years, he had never felt more lonely.  With the coming of Lorry the old order would change.  Young blood, new life would have its way.

The sound of pattering hoofs grew louder.  Waring heard the old familiar, “Hi!  Yippy!  Yip!” of the range rider.  Young blood?  New life?  It was his own blood, his own life reincarnate in the cheery rider that swung down and grasped his hand.  Nothing had changed.  Life was going on as it always had.

“Hello, dad!  How’s the leg?”

Waring smiled in the dusk.  “Pretty fair, Lorry.  You didn’t waste any time getting here.”

“Well, not much.  I rode down with Bronson and Dorothy.”

“Do you call her ’Dorothy’?”

“Ever since she calls me ‘Lorry.’”

“Had anything to eat?”

“Nope.  I cut across.  How’s mother?”

“She will be here to-morrow.  We have been getting things ready.  Let Ramon take your horse—­”

“Thanks.  I’ll fix him in two shakes.”