* * * * *

Belllounds was not seen at his customary tasks on the day he expected his son.  He walked in the fields and around the corrals; he often paced up and down the porch, scanning the horizon below, where the road from Kremmling showed white down the valley; and part of the time he stayed indoors.

It so happened that early in the afternoon he came out in time to see a buckboard, drawn by dust-and-lather-stained horses, pull into the yard.  And then he saw his son.  Some of the cowboys came running.  There were greetings to the driver, who appeared well known to them.

Jack Belllounds did not look at them.  He threw a bag out of the buckboard and then clambered down slowly, to go toward the porch.

“Wal, Jack—­my son—­I’m sure glad you’re back home,” said the old rancher, striding forward.  His voice was deep and full, singularly rich.  But that was the only sign of feeling he showed.

“Howdy—­dad!” replied the son, not heartily, as he put out his hand to his father’s.

Jack Belllounds’s form was tail, with a promise of his father’s bulk.  But he did not walk erect; he slouched a little.  His face was pale, showing he had not of late been used to sun and wind.  Any stranger would have seen the resemblance of boy to man would have granted the handsome boldness, but denied the strength.  The lower part of Jack Belllounds’s face was weak.

The constraint of this meeting was manifest mostly in the manner of the son.  He looked ashamed, almost sullen.  But if he had been under the influence of liquor at Kremmling, as reported the day before, he had entirely recovered.

“Come on in,” said the rancher.

When they got into the big living-room, and Belllounds had closed the doors, the son threw down his baggage and faced his father aggressively.

“Do they all know where I’ve been?” he asked, bitterly.  Broken pride and shame flamed in his face.

“Nobody knows.  The secret’s been kept.” replied Belllounds.

Amaze and relief transformed the young man.  “Aw, now, I’m—­glad—­” he exclaimed, and he sat down, half covering his face with shaking hands.

“Jack, we’ll start over,” said Belllounds, earnestly, and his big eyes shone with a warm and beautiful light.  “Right hyar.  We’ll never speak of where you’ve been these three years.  Never again!”

Jack gazed up, then, with all the sullenness and shadow gone.

“Father, you were wrong about—­doing me good.  It’s done me harm.  But now, if nobody knows—­why, I’ll try to forget it.”

“Mebbe I blundered,” replied Belllounds, pathetically.  “Yet, God knows I meant well.  You sure were—­But thet’s enough palaver....  You’ll go to work as foreman of White Slides.  An’ if you make a success of it I’ll be only too glad to have you boss the ranch.  I’m gettin’ along in years, son.  An’ the last year has made me poorer.  Hyar’s a fine range, but I’ve less stock this year than last.  There’s been some rustlin’ of cattle, an a big loss from wolves an’ lions an’ poison-weed....  What d’you say, son?”