Pete grew silent as he rode with Andy toward the hill-trail that led to his old home on the Blue Mesa, where he finally surveyed the traces of old man Annersley’s patient toil.  The fences had been pulled down and the water-hole enlarged.  The cabin, now a rendezvous for occasional riders of the T-Bar-T, had suffered from weather and neglect.  The door sagging from one hinge, the grimy, cobwebbed windows, the unswept floor, and the litter of tin cans about the yard, stirred bitter memories in Pete’s heart.  Andy spoke of Annersley, “A fine old man,” but Pete had no comment to make.  They loafed outside in the afternoon sunshine, momentarily expecting the two men from the T-Bar-T.  Presently Andy White rose and wandered off toward the spring.  Pete sat idly tossing pellets of earth at a tin can.  He was thinking of Annersley, of the old man’s unvarying kindliness and quaint humor.  He wished that Annersley were alive, could know of his success—­Pete had done pretty well for a lad of sixteen—­and that they could talk together as in the old days.  He rose presently and entered the abandoned cabin.  The afternoon sunlight flickered palely through the dusty windows.  Several window-panes had been broken out, but the one marked with two bullet holes, radiating tiny cracks in the glass, was still there.  The oilcloth on the table was torn and soiled.  The mud of wet weather had been tracked about the floor.  The stove was rusted and cracked.  Pete wondered why men must invariably abuse things that were patently useful, when those things did not belong to any one especially; for the stove, the windows, the table, the two home-made chairs showed more than disuse.  They had been wantonly broken, hacked, or battered.  Some one had pried the damper from the stove, broken it in two, and had used half of it for a lid-lifter.  A door had been torn from the wall-cupboard and split into kindling, as a few painted splinters attested.  And some one had shot several holes in the door, evidently endeavoring to make the initial “T” with a forty-five.  An old pair of discarded overalls lay in one corner, a worn and useless glove in another.  Pete was glad that Annersley would never know of all this—­and yet it seemed as though Annersley could see these things—­and Pete, standing alone in the room, felt as though he were in some way to blame for this disorder and squalidness.  Time and occupation had rather dulled Pete’s remembrance of the actual detail of the place, but now its original neatness and orderliness came back to him vividly.

He was mentally rehabilitating the cabin when a boot-heel crunched on the ground outside and Andy appeared in the doorway.  “The T-Bar-T boys are comin’.  Seen ’em driftin’ down the Ranger Trail.”

“They was to be here this mornin’,” said Pete.  “Beckon they aim to bush here all night and ride to-morrow.  Hope they brought some grub along.”

“We got plenty.  Come on outside.  This here ole room kind o’ gits on my nerves.”