Lytton had gone for a ride in the hills, leaving Bayard alone at the ranch, busying himself with accomplishing many odds and ends of tasks which had been neglected in the weeks that his attention had been divided between his cattle and the troubles of Ann. Ned was back to his usual strength, now; also, his mending mental attitude had made him a better companion, a less trying patient. He rode daily, he helped somewhat with the ranch work, his sleeps were long and untroubled. The first time a horse had carried him from sight Bayard had scarcely expected to see him back again; he had firmly believed that Lytton would ride directly to Yavapai and fill himself with whiskey. When he came riding into the ranch, tired, glad to be home once more, Bruce knew that the man was not wholly unappreciative, that his earlier remonstrances at remaining at the Circle A had not always been genuine.

"Mighty white of you, old chap," he had said, after dismounting. "Mighty white of you to treat me like this. Some day I'll pay you back."

"You'll pay me back by gettin' to be good an' strong an' goin' out an' bein' a man," the rancher had answered, and Lytton had laughed at his seriousness.

No intimation of his wife's nearness had been given to Lytton. Isolated as they were, far off the beaten path of travel, few people ever stopped at the ranch and, when stray visitors had dropped in, chance or Bayard's diplomacy had prevented their discovering the other man's presence. Not once after their argument over the rights of a man to his wife had Ned referred to Ann and in that Bruce found both a conscious and an unconscious comfort: the first sort because it hurt him brutally to be reminded of the girl as this man's mate, and the other because the fact that while Lytton had only bitterness for Ann Bayard could wholly justify his own attention to her, his own love.

Day after day the progress continued uninterrupted, Bruce making it a point to have his charge ride alone, unless Ned himself expressed a desire to go in company. The rancher believed that if the other were ever to be strong enough to resist the temptation to return to his old haunts and ways, now was the time. Although Lytton's attitude was, except at rare intervals, subtly resentful, his passive acceptance of the conditions under which he lived was evidence that he saw the wisdom in remaining at the ranch and those hours alone on horseback, out of sight, away from any influencing contact, were the first tests. Bayard was delighted to see that his work did not collapse the moment he removed from it his watchful support. And yet, while he took pride in this accomplishment, he went about his daily work with a sense of depression constantly on him. It was as though some inevitable calamity impended, as though, almost, hope had been removed from his future. He tried not to allow himself to think of Ann Lytton. He knew that to let his fancies and emotions go unrestrained for an hour would rouse in his heart a hatred so intense, so compelling, that he would rise in all his strength during some of Lytton's moods and do the man violence; or, if not that, then, when talking to her, he would lose self-control and break his word to her and to himself that not again so long as she loved her husband would he speak of his regard for her.

But the end of that phase was approaching. Within a few days Lytton would know that his wife was in the country, would go to her, and Bayard's interval of protectorate over them both, which at least gave him opportunity to see the woman he loved, would come to its conclusion.

Now, as he worked on a broken hinge of the corral gate his heart was heavy and, finally, to force himself to stop brooding, he broke into song:

"No ... not that," he muttered. "I'll not be comin' ... on a stallion shod with fire, or anythin' else." Then he began this cruder, livelier strain:

"Dog-gone bolt's too short, Abe," he muttered to the sorrel who stood within the enclosure. "Too short—

"What do you see, Boy?"

As he turned to go toward the blacksmith shop, he saw the horse standing with head up and every line of his body rigid, gazing off on the valley.

"You see somebody?" he asked, and swung up on the corral for a better view.

Far out beyond and below him a lazy wisp of dust rose lightly to be trailed away by the breath of warm breeze, and, after his eyes had studied it a moment, he discerned a moving dot that he knew was horse and rider.

"Lytton didn't go that way," he muttered, as he dropped to the ground again. "No use worryin' any more, though; it's time somebody knew he was here; they will soon, an' it won't do any harm."

He swept the valley with his gaze again and shook his head. "Seems like it's in shadow all the time now," he muttered, "an' not a cloud in the sky!"

When he found a bolt of proper length and fitted it in place the horse and rider were appreciably nearer and he watched them crawl toward him a moment.

He turned again to look at the approaching rider before he went into the stable. Then, for twenty minutes he was busy with hammer and saw, humming to himself, thinking of things quite other than the work at which his hands were busy.

"Is this the way you greet your visitors?"

It was Ann Lytton's voice coming from the stable doorway, and Bayard straightened slowly, turning awkwardly to look at her over his shoulder. She was flushed, flustered, uncertain for the moment just how to comport herself, but he did not notice for he was far off balance himself.

"Good-mornin', ma'am," he said, taking off his hat and stepping out from the stall in which he had been working. "What do you want here?"

His voice was pitched almost in a tone of rebuke.

"I came to see my husband," she answered, and for a moment they stared hard at one another, Bayard, as though he did not believe her, and the woman, as if conscious that he questioned the truth of her reply. Also, as if she feared he might read in her the whole truth.

"He ought to be back soon," the rancher said, replacing his hat. "He's off for a ride. Won't you come into the house?"

They stepped outside. He saw that behind her saddle a bundle was tied. He looked from it to her inquiringly.

"I have thought it all over," she said, as if he had challenged her with words, "and I've made up my mind that my place, for the time, anyhow, is with Ned. It's best for me to be here; it's best for Ned to know and have it over with.... Have a complete understanding."

He looked away from her, failing to mark the significance of her last words or to see the fresh determination in her face.

"It had to come sometime. I expect now's about as likely a day as any," he said, gloomily, and untied the roll from her saddle. "I'll show you around th' house so you'll know where things are,"—and started across toward the shade of the ash tree.

Ann walked beside him, wanting to speak, not knowing what to say. She found no words at all, until they gained the kitchen and stood within. Bayard placed her bundle on the table.

"Do you mean that you won't be here?" she faltered.

"Well, that's th' best way," he said, looking down and rubbing the back of a chair thoughtfully.

"I can't...."

"Yes, you can,"—divining what was in her mind and interrupting. "I'll be glad to have you meet him here, ma'am. 'Twould offend me if you went away, but I think, considerin' everythin', how you've been apart so long an' all, it'd be better for me to leave you two alone. I've got business in town anyhow," he lied. "I'd have to go in either to-night or in th' mornin'. It's th' best way all round."

He did not look at her during this, could not trust himself to. He felt that to meet her gaze would mean that he would be tempted again to declare his love for her, his hatred for her husband, because this hour was another turning point for them all. For the safety of Ned Lytton to hold himself in accord with his own sense of right, it was wise for him to be away at the meeting of husband and wife; not fear for himself but of himself drove him from his hearth. He knew that Ann's eyes were on him, steady and inquiring, felt somehow that she had suddenly become mistress of the situation. Heretofore, he had dominated all their interviews. But now that eminence was gone. He was retreating from this woman and not wholly in good order, for he could not remain with her nor could he trust himself to give a true explanation of his departure.

To delay longer, to just stand there and discuss the very embarrassing situation, would be no relief, might only lead to greater discomfiture, he knew, so he said:

"All th' things to cook with are in that cupboard, ma'am,"—turning away from her to indicate. "All th' pots an' pans an' dishes are below there, on those shelves. He ... your husband knows, anyhow. He can show you round.

"In here.... This is his room."

He paused when halfway across the floor, turned and looked at her. In her eye he caught a troubled quality.

"He's been sleepin' here," he repeated, walking on and opening the door.

The woman followed and looked over his shoulder.

"But I've another room; my room, in here,"—moving to another door. "This is mine, an' as I won't be here you can use it as you ... as you want to."

Nothing in his tone or manner of speech suggested anything but the idea contained in his words, but Ann's eyes rested on his profile with a sudden gratitude, a warmth. Surprise came to her a moment later and she exclaimed,

"Oh, how fine!"

He had thrown the door back and stood aside for her to enter. Light came into the room from three windows and before the gentle breeze white curtains billowed inward. Navajo blankets covered the floor. The bed, in one corner, was spread with a gay serape and beside it was a bookcase with shelves well filled. In the center of the room stood a table and on it a reading lamp. About the walls were pictures, few in number but interesting.

At Ann's exclamation Bruce smiled broadly, pleased.

"I'm glad you like it," he said. "I do. I thought maybe you would."

"Why, it's splendid!" she cried again. "It doesn't look like a room in the house of a bachelor rancher. It doesn't look like...."

She stopped and looked up at him, puzzled, questioning so eloquently with her gaze that it was unnecessary for him to await the spoken query.

"Yes, I did it myself," he said with a flushed laugh. Their self-consciousness was relieved by the change of thought. "It's mine; all mine. You ... You're the first person to come in here, ma'am, except Tim.... He was my daddy, an' he's dead. I don't ask folks in here 'cause it's so much trouble to explain to most of 'em. They'd think I'm stuck up, with lace curtains an' all...."

He waved his hands to include the setting.

"I can live with th' roughest of 'em an' enjoy it; I can put up with anything when it's necessary, but somehow I've always wanted something different, something that'll fill a place that plenty of grub an' a hot stove don't always satisfy.

"Them curtains,"—with a chuckle—"came from th' Manzanita House. They were th' first decorations I put up. I woke up one mornin' after I'd been ... well, relieving my youth a little. I was in one of th' hotel rooms. 'Twas about this time of year an' th' wind was soft an' gentle, blowin' through th' windows like it does now, an' them curtains looked so cool an' clean an' homelike that I... Well, I just rustled three pair, ma'am!"

He laughed again and crossed the room to free one curtain that had caught itself on a protruding hook.

"Tim an' me had a great argument, when I brought 'em home. Tim, he says that if I was goin' to have curtains, I ought to go through with th' whole deal an' have gilt rods to hang 'em on. I says, no, that was goin' too far, gettin' to be too dudish, so I nailed 'em up!"

He pointed to show her the six-penny nails that held them in place, and Ann laughed heartily.

"Then, I played a little game that th' boys out here call Monte. It's played with cards, ma'am. I played with a Navajo I know—an' cards—an' he had just one kind of luck, awful bad. That's where these blankets come from,"—smiling in recollection.

All this pleased him; he saw the humor of a man of his physique, his pursuit, furnishing a room with all the pains of a girl.

"Those are good rugs. See? They're all black an' gray an' brown: natural colors. Red an' green are for tourists.

"I bought that serape from a Mexican in Sonora when I was down there lookin' around. That lamp, though, that's th' best thing I got."

He leaned low to blow the dust from its green shade with great pains, and Ann laughed outright at him.

"I never could learn to dust proper, ma'am. It don't bother me so long's I don't see it," he confessed. "A man who came out here to stay with us for his health—a teacher—brought that lamp; when he went back, he left it for me. I think a lot of it."

"You read by it?" she asked.

"Lord, yes! Those,"—waving his hand toward the books, and she walked across to inspect them, Bayard moving beside her. "He left 'em for me. He keeps sendin' me more every fall. I ... I learnt all I know out of them, an' from what he told me. It ain't much—what I know. But I got it all myself; that makes it seem more."

Ann's throat tightened at that, but she only leaned lower over the shelves. Dickens was there, and Thackeray; one or two of Scott and a broken set of Dumas. History and travel predominated, with a volume of Kipling verse and a book on mythology discovered in a cursory inspection.

"I think a lot of my books. I like 'em all.... I liked that story 'bout Oliver Twist th' best of 'em," he said, pointing to the Dickens. "Poor kid! An' old Bill Sykes! Lord, he was a hellion—a bad one, ma'am,"—correcting himself hastily. "An' Miss Sharpe this man Thackeray wrote about in his book! I'd like to know a woman like her; she sure was a slick one, wasn't she? She'd done well in th' cow business."

"Do you like these?" she asked, indicating the Scott.

"Well, sometimes," he said. "I like th' history in 'em, but, unless I got a lot of time, like winter, I don't read 'em much. I like 'Ivanhoe' pretty well any time, but in most of 'em Walt sure rounded up a lot of words!"

She smiled at that.

"This is th' best of 'em all, though," he said, drawing out Carlyle's French Revolution. "It took me all one winter to get on to th' hang of that book, but I stayed by her an' ... well, I'd rather read it now than anythin'. Funny that a man writin' so long ago could say so many things that keep right on makin' good.

"I'd like to know him," he said a moment later. "I could think up a lot of questions to ask a man like that."

He stood running over the worn, soiled pages of his "French Revolution" lost in thought and Ann, stooping before the shelves, turned her face to watch him covertly. This was the explanation of the Bruce Bayard she knew and loved; she now understood. This was why he had drawn her to him so easily. He was rough of manner, of speech, but behind it all was thought, intelligence; not that alone, but the intelligence of an intrinsically fine mind. For an unschooled man to accomplish what he had accomplished was beyond her experience.

"I liked them," he said, touching some volumes of Owen Wister. "Lord, he sure knows cowboys an' such. He wrote a story about 'n hombre called Jones, Specimen Jones, that makes me sore from laughin' every time I read it. It's about Arizona an' naturally hits me.

"That's why I like that picture. It's my country, too." He pointed to a print of Remington's "Fight for The Water Hole."

"That's th' way it looks—heat an' color an' distance," he said. "But when a thing's painted like that, you get more 'n th' looks. You get taste an' smell an' th' feeling. I get thirsty an' hot an' desperate every time I look at that picture very long....

"This Cousin Jack, Kipling," he resumed, turning back to the books, "he wrote a poem about what a man ought to be before he considers himself a man that says all there is to say on th' subject. Nothin' new in what he wrote, but he's corraled all th' ideas anybody's ever thought about. It's fine—"

"But who is that?" she broke in, walking closer to the photograph of a young woman, too eager to see the whole of this room to pause long over any one thing.

He smiled in embarrassment.

"My sister, ma'am."

"Your sister!"

"Yeah. You see, I never had any folks. Nearest thing to ancestors I know about was a lot of bent steel an' burnin' railroad cars. Old Tim picked me out of a wreck when I was a baby, an' we never found out nothin' about me." He rubbed the back of one hand on his hip. "I... It ain't nice, knowin' you don't belong to nobody, so I picked out my family,"—smiling again.

"I was in Phoenix once an' I saw that lady's picture in front of a photograph gallery. It was early mornin' an' I was on my way to th' train comin' north. I busted th' glass of th' show case an' took it. I left a five-dollar gold piece there so th' photographer wouldn't mind, an' I guess th' lady, if she knew, wouldn't care so awful much. Nobody ever seen her here but Tim an' me. I respect her a lot, like I would my sister. You expect she would mind, ma'am?"

"I think she would be very much pleased," Ann said, soberly.

"An' that up there's my mother," he said, after their gazes had clung a moment.

"Whistler's 'Mother'!"

"Yes, he painted it; but she's th' one I'd like to have for my mother, if I could picked her out. She looks like a good mother, don't she? I thought so when I got that ... with a San Francisco newspaper."

Ann did not trust herself to speak or to look at him.

"Your father?" she asked after a moment.

"Oh, I had one. Tim. He was my daddy. He did all any father could for me. No, ma'am, I wouldn't pick out nobody to take Tim's place. He brought me up. But if I was to have uncles, I'd like them."

He moved across the room to where prints of Lincoln and Lee were tacked to the wall.

"But, they were enemies!" Ann objected.

"Sure, I know it. But they both thought somethin' an' stuck by it an' fought it out. Lincoln believed one way, Lee another; they both stood by their principles an' that's all that counts. Out here we have cattlemen an' sheepmen. I'm in cattle an' lots of times I've felt like gunnin' for th' fellers who were tryin' to sheep me, but then I'd stop an' think that maybe there was somethin' to be said on their side.

"I'd sure liked to have men for uncles who could believe in a thing as hard as they believed!"

A pause followed and he looked about the room again calculatingly; then started as though he had forgotten something.

"But what I brought you in here for was to tell you that this is yours, to do what you want with ... you ..."

His words brought them back to the situation they confronted and an embarrassed silence followed.

"I don't feel right, driving you out like this," Ann protested, at length.

"But don't you understand? Nobody's ever been in here, but Tim, who's dead, an' you. You're th' first person I've ever asked to stay in here. I'd like it ... to think you'd been in here ... stayin'.... It's you who 're doin' th' favor...."

He ended in a lowered tone and was so intent, so keen in his desire that Ann looked on him with a queer little feeling of misgiving. Every now and then she had encountered those phases of him for which she could not account, which made her doubt and, for the instant, fear him. But, after she had searched his face and found there nothing but the sincere concern for her welfare, she knew that his motive was of the highest, that he thought only of her, and she answered,

"Why, I'll be glad to stay here, in your room."

He turned and walked into the kitchen, swinging one hand.

"I'll be driftin'," he said, when she followed, forcing himself to a brusque manner which disarmed her.

"You ask Ned to water th' horses. I'm ridin' th' pinto to town. I'll be back to-morrow sometime."

He put on his hat and started for the door resolutely. Then halted.

"If anything should happen," he began, attempting a casual tone. But he could not remain casual, nor could he finish his sentence. He stammered and flushed and his gaze dropped. "Nothin' will ... to you," he finished.

With that he was gone, leading her borrowed horse back to town at her request. From a point half a mile distant he looked back. She was still in the doorway and when he halted his pony he saw a flicker of white as she waved a handkerchief at him. He lifted his hat in salute; then rode on, with a heart that was heavy and cold.

"Th' finest woman that God ever gave a body," he said, "an' I've given her over to th' only man that walks th' earth who wouldn't try to appreciate her!"