When the horsemen
had disappeared among the scattered cedars on the ridge, a mile or so to
the west, the Dean still stood looking in that direction. But the owner
of the Cross-Triangle was not watching for the return of his men. He was
not even thinking of them. He was looking beyond the cedar ridge to
where, several miles away, a long, mesa-topped mountain showed black
against the blue of the more distant hills. The edge of this high
table-land broke abruptly in a long series of vertical cliffs, the
formation known to Arizonians as rim rocks. The deep shadows of the
towering black wall of cliffs and the gloom of the pines and cedars that
hid the foot of the mountain gave the place a sinister and threatening
appearance.

As he looked, the Dean's kindly face grew somber and stern; his blue
eyes were for the moment cold and accusing; under his grizzled mustache
his mouth, usually so ready to smile or laugh, was set in lines of
uncompromising firmness. In these quiet and well-earned restful years of
the Dean's life the Tailholt Mountain outfit was the only disturbing
element. But the Dean did not permit himself to be long annoyed by the
thoughts provoked by Tailholt Mountain. Philosophically he turned his
broad back to the intruding scene, and went back to the corral, and to
the more pleasing occupation of looking at the horses.

If the Dean had not so abruptly turned his back upon the landscape, he
would have noticed the figure of a man moving slowly along the road
that skirted the valley meadow leading from Simmons to the
Cross-Triangle Ranch.

Presently the riders returned, and Phil, when he had removed saddle,
blanket and hackamore from his pupil, seated himself on the edge of the
watering trough beside the Dean.

"I see you ain't tackled the big bay yet," remarked the older man.

"Thought if I'd let him look on for a while, he might figure it out that
he'd better be good and not get himself hurt," smiled Phil. "He's sure
some horse," he added admiringly. Then to his helpers: "I'll take that
black with the white forefoot this time, Curly."

Just as the fresh horse dashed into the larger corral a man on foot
appeared, coming over the rise of ground to the west; and by the time
that Curly's loop was over the black's head the man stood at the gate.
One glance told Phil that it was the stranger whom he had met on the
Divide.

The man seemed to understand that it was no time for greetings and,
without offering to