ook had blown up in the night, and although the wind was chill, the
snow had disappeared, save where drifts clung to the hollows, shrinking
and turning black beneath the sweeping gusts; sodden masses which gave
to the prairie a dreary aspect of bleak discomfort. But Ford was well
pleased at the sight of the brown, beaten grasses. Impulse was hardening
to decision while he stared across the empty land toward the violet rim
of hills; a decision to ride over to the Double Cross, and tell Ches
Mason to his face that he was a chump, and have a smoke with the old
Turk, anyway. Ches had married, since that vividly remembered time when
adventure changed to hardship and hazard and walked hand in hand with
them through the wild places. Ford wondered fleetingly if matrimony had
changed old Ches; probably not--at least, not in those essential
man-traits which appeal to men. Ford suddenly hungered for the man's
hearty voice, where kindly humor lurked always, and for a grip of his
hand.

It was like him to forget all about the herder and the promise of
pinochle that night. He went eagerly to the decrepit little shed which
housed Rambler, his long-legged, flea-bitten gray; saddled him
purposefully and rode away toward the violet hills at the trail-trot
which eats up the miles with the least effort.

That night, although he slept in a hamlet which called itself a town,
his purpose kept firm hold of him, and he rode away at a decent hour the
next morning,--and he rode sober. He kept his face toward the hills, and
he did not trouble himself with any useless analysis of his unusual
temperateness. He was going to blow in to the Double Cross some time
before he slept that night, and have a talk with Ches. He had a pint of
fairly good whisky in his pocket, in case he felt the need of a little
on the way, and beyond those two satisfactory certainties he did not
attempt to reason. They were significant, in a way, to a man with a
tendency toward introspection; but Ford was interested in actualities
and never stopped to wonder why he bought a pint, rather than a quart,
or why, with Ches Mason in his mind, he declined to "set in" to the
poker game which was running to tempting jackpots, the night before; or
why he took one glass of wine before he mounted Rambler and let it go at
that. He never once dreamed that the memory of cheerful, steady-going
Ches influenced him toward starting on his friendly pilgrimage the Ford
Campbell whom Mason had kno