for the lonely figure beyond the herd there was no one in sight. He
started on again, and in half a dozen steps found himself looking over
his shoulder. Without knowing why, he looked toward the shepherd; then
halted and looked a second time and a third. Had the shepherd called
to him? Presley knew that he had heard no voice. Brusquely, all his
attention seemed riveted upon this distant figure. He put one forearm
over his eyes, to keep off the sun, gazing across the intervening herd.
Surely, the shepherd had called him. But at the next instant he started,
uttering an exclamation under his breath. The far-away speck of black
became animated. Presley remarked a sweeping gesture. Though the man
had not beckoned to him before, there was no doubt that he was beckoning
now. Without any hesitation, and singularly interested in the incident,
Presley turned sharply aside and hurried on toward the shepherd,
skirting the herd, wondering all the time that he should answer the call
with so little question, so little hesitation.

But the shepherd came forward to meet Presley, followed by one of his
dogs. As the two men approached each other, Presley, closely studying
the other, began to wonder where he had seen him before. It must have
been a very long time ago, upon one of his previous visits to the ranch.
Certainly, however, there was something familiar in the shepherd's face
and figure. When they came closer to each other, and Presley could see
him more distinctly, this sense of a previous acquaintance was increased
and sharpened.

The shepherd was a man of about thirty-five. He was very lean and spare.
His brown canvas overalls were thrust into laced boots. A cartridge belt
without any cartridges encircled his waist. A grey flannel shirt, open
at the throat, showed his breast, tanned and ruddy. He wore no hat. His
hair was very black and rather long. A pointed beard covered his chin,
growing straight and fine from the hollow cheeks. The absence of any
covering for his head was, no doubt, habitual with him, for his face was
as brown as an Indian's--a ruddy brown quite different from Presley's
dark olive. To Presley's morbidly keen observation, the general
impression of the shepherd's face was intensely interesting. It was
uncommon to an astonishing degree. Presley's vivid imagination chose to
see in it the face of an ascetic, of a recluse, almost that of a young
seer. So must have appeared the half-inspired shepherds of the Hebra