Five miles into the distance, at a point where the river doubled
sharply, rose the roofs of several ranch buildings--his father's ranch,
the Lazy Y. Upon the buildings Calumet's army of memories descended
and he forgot the desert, the long ride, the bleak days of his exile,
as he yielded to solemn introspection.
Yet, even now, the expression of his face did not change. A little
longer he scanned the valley and then the army of memories marched out
of his vision and he took up the reins and sent the pony forward. The
little animal tossed its head impatiently, perhaps scenting food and
companionship, but Calumet's heavy hand on the reins discouraged haste.
For Calumet was in no hurry. He had not yet worked out an explanation
for the strange whim that had sent him home after an absence of
thirteen years and he wanted time to study over it. His lips took on a
satiric curl as he meditated, riding slowly down into the valley. It
was inexplicable, mysterious, this notion of his to return to a father
who had never taken any interest in him. He could not account for it.
He had not been sent for, he had not sent word; he did not know why he
had come. He had been in the Durango country when the mood had struck
him, and without waiting to debate the wisdom of the move he had ridden
in to headquarters, secured his time, and--well, here he was.
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