When he had concluded his examination he did not ride boldly toward the
ranchhouse, but made a wide circuit through the wood, for he wanted to
come upon his father in his own way and in his own time; wanted to
surprise him. There was no use of turning his pony into the corral,
for the animal had more life in him than the two forlorn beasts that
were already there and would not stay in the corral when a breach in
the fence offered freedom. Therefore, when Calumet reached the edge of
the wood near the front of the house he dismounted and tied his pony to
a tree.
A moment later he stood at the front door, filled with satisfaction to
find it unbarred. Swinging it slowly open he entered, silently closing
it behind him. He stood, a hand on the fastenings, gazing about him.
He was in the room which his father had always used as an office. As
he peered about in the gray dusk that had fallen, distinguishing
familiar articles of furniture--a roll-top desk, several chairs, a
sofa, some cheap prints on the wall--a nameless emotion smote him and
his face paled a little, his jaws locked, his hands clenched. For
again the army of memories was passing in review.
For a long time he stood at the door. Then he left it and walked to
the desk, placing a hand on its top and hesitating. Doubtless his
father was in another part of the house, possibly eating supper.
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