And in this land where a man, to live, must be a man, a
woman, if she be not a woman, must surely perish.
This is the story of a man who regained that which in his youth had been
lost to him; and of how, even when he had recovered that which had been
taken from him, he still paid the price of his loss. It is the story of
a woman who was saved from herself; and of how she was led to hold fast
to those things, the loss of which cost the man so great a price.
The story, as I have put it down here, begins at Prescott, Arizona, on
the day following the annual Fourth-of-July celebration in one of those
far-western years that saw the passing of the Indian and the coming of
the automobile.
The man was walking along one of the few roads that lead out from the
little city, through the mountain gaps and passes, to the wide, unfenced
ranges, and to the lonely scattered ranches on the creeks and flats and
valleys of the great open country that lies beyond.
From the fact that he was walking in that land where the distances are
such that men most commonly ride, and from the many marks that
environment and training leave upon us all, it was evident that the
pedestrian was a stranger.
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