Jim Reid's place--the Pot-Hook-S--is
just this side of the meadows, and a little to the south. The old Acton
homestead--where I was born--is in that bunch of cottonwoods, across the
wash from the Cross-Triangle."
But strive as he might the stranger's eyes could discern no sign of
human habitation in those vast reaches that lay before him.
"If you are ever over that way, drop in," said Phil cordially. "Mr.
Baldwin will be glad to meet you."
"Do you really mean that?" questioned the other doubtfully.
"We don't say such things in this country if we don't mean them,
Stranger," was the cool retort.
"Of course, I beg your pardon, Mr. Acton," came the confused reply. "I
should like to see the ranch. I may--I will--That is, if I--" He stopped
as if not knowing how to finish, and with a gesture of hopelessness
turned away to stand silently looking back toward the town, while his
face was dark with painful memories, and his lips curved in that
mirthless, self-mocking smile.
And Philip Acton, seeing, felt suddenly that he had rudely intruded upon
the privacy of one who had sought the solitude of that lonely place to
hide the hurt of some bitter experience.
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