The work of the rodeo was over; his
cowboy associates, with their suggestive talk, were far away. Under the
influence of the long, dark miles of that night, and the silent presence
of his companion, the young man, for the time being, was no longer the
responsible foreman of the Cross-Triangle Ranch. In all that vast and
silent world there was, for Phil Acton, only himself, his trouble, and
his friend.
And so it came about that, little by little, the young man told Patches
the story of his dream, and of how it was now shattered and broken.
Sometimes bitterly, as though he felt injustice; sometimes harshly, as
though in contempt for some weakness of his own; with sentences broken
by the pain he strove to subdue, with halting words and long silences,
Phil told of his plans for rebuilding the home of his boyhood, and of
restoring the business that, through the generosity of his father, had
been lost; of how, since his childhood almost, he had worked and saved
to that end; and of his love for Kitty, which had been the very light of
his dream, and without which for him there was no purpose in dreaming.
And the man who rode so close beside him listened with a fuller
understanding and a deeper sympathy than Phil knew.
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