But Ford was well
pleased at the sight of the brown, beaten grasses. Impulse was hardening
to decision while he stared across the empty land toward the violet rim
of hills; a decision to ride over to the Double Cross, and tell Ches
Mason to his face that he was a chump, and have a smoke with the old
Turk, anyway. Ches had married, since that vividly remembered time when
adventure changed to hardship and hazard and walked hand in hand with
them through the wild places. Ford wondered fleetingly if matrimony had
changed old Ches; probably not--at least, not in those essential
man-traits which appeal to men. Ford suddenly hungered for the man's
hearty voice, where kindly humor lurked always, and for a grip of his
hand.
It was like him to forget all about the herder and the promise of
pinochle that night. He went eagerly to the decrepit little shed which
housed Rambler, his long-legged, flea-bitten gray; saddled him
purposefully and rode away toward the violet hills at the trail-trot
which eats up the miles with the least effort.
That night, although he slept in a hamlet which called itself a town,
his purpose kept firm hold of him, and he rode away at a decent hour the
next morning,--and he rode sober.
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