It so happened that early in the afternoon he came out in time to see a
buckboard, drawn by dust-and-lather-stained horses, pull into the yard.
And then he saw his son. Some of the cowboys came running. There were
greetings to the driver, who appeared well known to them.

Jack Belllounds did not look at them. He threw a bag out of the
buckboard and then clambered down slowly, to go toward the porch.

"Wal, Jack--my son--I'm sure glad you're back home," said the old
rancher, striding forward. His voice was deep and full, singularly rich.
But that was the only sign of feeling he showed.

"Howdy--dad!" replied the son, not heartily, as he put out his hand to
his father's.

Jack Belllounds's form was tail, with a promise of his father's bulk.
But he did not walk erect; he slouched a little. His face was pale,
showing he had not of late been used to sun and wind. Any stranger would
have seen the resemblance of boy to man would have granted the handsome
boldness, but denied the strength. The lower part of Jack Belllounds's
face was weak.

The constraint of this meeting was manifest mostly in the manner of the
son. He looked ashamed, almost sullen. But if he had been under the
influence of liquor at Kremmling, as reported the day before, he had
entirely recovered.

"Come on in," said the rancher.

When they got into the big living-room, and Belllounds had closed the