It was some time after noon when Phil checked his horse near the ruins
of an old Indian lookout on the top of Black Hill. Below, in the open
land above Deep Wash, he could see his cowboy companions working the
band of horses that had been gathered slowly toward the narrow pass that
at the eastern end of Black Hill leads through to the flats at the upper
end of the big meadows, and so to the gate and to the way they would
follow to the corral. It was Phil's purpose to ride across Black Hill
down the western and northern slope, through the cedar timber, and,
picking up any horses that might be ranging there, join the others at
the gate. In the meanwhile there was time for a few minutes rest.
Dismounting, he loosed the girths and lifted saddle and blanket from
Hobson's steaming back. Then, while the good horse, wearied with the
hard riding and the steep climb up the mountain side, stood quietly in
the shade of a cedar his master, stretched on the ground near by, idly
scanned the world that lay below and about them.

Very clearly in that light atmosphere Phil could see the trees and
buildings of the home ranch, and, just across the sandy wash from the
Cross-Triangle, the grove of cottonwoods and walnuts that hid the little
old house where he was born. A mile away, on the eastern side of the
great valley meadows, he could see the home buildings of the Reid
ranch--the Pot-Hook-S--where Kitty Reid had lived all the days of her
life except those three years which she had spent at school in the East.

The young man on the top of Black Hill looked long at the Reid home. In
his mind he could see Kitty dressed in some cool, simple gown, fresh and
dainty after the morning's housework, sitting with book or sewing on the
front porch. The porch was on the other side of the house, it is true,
and the distance was too great for him to distinguish a person in any