He halted on the edge of a small mesa and looked down at the huddle of unpainted buildings which constituted the Box S ranch. Nothing had been changed in five years. For a long time he sat there, lost in memories. Off to the westward he could see the smoke of a train heading for Lobo Wells. Beyond that was the green ribbon, which marked the twisting of Manzanita River, now only a small stream. Far to the south was the blue haze of the lower valley, and to the north and the east stretched the Broken Hills, piled-up mesa and broken cañon, fantastically coloured in the changing lights.
Finally he rode on down to the ranch, where he dismounted at the old front porch, tied his horse and halted at the bottom step.
“That jist makes seventy-seven times I’ve done told yuh that I don’t know, Sailo
