When A Mans A Man | Page 2

years that saw the passing of the Indian and the coming of
the automobile.
The man was walking along one of the few roads that lead out from the
little city, through the mountain gaps and passes, to the wide, unfenced
ranges, and to the lonely scattered ranches on the creeks and flats and
valleys of the great open country that lies beyond.
From the fact that he was walking in that land where the distances are
such that men most commonly ride, and from the many marks that
environment and training leave upon us all, it was evident that the
pedestrian was a stranger. He was a man in the prime of young
manhood--tall and exceedingly well proportioned--and as he went
forward along the dusty road he bore himself with the unconscious air
of one more accustomed to crowded streets than to that rude and
unpaved highway. His clothing bore the unmistakable stamp of a tailor
of rank. His person was groomed with that nicety of detail that is
permitted only to those who possess both means and leisure, as well as
taste. It was evident, too, from his movement and bearing, that he had
not sought the mile-high atmosphere of Prescott with the hope that it
holds out to those in need of health. But, still, there was a something
about him that suggested a lack of the manly vigor and strength that
should have been his.
A student of men would have said that Nature made this man to be in
physical strength and spiritual prowess, a comrade and leader of men--a
man's man--a man among men. The same student, looking more closely,
might have added that in some way--through some cruel trick of
fortune--this man had been cheated of his birthright.

The day was still young when the stranger gained the top of the first
hill where the road turns to make its steep and winding way down
through scattered pines and scrub oak to the Burnt Ranch.
Behind him the little city--so picturesque in its mountain basin, with the
wild, unfenced land coming down to its very dooryards--was slowly
awakening after the last mad night of its celebration. The tents of the
tawdry shows that had tempted the crowds with vulgar indecencies, and
the booths that had sheltered the petty games of chance where
loud-voiced criers had persuaded the multitude with the hope of
winning a worthless bauble or a tinsel toy, were being cleared away
from the borders of the plaza, the beauty of which their presence had
marred. In the plaza itself--which is the heart of the town, and is usually
kept with much pride and care--the bronze statue of the vigorous Rough
Rider Bucky O'Neil and his spirited charger seemed pathetically out of
place among the litter of colored confetti and exploded fireworks, and
the refuse from various "treats" and lunches left by the celebrating
citizens and their guests. The flags and bunting that from window and
roof and pole and doorway had given the day its gay note of color hung
faded and listless, as though, spent with their gaiety, and mutely
conscious that the spirit and purpose of their gladness was past, they
waited the hand that would remove them to the ash barrel and the
rubbish heap.
Pausing, the man turned to look back.
For some minutes he stood as one who, while determined upon a
certain course, yet hesitates--reluctant and regretful--at the beginning of
his venture. Then he went on; walking with a certain reckless swing, as
though, in ignorance of that land toward which he had set his face, he
still resolutely turned his back upon that which lay behind. It was as
though, for this man, too, the gala day, with its tinseled bravery and its
confetti spirit, was of the past.
A short way down the hill the man stopped again. This time to stand
half turned, with his head in a listening attitude. The sound of a vehicle
approaching from the way whence he had come had reached his ear.

As the noise of wheels and hoofs grew louder a strange expression of
mingled uncertainty, determination, and something very like fear came
over his face. He started forward, hesitated, looked back, then turned
doubtfully toward the thinly wooded mountain side. Then, with tardy
decision he left the road and disappeared behind a clump of oak bushes,
an instant before a team and buckboard rounded the turn and appeared
in full view.
An unmistakable cattleman--grizzly-haired, square-shouldered and
substantial--was driving the wild looking team. Beside him sat a
motherly woman and a little boy.
As they passed the clump of bushes the near horse of the half-broken
pair gave a catlike bound to the right against his tracemate. A second
jump followed the first with flash-like quickness; and