"He's sure
some horse," he added admiringly. Then to his helpers: "I'll take that
black with the white forefoot this time, Curly."
Just as the fresh horse dashed into the larger corral a man on foot
appeared, coming over the rise of ground to the west; and by the time
that Curly's loop was over the black's head the man stood at the gate.
One glance told Phil that it was the stranger whom he had met on the
Divide.
The man seemed to understand that it was no time for greetings and,
without offering to enter the enclosure, climbed to the top of the big
gate, where he sat, with one leg over the topmost bar, an interested
spectator.
The maneuvers of the black brought Phil to that side of the corral, and,
as he coolly dodged the fighting horse, he glanced up with his boyish
smile and a quick nod of welcome to the man perched above him. The
stranger smiled in return, but did not speak. He must have thought,
though, that this cowboy appeared quite different from the picturesque
rider he had seen at the celebration and on the summit of the Divide.
_That_ Phil Acton had been--as the cowboy himself would have said--"all
togged out in his glad rags.
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