The Skyland post. [volume] (West Jefferson, N.C.) 193?-1988, 1939-12-14
CHAPTER I

The flip of coin decided it. If
Lee HOLSTER, listening to temple
bells on the edge of a tropical
city half world away, had not
felt that tug of homesickness for
wind swept plains and the tang
of sage, spun a small silver pro-
duct of the United States mint
and started home four months be-
fore he expected, number of
quite exciting things might never
have happened.
D. Even then, if he had continued
straight on to Saunders by the
noon local, as any reasoning adult
might be expected to do, instead
of boiling out Of the train three
stations down the line, several
other matters would at least have
taken a notably different course.
Word of his arrival, for in
stance, would surely have trick
led on ahead of him. Gideon
Morse, that neat, sleek little man,
undoubtedly would have dis
patched a telegram east much
sooner than he actually did, and
from that moment would have
kept an unobtrusive eye on the
movements of this energetic
young man to whom the Circle V
ranch had been home for twenty
years and Matt Blair something
more than a father.
But the coin had spun, not
once in that far-off city but again
on the clanking local two hours
away from Saunders, and Lee not
only got off three stations ahead
of his destination, but Immediate
~ proceeded to make new and
quite different arrangements for
moving on.
The towns one hotel received
him, and he changed from neat
blue serge to disreputable old trou-
sers and a flannel shirt and went
out again, and down the sunbaked
street. A horse was located and
bargained for, with an eye for
points. A secondhand saddle fol-
lowed; minor purchases were
made here and there.
When the job was finished the
stranger in town clothes had dis
appeared, and in his place was a
brown young man in big Stet-
son who might have been any
wandering cowboy from the back
ranges, or a young rancher in
town for the dsy
Long before the train that he
had left was whistling for Saun-
ders Station, Lee HOLSTER was
on his way.
He rode easily, with the grace
of long custom, picking up faml-
liar landmarks and thinking that
the old sandy waste looked good
after nearly two years of wander
ing, even to the clumps Of last
years tumble-Weed, Wind-bunch-
ed in the bottom of a draw.
BY late afternoon he had left
the high desert for the twilight
of narrow canyon whose ragged
walls doomed six hundred feet
above the canyon floor. He camp
ed there for the night.
In the morning he started on
again, up a thread of trail that
Rugged the canyon wall, out again
on an open flat, and over a ridge
where the cedar and pinion gave
way to slim pine.
The far side of the ridge slant
ed down to a tiny mountain mea-
dow, There was water there, and
he dismounted, eased the cinches
to rest his horse and set about to
appease healthy hunger. Moving
easily and lightly, he emerged into
his surroundings as naturally as
LIlS td11 SL1 dAS41L PA1ACo OoSh VI AAAAAA
or the brown needle carpet bene-
ath. He was tall and straight him
self, a full six feet of smoothly
coordinated muscle, with a keen
ly modelled profile, black eyes
that saw much and betrayed little,
and a lean young face that sun
and wind had finished in a warm
brown.
He was not in the least concern
ed that there were people, plenty
of people, who would think him a
lunatic to waste two days and
part of a railroad ticket in order
to take the longest and toughest
way home.
But he had chosen to arrive
from the opposite direction, and
on horseback. It was the way by
which he had first come, a silent,
black-headed little savage with
weary body and suspicious eyes,
twenty years before. Twenty
years almost to the day. Matt
Blair had brought him. Now he
was coming back the same way,
over the same trails.
Late afternoon found him going