"Now, how would I say it if John were here? Would I start off with 'Dear John' or 'Dear Old Friend'? I reckon not. I'd just say: 'John, I'm goin'

to quit. I tried to do by you what I said I would. I got a chanct to bust into the State House, and I got a good reason for bustin' in. I been nominated for Senator, and I got to live up to the name. I'm a-goin' to run for Senator--and mebby I'll keep on when I get started, and end up somewhere in Mexico. I can't jine the reg'lars account of my physical expansibility and my aige, so I got to do my fightin' to home.

I'm willin' to stick by this job if you say the word. Mebby some folks would be dissap'inted, but I can stand that if they can. What do you reckon I better do?'

"Now, that's what I'd say if John was here. Why in tarnation can't I say it on paper? Lemme see."

Bud filled a sheet with his large, outdoor script. When he had finished, he tucked the letter in an envelope hurriedly. He might reconsider his attempt if he re-read the letter.

He was carefully directing the envelope when Lorry strode in.

'"Bout time you showed up," said Shoop.

Lorry dropped his hat on the floor and pulled up a chair. He was a bit nervous. Preamble would make him more so. He spoke up quickly.

"Bud, I want to resign."

"Uh-uh. You tired of this job?"

"Nope; I like it."

"Want more pay?"

"No; I get all I'm worth."

"Ain't you feelin' well?"

"Bully! I'm going to enlist."

"Might 'a' knowed it," said Bud, leaning back and gazing at the newly addressed envelope on his desk. "Got your reports all in?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, seem' you're quittin' for the best reason I know, I'm right glad.

You done your work like I expected. Your mother knows you're goin' to jine the army?"

"I told her yesterday. I've been at the ranch."

"Uh-uh. How's your dad?"

"He ain't so spry. But he is better."

"Uh-uh. That young Mexican stayin' at the ranch with him?"

"You couldn't chase Ramon away with a gun."

"Uh-uh. Well, Lorry, I just been sweatin' out a letter tellin' John Torrance that I've quit. I'm goin' to run for State Senator."

"I knew they would land you. Everybody knew it."

"So we're both leavin' the Service. And we're leavin' a mighty good job; mebby not such big pay, but a man's job, that has been the makin' of some no-account boys. For no fella can work for the Service without settin' up and ridin' straight. Now, when I was a young buster chasin'

cow-tails over the country I kind of thought the Forestry Service was a joke. It ain't. It's a mighty big thing. You're leaving it with a clean record. Mebby some day you'll want to get back in it. Were you goin' on up?"

"I figured to straighten up things at the cabin."

"All right. When you come down you can get your check. Give my regards to Bronson and the little missy."

"You bet I will!"

Bud rose and proffered his hand. Lorry, rather embarra.s.sed, shook hands and turned to go. "See you later," he said.

"I was going over to Stacey," said Shoop. "Mebby I'll be out when you get back. But your check'll be here all right. You sure look like you was walkin' on sunshine this mawnin'. Gosh, what a whoopin' fine place this here world is when you are young--and--kind of slim! Now, Bondsman and me--we was young onct. When it comes to bein' young or State Senator--you can have the politics and give me back my ridin' legs.

You're ridin' the High Trail these days.

"If I could just set a hoss onct, with twenty years under my hide, and look down on this here country, and the sage a-smellin' like it used to and the sunshine a-creepin' across my back easy and warm, with a sniff of the timber comin' down the mawnin' breeze; and 'way off the cattle a-lookin' no bigger'n flies on a office map--why, I wouldn't trade that there seat in the saddle for a million in gold. But I reckon I would 'a'

done it, them days. Sometimes I set back and say 'Arizona' just to myself. I'm a-lovin' that name. Accordin' to law, I'm livin' single, and if I ain't married to Arizona, she's my best gal, speakin' general.

'Course, a little lady give me a watch onct. And say, boy, if she sets a lot of store by you--why, you--why, git out of this here office afore I make a dam' fool of myself!"

And the genial Bud waved his arm, bl.u.s.tering and swearing heartily.

Bondsman leaped up. A ridge of hair rose along his neck. For some unknown reason his master had ordered Lorry to leave the office--and at once. But Lorry was gone, and Bud was patting the big Airedale. It was all right. Nothing was going to happen. And wasn't it about time for the stage to arrive?

Bondsman trotted to the doorway, gazed up and down the street, and came back to Shoop. The stage had arrived, and Bondsman was telling Shoop so by the manner in which he waited for his master to follow him into the sunlight. Bud grinned.

"You're tellin' me the stage is in--and I got a letter to send."

Bud picked up his hat. Bondsman had already preceded him to the doorway, and stood waiting. His att.i.tude expressed the extreme patience of age, but that the matter should be attended to without unreasonable delay.

Shoop sighed heavily.

"That there dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous."

Halfway across the Blue Mesa, Dorothy met her ranger man. She had been watching the trail. Lorry dismounted and walked with her to the cabin.

Bronson was glad to see him. They chatted for a while. Lorry would have spoken of his father's offer--of his plans, of many things he wished Bronson to know, yet he could not speak of these things until he had talked with Dorothy. He would see Bronson again. Meanwhile--

A little later Lorry went to his cabin to take stock of the implements and make his final report. He swept the cabin, picked up the loose odds and ends, closed the battered piano gently, and sat down to think.

He had made his decision, and yet--he had seen Dorothy again; touched her hand, talked with her, and watched her brown eyes while he talked.

The Great War seemed very far away. And here he was at home. This was his country. But he had set his face toward the High Trail. He could not turn back.

Dorothy stood in the doorway, her finger at her lips. Bronson was busy writing. Lorry rose and stepped out. He stooped and lifted her to Gray Leg. She sat sideways in the saddle as he led the pony across the mesa to the veritable rim of the world.

Far below lay the open country, veiled by the soft haze of distance. He gave her his hand, and she slipped to the ground and stood beside him.

For the first time the tremendous sweep of s.p.a.ce appalled her. She drew close to him and touched his arm.

"What is it, Lorry?"

"You said--once--that you would wait for me."

"Yes. And now you are here, I'll never be lonesome again."

"Were you lonesome?"