It was the ranch house dinner time. Bud was due, as was the return of
the men who belonged to the home station.
Nan released the cinchas of her saddle and removed her pony's bridle.
Then, with a sharp pat upon the creature's quarters, she sent it
strolling off toward the open pasture, in which the windmill pump kept
the string of watering tubs ready for the thirsty world about it.
She watched the animal as it flung itself down for a roll. Its
ungainly, thrusting legs held her interest. Then, as it scrambled to
its feet and shook itself, and headed for the water, she seated herself
in a low wicker chair and wiped the dust from her long riding boots
with the silk handkerchief she wore loosely tied about her neck. A few
moments later her brown eyes were gazing fixedly out at the shimmer of
heat which hovered low over the distant horizon.
She was meditating deeply, her tired body yielding to the greater
activity of her thought. The scene was lost to her. Her gaze sped
beyond the maze of corrals, and the more distant patchwork of fenced
pastures to the western boundary of her beloved Rainbow Hill Valley.
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