Then, with his back against a stone, Venters faced the east, and,
stick in hand and idle blade, he waited. The glorious sunlight
filled the valley with purple fire. Before him, to left, to
right, waving, rolling, sinking, rising, like low swells of a
purple sea, stretched the sage. Out of the grove of cottonwoods,
a green patch on the purple, gleamed the dull red of Jane
Withersteen's old stone house. And from there extended the wide
green of the village gardens and orchards marked by the graceful
poplars; and farther down shone the deep, dark richness of the
alfalfa fields. Numberless red and black and white dots speckled
the sage, and these were cattle and horses.
So, watching and waiting, Venters let the time wear away. At
length he saw a horse rise above a ridge, and he knew it to be
Lassiter's black. Climbing to the highest rock, so that he would
show against the sky-line, he stood and waved his hat. The almost
instant turning of Lassiter's horse attested to the quickness of
that rider's eye. Then Venters climbed down, saddled his horse,
tied on his pack, and, with a word to his dogs, was about to ride
out to meet Lassiter, when he concluded to wait for him there, on
higher ground, where the outlook was commanding.
It had been long since Venters had experienced friendly greeting
from a man. Lassiter's warmed in him something that had grown
cold from neglect.
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