Then he was pounding down the
lane--thundering into the court--crashing his great iron-shod
hoofs on the stone flags. Wrangle it was surely, but shaggy and
wild-eyed, and sage-streaked, with dust-caked lather staining his
flanks. He reared and crashed down and plunged. The rider leaped
off, threw the bridle, and held hard on a lasso looped round
Wrangle's head and neck. Janet's heart sank as she tried to
recognize Venters in the rider. Something familiar struck her in
the lofty stature in the sweep of powerful shoulders. But this
bearded, longhaired, unkempt man, who wore ragged clothes patched
with pieces of skin, and boots that showed bare legs and
feet--this dusty, dark, and wild rider could not possibly be
Venters.
"Whoa, Wrangle, old boy! Come down. Easy now. So--so--so. You re
home, old boy, and presently you can have a drink of water you'll
remember."
In the voice Jane knew the rider to be Venters. He tied Wrangle
to the hitching-rack and turned to the court.
"Oh, Bern!...You wild man!" she exclaimed.
"Jane--Jane, it's good to see you! Hello, Lassiter! Yes, it's
Venters."
Like rough iron his hard hand crushed Jane's. In it she felt the
difference she saw in him. Wild, rugged, unshorn--yet how
splendid! He had gone away a boy--he had returned a man. He
appeared taller, wider of shoulder, deeper-chested, more
powerfully built. But was that only her fancy--he had always been
a young giant--was the change one of spirit? He might have been
absent for years, proven by fire and steel, grown like Lassiter,
strong and cool and sure.
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