SHADOWS ON THE SAGE-SLOPE
"It's Wrangle! . . . It's Wrangle!" cried Jane Withersteen. "I'd know him from a million horses!"
Excitement and thrilling expectancy flooded out all Jane Withersteen's calm. A tight band closed round her breast as she saw the giant sorrel flit in reddish-brown flashes across the openings in the green. 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. Jane'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, long-haired, 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,
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