Just as soon as he had located and pigeonholed that thing he would be all right. He was all right now, in his body--no sense of lameness or weakness; it was just this childish, contemptible lonesomeness when he wasn’t actually alone--the warm body of his horse beneath him, the dog--even if he wasn’t a very expansive dog--across his saddle. They came out of a lush green cañon with ferns and tall brakes and delicate blooms and a rushing silver stream where the dampness pressed in to the marrow, climbed a stiff trail. Then he looked down, with a gasp, upon a chimney with a curl of smoke issuing from it; it was not able to mount into the air on account of the fog but it made a brave start. Dean Wolcott had to gather his thoughts before he could place exactly where he was. This must be the ranch of Mateo Golinda, the Spaniard, and his American wife. The doctor and the Ranger had spoken to him of the Golindas and said that he must be sure to call upon them, but he had forgotten, and then he had entered on his period of silence. He was so glad that he wanted to swing his hat and shout. Now he was to be among his kind again, with limitations, of course. The converse would be crude and the fare would be rough; there would be no point of mental contact. There would be--he grinned stiffly at the absurdity--no afternoon tea; chilled and fog-drenched as he was, he would have to wait for the late supper, if, indeed, it was his good fortune to be invited to remain. There was no dizzy sum, no cherished treasure he would not part with for tea, hot and heartening tea in a delicate cup, and the sort of talk which nourished the mind. And an open fire. But there would be a “cookstove,” at least, and it would give out comforting warmth while the woman was getting supper ... he would be warm.... He had let Rusty down and they were making for the house at a smooth running walk. He would judge what sort she was, Mrs. Golinda; perhaps he could ask her to make him--or to let him make himself--a cup of tea; he could say quite honestly that he was cold and overdone. He knew people of that sort called tea “eating between meals” or “piecing,” but he didn’t care what she called it if only he could have it. He got awkwardly down in the yard and found that he was shivering uncontrollably and that his teeth were chattering, and he felt odd and confused. He stood still and made himself rehearse for an instant. He would march up to the door, he would knock at the door, and she would come--she _must_ be home, with that smoke charging at the fog!--and he would take off his hat, and try to keep from shaking and jerking, and say--“My name is Dean Wolcott. I am the new Forest Ranger. May I--”