Rock’s horse splashed knee-deep through the sparkling Marias, where it raced down a long, pebbled stretch to foam into a black pool. The draw indicated by Nona opened a yawning mouth, coming in from the illimitable spread of Lonesome Prairie, although Rock had yet to learn the name and its aptness. A small creek trickled through this depression. The draw narrowed and lifted, as he rode. He climbed at last to the upper levels, where the eye could span fifty miles. Here cattle lay in the midday heat, along the tiny stream that meandered in a shallow trough, or they fed in bunches on the tops of low rises, where vagrant airs stirred. Rock counted and estimated, as he jogged from bunch to bunch, noting brands and earmarks, admiring the glint of sun on slender curving horns, the chubby roundness of fat calves and sleek yearlings, and the massive bulk of challenging bulls. Most of these cattle were branded TL. A few bore the Maltese Cross. Rock smiled to himself. Here he was where Uncle Bill Sayre wanted him to be. The odd part of it was that, if he had never ridden into Fort Worth, he would still be here. It was as if some obscure force had been heading him toward this spot for more than a year. He noted, too, as he glanced over these cattle, an odd 77. He might still be a Seventy Seven rider he reflected, if Mark Duffy had not been a wanton bully in a region where there was no law save that enforced by Colonel Colt. “Yes, I seemed bound to land here, anywhere,” Rock thought, “whether I came with the Seventy Seven or on my own. I suppose that’s just chance.” Blind, blundering chance. Very likely. Yet chance might be a maker of secret patterns, Rock reflected, when he had put ten miles between himself and the Marias. The far-rolling land seemed to carry only cattle with the Maltese Cross and few of those. For here he dropped into a low hollow, and on top of the next small lift in the plains he rode into three riders, one of whom was a woman. Rock had keen eyes. Moreover, since that meeting with Elmer Duffy he was acutely conscious of his newly acquired identity. Thus he marked instantly the brands of the horses. Two were Maltese Cross stock, the other, bestridden by a youth of twenty or less, carried Nona Parke’s brand on his left shoulder. His rider was a blue-eyed slender boy, with a smile that showed fine white teeth when he laid his eyes on Rock. “Hello, Doc, old boy,” he said. “How’s the ranch an’ the family and everythin’?” “Same as usual,” Rock answered genially. “What you expect?”