"I'm all right now," he said, in a dull, even voice; for this youngster of twenty-five owned an extra share of that faculty of self-restraint which is the birthright of every man and woman born and bred on the back-bone of North America. "I took it pretty hard at first, Mac; but I'm not one to cry over spilt milk. You know that, eh? No, I can't eat or drink yet awhile. I took a lunch below here at the depot. Tell me this, will you? They--they'll be leaving by train?" "Yep. Special saloon kyar on the four-ten east. I reckon you saw it on a sidin', but never suspicioned why it was thar." "East? New York and Europe, I suppose?" "Guess that's about the line." "Then I'll show up here about half-past four. Till then I'll fool round by myself. Don't worry, Mac. I mean that, and no more." He walked a few yards; but was arrested by a cry: "Not that-a way, Derry! Any other old trail but that!" Then Power laughed; but his laughter was the wail of a soul in pain, for he had gone in the direction of the Dolores ranch. He waved a hand, and the gesture was one of much grace and distinction, because Power insensibly carried himself as a born leader of men. "Just quit worrying, I tell you," he said calmly. "I understand. The boys will escort them to that millionaire saloon. They'll be a lively crowd, of course; but they won't see me, never fear." Then he strode off, his spurs jingling in rhythm with each long, athletic pace. He headed straight for a narrow cleft in the hill at the back of the store, a cleft locally known as the Gulch, and beyond it, on another plateau sloping to the southeast, lay the Willard homestead. MacGonigal watched the tall figure until it vanished in the upward curving of the path. Then he rolled the cigar between his heavy lips again until it was securely lodged in the opposite corner of his mouth; but the maneuver was wasted,--the cigar was out,--and such a thing had not happened in twenty years! To mark an unprecedented incident, he threw away an unconsumed half. "He's crazy ter have a last peep at Nancy," he communed. "An' they'd have made a bully fine pair, too, ef it hadn't been fer that skunk Marten. Poor Derry! Mighty good job I stopped home, or he'd ha gone plumb to hell." Of course, the storekeeper was talking to himself; so he may not have said it, really. But he thought it, and, theologically, that is as bad. Moreover, he might have electrified Bison by his language that night were he gifted with second sight; for he had seen the last of the proud, self-contained yet light-hearted and generous-souled cavalier whom he had known and liked as "Derry" Power. They were fated to meet again many times, under conditions as varying as was ever recorded in a romance of real life; but MacGonigal had to find a place in his heart for a new man, because "Derry" Power was dead--had died there in the open doorway of the store--and a stranger named John Darien Power reigned in his stead. CHAPTER II THE TERMS