With a "so-long," the Ranger rode away into the night.
Chapter XVI
When the Canyon Gates Are Shut
If Aaron King had questioned what it was that had held him in the cedar
thicket until Brian Oakley's heavy hand broke the spell, he would probably
have answered that it was his artistic appreciation of the beautiful
scene. But--deep down in the man's inner consciousness--there was a still,
small voice--declaring, with an insistency not to be denied, that--for
him--there was a something in that picture that was not to be put into the
vernacular of his profession.
Had he acted without his habitual self-control, the day following the
Ranger's visit, he would, again, have gone fishing--up Clear Creek--at
least, to the pool where that master trout had broken his leader. But he
did not. Instead, he roamed aimlessly about the vicinity of the
camp--explored the sycamore grove; climbed a little way up the mountain
spur, and down again; circled the cienaga; and so came, finally, to the
ruins of the house and barn on the creek side of the orchard.
Not far from the lonely fireplace with its naked chimney, a little, old
gate of split palings, in an ancient tumble-down fence, under a great
mistletoe-hung oak, at the top of a bank--attracted his careless
attention.
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