“Wal, forget thet now, son,” said the agent kindly. “Boys will be boys, especially cowboys. You’ve been a wild one, if reports comin’ to Bill was true...But you’ve come home to make up to him. Lord knows he needs you, boy.”

  “Yes — I’ll make it — up,” replied Pan, trying to swallow his emotion. “Tell me.”

  “Wal, I wish I had better news to tell,” replied Smith, gravely shaking his head. “Your dad’s had tough luck. He lost his ranch in Texas, as I reckon you know, an’ he follered — the man who’d done him out here to try to make him square up. Bill only got a worse deal. Then he got started again pretty good an’ lost out because of a dry year. Now he’s workin’ in Carter’s Wagon Shop. He’s a first-rate carpenter. But his wages are small, an’ he can’t never get no where. He’s talked some of wild-hoss wranglin’. But thet takes an outfit, which he ain’t got. I’ll give you a hunch, son. If you can stake your dad to an outfit an’ throw in with him you might give him another start.”

  Pan had on his tongue an enthusiastic reply to that, but the entrance of the curious Matthews halted him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Smith,” he said, eagerly. “Where’ll I find Carter’s Wagon Shop?”

  “Other end of town. Right down Main Street. You can’t miss it.”

  Pan hurried out, and through the door he heard Matthews’ loud voice:

  “Carter’s Wagon Shop!...By thunder, I’ve got the hunch! That cowboy is Panhandle Smith!”

  Pan smiled grimly to himself, as he passed on out of hearing. The name and fame that had meant so little to him back on the prairie ranges might stand him in good stead out here west of the Rockies. He strode swiftly, his thought reverting to his father. He wanted to run. Remorse knocked at his heart. Desertion! He had gone off, like so many cowboys, forgetting home, father, mother, duty. They had suffered. Never a word of it had come to him.

  The way appeared long, and the line of stone houses and board shacks, never ending. At last he reached the outskirts of Marco and espied the building and sign he was so eagerly seeking. Resounding hammer strokes came from the shop. Outward coolness, an achievement habitual with him when excitement mounted to a certain stage, came with effort and he paused a moment to gaze at the sweeping country, green and purple, dotted by gray rocks, rising to hills gold with autumn colors. His long journey was at an end. In a moment more anxiety would be a thing of the past. Let him only see his father actually in the flesh!

  Pan entered the shop. It was open, like any other wagon shop with wood scattered about, shavings everywhere, a long bench laden with tools, a forge. Then he espied a man wielding a hammer on a wheel. His back was turned. But Pan knew him. Knew that back, that shaggy head beginning to turn gray, knew even the swing of arm! He approached leisurely. The moment seemed big, splendid.

  “Howdy, Dad,” he called, at the end of one of the hammer strokes.

  His father’s lax figure stiffened. He dropped the wheel, then the hammer. But not on the instant did he turn. His posture was strained, doubtful. Then he sprang erect, and whirled. Pan saw his father greatly changed, but how it was impossible to grasp because his seamed face was suddenly transformed.

  “For the good — Lord’s sake — if it ain’t Pan!” he gasped.

  “It sure is, Dad. Are you glad to see me?”

  “Glad!...Reckon this’ll save your mother’s life!” and to Pan’s amaze he felt himself crushed in his father’s arms. That sort of thing had never been Bill Smith’s way. He thrilled to it, and tried again to beat back the remorse mounting higher. His father released him, and drew back, as if suddenly ashamed of his emotion. His face, which he had been trying to control, smoothed out.

  “Wal, Pan, you come back now — after long ago I gave up hopin’?” he queried, haltingly.

  “Yes, Dad,” began Pan with swift rush of words. “I’m sorry. I always meant to come home. But one thing and another prevented. Then I never heard of your troubles. I never knew you needed me. You didn’t write. Why didn’t you tell me?...But forget that. I rode the ranges — drifted with the cowboys — till I got homesick. Now I’ve found you — and well, I want to make up to you and mother.”

  “Ah-huh! Sounds like music to me,” replied Smith, growing slow and cool. He eyed Pan up and down, walked round him twice. Then he suddenly burst out, “Wal, you long-legged strappin’ son of a gun! If sight of you ain’t good for sore eyes!...Ah-huh! Look where he packs that gun!”

  With slow strange action he reached down to draw Pan’s gun from its holster. It was long and heavy, blue, with a deadly look. The father’s intent gaze moved from it up to the face of the son. Pan realized what his father knew, what he thought. The moment was sickening for Pan. A cold shadow, forgotten for long, seemed to pass through his mind.

  “Pan, I’ve kept tab on you for years,” spoke his father slowly, “but I’d have heard, even if I hadn’t took pains to learn...Panhandle Smith! You damned hard-ridin’, gun-throwin’ son of mine!...Once my heart broke because you drifted with the wild cowpunchers — but now — by God, I believe I’m glad.”

  “Dad, never mind range talk. You know how cowboys brag and blow...I’m not ashamed to face you and mother. I’ve come clean, Dad.”

  “But, son, you’ve — you’ve used that gun!” whispered Smith, hoarsely.

  “Sure I have. On some two-legged coyotes an’ skunks...And maybe greasers. I forget.”

  “Panhandle Smith!” ejaculated his father, refusing to take the matter in Pan’s light vein. “They know here in Marco...You’re known, Pan, here west of the Rockies.”

  “Well, what of it?” flashed Pan, suddenly gripped again by that strange cold emotion in the depths of him. “I should think you’d be glad. Reckon it was all good practice for what I’ll have to do out here.”

  “Don’t talk that way. You’ve read my mind,” replied Smith, huskily. “I’m afraid. I’m almost sorry you came. Yet, right now I feel more of a man than for years.”

  “Dad, you can tell me everything some other time,” rejoined Pan, throwing off the sinister spell. “Now, I only want to know about Mother and Alice.”

  “They’re well an’ fine, son, though your mother grieves for you. She never got over that. An’ Alice, she’s a big girl, goin’ to school an’ helpin’ with work...An’ Pan, you’ve got a baby brother nearly two years old.”

  “Jumping cowbells!” shouted Pan, in delight. “Where are they? Tell me quick.”

  “We live on a farm a mile or so out. I rent it for most nothin’. Hall, who owns it, has a big ranch. I’ve got an option on this farm, an’ it shore is a bargain. Hundred an’ ten acres, most of it cultivated. Good water, pasture, barn, an’ nice little cabin. I work here mornin’s, an’ out there afternoons. You’ll—”

  “Stop talking about it. I’ll buy the farm,” interrupted Pan. “But where is it?”

  “Keep right out this road. Second farmhouse,” said his father, pointing to the west. “I’d go with you, but I promised some work. But I’ll be home at noon...Hey, hold on. There’s more to tell. You’ll get a — a jolt. Wait.”

  But Pan rushed on out of the shop, and took to the road with the stride of a giant. To be compelled to walk, when if he had had his horse he could ride that mile in two minutes! His heart was beating high. Mother! Grieving for me. Alice a big girl. And a baby boy! This is too good for a prodigal like me.

  All else he had forgotten for the moment. Shadows of memories overhung his consciousness, striving for entrance, but he denied them. How shaken his father had been at sight of him! Poor old Dad! And then what was the significance of all that talk about his range name, Panhandle Smith, and his father’s strange fascinated handling of Pan’s gun? Would his mother know him at first glance? Oh! no doubt of that! But Alice would not; she had been a child; and he had grown, changed.

  While his thoughts raced he kept gazing near and far. The farm land showed a fair degree of cultivation. Grassy hills shone in the bright morning sun; high up, flares of gold spoke eloquently of aspen thickets tinged by the frost; purple belts crossing the mountains told of forests. The wall of rock that he had observed from Moran’s camp wound away over the eastern horizon. A new country it was, a fair and wild country, rugged and hard on the uplands, suitable for pasture and cultivation in the lowlands.

  Pan passed the first farmhouse. Beyond that he could make out only a green patch, where he judged lay the home he was hunting. His buoyant step swallowed up the rods. Cattle and horses grazed in a pasture. The road turned to the right, round the slope of a low hill. Pan’s quick eye caught a column of curling blue smoke that rose from a grove of trees. The house would be in there. Pasture, orchard, cornfield, ragged and uncut, a grove of low trees with thick foliage, barns and corrals he noted with appreciative enthusiasm. The place did not have the bareness characteristic of a ranch.

  At last Pan reached the wagon gate that led into the farm. It bordered an orchard of fair-sized trees, the leaves of which were colored. He cut across the orchard so as to reach the house more quickly. It was still mostly hidden among the trees. Smell of hay, of fruit, of the barnyard assailed his nostrils. And then the fragrance of wood smoke and burning leaves! His heart swelled full high in his breast. He could never meet his mother with his usual cool easy nonchalance.

  Suddenly he espied a woman through the trees. She was quite close. He almost ran. No, it could not be his mother. This was a girl, lithe, tall, swift stepping. His mother had been rather short and stout. Could this girl be his sister Alice? The swift supposition was absurd, because Alice was only about ten, and this girl was grown. She had a grace of motion that struck Pan. He hurried around some trees to intercept her, losing sight of her for a moment.

  Suddenly he came out of the shade to confront her, face to face in the open sunlight. She uttered a cry and dropped something she had been carrying.

  “Don’t be scared, Miss,” he said, happily. “I’m no tramp, though I did rant in like a trespasser. I want to find Mrs. Bill Smith. I’m—”

  But Pan got no farther. The girl had reason to be scared, but should her hands fly to her bosom like that, and press there as if she had been hurt. He must have frightened her. And he was about to stammer his apologies and make himself known, when the expression on her face struck him mute. Her healthy golden skin turned white. Her lips quivered, opened. Then her eyes — their color was violet and something about them seemed to stab Pan. His mind went into a deadlock — seemed to whirl — and to flash again into magnified thoughts.

  “Pan! Pan!” she cried, and moved toward him, her eyes widening, shining with a light he had never seen in another woman’s.

  “Pan! Don’t you — know me?”

  “Sure — but I don’t know who you are,” Pan muttered in bewilderment.

  “I’m Lucy!...Oh, Pan — you’ve come back,” she burst out, huskily, with a deep break in her voice.

  She seemed to leap toward him — into the arms he flung wide, as with tremendous shock he recognized her name, her voice, her eyes. It was a moment beyond reason...He was crushing her to his breast, kissing her in a frenzy of sudden realization of love. Lucy! Lucy! Little Lucy Blake, his baby, his child sweetheart, his schoolmate! And the hunger of the long lonely years, never realized, leaped to his lips now.

  She flung her arms round his neck, and for a few moments gave him kiss for kiss. Then suddenly she shivered and her head fell forward on his breast.

  Pan held her closely, striving for self-control. And he gazed out into the trees with blurred eyes. What a home-coming! Lucy, grown into a tall beautiful girl who had never forgotten him. He was shaken to his depths by the revelation that now came to him. He had always loved Lucy! Never anyone else, never knowing until this precious moment! What a glorious trick for life to play him. He held her, wrapped her closer, bent his face to her fragrant hair. It was dull gold now. Once it had been bright, shiny, light as the color of grass on the hill. He kissed it, conscious of unutterable gratitude and exaltation.

  She stirred, put her hands to his breast and broke away from him, tragic eyed, strange.

  “Pan, I — I was beside myself,” she whispered. “Forgive me...Oh, the joy of seeing you. It was too much...Go to your mother. She — will—”

  “Yes, presently, but Lucy, don’t feel badly about this — about my not recognizing you at once,” he interrupted, in glad swift eagerness. “How you have grown! Changed!...Lucy, your hair is gold now. My little white-headed kid! Oh, I remember. I never forgot you that way. But you’re so changed — so — so — Lucy, you’re beautiful...I’ve come back to you. I always loved you. I didn’t know it as I do now, but I’ve been true to you. Lucy, I swear...I’m Panhandle Smith and as wild as any of that prairie outfit. But, darling, I’ve been true to you — true...And I’ve come back to love you, to make up for absence, to take care of you — marry you. Oh, darling, I know you’ve been true to me — you’ve waited for me.”

  Rapture and agony both seemed to be struggling for the mastery over Lucy. Pan suddenly divined that this was the meaning of her emotion.

  “My God!” she whispered, finally, warding him off. “Don’t you know — haven’t you heard?”

  “Nothing. Dad didn’t mention you,” replied Pan hoarsely, fighting an icy sickening fear. “What’s wrong?”

  “Go to your mother. Don’t let her wait. I’ll see you later.”

  “But Lucy-”

  “Go. Give me a little while to — to get hold of myself.”

  “Are — are you married?” he faltered.

  “No-no — but—”

  “Don’t you love me?”

  She made no reply, except to cover her face with shaking hands. They could not hide the betraying scarlet.

  “Lucy, you must love me,” he rushed on, almost incoherently. “You gave yourself away...It lifted me — changed me. All my life I’ve loved you, though I never realized it...Your kisses — they made me know myself...But, my God, say that you love me!”

  “Yes, Pan, I do love you,” she replied, quietly, lifting her eyes to his. Again the rich color fled.

  “Then, nothing else matters,” cried Pan. “Whatever’s wrong, I’ll make right. Don’t forget that. I’ve much to make up for...Forgive me for this — this — whatever has hurt you so. I’ll go now to Mother and see you later. You’ll stay?”

  “I live here with your people,” replied Lucy and walked away through the trees.

  “Something wrong!” muttered Pan, as he watched her go. But the black fear of he knew not what could not stand before his consciousness of finding Lucy, of seeing her betray her love. Doubt lingered, but his glad heart downed that too. He was home. What surprise and joy to learn that it was also Lucy’s home! He stifled his intense curiosity and longing. He composed himself. He walked a little under the trees. He thought of the happiness he would bring his mother, and Alice. In a few moments he would make the acquaintance of his baby brother.

  Flowers that he recognized as the favorites of his mother bordered the sandy path around the cabin. The house had been constructed of logs and later improved with a frame addition, unpainted, weather stained, covered with vines. A cozy little porch, with wide eaves and a windbreak of vines, faced the south. A rude homemade rocking chair sat on the porch; a child’s wooden toys also attested to a carpenter’s skill Pan well remembered. He heard a child singing, then a woman’s mellow voice.

  Pan drew a long breath and took off his sombrero. It had come — the moment he had long dreamed of. He stepped loudly upon the porch, so that his spurs jangled musically, and he knocked upon the door frame.

  “Who’s there?” called the voice again. It made Pan’s heart beat fast. In deep husky tones he replied:

  “Just a poor starved cowboy, Ma’am, beggin’ a little grub.”

  “Gracious me!” she exclaimed, and her footsteps thudded on the floor inside.

  Pan knew his words would fetch her. Then he saw her come to the door. Years, trouble, pain had wrought their havoc, but he would have known her at first sight among a thousand women.

  “Mother!” he called, poignantly, and stepped toward her, with his arms out.

  She seemed stricken. The kindly eyes changed, rolled. Her mouth opened wide. She gasped and fainted in his arms.

  A little while later, when she had recovered from the shock and the rapture of Pan’s return, they sat in the neat little room.

  “Bobby, don’t you know your big brother?” Pan was repeating to the big-eyed boy who regarded him so solemnly. Bobby was fascinated by this stranger, and at last was induced to approach his knee.

  “Mother, I reckon you’ll never let Bobby be a cowboy,” teased Pan, with a smile.

  “Never,” she murmured fervently.

  “Well, he might do worse,” went on Pan thoughtfully. “But we’ll make a plain rancher of him, with a leaning to horses. How’s that?”

  “I’d like it, but not in a wild country like this,” she replied.

  “Reckon we’d do well to figure on a permanent home in Arizona, where both summers and winters are pleasant. I’ve heard a lot about Arizona. It’s a land of wonderful grass and sage ranges, fine forests, canyons. We’ll go there, some day.”

  “Then, Pan, you’ve come home to stay?” she asked, with agitation.

  “Yes, Mother,” he assured her, squeezing the worn hand that kept reaching to touch him, as if to see if he were real. Then Bobby engaged his attention. “Hey, you rascal, let go. That’s my gun...Bad sign, Mother. Bobby’s as keen about a gun as I was over a horse...There, Bobby, now it’s safe to play with...Mother, there’s a million things to talk about. But we’ll let most of them go for the present. You say Alice is in school. When will she be home?”

  “Late this afternoon. Pan,” she went on, hesitatingly, “Lucy Blake lives with us now.”

  “Yes, I met Lucy outside,” replied Pan, drawing a deep breath. “But first about Dad. I didn’t take time to talk much with him. I wanted to see you...Is Dad well in health?”