A welcome change began as they slid down from the bare desert into the valley; and once across the Copper River, Anderson began to breathe freer and to feel he was nearing home.
"God's country!" he said, as he struck the first low swell of rising land, where a cool wind from off the wooded and watered hills greeted his face.

Dust there still was, but it seemed a different kind and smelled of apple-orchards and alfalfa-fields.

Here were hard, smooth roads, and Anderson sped his car miles and miles through a country that was a verdant fragrant bower, and across bright, shady streams and by white little hamlets.
At Huntington he dropped his neighbor rancher, and also the detective, Hall, who was to go disguised into the districts overrun by the I.W.W.

A further run of forty miles put him on his own property.
Anderson owned a string of farms and ranches extending from the bottom-lands to the timber-line of the mountains.

They represented his life of hard work and fair dealing.