But from the back porch no eye could have encompassed the limit of his broad, swelling slopes of grain and grass.
From the main road he drove up to the right of the house, where, under a dip of wooded slope, clustered barns, sheds, corrals, granaries, engine and machinery houses, a store, and the homes of hired men--a little village in itself.
The sounds he heard were a welcome home--the rush of swift water not twenty yards from where he stopped the car in the big courtyard, the pound of hoofs on the barn floor, the shrill whistle of a stallion that saw and recognized him, the drawling laugh of his cowboys and the clink of their spurs as they became aware of his return.
Nash, the suspected driver, was among those who hurried to meet the car.
Anderson's keen, covert glance made note of the driver's worried and anxious face.
"Nash, she'll need a lookin' over," he said, as he uncovered bundles in the back seat and lifted them out.
"All right, sir," replied Nash, eagerly.

A note of ended strain was significant in his voice.
"Here, you Jake," cheerily called Anderson to a raw-boned, gaunt-faced fellow who wore the garb of a cowboy.
"Boss, I'm powerful glad to see you home," replied Jake, as he received bundle after bundle until he was loaded down.

Then he grinned.

"Mebbe you want a pack-boss." "You're hoss enough for me.

Come on," he said, and, waving the other men aside, he turned toward the green, shady hill above which the red and white of the house just showed.
A bridge crossed the rushing stream.