For a moment he closely regarded Tull and his comrades, and then, halting in his slow walk, he seemed to relax.
"Evenin', ma'am," he said to Jane, and removed his sombrero with quaint grace.
Jane, greeting him, looked up into a face that she trusted instinctively and which riveted her attention.

It had all the characteristics of the range rider's--the leanness, the red burn of the sun, and the set changelessness that came from years of silence and solitude.

But it was not these which held her, rather the intensity of his gaze, a strained weariness, a piercing wistfulness of keen, gray sight, as if the man was forever looking for that which he never found.

Jane's subtle woman's intuition, even in that brief instant, felt a sadness, a hungering, a secret.
"Jane Withersteen, ma'am ?" he inquired.
"Yes," she replied.
"The water here is yours ?" "Yes." "May I water my horse ?" "Certainly.

There's the trough." "But mebbe if you knew who I was--" He hesitated, with his glance on the listening men.