He figured on reaching the Lazy Y about dusk.

He would see his father, perhaps quarrel with him, and then he would ride away, to return no more.

Strange as it may seem, the prospect of a quarrel with his father brought him a thrill of joy, the first emotion he had felt since beginning his homeward journey.
When he reached the bottom of the valley he urged his pony on a little way, pulling it to a halt on the flat, rock-strewn top of an isolated excrescence of earth surrounded by a sea of sagebrush, dried bunch grass, and sand.

Dismounting he stretched his legs to disperse the saddle weariness.

He stifled a yawn, lazily plunged a hand into a pocket of his trousers, produced tobacco and paper and rolled a cigarette.