It was inexplicable, mysterious, this notion of his to return to a father who had never taken any interest in him.

He could not account for it.
He had not been sent for, he had not sent word; he did not know why he had come.

He had been in the Durango country when the mood had struck him, and without waiting to debate the wisdom of the move he had ridden in to headquarters, secured his time, and--well, here he was.

He had pondered much in an effort to account for the whim, carefully considering all its phases, and he was still uncertain.
He knew he would receive no welcome; he knew he was not wanted.

Had he felt a longing to revisit the old place?
Perhaps it had been that.
And yet, perhaps not, for he was here now, looking at it, living over the life of his youth, riding again through the long bunch grass, over the barren alkali flats, roaming again in the timber that fringed the river--going over it all again and nothing stirred in his heart--no pleasure, no joy, no satisfaction, no emotion whatever.