At the very time of his life when his
daughter should have become a comfort to him, Oliver Jordan withdrew
himself more and more from the world, and she could not but feel that
his evening drives through the silences of the hill were dearer and
closer to him than his daughter. The buckboard reappeared, lurching up a
farther knoll, and then rolled out of sight to be seen no more. And
Marianne felt again, what she had often felt before, seeing her father
drive away in this fashion, that some day Oliver Jordan would never come
back from the hills.
A moment later half a dozen of the cowpunchers came into view with the
unmistakable form of Lew Hervey in the lead. He was a big-looking man in
the saddle and he showed himself to the greatest advantage by riding
rigidly erect with his head thrown a little back, so that the loose brim
of his sombrero was continually in play about his face. For all her
dislike of him she could not but admit that he was the beau ideal of the
fine horseman. The dominant leader showed in every line and it was no
wonder that the cowpunchers feared and respected him. Besides, there
were many tales of his prowess with rifle and revolver to make him stand
out in bolder relief.
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