This ranch contained millions of acres, hundreds of square miles; it was greater in extent than half some of the New England states. And every inch of it, save alone the homestead where the houses stood, belonged to the public domain. No rent was paid for it, no taxes were levied against it. Hal Nearing and his forces reigned over it like a tsar with Cossacks at his back.
It was a common saying among the cattle barons, great and small, that God made that country for cattle. No price was too great to pay, except in taxes after the manner of honest men, to hold it inviolate to their sacred purpose. Many a man paid with his blood for striking a furrow in its sward.
Time had not altered Hal Nearing's appearance greatly. He was sitting on the long porch, smoking his after-supper cigar, when Barrett and Dan drove up. Still slender and graceful, the only evidence left by the passing years against his youth was his blanched mustache and hair. These now were as white as the ashes of time could ever leach them, lending him a distinction which seemed singularly original and peculiar, taken with the healthy brown of his smooth skin, the friendly brightness of his strong eyes.
Time is partial in this manner with some men; it does not record upon their faces the secrets of their living.
The boss of the ranch came down the steps with a quizzical, good-humored smile of recognition for the young man who piled out of the wagon with all his sea nimbleness in his legs.
