He had learned in bitterness how idle gossip may eat away the efficiency of a whole company.
For that reason, and also because his mind was busy with his plans and the best means of carrying them out, the two rode almost in silence to the hill that shut the Flying U coulee away from the world.

Luck gave a long sigh and muttered "Great!" when the whole coulee lay spread before them.

Then his quick glances took in various details of the ranch and he sighed again, from a different emotion.
"It must have been a great place twenty years ago," he amended his first unqualified enthusiasm.
"Why twenty years ago ?" The Native Son gave him a quick, half-resentful glance.
"Twenty years ago there wasn't so much barb-wire trimming," Luck explained from the viewpoint of the trained producer of Western pictures.
"You couldn't place a camera anywhere now for a long shot across the coulee without bringing a fence into the scene.

And the log stables are too old, and the new ones too new." He pulled up and stared long at the sweep of hills beyond, and the wide spread of the meadow and the big field farther up stream, and at the lazy meandering of Flying U creek with its willow fringe just turning yellow with the first touch of autumn.

He looked at the buildings sprawled out below him.
"When that log house was headquarters for the ranch, and the round-pole corrals were the only fences on the place," he said; "when those old sheds held the saddle horses on cold nights, and the wagons were out from green grass to snowfall, and the boys laid around all winter, just reportin' regular at grub-pile and catching up on sleep they'd lost in the summer--Lor-dee, what a place it must have been!" There was something in his tone that brought the Native Son for an instant face to face with the Flying U in the old days when all the range was free.