The stranger smiled in return, but did not speak.

He must have thought, though, that this cowboy appeared quite different from the picturesque rider he had seen at the celebration and on the summit of the Divide.
_That_ Phil Acton had been--as the cowboy himself would have said--"all togged out in his glad rags." This man wore chaps that were old and patched from hard service; his shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, was the color of the corral dirt, and a generous tear revealed one muscular shoulder; his hat was greasy and battered; his face grimed and streaked with dust and sweat, but his sunny, boyish smile would have identified Phil in any garb.
When the rider was ready to mount, and Bob went to open the gate, the stranger climbed down and drew a little aside.

And when Phil, passing where he stood, looked laughingly down at him from the back of the bucking, plunging horse, he made as if to applaud, but checked himself and went quickly to the top of the knoll to watch the riders until they disappeared over the ridge.
"Howdy! Fine weather we're havin'." It was the Dean's hearty voice.

He had gone forward courteously to greet the stranger while the latter was watching the riders.
The man turned impulsively, his face lighted with enthusiasm.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "but that man can ride!" "Yes, Phil does pretty well," returned the Dean indifferently.