He had explained to Bland that he meant to keep his promise as soon as he could and be square with his boss, and Bland had at the last resigned himself to the delay--no doubt comforting himself with some cunning plan of revenge later, when he had gotten Johnny into the city, where Bland felt more at home and where Johnny would have all the odds against him, being a stranger and--in Bland's opinion--a "hick." The forenoon, therefore, had been all triumph for Johnny.

All triumph and all glowing with the rose tints of promise.

The afternoon was a different matter.
Johnny had ridden out on the recaptured Sandy.

When he had time to think of it, that glimpse of the horsemen and the loose horses over beyond the red hill nagged him with a warning that all was not well on the Rolling R range.

He had headed straight for the red hill, and he had noticed many little, betraying signs that had long escaped him in his preoccupation with his own dreams and ambitions.
The horses were wild, and ducked into whatever cover was nearest when he approached.