Chapter Four

BEN mounted his gray horse, and splashing across Forlorn River, he headed north, his mind teeming with poignant thoughts. He timed this ride to get him into Hammell late in the afternoon, but the gray was not a slow traveler, and Ben, lost in vain regrets and hopeless longings, forgot to hold him to a walk.

At noon, from the divide between the sage mountains Ben looked back and down at Clear Lake, shining like a green jewel set in the gray–purple of sage, and far across to the dot that was his cabin home. “What a country! I’d hate to see it settled. But that’ll come, and my chance to get possession of Forlorn River Valley.”

Northward down the other side of the pass spread the vast level range land of California and Oregon, green and gold, square–patched in brown, threaded by bright ribbons of water, bordered by the black lava beds and buttes. Far beyond glittered snow–clad Shasta, solemn and white in the sky. Survey of both east and west was blocked by the bulk of the gray mountains.

It was Ben’s habit to look and think while he rode along the trails; and this day his sensorial perceptions were abnormally active while grief, resolve, hope, dream, and doubt possessed his heart in turn. That part of Hettie’s letter referring to Ina Blaine recurred and recurred despite stern effort to dismiss it. Hettie was faithful, brother–worshiping, and she had allowed her imagination to run riot. Ben gave no credence to her wild beliefs. Yet what smothering sweetness overcame him! Madness lay in mere dreaming of what Hettie suggested. No, Ina Blaine was not for a poor lonely wild–horse hunter.

Ben rode into Hammell ahead of the hour he had set, and tying the gray to the hitching rail in front of Ketcham’s big store he went in. How good to feel free of debt! Ketcham’s greeting was cordial enough to please even Ben. He exchanged bits of news with the genial merchant, and then crossed the wide street to the high board–faced saloon. He found welcome here, too, from Smatty McGill and his bartender, to loungers, cowboys, gamblers, most of whom knew Ben.

“Soft drinks only for me, fellows,” he said, inviting them all to the bar. “But have what you like on me. And tell me all that’s going on around.”

He spent an hour there, hearing again all Nevada had told him, and more besides. He had worked with one of the cowboys. When Ben was about through with his pertinent questions, Strobel, the county sheriff, strolled in. Ben knew him well and was sure of his stand with this lean–jawed, narrow–eyed officer.

“Howdy, Ben!” replied Strobel, to Ben’s greeting. “Haven’t laid eye on you for a year. Tell me aboot yourself.”

It was then that Ben realized the subtle transition which had taken place in his affairs. All in one day! Ben had to draw upon Nevada’s queer ideas and auguries about the future. When spoken out, frankly, Ben felt that they became fact.