Never had Forlorn River so deserved its name as now. It appeared to be a pale, discolored, stagnant lane of water, covered with green scum and bordered by sun–dried rushes, winding away between the gray sage hills. Every day the water lowered an inch or two.

“Dryin’ up,” said Nevada. “Another month like this an’ the river above heah will be a mudhole. Ben, it shore was lucky when you found that spring heah.”

Nevada pointed down the bank to a green spot and a little willow–shaded cove that cut somewhat into the bank. Here at the lowest stage of water ever known in the country a spring of cold running water, remarkable in volume considering the six dry years, had been discovered. Not even an Indian had ever suspected its presence, because heretofore it had been covered by the river. It belonged to Ben and was indeed a priceless possession. If both lake and river dried up he would still have that spring. Both Ben and Nevada believed the water came from the high back range to the south. They knew every foot of that country, and it was waterless. Here then must be the outlet of water stored in the mountains.

“Pard, that’s why we can afford to gamble,” asserted Nevada. “That gurglin’ little spring hole is a gold mine.”

“Nevada, guess our luck has turned,” replied Ben, soberly. “I swear I forgot about this spring.”

“Ahuh! Now, Ben, I’ll cut out these hosses. You ride on down an’ open the pasture gate. I’ll leave your favorites an’ a couple of mine.”

Ben did as he was bidden, reconciled now and strangely glad the die had been cast. Indecision, love of horses, had always kept him from concluding profitable deals. Here was an end to his vacillation. He dared not think openly of Nevada’s curt statement that the deal was the first for Ina Blaine, yet Ben could not deceive himself. The romance of it was at the back of his mind, like a muffled song, barely distinguishable. He gazed around him, with dreamy eyes of vision, at the dry waste of sage and the lonely little river, at the majestic round hills, almost yellow in the sunlight. There would always be beauty and solitude here, even in that mythical future when this wild country was settled by prosperous ranchers. Ben had a doubt that was father to his hope. It was a desert and sage country with one wandering little river to supply nourishment.

Ben assisted Nevada to drive a string of spirited horses across the gray barren, between the sage slopes, to a wide basin called Mule Deer Flat. In fertile seasons this was a beautiful and wonderful country. After six years of drought, however, it was a dusty sordid bowl with a yellow water hole in the center and gradual slopes of scant sage and grazed–off grass. A few gaunt cattle stood here and there. Bleached bones and dried carcasses were not wanting in that scene of a rancher’s failure.