“Ina Blaine,” said Ben, dreamily, pausing in his task. “She ought to be nineteen now.”

“Pard, was this Ina Blaine an old girl of yours?” queried Nevada, with great interest. But as there was no reply forthcoming he went on: “Reckon she was only a kid when you left home…. Well, to resoom, I hired a lad to take me over to your dad’s place, while Modoc rode on with the pack outfit. Smart little fellar, keen about wild–hoss huntin’. No use talkin’, Ben, there’s somethin’ about a wild hoss that gets even a boy. He rode behind me an’ we got to the ranch before dark. I hid outside in a grove of trees an’ sent the kid in. It was just a gamble, you know, because there was ten to one he’d run into somebody else beside Hettie. But, by golly! she came to the door, he said, an’ we waited. Hettie slipped out with the letter I gave you…. Ben, she’s grown up. I couldn’t see her as well as I’d have liked, but it was enough. She was nice, Ben, soft–voiced an’ sweet—an’ it got me. Reckon I’d better not pull this letter stunt for you again. But she asked me to come an’ I was fool enough to promise…. So I took the kid back to Hammell, an’ hung around some more…. Ben, there’s an outfit of wild–hoss hunters over here between Silver Meadow an’ the Nevada line that’s takin’ to stealin’ cattle.”

“Who said so?” demanded Ben, suspiciously.

“Common gossip round Hammell,” continued Nevada. “But after buyin’ some drinks for two cowboys I got a hunch who’d branded wild–hoss hunters as cattle thieves. Nobody else but Less Setter. You know we run into some of his deals last summer, an’ he rode right in here one day when you was away. Ben, I’m tellin’ you Less Setter is not on the level.”

“How do you know?” queried Ben, sharply.

“How do you know a hoss that’s thoroughbred from one that ain’t? But it’s only fair for me to admit that I knowed Less Setter before he came to California.”

“Ahuh!” ejaculated Ben, with intent gaze on his friend’s masklike face. That statement of Nevada’s was absolutely the first he had ever made in reference to his past. Years before, one night back in the sage hills, Nevada had ridden up to Ben’s lonely campfire. He had a wound in his arm; he was exhausted and almost starved; his horse limped. Ben expressed himself twice: “Get down and come in, stranger,” and, “Where are you from?” The answer had been “Nevada.” Ben had succored this rider and had never asked another question. Nevada had become attached to Ben and had never mentioned his past.

“What’s more to the point,” went on Nevada, calmly, “Less Setter knowed me. An’ it’s a good bet he has never gabbed about me. If he had—your folks might reckon I wasn’t fit company for you.”

“Ha! Ha!” laughed Ben, bitterly. “Nevada, don’t talk in riddles. Tell me anything or not, just as you like. I love you for what you are, not what you might have been.”