About the middle of the forenoon she was drawn to her favorite place of outlook, which she seldom frequented until afternoon, and straightway espied a horseman riding up the slope from the west side of the lake. Cowboys never took that course. There was no trail. Ina wondered, grew curious and interested. He was avoiding the ranch, that looked certain. She could not remember ever having seen either rider or horse before.
The horseman surmounted the slope, at a point some distance beyond Ina’s position, and then rode directly toward her. There was not the slightest doubt of his having observed her, as she had come out on the edge of the bench in plain sight, and now stood there motionless.
Rapidly he loped his horse to her, halted, and slipped out of the saddle with singular quick grace. His spurs jingled. Ina thought him the most striking rider she had ever seen. Tall, slim, lithe, broad of shoulder, dark as an Indian, with black piercing eyes, he could be none other than Ben’s friend. Ina recognized him from Hettie’s description. It seemed she would have known him without ever having seen him or heard him described.
“Mawnin’, Ina Blaine,” he drawled, in the cool easy tone of a Southerner. He removed his sombrero, revealing long raven black hair, and made her a gallant bow. “Shore I’m lucky to meet you heah.”
“Nevada!” exclaimed Ina. “You’re Ben Ide’s friend. I know you.”
“Reckon we both called the turn, without ever havin’ seen each other. Nothin’ could be no more natural. Ben’s pard an’ Ben’s girl.”
“Oh, I’m glad to meet you,” returned Ina, blushing as she extended her hand.
“Shore I’m glad to meet you, Ina,” he said, removing his glove to shake hands with her.
“You came to see me?” she queried.
“Yes.”
“Did you meet my little brother Marvie? He left for Forlorn River this morning.”
“No. But I didn’t come by the trail.”
“Did—did Ben send you?” she went on, rather hurriedly.
“I should smile not. Why, lady, Ben would murder me if he knew what I was aboot this heah day. He shore would.”
“Is—is everything all right—over there at Forlorn River?” queried Ina, haltingly. Her heart began to pound.
“Fine an’ dandy. Shore gettin’ better every day. Ben an’ me are on the rise.”
“Did Strobel visit you?”
“Stayed all night with us, an’ we’d never have knowed he was a sheriff.”
“Did he—mention me?”
“I should smile. Reckon you was aboot all he talked aboot.”
From pounding, Ina’s oversensitive heart took to sinking.
“What did he say?” Ina forced herself to ask.
“Wal, it was Ben’s fault that Strobel talked so much,” replied Nevada, with a smile that warmed and somehow reassured Ina. “Strobel wanted to talk hoss an’ range to us, but Ben wouldn’t give him no peace. Shore all Ben wanted to heah aboot was you. An’ all Strobel would tell him was how smart an’ pretty you were an’ how nice you treated him. Ben kept sayin’, ‘She knew you was comin’ heah an’ didn’t send no word!’ an’ then Strobel would say, ‘Ben, I don’t recollect no word, though she spoke of you casual–like, regardin’ the fight an’ wild hosses.’ Then Ben would groan an’ tear his hair. ‘That’s not like Ina Blaine.’”