“By golly! you said a lot,” growled Ben. “Go hunt all around, Modoc. Find his tracks.”

The Indian returned presently to report that he had found Nevada’s horse tracks across the river, headed down the west side of the lake.

“That’s darned funny. Could he be headed for Hammell?”

“His horse lope. Nevada no start long ride fast.”

“Sure he wouldn’t. He doesn’t care a damn for me, but he loves his horse. Any horse…. Modoc, he was going to the Blaine camp, but not by the trail.”

The Indian corroborated that statement by a vigorous nod of head.

“Son–of–a–gun!” soliloquized Ben, broodingly. “Nevada’s going to kill that Less Setter, sure as I’m a miserable wretch. I’ve raved and cussed, all to no good.”

Whereupon he grew exceedingly harassed by worry and dread.

“Somebody on trail,” spoke up the Indian, pointing with slow gesture.

Ben espied a cloud of dust far along the left side of the lake, and under it the dark figure of horse and rider. Ben’s hope that it might be Nevada was short lived. He went indoors to get his field glass.

With this aid he made out the rider to be a boy on a pony, which fact relieved Ben of anxiety and annoyance. Still, the visitor might be a messenger from Camp Blaine. Ben had to abide the wait in patience, something he was short of these last trying weeks. Before the rider grew close enough for possible recognition or scrutiny he passed out of sight under the ridge of Ben’s high promontory. When he reappeared, on the Forlorn River side, Ben recognized the bright freckled face of Marvie Blaine.

“Howdy, Ben!” the lad greeted him, radiantly. “Didn’t have no chance to be with you that other day, so I come again.”

“Well, boy pard, get down and come in,” replied Ben, delighted beyond expression. “I hardly saw you that day. But you didn’t lack amusement, did you?”

“I sure didn’t,” returned Marvie, meaningly, as he fixed Ben with the rapt eyes of hero worship.

“Marvie, I’m awful glad to see you. It was darn good of you to come. And I’m going to give you a wild pony for thinking of poor lonely Ben Ide. He’s only a colt and but half broke. It’ll be best for me to keep him awhile, till you can ride him.”

“Ben Ide, you’re a–goin’ to give me a wild colt?” shouted the lad.

“Sure am,” smiled Ben.

“Whoopee! When all I was wantin’ was to see you an’ go fishin’. Gee! the luck!”

“Well, climb off that cayuse and come see some good horses. Aha! I see you’ve brought your jointed fish pole. Let’s see…. It’s not very strong, Marvie, not for my trout.”

“Gee!” exclaimed Marvie, with eyes growing round.

“Modoc, you take care of Marvie’s pony,” said Ben, sitting down on the porch to examine the lad’s fishing tackle. “I use a cut pole, Marvie, and as long a line as I can cast. Good and strong. These trout are husky. If you hook a big one he’ll bust this outfit all to flinders. Do you want to risk it?”