She smiled suddenly and looked at him with a significant expression. "And the hero will not be an Easterner—to swagger through the pages of the book, scaring people into submission through the force of his compelling personality. He will be a cowboy who will do things after the manner of the country—a real, unaffected care-free puncher!"
"Have you got your eye on such a man?" he asked, assuring himself that he knew of no man who would fill the requirements she had named.
"I don't mind telling you that I have," she returned, looking straight at him.
It suddenly burst upon him. His face crimsoned. He felt like bolting.
But he managed to grin, though she could see that the grin was forced.
"It's gettin' late, ma'am," he said, as he turned toward his pony. "I reckon I'll be gettin' back to the Two Diamond."
She laughed mockingly as he settled into the saddle. There was a clatter of hoofs from around the corner of the cabin.
"Wait!" she commanded. "Ben is coming!"
But there was a rush of wind that ruffled her apron, a clatter, and she could hear Mustard's hoofs pounding over the matted mesquite that carpeted the clearing. Ferguson had fled.