The ranger saddled for her and they took the road. Betty carried with her a small emergency kit of medical supplies.
Travel back and forth had broken the road in the valley. It was not until the riders struck the hill trail that they had to buck drifts. It was slow, wearing work, and, by the time they came in sight of the dam, Betty’s watch told her that it was two o’clock.
Merrick saw them coming down the long white slope and wondered what travelers had business urgent enough to bring them through heavy drifts to the isolated camp. As soon as he recognized Betty, he went to meet her. Billy rode on down to the tents. He knew when he was not needed.
Rich color glowed in her cheeks, excitement sparkled in her eyes.
“What in the world are you doing here?” Merrick asked.
She was the least bit dashed by his manner. It suggested censure, implied that her adventure—whatever the cause of it—was a bit of headstrong folly. Did he think it was a girl’s place to stay at home in weather like this? Did he think that she was unmaidenly, had bucked miles of snowdrifts because she could not stay away from him?
“Have you heard about Mr. Hollister? He’s been hurt—shot.”
“Shot?”
“Last night. At Black’s cabin.”
“Who shot him?”