“You’re the man I met at Fraser’s dance—the man they call the King of the Bighorn country.”
He accepted identification with an elaborate bow. “Correct, ma’am. I’m Ned Bannister the king.”
An instant before she had been sitting rigid with a face of startled fear, but as he spoke a great wave of joy beat into her heart. For if this man were the terror of the country the one she had left wounded at her house could not be. She forgot that she was herself in peril, forgot everything in the swift conviction that the man she loved was an honest gentleman and worthy of her.
The man standing by the horse could not understand the light that had so immediately leaped to her eyes. Even his vanity hesitated at the obvious deduction that she had already succumbed to his attractions.
“But I don’t understand-0that isn’t your real name, is it? I know another man who calls himself Ned Bannister.”
He laughed scornfully. “My cousin, the sheepherder. Yes, that’s his name, too. We both have a right to it.”
“Your cousin?”
The familiarity in him that had been haunting her all day and that had deceived her at the dance was now explained. It was her lover of which this man reminded her. Now that she had been given the clue she could trace kinship in manner, gait and appearance.
“I’m not proud of my mealy-mouthed namesake,” he replied.
“Nor he of you, I am sure,” she quickly answered.