Among the many changes coming to pass in Forlorn River were the installing of post-office service and the building of a mescal drinking-house.  Belding had worked hard for the post office, but he did not like the idea of a saloon for Forlorn River.  Still, that was an inevitable evil.  The Mexicans would have mescal.  Belding had kept the little border hamlet free of an establishment for distillation of the fiery cactus drink.  A good many Americans drifted into Forlorn River—­miners, cowboys, prospectors, outlaws, and others of nondescript character; and these men, of course, made the saloon, which was also an inn, their headquarters.  Belding, with Carter and other old residents, saw the need of a sheriff for Forlorn River.

One morning early in this spring month, while Belding was on his way from the house to the corrals, he saw Nell running Blanco Jose down the road at a gait that amazed him.  She did not take the turn of the road to come in by the gate.  She put Jose at a four-foot wire fence, and came clattering into the yard.

“Nell must have another tantrum,” said Belding.  “She’s long past due.”

Blanco Jose, like the other white horses, was big of frame and heavy, and thunder rolled from under his great hoofs.  Nell pulled him up, and as he pounded and slid to a halt in a cloud of dust she swung lightly down.

It did not take more than half an eye for Belding to see that she was furious.

“Nell, what’s come off now?” asked Belding.

“I’m not going to tell you,” she replied, and started away, leading Jose toward the corral.

Belding leisurely followed.  She went into the corral, removed Jose’s bridle, and led him to the watering-trough.  Belding came up, and without saying anything began to unbuckle Jose’s saddle girths.  But he ventured a look at Nell.  The red had gone from her face, and he was surprised to see her eyes brimming with tears.  Most assuredly this was not one of Nell’s tantrums.  While taking off Jose’s saddle and hanging it in the shed Belding pondered in his slow way.  When he came back to the corral Nell had her face against the bars, and she was crying.  He slipped a big arm around her and waited.  Although it was not often expressed, there was a strong attachment between them.

“Dad, I don’t want you to think me a—­a baby any more,” she said.  “I’ve been insulted.”

With a specific fact to make clear thought in Belding’s mind he was never slow.

“I knew something unusual had come off.  I guess you’d better tell me.”

“Dad, I will, if you promise.”

“What?”

“Not to mention it to mother, not to pack a gun down there, and never, never tell Dick.”

Belding was silent.  Seldom did he make promises readily.

“Nell, sure something must have come off, for you to ask all that.”

“If you don’t promise I’ll never tell, that’s all,” she declared, firmly.