Betty Hardin reached that decision in the first couple of miles of the trip and now, within five miles of her destination at Bent’s Ford in the Indian Nations, found no cause to change her mind. As she tried to find a more comfortable, or less uncomfortable, piece of the hard stuffed leather seat she found herself hoping her cousin, Dusty Fog, would have better accommodation waiting for her when she reached the stage station at Bent’s Ford. That was why Betty had come this way. Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid had taken a herd to Mulrooney, Kansas, and were headed down trail again; she’d telegraphed, arranging to join up at Bent’s Ford and would travel home to the Rio Hondo with them. She hoped they would have a horse for her, but even a buggy would be preferable to the hard seat of the coach. She was a small, beautiful, shapely girl who would please the eyes of most men. Her hair was black, shining and long. Her face was tanned but not burned and harshened by the sun of her native Texas range.
