Already she was turning over in her mind a half-formed plan which she had no intention of sharing with these men, who, after the manner of their kind, would doubtless block it.
Early morning found Cameron and the Inspector on the trail toward the Piegan Reserve, riding easily, for they knew not what lay before them nor what demand they might have to make upon their horses that day.

The Inspector rode a strongly built, stocky horse of no great speed but good for an all-day run.

Cameron's horse was a broncho, an unlovely brute, awkward and ginger-colored--his name was Ginger--sad-eyed and wicked-looking, but short-coupled and with flat, rangy legs that promised speed.

For his sad-eyed, awkward broncho Cameron professed a deep affection and defended him stoutly against the Inspector's jibes.
"You can't kill him," he declared.

"He'll go till he drops, and then twelve miles more.