She loved it and all things that moved upon it with passionate love, the only kind she was capable of.
And all summer long she spent her days riding up and down the range alone, or with her father, or with Joe, or, best of all, with The Duke, her hero and her friend.

So she grew up strong, wholesome and self-reliant, fearing nothing alive and as untamed as a yearling range colt.
She was not beautiful.

The winds and sun had left her no complexion to speak of, but the glory of her red hair, gold-red, with purple sheen, nothing could tarnish.

Her eyes, too, deep blue with rims of gray, that flashed with the glint of steel or shone with melting light as of the stars, according to her mood--those Irish, warm, deep eyes of hers were worth a man's looking at.
Of course, all spoiled her.

Ponka and her son Joe grovelled in abjectest adoration, while her father and all who came within touch of her simply did her will.