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diff --git a/old/wldfr10.txt b/old/wldfr10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4284088 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/wldfr10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11449 @@ +*****The Project Gutenberg Etext of Wildfire, by Zane Grey****** +#12 in our series by Zane Grey + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +Etext scanned by Daniel Wentzell of Leesburg, Georgia. + + + + + +WILDFIRE + +by ZANE GREY + + + + +CHAPTER I + +For some reason the desert scene before Lucy Bostil awoke varying emotions--a +sweet gratitude for the fullness of her life there at the Ford, yet a haunting +remorse that she could not be wholly content--a vague loneliness of soul--a +thrill and a fear for the strangely calling future, glorious, unknown. + +She longed for something to happen. It might be terrible, so long as it was +wonderful. This day, when Lucy had stolen away on a forbidden horse, she was +eighteen years old. The thought of her mother, who had died long ago on their +way into this wilderness, was the one drop of sadness in her joy. Lucy loved +everybody at Bostil's Ford and everybody loved her. She loved all the horses +except her father's favorite racer, that perverse devil of a horse, the great +Sage King. + +Lucy was glowing and rapt with love for all she beheld from her lofty perch: +the green-and-pink blossoming hamlet beneath her, set between the beauty of +the gray sage expanse and the ghastliness of the barren heights; the swift +Colorado sullenly thundering below in the abyss; the Indians in their bright +colors, riding up the river trail; the eagle poised like a feather on the air, +and a beneath him the grazing cattle making black dots on the sage; the deep +velvet azure of the sky; the golden lights on the bare peaks and the lilac +veils in the far ravines; the silky rustle of a canyon swallow as he shot +downward in the sweep of the wind; the fragrance of cedar, the flowers of the +spear-pointed mescal; the brooding silence, the beckoning range, the purple +distance. + +Whatever it was Lucy longed for, whatever was whispered by the wind and +written in the mystery of the waste of sage and stone, she wanted it to happen +there at Bostil's Ford. She had no desire for civilization, she flouted the +idea of marrying the rich rancher of Durango. Bostil's sister, that stern but +lovable woman who had brought her up and taught her, would never persuade her +to marry against her will. Lucy imagined herself like a wild horse--free, +proud, untamed, meant for the desert; and here she would live her life. The +desert and her life seemed as one, yet in what did they resemble each +other--in what of this scene could she read the nature of her future? + +Shudderingly she rejected the red, sullen, thundering river, with its swift, +changeful, endless, contending strife--for that was tragic. And she rejected +the frowning mass of red rock, upreared, riven and split and canyoned, so grim +and aloof--for that was barren. But she accepted the vast sloping valley of +sage, rolling gray and soft and beautiful, down to the dim mountains and +purple ramparts of the horizon. Lucy did not know what she yearned for, she +did not know why the desert called to her, she did not know in what it +resembled her spirit, but she did know that these three feelings were as one, +deep in her heart. For ten years, every day of her life, she had watched this +desert scene, and never had there been an hour that it was not different, yet +the same. Ten years--and she grew up watching, feeling--till from the desert's +thousand moods she assimilated its nature, loved her bonds, and could never +have been happy away from the open, the color, the freedom, the wildness. On +this birthday, when those who loved her said she had become her own mistress, +she acknowledged the claim of the desert forever. And she experienced a deep, +rich, strange happiness. + +Hers always then the mutable and immutable desert, the leagues and leagues of +slope and sage and rolling ridge, the great canyons and the giant cliffs, the +dark river with its mystic thunder of waters, the pine-fringed plateaus, the +endless stretch of horizon, with its lofty, isolated, noble monuments, and the +bold ramparts with their beckoning beyond! Hers always the desert seasons: the +shrill, icy blast, the intense cold, the steely skies, the fading snows; the +gray old sage and the bleached grass under the pall of the spring sand-storms; +the hot furnace breath of summer, with its magnificent cloud pageants in the +sky, with the black tempests hanging here and there over the peaks, dark veils +floating down and rainbows everywhere, and the lacy waterfalls upon the +glistening cliffs and the thunder of the red floods; and the glorious golden +autumn when it was always afternoon and time stood still! Hers always the +rides in the open, with the sun at her back and the wind in her face! And hers +surely, sooner or later, the nameless adventure which had its inception in the +strange yearning of her heart and presaged its fulfilment somewhere down that +trailless sage-slope she loved so well! + +Bostil's house was a crude but picturesque structure of red stone and white +clay and bleached cottonwoods, and it stood at the outskirts of the cluster of +green-inclosed cabins which composed the hamlet. Bostil was wont to say that +in all the world there could hardly be a grander view than the outlook down +that gray sea of rolling sage, down to the black-fringed plateaus and the +wild, blue-rimmed and gold-spired horizon. + +One morning in early spring, as was Bostil's custom, he ordered the racers to +be brought from the corrals and turned loose on the slope. He loved to sit +there and watch his horses graze, but ever he saw that the riders were close +at hand, and that the horses did not get out on the slope of sage. He sat back +and gloried in the sight. He owned bands of mustangs; near by was a field of +them, fine and mettlesome and racy; yet Bostil had eyes only for the blooded +favorites. Strange it was that not one of these was a mustang or a broken wild +horse, for many of the riders' best mounts had been captured by them or the +Indians. And it was Bostil's supreme ambition to own a great wild stallion. +There was Plume, a superb mare that got her name from the way her mane swept +in the wind when she was on the ran; and there was Two Face, like a coquette, +sleek and glossy and running and the huge, rangy bay, Dusty Ben; and the black +stallion Sarchedon; and lastly Sage King, the color of the upland sage, a +racer in build, a horse splendid and proud and beautiful. + +"Where's Lucy?" presently asked Bostil. + +As he divided his love, so he divided his anxiety. + +Some rider had seen Lucy riding off, with her golden hair flying in the wind. +This was an old story. + +"She's up on Buckles?" Bostil queried, turning sharply to the speaker. + +"Reckon so," was the calm reply. + +Bostil swore. He did not have a rider who could equal him in profanity. + +"Farlane, you'd orders. Lucy's not to ride them hosses, least of all Buckles. +He ain't safe even for a man." + +"Wal, he's safe fer Lucy." + +"But didn't I say no?" + +"Boss, it's likely you did, fer you talk a lot," replied Farlane. "Lucy pulled +my hat down over my eyes--told me to go to thunder--an' then, zip! she an' +Buckles were dustin' it fer the sage." + +"She's got to keep out of the sage," growled Bostil. "It ain't safe for her +out there. . . . Where's my glass? I want to take a look at the slope. Where's +my glass?" + +The glass could not be found. + +"What's makin' them dust-clouds on the sage? Antelope? . . . Holley, you used +to have eyes better 'n me. Use them, will you?" + +A gray-haired, hawk-eyed rider, lean and worn, approached with clinking spurs. + +"Down in there," said Bostil, pointing. + +"Thet's a bunch of hosses," replied Holley. + +"Wild hosses?" + +"I take 'em so, seein' how they throw thet dust." + +"Huh! I don't like it. Lucy oughtn't be ridin' round alone." + +"Wal, boss, who could catch her up on Buckles? Lucy can ride. An' there's the +King an' Sarch right under your nose--the only hosses on the sage thet could +outrun Buckles." + +Farlane knew how to mollify his master and long habit had made him proficient. +Bostil's eyes flashed. He was proud of Lucy's power over a horse. The story +Bostil first told to any stranger happening by the Ford was how Lucy had been +born during a wild ride--almost, as it were, on the back of a horse. That, at +least, was her fame, and the riders swore she was a worthy daughter of such a +mother. Then, as Farlane well knew, a quick road to Bostil's good will was to +praise one of his favorites. + +"Reckon you spoke sense for once, Farlane," replied Bostil, with relief. "I +wasn't thinkin' so much of danger for Lucy. . . . But she lets thet +half-witted Creech go with her." + +"No, boss, you're wrong," put in Holley, earnestly. "I know the girl. She has +no use fer Joel. But he jest runs after her." + +"An' he's harmless," added Farlane. + +"We ain't agreed," rejoined Bostil, quickly. "What do you say, Holley?" + +The old rider looked thoughtful and did not speak for long. + +"Wal, Yes an' no," he answered, finally. "I reckon Lucy could make a man out +of Joel. But she doesn't care fer him, an' thet settles thet. . . . An' maybe +Joel's leanin' toward the bad." + +"If she meets him again I'll rope her in the house," declared Bostil. + +Another clear-eyed rider drew Bostil's attention from the gray waste of +rolling sage. + +"Bostil, look! Look at the King! He's watchin' fer somethin'. . . . An' so's +Sarch." + +The two horses named were facing a ridge some few hundred yards distant, and +their heads were aloft and ears straight forward. Sage King whistled shrilly +and Sarchedon began to prance. + +"Boys, you'd better drive them in," said Bostil. "They'd like nothin' so well +as gettin' out on the sage. . . . Hullo! what's thet shootin' up behind the +ridge?" + +"No more 'n Buckles with Lucy makin' him run some," replied Holley, with a +dry laugh. + +"If it ain't! . . . Lord! look at him come!" + +Bostil's anger and anxiety might never have been. The light of the upland +rider's joy shone in his keen gaze. The slope before him was open, and almost +level, down to the ridge that had hidden the missing girl and horse. Buckles +was running for the love of running, as the girl low down over his neck was +riding for the love of riding. The Sage King whistled again, and shot off with +graceful sweep to meet them; Sarchedon plunged after him; Two Face and Plume +jealously trooped down, too, but Dusty Ben, after a toss of his head, went on +grazing. The gray and the black met Buckles and could not turn in time to stay +with him. A girl's gay scream pealed up the slope, and Buckles went lower and +faster. Sarchedon was left behind. Then the gray King began to run as if +before he had been loping. He was beautiful in action. This was play--a +game--a race--plainly dominated by the spirit of the girl. Lucy's hair was a +bright stream of gold in the wind. She rode bareback. It seemed that she was +hunched low over Buckles with her knees high on his back--scarcely astride +him at all. Yet her motion was one with the horse. Again that wild, gay scream +pealed out--call or laugh or challenge. Sage King, with a fleetness that made +the eyes of Bostil and his riders glisten, took the lead, and then sheered off +to slow down, while Buckles thundered past. Lucy was pulling him hard, and had +him plunging to a halt, when the rider Holley ran out to grasp his bridle. +Buckles was snorting and his ears were laid back. He pounded the ground and +scattered the pebbles. + +"No use, Lucy," said Bostil. "You can't beat the King at your own game, even +with a runnin' start." + +Lucy Bostil's eyes were blue, as keen as her father's, and now they flashed +like his. She had a hand twisted in the horse's long mane, and as, lithe and +supple, she slipped a knee across his broad back she shook a little gantleted +fist at Bostil's gray racer. + +"Sage King, I hate you!" she called, as if the horse were human. "And I'll +beat you some day!" + +Bostil swore by the gods his Sage King was the swiftest horse in all that wild +upland country of wonderful horses. He swore the great gray could look back +over his shoulder and run away from any broken horse known to the riders. + +Bostil himself was half horse, and the half of him that was human he divided +between love of his fleet racers and his daughter Lucy. He had seen years of +hard riding on that wild Utah border where, in those days, a horse meant all +the world to a man. A lucky strike of grassy upland and good water south of +the Rio Colorado made him rich in all that he cared to own. The Indians, yet +unspoiled by white men, were friendly. Bostil built a boat at the Indian +crossing of the Colorado and the place became known as Bostil's Ford. From +time to time his personality and his reputation and his need brought +horse-hunters, riders, sheep-herders, and men of pioneer spirit, as well as +wandering desert travelers, to the Ford, and the lonely, isolated hamlet +slowly grew. North of the river it was more than two hundred miles to the +nearest little settlement, with only a few lonely ranches on the road; to the +west were several villages, equally distant, but cut off for two months at a +time by the raging Colorado, flooded by melting snow up in the mountains. +Eastward from the Ford stretched a ghastly, broken, unknown desert of canyons. +Southward rolled the beautiful uplands, with valleys of sage and grass, and +plateaus of pine and cedar, until this rich rolling gray and green range broke +sharply on a purple horizon line of upflung rocky ramparts and walls and +monuments, wild, dim, and mysterious. + +Bostil's cattle and horses were numberless, and many as were his riders, he +always could use more. But most riders did not abide long with Bostil, first +because some of them were of a wandering breed, wild-horse hunters themselves; +and secondly, Bostil had two great faults: he seldom paid a rider in money, +and he never permitted one to own a fleet horse. He wanted to own all the fast +horses himself. And in those days every rider, especially a wild-horse hunter, +loved his steed as part of himself. If there was a difference between Bostil +and any rider of the sage, it was that, as he had more horses, so he had more +love. + +Whenever Bostil could not get possession of a horse he coveted, either by +purchase or trade, he invariably acquired a grievance toward the owner. This +happened often, for riders were loath to part with their favorites. And he had +made more than one enemy by his persistent nagging. It could not be said, +however, that he sought to drive hard bargains. Bostil would pay any price +asked for a horse. + +Across the Colorado, in a high, red-walled canyon opening upon the river, +lived a poor sheep-herder and horse-trader named Creech. This man owned a +number of thoroughbreds, two of which he would not part with for all the gold +in the uplands. These racers, Blue Roan and Peg, had been captured wild on the +ranges by Ute Indians and broken to racing. They were still young and getting +faster every year. Bostil wanted them because he coveted them and because he +feared them. It would have been a terrible blow to him if any horse ever beat +the gray. But Creech laughed at all offers and taunted Bostil with a boast +that in another summer he would see a horse out in front of the King. + +To complicate matters and lead rivalry into hatred young Joel Creech, a great +horseman, but worthless in the eyes of all save his father, had been heard to +say that some day he would force a race between the King and Blue Roan. And +that threat had been taken in various ways. It alienated Bostil beyond all +hope of reconciliation. It made Lucy Bostil laugh and look sweetly mysterious. +She had no enemies and she liked everybody. It was even gossiped by the women +of Bostil's Ford that she had more than liking for the idle Joel. But the +husbands of these gossips said Lucy was only tender-hearted. Among the riders, +when they sat around their lonely camp-fires, or lounged at the corrals of the +Ford, there was speculation in regard to this race hinted by Joel Creech. +There never had been a race between the King and Blue Roan, and there never +would be, unless Joel were to ride off with Lucy. In that case there would be +the grandest race ever run on the uplands, with the odds against Blue Roan +only if he carried double. If Joel put Lucy up on the Roan and he rode Peg +there would be another story. Lucy Bostil was a slip of a girl, born on a +horse, as strong and supple as an Indian, and she could ride like a burr +sticking in a horse's mane. With Blue Roan carrying her light weight she might +run away from any one up on the King--which for Bostil would be a double +tragedy, equally in the loss of his daughter and the beating of his +best-beloved racer. But with Joel on Peg, such a race would end in heartbreak +for all concerned, for the King would outrun Peg, and that would bring riders +within gunshot. + +It had always been a fascinating subject, this long-looked-for race. It grew +more so when Joel's infatuation for Lucy became known. There were fewer riders +who believed Lucy might elope with Joel than there were who believed Joel +might steal his father's horses. But all the riders who loved horses and all +the women who loved gossip were united in at least one thing, and that was +that something like a race or a romance would soon disrupt the peaceful, +sleepy tenor of Bostil's Ford. + +In addition to Bostil's growing hatred for the Creeches, he had a great fear +of Cordts, the horse-thief. A fear ever restless, ever watchful. Cordts hid +back in the untrodden ways. He had secret friends among the riders of the +ranges, faithful followers back in the canyon camps, gold for the digging, +cattle by the thousand, and fast horses. He had always gotten what he wanted +--except one thing. That was a certain horse. And the horse was Sage King. + +Cordts was a bad man, a product of the early gold-fields of California and +Idaho, an outcast from that evil wave of wanderers retreating back over the +trails so madly traveled westward. He became a lord over the free ranges. But +more than all else he was a rider. He knew a horse. He was as much horse as +Bostil. Cordts rode into this wild free-range country, where he had been +heard to say that a horse-thief was meaner than a poisoned coyote. +Nevertheless, he became a horse-thief. The passion he had conceived for the +Sage King was the passion of a man for an unattainable woman. Cordts swore +that he would never rest, that he would not die, till he owned the King. So +there was reason for Bostil's great fear. + + + +CHAPTER II + +Bostil went toward the house with his daughter, turning at the door to call a +last word to his riders about the care of his horses. + +The house was a low, flat, wide structure, with a corridor running through the +middle, from which doors led into the adobe-walled rooms. The windows were +small openings high up, evidently intended for defense as well as light, and +they had rude wooden shutters. The floor was clay, covered everywhere by +Indian blankets. A pioneer's home it was, simple and crude, yet comfortable, +and having the rare quality peculiar to desert homes it was cool in summer and +warm in winter. + +As Bostil entered with his arm round Lucy a big hound rose from the hearth. +This room was immense, running the length of the house, and it contained a +huge stone fireplace, where a kettle smoked fragrantly, and rude home-made +chairs with blanket coverings, and tables to match, and walls covered with +bridles, guns, pistols, Indian weapons and ornaments, and trophies of the +chase. In a far corner stood a work-bench, with tools upon it and horse +trappings under it. In the opposite corner a door led into the kitchen. This +room was Bostil's famous living-room, in which many things had happened, some +of which had helped make desert history and were never mentioned by Bostil. + +Bostil's sister came in from the kitchen. She was a huge person with a severe +yet motherly face. She had her hands on her hips, and she cast a rather +disapproving glance at father and daughter. + +"So you're back again?" she queried, severely. + +"Sure, Auntie," replied the girl, complacently. + +"You ran off to get out of seeing Wetherby, didn't you?" + +Lucy stared sweetly at her aunt. + +"He was waiting for hours," went on the worthy woman. "I never saw a man in +such a stew. . . . No wonder, playing fast and loose with him the way you do." + +"I told him No!" flashed Lucy. + +"But Wetherby's not the kind to take no. And I'm not satisfied to let you mean +it. Lucy Bostil, you don't know your mind an hour straight running. You've +fooled enough with these riders of your Dad's. If you're not careful you'll +marry one of them. . . . One of these wild riders! As bad as a Ute +Indian! . . . Wetherby is young and he idolizes you. In all common sense +why don't you take him?" + +"I don't care for him," replied Lucy. + +"You like him as well as anybody. . . . John Bostil, what do you say? You +approved of Wetherby. I heard you tell him Lucy was like an unbroken colt and +that you'd--" + +"Sure, I like Jim," interrupted Bostil; and he avoided Lucy's swift look. + +"Well?" demanded his sister. + +Evidently Bostil found himself in a corner between two fires. He looked +sheepish, then disgusted. + +"Dad!" exclaimed Lucy, reproachfully. + +"See here, Jane," said Bostil, with an air of finality, "the girl is of age +to-day--an' she can do what she damn pleases!" + +"That's a fine thing for you to say," retorted Aunt Jane. "Like as not she'll +be fetching that hang-dog Joel Creech up here for you to support." + +"Auntie!" cried Lucy, her eyes blazing. + +"Oh, child, you torment me--worry me so," said the disappointed woman. "It's +all for your sake. . . . Look at you, Lucy Bostil! A girl of eighteen who +comes of a family! And you riding around and going around as you are now--in a +man's clothes!" + +"But, you dear old goose, I can't ride in a woman's skirt," expostulated Lucy. +"Mind you, Auntie, I can RIDE!" + +"Lucy, if I live here forever I'd never get reconciled to a Bostil woman in +leather pants. We Bostils were somebody once, back in Missouri." + +Bostil laughed. "Yes, an' if I hadn't hit the trail west we'd be starvin' yet. +Jane, you're a sentimental old fool. Let the girl alone an' reconcile yourself +to this wilderness." + +Aunt Jane's eyes were wet with tears. Lucy, seeing them, ran to her and hugged +and kissed her. + +"Auntie, I will promise--from to-day--to have some dignity. I've been free as +a boy in these rider clothes. As I am now the men never seem to regard me as a +girl. Somehow that's better. I can't explain, but I like it. My dresses are +what have caused all the trouble. I know that. But if I'm grown up--if it's so +tremendous--then I'll wear a dress all the time, except just WHEN I ride. +Will that do, Auntie?" + +"Maybe you will grow up, after all," replied Aunt Jane, evidently surprised +and pleased. + +Then Lucy with clinking spurs ran away to her room. + +"Jane, what's this nonsense about young Joel Creech?" asked Bostil, gruffly. + +"I don't know any more than is gossiped. That I told you. Have you ever asked +Lucy about him?" + +"I sure haven't," said Bostil, bluntly. + +"Well, ask her. If she tells you at all she'll tell the truth. Lucy'd never +sleep at night if she lied." + +Aunt Jane returned to her housewifely tasks, leaving Bostil thoughtfully +stroking the hound and watching the fire. Presently Lucy returned--a different +Lucy--one that did not rouse his rider's pride, but thrilled his father's +heart. She had been a slim, lithe, supple, disheveled boy, breathing the wild +spirit of the open and the horse she rode. She was now a girl in the graceful +roundness of her slender form, with hair the gold of the sage at sunset, and +eyes the blue of the deep haze of distance, and lips the sweet red of the +upland rose. And all about her seemed different. + +"Lucy--you look--like--like she used to be," said Bostil, unsteadily. + +"My mother!" murmured Lucy. + +But these two, so keen, so strong, so alive, did not abide long with sad +memories. + +"Lucy, I want to ask you somethin'," said Bostil, presently. "What about this +young Joel Creech?" + +Lucy started as if suddenly recalled, then she laughed merrily. "Dad, you old +fox, did you see him ride out after me?" + +"No. I was just askin' on--on general principles." + +"What do you mean?" + +"Lucy, is there anythin' between you an' Joel?" he asked, gravely. + +"No," she replied, with her clear eyes up to his. + +Bostil thought of a bluebell. "I'm beggin' your pardon," he said, hastily. + +"Dad, you know how Joel runs after me. I've told you. I let him till lately. I +liked him. But that wasn't why. I felt sorry for him--pitied him." + +"You did? Seems an awful waste," replied Bostil. + +"Dad, I don't believe Joel is--perfectly right in his mind," Lucy said, +solemnly. + +"Haw! haw! Fine compliments you're payin' yourself." + +"Listen. I'm serious. I mean I've grown to see---looking back--that a slow, +gradual change has come over Joel since he was kicked in the head by a +mustang. I'm sure no one else has noticed it." + +"Goin' batty over you. That's no unusual sign round this here camp. Look at--" + +"We're talking about Joel Creech. Lately he has done some queer things. +To-day, for instance. I thought I gave him the slip. But he must have been +watching. Anyway, to my surprise he showed up on Peg. He doesn't often get Peg +across the river. He said the feed was getting scarce over there. I was dying +to race Buckles against Peg, but I remembered you wouldn't like that." + +"I should say not," said Bostil, darkly. + +"Well, Joel caught up to me--and he wasn't nice at all. He was worse to-day. +We quarreled. I said I'd bet he'd never follow me again and he said he'd bet +he would. Then he got sulky and hung back. I rode away, glad to be rid of him, +and I climbed to a favorite place of mine. On my way home I saw Peg grazing on +the rim of the creek, near that big spring-hole where the water's so deep and +clear. And what do you think? There was Joel's head above the water. I +remembered in our quarrel I had told him to go wash his dirty face. He was +doing it. I had to laugh. When he saw me--he--then--then he--" Lucy faltered, +blushing with anger and shame. + +"Well, what then?" demanded Bostil, quietly. + +"He called, 'Hey, Luce--take off your clothes and come in for a swim!'" + +Bostil swore. + +"I tell you I was mad," continued Lucy, "and just as surprised. That was one +of the queer things. But never before had he dared to--to-" + +"Insult you. Then what 'd you do?" interrupted Bostil, curiously. + +"I yelled, 'I'll fix you, Joel Creech!'. . . His clothes were in a pile on the +bank. At first I thought I'd throw them in the water, but when I got to them I +thought of something better. I took up all but his shoes, for I remembered the +ten miles of rock and cactus between him and home, and I climbed up on +Buckles. Joel screamed and swore something fearful. But I didn't look back. +And Peg, you know--maybe you don't know--but Peg is fond of me, and he +followed me, straddling his bridle all the way in. I dropped Joel's clothes +down the ridge a ways, right in the trail, so he can't miss them. And that's +all. . . . Dad, was it--was it very bad?" + +"Bad! Why, you ought to have thrown your gun on him. At least bounced a rock +off his head! But say, Lucy, after all, maybe you've done enough. I guess you +never thought of it." + +"What?" + +"The sun is hot to-day. Hot! An' if Joel's as crazy an' mad as you say he'll +not have sense enough to stay in the water or shade till the sun's gone down. +An' if he tackles that ten miles before he'll sunburn himself within an inch +of his life." + +"Sunburn? Oh, Dad! I'm sorry," burst out Lucy, contritely. "I never thought of +that. I'll ride back with his clothes." + +"You will not," said Bostil. + +"Let me send some one, then," she entreated. + +"Girl, haven't you the nerve to play your own game? Let Creech get his lesson. +He deserves it. . . . An' now, Lucy, I've two more questions to ask." + +"Only two?" she queried, archly. "Dad, don't scold me with questions." + +"What shall I say to Wetherby for good an' all?" + +Lucy's eyes shaded dreamily, and she seemed to look beyond the room, out over +the ranges. + +"Tell him to go back to Durango and forget the foolish girl who can care only +for the desert and a horse." + +"All right. That is straight talk, like an Indian's. An' now the last +question--what do you want for a birthday present?" + +"Oh, of course," she cried, gleefully clapping her hands. "I'd forgotten +that. I'm eighteen!" + +"You get that old chest of your mother's. But what from me?" + +"Dad, will you give me anything I ask for?" + +"Yes, my girl." + +"Anything--any HORSE?" + +Lucy knew his weakness, for she had inherited it. + +"Sure; any horse but the King." + +"How about Sarchedon?" + +"Why, Lucy, what'd you do with that big black devil? He's too high. Seventeen +hands high! You couldn't mount him." + +"Pooh! Sarch KNEELS for me." + +"Child, listen to reason. Sarch would pull your arms out of their sockets." + +"He has got an iron jaw," agreed Lucy. "Well, then--how about Dusty Ben?" She +was tormenting her father and she did it with glee. + +"No--not Ben. He's the faithfulest hoss I ever owned. It wouldn't be fair to +part with him, even to you. Old associations . . . a rider's loyalty . . . +now, Lucy, you know--" + +"Dad, you're afraid I'd train and love Ben into beating the King. Some day +I'll ride some horse out in front of the gray. Remember, Dad! . . . Then give +me Two Face." + +"Sure not her, Lucy. Thet mare can't be trusted. Look why we named her Two +Face." + +"Buckles, then, dear generous Daddy who longs to give his grown-up girl +ANYTHING!" + +"Lucy, can't you be satisfied an' happy with your mustangs? You've got a +dozen. You can have any others on the range. Buckles ain't safe for you to +ride." + +Bostil was notably the most generous of men, the kindest of fathers. It was an +indication of his strange obsession, in regard to horses, that he never would +see that Lucy was teasing him. As far as horses were concerned he lacked a +sense of humor. Anything connected with his horses was of intense interest. + +"I'd dearly love to own Plume," said Lucy, demurely. + +Bostil had grown red in the face and now he was on the rack. The monstrous +selfishness of a rider who had been supreme in his day could not be changed. + +"Girl, I--I thought you hadn't no use for Plume," he stammered. + +"I haven't--the jade! She threw me once. I've never forgiven her . . . . Dad, +I'm only teasing you. Don't I know you couldn't give one of those racers away? +You couldn't!" + +"Lucy, I reckon you're right," Bostil burst out in immense relief. + +"Dad, I'll bet if Cordts gets me and holds me as ransom for the King--as he's +threatened--you'll let him have me!" + +"Lucy, now thet ain't funny!" complained the father. + +"Dear Dad, keep your old racers! But, remember, I'm my father's daughter. I +can love a horse, too. Oh, if I ever get the one I want to love! A wild +horse--a desert stallion--pure Arabian--broken right by an Indian! If I ever +get him, Dad, you look out! For I'll run away from Sarch and Ben--and I'll +beat the King!" + +The hamlet of Bostil's Ford had a singular situation, though, considering the +wonderful nature of that desert country, it was not exceptional. It lay under +the protecting red bluff that only Lucy Bostil cared to climb. A hard-trodden +road wound down through rough breaks in the canyon wall to the river. Bostil's +house, at the head of the village, looked in the opposite direction, down the +sage slope that widened like a colossal fan. There was one wide street +bordered by cottonwoods and cabins, and a number of gardens and orchards, +beginning to burst into green and pink and white. A brook ran out of a ravine +in the huge bluff, and from this led irrigation ditches. The red earth seemed +to blossom at the touch of water. + +The place resembled an Indian encampment--quiet, sleepy, colorful, with the +tiny-streams of water running everywhere, and lazy columns of blue wood-smoke +rising. Bostil's Ford was the opposite of a busy village, yet its few +inhabitants, as a whole, were prosperous. The wants of pioneers were few. +Perhaps once a month the big, clumsy flatboat was rowed across the river with +horses or cattle or sheep. And the season was now close at hand when for +weeks, sometimes months, the river was unfordable. There were a score of +permanent families, a host of merry, sturdy children, a number of idle young +men, and only one girl--Lucy Bostil. But the village always had transient +inhabitants--friendly Utes and Navajos in to trade, and sheep-herders with a +scraggy, woolly flock, and travelers of the strange religious sect identified +with Utah going on into the wilderness. Then there were always riders passing +to and fro, and sometimes unknown ones regarded with caution. Horse-thieves +sometimes boldly rode in, and sometimes were able to sell or trade. In the +matter of horse-dealing Bostil's Ford was as bold as the thieves. + +Old Brackton, a man of varied Western experience, kept the one store, which +was tavern, trading-post, freighter's headquarters, blacksmith's shop, and any +thing else needful. Brackton employed riders, teamsters, sometimes Indians, to +freight supplies in once a month from Durango. And that was over two hundred +miles away. Sometimes the supplies did not arrive on time--occasionally not at +all. News from the outside world, except that elicited from the taciturn +travelers marching into Utah, drifted in at intervals. But it was not missed. +These wilderness spirits were the forerunners of a great, movement, and as +such were big, strong, stern, sufficient unto themselves. Life there was made +possible by horses. The distant future, that looked bright to far-seeing men, +must be and could only be fulfilled through the endurance and faithfulness of +horses. And then, from these men, horses received the meed due them, and the +love they were truly worth. The Navajo was a nomad horseman, an Arab of the +Painted Desert, and the Ute Indian was close to him. It was they who developed +the white riders of the uplands as well as the wild-horse wrangler or hunter. + +Brackton's ramshackle establishment stood down at the end of the village +street. There was not a sawed board in all that structure, and some of the +pine logs showed how they had been dropped from the bluff. Brackton, a little +old gray man, with scant beard, and eyes like those of a bird, came briskly +out to meet an incoming freighter. The wagon was minus a hind wheel, but the +teamster had come in on three wheels and a pole. The sweaty, dust-caked, +weary, thin-ribbed mustangs, and the gray-and-red-stained wagon, and the huge +jumble of dusty packs, showed something of what the journey had been. + +"Hi thar, Red Wilson, you air some late gettin' in," greeted old Brackton. + +Red Wilson had red eyes from fighting the flying sand, and red dust pasted in +his scraggy beard, and as he gave his belt an upward hitch little red clouds +flew from his gun-sheath. + +"Yep. An' I left a wheel an' part of the load on the trail," he said. + +With him were Indians who began to unhitch the teams. Riders lounging in the +shade greeted Wilson and inquired for news. The teamster replied that travel +was dry, the water-holes were dry, and he was dry. And his reply gave both +concern and amusement. + +"One more trip out an' back--thet's all, till it rains," concluded Wilson. + +Brackton led him inside, evidently to alleviate part of that dryness. + +Water and grass, next to horses, were the stock subject of all riders. + +"It's got oncommon hot early," said one. + +"Yes, an' them northeast winds--hard this spring," said another. + +"No snow on the uplands." + +"Holley seen a dry spell comin'. Wal, we can drift along without freighters. +There's grass an' water enough here, even if it doesn't rain." + +"Sure, but there ain't none across the river." + +"Never was, in early season. An' if there was it'd be sheeped off." + +"Creech'll be fetchin' his hosses across soon, I reckon." + +"You bet he will. He's trainin' for the races next month." + +"An' when air they comin' off?" + +"You got me. Mebbe Van knows." + +Some one prodded a sleepy rider who lay all his splendid lithe length, hat +over his eyes. Then he sat up and blinked, a lean-faced, gray-eyed fellow, +half good-natured and half resentful. + +"Did somebody punch me?" + +"Naw, you got nightmare! Say, Van, when will the races come off?" + +"Huh! An, you woke me for thet? . . . Bostil says in a few weeks, soon as he +hears from the Indians. Plans to have eight hundred Indians here, an' the +biggest purses an' best races ever had at the Ford." + +"You'll ride the King again?" + +"Reckon so. But Bostil is kickin' because I'm heavier than I was," replied the +rider. + +"You're skin an' bones at thet." + +"Mebbe you'll need to work a little off, Van. Some one said Creech's Blue Roan +was comin' fast this year." + +"Bill, your mind ain't operatin'," replied Van, scornfully. "Didn't I beat +Creech's hosses last year without the King turnin' a hair?" + +"Not if I recollect, you didn't. The Blue Roan wasn't runnin'." + +Then they argued, after the manner of friendly riders, but all earnest, an +eloquent in their convictions. The prevailing opinion was that Creech's horse +had a chance, depending upon condition and luck. + +The argument shifted upon the arrival of two new-comers, leading mustangs and +apparently talking trade. It was manifest that these arrivals were not loath +to get the opinions of others. + +"Van, there's a hoss!" exclaimed one. + +"No, he ain't," replied Van. + +And that diverse judgment appeared to be characteristic throughout. The +strange thing was that Macomber, the rancher, had already traded his mustang +and money to boot for the sorrel. The deal, whether wise or not, had been +consummated. Brackton came out with Red Wilson, and they had to have their +say. + +"Wal, durned if some of you fellers ain't kind an' complimentary," remarked +Macomber, scratching his head. "But then every feller can't have hoss sense." +Then, looking up to see Lucy Bostil coming along the road, he brightened as if +with inspiration. + +Lucy was at home among them, and the shy eyes of the younger riders, +especially Van, were nothing if not revealing. She greeted them with a bright +smile, and when she saw Brackton she burst out: + +"Oh, Mr. Brackton, the wagon's in, and did my box come? . . . To-day's my +birthday." + +"'Deed it did, Lucy; an' many more happy ones to you!" he replied, delighted +in her delight. "But it's too heavy for you. I'll send it up--or mebbe one of +the boys--" + +Five riders in unison eagerly offered their services and looked as if each had +spoken first. Then Macomber addressed her: + +"Miss Lucy, you see this here sorrel?" + +"Ah! the same lazy crowd and the same old story--a horse trade!" laughed Lucy. + +"There's a little difference of opinion," said Macomber, politely indicating +the riders. "Now, Miss Lucy, we-all know you're a judge of a hoss. And as good +as thet you tell the truth. Thet ain't in some hoss-traders I know. . . . What +do you think of this mustang?" + +Macomber had eyes of enthusiasm for his latest acquisition, but some of the +cock-sureness had been knocked out of him by the blunt riders. + +"Macomber, aren't you a great one to talk?" queried Lucy, severely. "Didn't +you get around Dad and trade him an old, blind, knock-kneed bag of bones for a +perfectly good pony--one I liked to ride?" + +The riders shouted with laughter while the rancher struggled with confusion. + +"'Pon my word, Miss Lucy, I'm surprised you could think thet of such an old +friend of yours--an' your Dad's, too. I'm hopin' he doesn't side altogether +with you." + +"Dad and I never agree about a horse. He thinks he got the best of you. But +you know, Macomber, what a horse-thief you are. Worse than Cordts!" + +"Wal, if I got the best of Bostil I'm willin' to be thought bad. I'm the first +feller to take him in. . . . An' now, Miss Lucy, look over my sorrel." + +Lucy Bostil did indeed have an eye for a horse. She walked straight up to the +wild, shaggy mustang with a confidence born of intuition and experience, and +reached a hand for his head, not slowly, nor yet swiftly. The mustang looked +as if he was about to jump, but he did not. His eyes showed that he was not +used to women. + +"He's not well broken," said Lucy. "Some Navajo has beaten his head in +breaking him." + +Then she carefully studied the mustang point by point. + +"He's deceiving at first because he's good to look at," said Lucy. "But I +wouldn't own him. A saddle will turn on him. He's not vicious, but he'll never +get over his scare. He's narrow between the eyes--a bad sign. His ears are +stiff--and too close. I don't see anything more wrong with him." + +"You seen enough," declared Macomber. "An' so you wouldn't own him?" + +"You couldn't make me a present of him--even on my birthday." + +"Wal, now I'm sorry, for I was thinkin' of thet," replied Macomber, ruefully. +It was plain that the sorrel had fallen irremediably in his estimation. + +"Macomber, I often tell Dad all you horse-traders get your deserts now and +then. It's vanity and desire to beat the other man that's your downfall." + +Lucy went away, with Van shouldering her box, leaving Macomber trying to +return the banter of the riders. The good-natured raillery was interrupted by +a sharp word from one of them. + +"Look! Darn me if thet ain't a naked Indian comin'!" + +The riders whirled to see an apparently nude savage approaching, almost on a +run. + +"Take a shot at thet, Bill," said another rider. "Miss Lucy might see--No, +she's out of sight. But, mebbe some other woman is around." + +"Hold on, Bill," called Macomber. "You never saw an Indian run like thet." + +Some of the riders swore, others laughed, and all suddenly became keen with +interest. + +"Sure his face is white, if his body's red!" + +The strange figure neared them. It was indeed red up to the face, which seemed +white in contrast. Yet only in general shape and action did it resemble a man. + +"Damned if it ain't Joel Creech!" sang out Bill Stark. + +The other riders accorded their wondering assent. + +"Gone crazy, sure!" + +"I always seen it comin'." + +"Say, but ain't he wild? Foamin' at the mouth like a winded hoss!" + +Young Creech was headed down the road toward the ford across which he had to +go to reach home. He saw the curious group, slowed his pace, and halted. His +face seemed convulsed with rage and pain and fatigue. His body, even to his +hands, was incased in a thick, heavy coating of red adobe that had caked hard. + +"God's sake--fellers--" he panted, with eyes rolling, "take this--'dobe mud +off me! . . . I'm dyin'!" + +Then he staggered into Brackton's place. A howl went up from the riders and +they surged after him. + +That evening after supper Bostil stamped in the big room, roaring with +laughter, red in the face; and he astonished Lucy and her aunt to the point of +consternation. + +"Now--you've--done--it--Lucy Bostil!" he roared. + +"Oh dear! Oh dear!" exclaimed Aunt Jane. + +"Done what?" asked Lucy, blankly. + +Bostil conquered his paroxysm, and, wiping his moist red face, he eyed Lucy in +mock solemnity. + +"Joel!" whispered Lucy, who had a guilty conscience. + +"Lucy, I never heard the beat of it. . . . Joel's smarter in some ways than we +thought, an' crazier in others. He had the sun figgered, but what'd he want to +run through town for? Why, never in my life have I seen such tickled riders." + +"Dad!" almost screamed Lucy. "What did Joel do?" + +"Wal, I see it this way. He couldn't or wouldn't wait for sundown. An' he +wasn't hankerin' to be burned. So he wallows in a 'dobe mud-hole an' covers +himself thick with mud. You know that 'dobe mud! Then he starts home. But he +hadn't figgered on the 'dobe gettin' hard, which it did--harder 'n rock. An' +thet must have hurt more 'n sunburn. Late this afternoon he came runnin' down +the road, yellin' thet he was dyin'. The boys had conniption fits. Joel ain't +over-liked, you know, an' here they had one on him. Mebbe they didn't try hard +to clean him off. But the fact is not for hours did they get thet 'dobe off +him. They washed an' scrubbed an' curried him, while he yelled an' cussed. +Finally they peeled it off, with his skin I guess. He was raw, an' they say, +the maddest feller ever seen in Bostil's Ford!" + +Lucy was struggling between fear and mirth. She did not look sorry. "Oh! Oh! +Oh, Dad!" + +"Wasn't it great, Lucy?" + +"But what--will he--do?" choked Lucy. + +"Lord only knows. Thet worries me some. Because he never said a word about how +he come to lose his clothes or why he had the 'dobe on him. An' sure I never +told. Nobody knows but us." + +"Dad, he'll do something terrible to me!" cried Lucy, aghast at her premonition + + + +CHAPTER III + +The days did not pass swiftly at Bostil's Ford. And except in winter, and +during the spring sand-storms, the lagging time passed pleasantly. Lucy rode +every day, sometimes with Van, and sometimes alone. She was not over-keen +about riding with Van--first, because he was in love with her; and secondly, +in spite of that, she could not beat him when he rode the King. They were +training Bostil's horses for the much-anticipated races. + +At last word arrived from the Utes and Navajos that they accepted Bostil's +invitation and would come in force, which meant, according to Holley and other +old riders, that the Indians would attend about eight hundred strong. + +"Thet old chief, Hawk, is comin'," Holley informed Bostil. "He hasn't been +here fer several years. Recollect thet bunch of colts he had? They're bosses, +not mustangs. . . . So you look out, Bostil!" + +No rider or rancher or sheepman, in fact, no one, ever lost a chance to warn +Bostil. Some of it was in fun, but most of it was earnest. The nature of +events was that sooner or later a horse would beat the King. Bostil knew that +as well as anybody, though he would not admit it. Holley's hint made Bostil +look worried. Most of Bostil's gray hairs might have been traced to his years +of worry about horses. + +The day he received word from the Indians he sent for Brackton, Williams, +Muncie, and Creech to come to his house that night. These men, with Bostil, +had for years formed in a way a club, which gave the Ford distinction. Creech +was no longer a friend of Bostil's, but Bostil had always been fair-minded, +and now he did not allow his animosities to influence him. Holley, the veteran +rider, made the sixth member of the club. + +Bostil had a cedar log blazing cheerily in the wide fireplace, for these early +spring nights in the desert were cold. + +Brackton was the last guest to arrive. He shuffled in without answering the +laconic greetings accorded him, and his usually mild eyes seemed keen and +hard. + +"John, I reckon you won't love me fer this here I've got to tell you, to-night +specially," he said, seriously. + +"You old robber, I couldn't love you anyhow," retorted Bostil. But his humor +did not harmonize with the sudden gravity of his look. "What's up?" + +"Who do you suppose I jest sold whisky to?" + +"I've no idea," replied Bostil. Yet he looked as if he was perfectly sure. + +"Cordts! . . . Cordts, an' four of his outfit. Two of them I didn't know. Bad +men, judgin' from appearances, let alone company. The others was Hutchinson +an'--Dick Sears." + +"DICK SEARS!" exclaimed Bostil. + +Muncie and Williams echoed Bostil. Holley appeared suddenly interested. Creech +alone showed no surprise. + +"But Sears is dead," added Bostil. + +"He was dead--we thought," replied Brackton, with a grim laugh. "But he's +alive again. He told me he'd been in Idaho fer two years, in the gold-fields. +Said the work was too hard, so he'd come back here. Laughed when he said it, +the little devil! I'll bet he was thinkin' of thet wagon-train of mine he +stole." + +Bostil gazed at his chief rider. + +"Wal, I reckon we didn't kill Sears, after all," replied Holley. "I wasn't +never sure." + +"Lord! Cordts an' Sears in camp," ejaculated Bostil, and he began to pace the +room. + +"No, they're gone now," said Brackton. + +"Take it easy, boss. Sit down," drawled Holley. "The King is safe, an' all the +racers. I swear to thet. Why, Cordts couldn't chop into thet log-an'-wire +corral if he an' his gang chopped all night! They hate work. Besides, Farlane +is there, an' the boys." + +This reassured Bostil, and he resumed his chair. But his hand shook a little. + +"Did Cordts have anythin' to say?" he asked. + +"Sure. He was friendly an' talkative," replied Brackton. "He came in just +after dark. Left a man I didn't see out with the hosses. He bought two big +packs of supplies, an' some leather stuff, an', of course, ammunition. Then +some whisky. Had plenty of gold an' wouldn't take no change. Then while his +men, except Sears, was carryin' out the stuff, he talked." + +"Go on. Tell me," said Bostil. + +"Wal, he'd been out north of Durango an' fetched news. There's wild talk back +there of a railroad goin' to be built some day, joinin' east an' west. It's +interestin', but no sense to it. How could they build a railroad through thet +country?" + +"North it ain't so cut up an' lumpy as here," put in Holley. + +"Grandest idea ever thought of for the West," avowed Bostil. "If thet railroad +ever starts we'll all get rich. . . . Go on, Brack." + +"Then Cordts said water an' grass was peterin' out back on the trail, same as +Red Wilson said last week. Finally he asked, 'How's my friend Bostil?' I told +him you was well. He looked kind of thoughtful then, an' I knew what was +comin'. . . .'How's the King?' 'Grand' I told him--'grand.' 'When is them +races comin' off?' I said we hadn't planned the time yet, but it would be +soon--inside of a month or two. 'Brackton,' he said, sharp-like, 'is Bostil +goin' to pull a gun on me at sight?' 'Reckon he is,' I told him. 'Wal, I'm not +powerful glad to know thet. . . . I hear Creech's blue hoss will race the King +this time. How about it?' 'Sure an' certain this year. I've Creech's an' +Bostil's word for thet.' Cordts put his hand on my shoulder. You ought to 've +seen his eyes!. . .'I want to see thet race. . . . I'm goin' to.' 'Wal,' I +said, 'you'll have to stop bein'--You'll need to change your bizness.' Then, +Bostil, what do you think? Cordts was sort of eager an' wild. He said thet was +a race he jest couldn't miss. He swore he wouldn't turn a trick or let a man +of his gang stir a hand till after thet race, if you'd let him come." + +A light flitted across Bostil's face. + +"I know how Cordts feels," he said. + +"Wal, it's a queer deal," went on Brackton. "Fer a long time you've meant to +draw on Cordts when you meet. We all know thet." + +"Yes, I'll kill him!" The light left Bostil's face. His voice sounded +differently. His mouth opened, drooped strangely at the corners, then shut in +a grim, tense line. Bostil had killed more than one man. The memory, no doubt, +was haunting and ghastly. + +"Cordts seemed to think his word was guarantee of his good faith. He said he'd +send an Indian in here to find out if he can come to the races. I reckon, +Bostil, thet it wouldn't hurt none to let him come. An' hold your gun hand fer +the time he swears he'll be honest. Queer deal, ain't it, men? A hoss-thief +turnin' honest jest to see a race! Beats me! Bostil, it's a cheap way to get +at least a little honesty from Cordts. An' refusin' might rile him bad. When +all's said Cordts ain't as bad as he could be." + +"I'll let him come," replied Bostil, breathing deep. "But it'll be hard to see +him, rememberin' how he's robbed me, an' what he's threatened. An' I ain't +lettin' him come to bribe a few weeks' decency from him. I'm doin' it for only +one reason. . . . Because I know how he loves the King--how he wants to see +the King run away from the field thet day! Thet's why!" + +There was a moment of silence, during which all turned to Creech. He was a +stalwart man, no longer young, with a lined face, deep-set, troubled eyes, and +white, thin beard. + +"Bostil, if Cordts loves the King thet well, he's in fer heartbreak," said +Creech, with a ring in his voice. + +Down crashed Bostil's heavy boots and fire flamed in his gaze. The other men +laughed, and Brackton interposed: + +"Hold on, you boy riders!" he yelled. "We ain't a-goin' to have any arguments +like thet. . . . Now, Bostil, it's settled, then? You'll let Cordts come?" + +"Glad to have him," replied Bostil. + +"Good. An' now mebbe we'd better get down to the bizness of this here +meetin'." + +They seated themselves around the table, upon which Bostil laid an old and +much-soiled ledger and a stub of a lead-pencil. + +"First well set the time," he said, with animation, "an' then pitch into +details. . . . What's the date?" + +No one answered, and presently they all looked blankly from one to the other. + +"It's April, ain't it?" queried Holley. + +That assurance was as close as they could get to the time of year. + +"Lucy!" called Bostil, in a loud voice. + +She came running in, anxious, almost alarmed. + +"Goodness! you made us jump! What on earth is the matter?" + +"Lucy, we want to know the date," replied Bostil. + +"Date! Did you have to scare Auntie and me out of our wits just for that?" + +"Who scared you? This is important, Lucy. What's the date?" + +"It's a week to-day since last Tuesday," answered Lucy, sweetly. + +"Huh! Then it's Tuesday again," said Bostil, laboriously writing it down. +"Now, what's the date?" + +"Don't you remember?" + +"Remember? I never knew." + +"Dad! . . . Last Tuesday was my birthday--the day you DID NOT give me a +horse!" + +"Aw, so it was," rejoined Bostil, confused at her reproach. "An' thet date +was--let's see--April sixth. . . . Then this is April thirteenth. Much +obliged, Lucy. Run back to your aunt now. This hoss talk won't interest you." + +Lucy tossed her head. "I'll bet I'll have to straighten out the whole thing." +Then with a laugh she disappeared. + +"Three days beginnin--say June first. June first--second, an' third. How about +thet for the races?" + +Everybody agreed, and Bostil laboriously wrote that down. Then they planned +the details. Purses and prizes, largely donated by Bostil and Muncie, the rich +members of the community, were recorded. The old rules were adhered to. Any +rider or any Indian could enter any horse in any race, or as many horses as he +liked in as many races. But by winning one race he excluded himself from the +others. Bostil argued for a certain weight in riders, but the others ruled out +this suggestion. Special races were arranged for the Indians, with saddles, +bridles, blankets, guns as prizes. + +All this appeared of absorbing interest to Bostil. He perspired freely. There +was a gleam in his eye, betraying excitement. When it came to arranging the +details of the big race between the high-class racers, then he grew intense +and harder to deal with. Many points had to go by vote. Muncie and Williams +both had fleet horses to enter in this race; Holley had one; Creech had two; +there were sure to be several Indians enter fast mustangs; and Bostil had the +King and four others to choose from. Bostil held out stubbornly for a long +race. It was well known that Sage King was unbeatable in a long race. If there +were any chance to beat him it must be at short distance. The vote went +against Bostil, much to his chagrin, and the great race was set down for two +miles. + +"But two miles! . . . Two miles!" he kept repeating. "Thet's Blue Roan's +distance. Thet's his distance. An' it ain't fair to the King!" + +His guests, excepting Creech, argued with him, explained, reasoned, showed him +that it was fair to all concerned. Bostil finally acquiesced, but he was not +happy. The plain fact was that he was frightened. + +When the men were departing Bostil called Creech back into the sitting-room. +Creech appeared surprised, yet it was evident that he would have been glad to +make friends with Bostil. + +"What'll you take for the roan?" Bostil asked, tersely,' as if he had never +asked that before. + +"Bostil, didn't we thresh thet out before--an' FELL out over it?" queried +Creech, with a deprecating spread of his hands. + +"Wal, we can fall in again, if you'll sell or trade the hoss." + +"I'm sorry, but I can't." + +"You need money an' hosses, don't you?" demanded Bostil, brutally. He had no +conscience in a matter of horse-dealing. + +"Lord knows, I do," replied Creech. + +"Wal, then, here's your chance. I'll give you five hundred in gold an' +Sarchedon to boot." + +Creech looked as if he had not heard aright. Bostil repeated the offer. + +"No," replied Creech. + +"I'll make it a thousand an' throw Plume in with Sarch," flashed Bostil. + +"No!" Creech turned pale and swallowed hard. + +"Two thousand an' Dusty Ben along with the others?" This was an unheard-of +price to pay for any horse. Creech saw that Bostil was desperate. It was an +almost overpowering temptation. Evidently Creech resisted it only by applying +all his mind to the thought of his clean-limbed, soft-eyed, noble horse. + +Bostil did not give Creech time to speak. "Twenty-five hundred an' Two Face +along with the rest!" + +"My God, Bostil--stop it! I can't PART with Blue Roan. You're rich an' you've +no heart. Thet I always knew. At least to me you never had, since I owned them +two racers. Didn't I beg you, a little time back, to lend me a few hundred? To +meet thet debt? An' you wouldn't, unless I'd sell the hosses. An' I had to +lose my sheep. Now I'm a poor man--gettin' poorer all the time. But I won't +sell or trade Blue Roan, not for all you've got!" + +Creech seemed to gain strength with his speech and passion with the strength. +His eyes glinted at the hard, paling face of his rival. He raised a clenching +fist. + +"An' by G--d, I'm goin' to win thet race!" + +During that week Lucy had heard many things about Joel Creech, and some of +them were disquieting. + +Some rider had not only found Joel's clothes on the trail, but he had +recognized the track of the horse Lucy rode, and at once connected her with +the singular discovery. Coupling that with Joel's appearance in the village +incased in a heaving armor of adobe, the riders guessed pretty close to the +truth. For them the joke was tremendous. And Joel Creech was exceedingly +sensitive to ridicule. The riders made life unbearable for him. They had fun +out of it as long as Joel showed signs of taking the joke manfully, which was +not long, and then his resentment won their contempt. That led to sarcasm on +their part and bitter anger on his. It came to Lucy's ears that Joel began to +act and talk strangely. She found out that the rider Van had knocked Joel down +in Brackton's store and had kicked a gun out of his hand. Van laughed off the +rumor and Brackton gave her no satisfaction. Moreover, she heard no other +rumors. The channels of gossip had suddenly closed to her. Bostil, when +questioned by Lucy, swore in a way that amazed her, and all he told her was to +leave Creech alone. Finally, when Muncie discharged Joel, who worked now and +then, Lucy realized that something was wrong with Joel and that she was to +blame for it. + +She grew worried and anxious and sorry, but she held her peace, and determined +to find out for herself what was wrong. Every day when she rode out into the +sage she expected to meet him, or at least see him somewhere; nevertheless +days went by and there was no sign of him. + +One afternoon she saw some Indians driving sheep down the river road toward +the ford, and, acting upon impulse, she turned her horse after them. + +Lucy seldom went down the river road. Riding down and up was merely work, and +a horse has as little liking for it as she had. Usually it was a hot, dusty +trip, and the great, dark, overhanging walls had a depressing effect, upon +her. She always felt awe at the gloomy canyon and fear at the strange, +murmuring red river. But she started down this afternoon in the hope of +meeting Joel. She had a hazy idea of telling him she was sorry for what she +had done, and of asking him to forget it and pay no more heed to the riders. + +The sheep raised a dust-cloud in the sandy wash where the road wound down, and +Lucy hung back to let them get farther ahead. Gradually the tiny roar of +pattering hoofs and the blended bleating and baaing died away. The dust-cloud, +however, hung over the head of the ravine, and Lucy had to force Sarchedon +through it. Sarchedon did not mind sand and dust, but he surely hated the +smell of sheep. Lucy seldom put a spur to Sarchedon; still, she gave him a +lash with her quirt, and then he went on obediently, if disgustedly. He +carried his head like a horse that wondered why his mistress preferred to +drive him down into an unpleasant hole when she might have been cutting the +sweet, cool sage wind up on the slope. + +The wash, with its sand and clay walls, dropped into a gulch, and there was an +end of green growths. The road led down over solid rock. Gradually the rims of +the gorge rose, shutting out the light and the cliffs. It was a winding road +and one not safe to tarry on in a stormy season. Lucy had seen boulders +weighing a ton go booming down that gorge during one of the sudden fierce +desert storms, when a torrent of water and mud and stone went plunging on to +the river. The ride through here was short, though slow. Lucy always had time +to adjust her faculties for the overpowering contrast these lower regions +presented. Long before she reached the end of the gorge she heard the sullen +thunder of the river. The river was low, too, for otherwise there would have +been a deafening roar. + +Presently she came out upon a lower branch of the canyon, into a great +red-walled space, with the river still a thousand feet below, and the cliffs +towering as high above her. The road led down along this rim where to the left +all was open, across to the split and peaked wall opposite. The river appeared +to sweep round a bold, bulging corner a mile above. It was a wide, swift, +muddy, turbulent stream. A great bar of sand stretched out from the shore. +Beyond it, through the mouth of an intersecting canyon, could be seen a clump +of cottonwoods and willows that marked the home of the Creeches. Lucy could +not see the shore nearest her, as it was almost directly under her. Besides, +in this narrow road, on a spirited horse, she was not inclined to watch the +scenery. She hurried Sarchedon down and down, under the overhanging brows of +rock, to where the rim sloped out and failed. Here was a half-acre of sand, +with a few scant willows, set down seemingly in a dent at the base of the +giant, beetling cliffs. The place was light, though the light seemed a kind of +veiled red, and to Lucy always ghastly. She could not have been joyous with +that river moaning before her, even if it had been up on a level, in the clear +and open day. As a little girl eight years old she had conceived a terror and +hatred of this huge, jagged rent so full of red haze and purple smoke and the +thunder of rushing waters. And she had never wholly outgrown it. The joy of +the sun and wind, the rapture in the boundless open, the sweetness in the +sage--these were not possible here. Something mighty and ponderous, heavy as +those colossal cliffs, weighted down her spirit. The voice of the river drove +out any dream. Here was the incessant frowning presence of destructive forces +of nature. And the ford was associated with catastrophe--to sheep, to horses +and to men. + +Lucy rode across the bar to the shore where the Indians were loading the sheep +into an immense rude flatboat. As the sheep were frightened, the loading was +no easy task. Their bleating could be heard above the roar of the river. +Bostil's boatmen, Shugrue and Somers, stood knee-deep in the quicksand of the +bar, and their efforts to keep free-footed were as strenuous as their handling +of the sheep. Presently the flock was all crowded on board, the Indians +followed, and then the boatmen slid the unwieldy craft off the sand-bar. Then, +each manning a clumsy oar, they pulled up-stream. Along shore were whirling, +slow eddies, and there rowing was possible. Out in that swift current it would +have been folly to try to contend with it, let alone make progress. The method +of crossing was to row up along the shore as far as a great cape of rock +jutting out, and there make into the current, and while drifting down pull +hard to reach the landing opposite. Heavily laden as the boat was, the chances +were not wholly in favor of a successful crossing. + +Lucy watched the slow, laborious struggle of the boatmen with the heavy oars +until she suddenly remembered the object of her visit down to the ford. She +appeared to be alone on her side of the river. At the landing opposite, +however, were two men; and presently Lucy recognized Joel Creech and his +father. A second glance showed Indians with burros, evidently waiting for the +boat. Joel Creech jumped into a skiff and shoved off. The elder man, judging +by his motions, seemed to be trying to prevent his son from leaving the shore. +But Joel began to row up-stream, keeping close to the shore. Lucy watched him. +No doubt he had seen her and was coming across. Either the prospect of meeting +him or the idea of meeting him there in the place where she was never herself +made her want to turn at once and ride back home. But her stubborn sense of +fairness overruled that. She would hold her ground solely in the hope of +persuading Joel to be reasonable. She saw the big flatboat sweep into line of +sight at the same time Joel turned into the current. But while the larger +craft drifted slowly the other way, the smaller one came swiftly down and +across. Joel swept out of the current into the eddy, rowed across that, and +slid the skiff up on the sand-bar. Then he stepped out. He was bareheaded and +barefooted, but it was not that which made him seem a stranger to Lucy. + +"Are you lookin' fer me?" he shouted. + +Lucy waved a hand for him to come up. + +Then he approached. He was a tall, lean young man, stoop-shouldered and +bow-legged from much riding, with sallow, freckled face, a thin fuzz of beard, +weak mouth and chin, and eyes remarkable for their small size and piercing +quality and different color. For one was gray and the other was hazel. There +was no scar on his face, but the irregularity of his features reminded one who +knew that he had once been kicked in the face by a horse. + +Creech came up hurriedly, in an eager, wild way that made Lucy suddenly pity +him. He did not seem to remember that the stallion had an antipathy for him. +But Lucy, if she had forgotten, would have been reminded by Sarchedon's +action. + +"Look out, Joel!" she called, and she gave the black's head a jerk. Sarchedon +went up with a snort and came down pounding the sand. Quick as an Indian Lucy +was out of the saddle. + +"Lemme your quirt," said Joel, showing his teeth like a wolf. + +"No. I wouldn't let you hit Sarch. You beat him once, and he's never +forgotten," replied Lucy. + +The eye of the horse and the man met and clashed, and there was a hostile +tension in their attitudes. Then Lucy dropped the bridle and drew Joel over to +a huge drift-log, half buried in the sand. Here she sat down, but Joel +remained standing. His gaze was now all the stranger for its wistfulness. Lucy +was quick to catch a subtle difference in him, but she could not tell wherein +it lay. + +"What'd you want?" asked Joel. + +"I've heard a lot of things, Joel," replied Lucy, trying to think of just what +she wanted to say. + +"Reckon you have," said Joel, dejectedly, and then he sat down on the log and +dug holes in the sand with his bare feet. + +Lucy had never before seen him look tired, and it seemed that some of the +healthy brown of his cheeks had thinned out. Then Lucy told him, guardedly, a +few of the rumors she had heard. + +"All thet you say is nothin' to what's happened," he replied, bitterly. "Them +riders mocked the life an' soul out of me." + +"But, Joel, you shouldn't be so--so touchy," said Lucy, earnestly. "After all, +the joke WAS on you. Why didn't you take it like a man?" + +"But they knew you stole my clothes," he protested. + +"Suppose they did. That wasn't much to care about. If you hadn't taken it so +hard they'd have let up on you." + +"Mebbe I might have stood that. But they taunted me with bein'--loony about +you." + +Joel spoke huskily. There was no doubt that he had been deeply hurt. Lucy saw +tears in his eyes, and her first impulse was to put a hand on his and tell him +how sorry she was. But she desisted. She did not feel at her ease with Joel. + +"What'd you and Van fight about?" she asked, presently. Joel hung his head. "I +reckon I ain't a-goin' to tell you." + +"You're ashamed of it?" + +Joel's silence answered that. + +"You said something about me?" Lucy could not resist her curiosity, back of +which was a little heat. "It must have been--bad--else Van wouldn't have +struck you." + +"He hit me--he knocked me flat," passionately said Joel. + +"And you drew a gun on him?" + +"I did, an' like a fool I didn't wait till I got up. Then he kicked me! . . . +Bostil's Ford will never be big enough fer me an' Van now." + +"Don't talk foolish. You won't fight with Van. . . . Joel, maybe you deserved +what you got. You say some--some rude things." + +"I only said I'd pay you back," burst out Joel. + +"How?" + +"I swore I'd lay fer you--an' steal your clothes--so you'd have to run home +naked." + +There was indeed something lacking in Joel, but it was not sincerity. His hurt +had rankled deep and his voice trembled with indignation. + +"But, Joel, I don't go swimming in spring-holes," protested Lucy, divided +between amusement and annoyance. + +"I meant it, anyhow," said Joel, doggedly. + +"Are you absolutely honest? Is that all you said to provoke Van?" + +"It's all, Lucy, I swear." + +She believed him, and saw the unfortunate circumstance more than ever her +fault. "I'm sorry, Joel. I'm much to blame. I shouldn't have lost my temper +and played that trick with your clothes. . . . If you'd only had sense enough +to stay out till after dark! But no use crying over spilt milk. Now, if you'll +do your share I'll do mine. I'll tell the boys I was to blame. I'll persuade +them to let you alone. I'll go to Muncie--" + +"No you won't go cryin' small fer me!" blurted out Joel. + +Lucy was surprised to see pride in him. "Joel, I'll not make it appear--" + +"You'll not say one word about me to any one," he went on, with the blood +beginning to darken his face. And now he faced her. How strange the blaze in +his differently colored eyes! "Lucy Bostil, there's been thet done an' said to +me which I'll never forgive. I'm no good in Bostil's Ford. Mebbe I never was +much. But I could get a job when I wanted it an' credit when I needed it. Now +I can't get nothin'. I'm no good! . . . I'm no good! An' it's your fault!" + +"Oh, Joel, what can I do?" cried Lucy. + +"I reckon there's only one way you can square me," he replied, suddenly +growing pale. But his eyes were like flint. He certainly looked to be in +possession of all his wits. + +"How?" queried Lucy, sharply. + +"You can marry me. Thet'll show thet gang! An' it'll square me. Then I'll go +back to work an' I'll stick. Thet's all, Lucy Bostil." + +Manifestly he was laboring under strong suppressed agitation. That moment was +the last of real strength and dignity ever shown by Joel Creech. + +"But, Joel, I can't marry you--even if I am to blame for your ruin," said +Lucy, simply. + +"Why?" + +"Because I don't love you." + +"I reckon thet won't make any difference, if you don't love some one else." + +Lucy gazed blankly at him. He began to shake, and his eyes grew wild. She rose +from the log. + +"Do you love anybody else?" he asked, passionately. + +"None of your business!" retorted Lucy. Then, at a strange darkening of his +face, an aspect unfamiliar to her, she grew suddenly frightened. + +"It's Van!" he said, thickly. + +"Joel, you're a fool!" + +That only infuriated him. + +"So they all say. An' they got my old man believin' it, too. Mebbe I am. . . . +But I'm a-goin' to kill Van!" + +"No! No! Joel, what are you saying? I don't love Van. I don't care any more +for him than for any other rider--or--or you." + +"Thet's a lie, Lucy Bostil!" + +"How dare you say I lie?" demanded Lucy. "I've a mind to turn my back on you. +I'm trying to make up for my blunder and you--you insult me!" + +"You talk sweet . . . but talk isn't enough. You made me no-good . . . . Will +you marry me?" + +"I will not!" And Lucy, with her blood up, could not keep contempt out of +voice and look, and she did not care. That was the first time she had ever +shown anything, approaching ridicule for Joel. The effect was remarkable. Like +a lash upon a raw wound it made him writhe; but more significant to Lucy was +the sudden convulsive working of his features and the wildness of his eyes. +Then she turned her back, not from contempt, but to hurry away from him. + +He leaped after her and grasped her with rude hands. + +"Let me go!" cried Lucy, standing perfectly motionless. The hard clutch of his +fingers roused a fierce, hot anger. + +Joel did not heed her command. He was forcing her back. He talked +incoherently. One glimpse of his face added terror to Lucy's fury. + +"Joel, you're out of your head!" she cried, and she began to wrench and writhe +out of his grasp. Then ensued a short, sharp struggle. Joel could not hold +Lucy, but he tore her blouse into shreds. It seemed to Lucy that he did that +savagely. She broke free from him, and he lunged at her again. With all her +strength she lashed his face with the heavy leather quirt. That staggered him. +He almost fell. + +Lucy bounded to Sarchedon. In a rush she was up in the saddle. Joel was +running toward her. Blood on his face! Blood on his hands! He was not the Joel +Creech she knew. + +"Stop!" cried Lucy, fiercely. "I'll run you down!" + +The big black plunged at a touch of spur and came down quivering, ready to +bolt. + +Creech swerved to one side. His face was lividly white except where the bloody +welts crossed it. His jaw seemed to hang loosely, making speech difficult. + +"Jest fer--thet--" he panted, hoarsely, "I'll lay fer you--an' I'll strip +you---an' I'll tie you on a hoss--an' I'll drive you naked through Bostil's +Ford!" + +Lucy saw the utter futility of all her good intentions. Something had snapped +in Joel Creech's mind. And in hers kindness had given precedence to a fury she +did not know was in her. For the second time she touched a spur to Sarchedon. +He leaped out, flashed past Creech, and thundered up the road. It was all Lucy +could do to break his gait at the first steep rise. + + + +CHAPTER IV + +Three wild-horse hunters made camp one night beside a little stream in the +Sevier Valley, five hundred miles, as a crow flies, from Bostil's Ford. + +These hunters had a poor outfit, excepting, of course, their horses. They were +young men, rangy in build, lean and hard from life in the saddle, bronzed like +Indians, still-faced, and keen-eyed. Two of them appeared to be tired out, and +lagged at the camp-fire duties. When the meager meal was prepared they sat, +cross-legged, before a ragged tarpaulin, eating and drinking in silence. + +The sky in the west was rosy, slowly darkening. The valley floor billowed +away, ridged and cut, growing gray and purple and dark. Walls of stone, pink +with the last rays of the setting sun, inclosed the valley, stretching away +toward a long, low, black mountain range. + +The place was wild, beautiful, open, with something nameless that made the +desert different from any other country. It was, perhaps, a loneliness of vast +stretches of valley and stone, clear to the eye, even after sunset. That black +mountain range, which looked close enough to ride to before dark, was a +hundred miles distant. + +The shades of night fell swiftly, and it was dark by the time the hunters +finished the meal. Then the campfire had burned low. One of the three dragged +branches of dead cedars and replenished the fire. Quickly it flared up, with +the white flame and crackle characteristic of dry cedar. The night wind had +risen, moaning through the gnarled, stunted cedars near by, and it blew the +fragrant wood-smoke into the faces of the two hunters, who seemed too tired to +move. + +"I reckon a pipe would help me make up my mind," said one. + +"Wal, Bill," replied the other, dryly, "your mind's made up, else you'd not +say smoke." + +"Why?" + +"Because there ain't three pipefuls of thet precious tobacco left." + +"Thet's one apiece, then. . . . Lin, come an' smoke the last pipe with us." + +The tallest of the three, he who had brought the firewood, stood in the bright +light of the blaze. He looked the born rider, light, lithe, powerful. + +"Sure, I'll smoke," he replied. + +Then, presently, he accepted the pipe tendered him, and, sitting down beside +the fire, he composed himself to the enjoyment which his companions evidently +considered worthy of a decision they had reached. + +"So this smokin' means you both want to turn back?" queried Lin, his sharp +gaze glancing darkly bright in the glow of the fire. + +"Yep, we'll turn back. An', Lordy! the relief I feel!" replied one. + +"We've been long comin' to it, Lin, an' thet was for your sake," replied the +other. + +Lin slowly pulled at his pipe and blew out the smoke as if reluctant to part +with it. "Let's go on," he said, quietly. + +"No. I've had all I want of chasin' thet damn wild stallion," returned Bill, +shortly. + +The other spread wide his hands and bent an expostulating look upon the one +called Lin. "We're two hundred miles out," he said. "There's only a little +flour left in the bag. No coffee! Only a little salt! All the hosses except +your big Nagger are played out. We're already in strange country. An' you know +what we've heerd of this an' all to the south. It's all canyons, an' +somewheres down there is thet awful canyon none of our people ever seen. But +we've heerd of it. An awful cut-up country." + +He finished with a conviction that no one could say a word against the common +sense of his argument. Lin was silent, as if impressed. + +Bill raised a strong, lean, brown hand in a forcible gesture. "We can't ketch +Wildfire!" + +That seemed to him, evidently, a more convincing argument than his comrade's. + +"Bill is sure right, if I'm wrong, which I ain't," went on the other. "Lin, +we've trailed thet wild stallion for six weeks. Thet's the longest chase he +ever had. He's left his old range. He's cut out his band, an' left them, one +by one. We've tried every trick we know on him. An' he's too smart for us. +There's a hoss! Why, Lin, we're all but gone to the dogs chasin' Wildfire. An' +now I'm done, an' I'm glad of it." + +There was another short silence, which presently Bill opened his lips to +break. + +"Lin, it makes me sick to quit. I ain't denyin' thet for a long time I've had +hopes of ketchin' Wildfire. He's the grandest hoss I ever laid eyes on. I +reckon no man, onless he was an Arab, ever seen as good a one. But now, thet's +neither here nor there. . . . We've got to hit the back trail." + +"Boys, I reckon I'll stick to Wildfire's tracks," said Lin, in the same quiet +tone. + +Bill swore at him, and the other hunter grew excited and concerned. + +"Lin Slone, are you gone plumb crazy over thet red hoss?" + +"I--reckon," replied Slone. The working of his throat as he swallowed could be +plainly seen by his companions. + +Bill looked at his ally as if to confirm some sudden understanding between +them. They took Slone's attitude gravely and they wagged their heads +doubtfully, as they might have done had Slone just acquainted them with a +hopeless and deathless passion for a woman. It was significant of the nature +of riders that they accepted his attitude and had consideration for his +feelings. For them the situation subtly changed. For weeks they had been three +wild-horse wranglers on a hard chase after a valuable stallion. They had +failed to get even close to him. They had gone to the limit of their endurance +and of the outfit, and it was time to turn back. But Slone had conceived that +strange and rare longing for a horse--a passion understood, if not shared, by +all riders. And they knew that he would catch Wildfire or die in the attempt. +From that moment their attitude toward Slone changed as subtly as had come the +knowledge of his feeling. The gravity and gloom left their faces. It seemed +they might have regretted what they had said about the futility of catching +Wildfire. They did not want Slone to see or feel the hopelessness of his task. + +"I tell you, Lin," said Bill, "your hoss Nagger's as good as when we started." + +"Aw, he's better," vouchsafed the other rider. "Nagger needed to lose some +weight. Lin, have you got an extra set of shoes for him?" + +"No full set. Only three left," replied Lin, soberly. + +"Wal, thet's enough. You can keep Nagger shod. An' MEBBE thet red stallion +will get sore feet an' go lame. Then you'd stand a chance." + +"But Wildfire keeps travelin' the valleys--the soft ground," said Slone. + +"No matter. He's leavin' the country, an' he's bound to strike sandstone +sooner or later. Then, by gosh! mebbe he'll wear off them hoofs." + +"Say, can't he ring bells offen the rocks?" exclaimed Bill. "Oh, Lordy! what a +hoss!" + +"Boys, do you think he's leavin' the country?" inquired Slone, anxiously. + +"Sure he is," replied Bill. "He ain't the first stallion I've chased off the +Sevier range. An' I know. It's a stallion thet makes for new country, when you +push him hard." + +"Yep, Lin, he's sure leavin'," added the other comrade. "Why, he's traveled a +bee-line for days! I'll bet he's seen us many a time. Wildfire's about as +smart as any man. He was born wild, an' his dam was born wild, an' there you +have it. The wildest of all wild creatures--a wild stallion, with the +intelligence of a man! A grand hoss, Lin, but one thet'll be hell, if you ever +ketch him. He has killed stallions all over the Sevier range. A wild stallion +thet's a killer! I never liked him for thet. Could he be broke?" + +"I'll break him," said Lin Slone, grimly. "It's gettin' him thet's the job. +I've got patience to break a hoss. But patience can't catch a streak of +lightnin'." + +"Nope; you're right," replied Bill. "If you have some luck you'll get +him--mebbe. If he wears out his feet, or if you crowd him into a narrow +canyon, or ran him into a bad place where he can't get by you. Thet might +happen. An' then, with Nagger, you stand a chance. Did you ever tire thet +hoss?" + +"Not yet." + +"An' how fur did you ever run him without a break? Why, when we ketched thet +sorrel last year I rode Nagger myself--thirty miles, most at a hard gallop. +An' he never turned a hair!" + +"I've beat thet," replied Lin. "He could run hard fifty miles--mebbe more. +Honestly, I never seen him tired yet. If only he was fast!" + +"Wal, Nagger ain't so durned slow, come to think of thet," replied Bill, with +a grunt. "He's good enough for you not to want another hoss." + +"Lin, you're goin' to wear out Wildfire, an' then trap him somehow--is thet +the plan?" asked the other comrade. + +"I haven't any plan. I'll just trail him, like a cougar trails a deer." + +"Lin, if Wildfire gives you the slip he'll have to fly. You've got the best +eyes for tracks of any wrangler in Utah." + +Slone accepted the compliment with a fleeting, doubtful smile on his dark +face. He did not reply, and no more was said by his comrades. They rolled with +backs to the fire. Slone put on more wood, for the keen wind was cold and +cutting; and then he lay down, his head in his saddle, with a goatskin under +him and a saddle-blanket over him. + +All three were soon asleep. The wind whipped the sand and ashes and smoke over +the sleepers. Coyotes barked from near in darkness, and from the valley ridge +came the faint mourn of a hunting wolf. The desert night grew darker and +colder. + +The Stewart brothers were wild-horse hunters for the sake of trades and +occasional sales. But Lin Slone never traded nor sold a horse he had captured. +The excitement of the game, and the lure of the desert, and the love of a +horse were what kept him at the profitless work. His type was rare in the +uplands. + +These were the early days of the settlement of Utah, and only a few of the +hardiest and most adventurous pioneers had penetrated the desert in the +southern part of that vast upland. And with them came some of that wild breed +of riders to which Slone and the Stewarts belonged. Horses were really more +important and necessary than men; and this singular fact gave these lonely +riders a calling. + +Before the Spaniards came there were no horses in the West. Those explorers +left or lost horses all over the southwest. Many of them were Arabian horses +of purest blood. American explorers and travelers, at the outset of the +nineteenth century, encountered countless droves of wild horses all over the +plains. Across the Grand Canyon, however, wild horses were comparatively few +in number in the early days; and these had probably come in by way of +California. + +The Stewarts and Slone had no established mode of catching wild horses. The +game had not developed fast enough for that. Every chase of horse or drove was +different; and once in many attempts they met with success. + +A favorite method originated by the Stewarts was to find a water-hole +frequented by the band of horses or the stallion wanted, and to build round +this hole a corral with an opening for the horses to get in. Then the hunters +would watch the trap at night, and if the horses went in to drink, a gate was +closed across the opening. Another method of the Stewarts was to trail a +coveted horse up on a mesa or highland, places which seldom had more than one +trail of ascent and descent, and there block the escape, and cut lines of +cedars, into which the quarry was ran till captured. Still another method, +discovered by accident, was to shoot a horse lightly in the neck and sting +him. This last, called creasing, was seldom successful, and for that matter in +any method ten times as many horses were killed as captured. + +Lin Slone helped the Stewarts in their own way, but he had no especial liking +for their tricks. Perhaps a few remarkable captures of remarkable horses had +spoiled Slone. He was always trying what the brothers claimed to be +impossible. He was a fearless rider, but he had the fault of saving his mount, +and to kill a wild horse was a tragedy for him. He would much rather have +hunted alone, and he had been alone on the trail of the stallion Wildfire when +the Stewarts had joined him. + +Lin Slone awoke next morning and rolled out of his blanket at his usual early +hour. But he was not early enough to say good-by to the Stewarts. They were +gone. + +The fact surprised him and somehow relieved him. They had left him more than +his share of the outfit, and perhaps that was why they had slipped off before +dawn. They knew him well enough to know that he would not have accepted it. +Besides, perhaps they felt a little humiliation at abandoning a chase which he +chose to keep up. Anyway, they were gone, apparently without breakfast. + +The morning was clear, cool, with the air dark like that before a storm, and +in the east, over the steely wall of stone, shone a redness growing brighter. + +Slone looked away to the west, down the trail taken by his comrades, but he +saw nothing moving against that cedar-dotted waste. + +"Good-by," he said, and he spoke as if he was saying good-by to more than +comrades. + +"I reckon I won't see Sevier Village soon again--an' maybe never," he +soliloquized. + +There was no one to regret him, unless it was old Mother Hall, who had been +kind to him on those rare occasions when he got out of the wilderness. Still, +it was with regret that he gazed away across the red valley to the west. Slone +had no home. His father and mother had been lost in the massacre of a +wagon-train by Indians, and he had been one of the few saved and brought to +Salt Lake. That had happened when he was ten years old. His life thereafter +had been hard, and but for his sturdy Texas training he might not have +survived. The last five years he had been a horse-hunter in the wild uplands +of Nevada and Utah. + +Slone turned his attention to the pack of supplies. The Stewarts had divided +the flour and the parched corn equally, and unless he was greatly mistaken +they had left him most of the coffee and all of the salt. + +"Now I hold that decent of Bill an' Abe," said Slone, regretfully. "But I +could have got along without it better 'n they could." + +Then he swiftly set about kindling a fire and getting a meal. In the midst of +his task a sudden ruddy brightness fell around him. Lin Slone paused in his +work to look up. + +The sun had risen over the eastern wall. + +"Ah!" he said, and drew a deep breath. + +The cold, steely, darkling sweep of desert had been transformed. It was now a +world of red earth and gold rocks and purple sage, with everywhere the endless +straggling green cedars. A breeze whipped in, making the fire roar softly. The +sun felt warm on his cheek. And at the moment he heard the whistle of his +horse. + +"Good old Nagger!" he said. "I shore won't have to track you this mornin'." + +Presently he went off into the cedars to find Nagger and the mustang that he +used to carry a pack. Nagger was grazing in a little open patch among the +trees, but the pack-horse was missing. Slone seemed to know in what direction +to go to find the trail, for he came upon it very soon. The pack-horse wore +hobbles, but he belonged to the class that could cover a great deal of ground +when hobbled. Slone did not expect the horse to go far, considering that the +grass thereabouts was good. But in a wild-horse country it was not safe to +give any horse a chance. The call of his wild brethren was irresistible. +Slone, however, found the mustang standing quietly in a clump of cedars, and, +removing the hobbles, he mounted and rode back to camp. Nagger caught sight of +him and came at his call. + +This horse Nagger appeared as unique in his class as Slone was rare among +riders. Nagger seemed of several colors, though black predominated. His coat +was shaggy, almost woolly, like that of a sheep. He was huge, raw-boned, +knotty, long of body and long of leg, with the head of a war charger. His +build did not suggest speed. There appeared to be something slow and ponderous +about him, similar to an elephant, with the same suggestion of power and +endurance. Slone discarded the pack-saddle and bags. The latter were almost +empty. He roped the tarpaulin on the back of the mustang, and, making a small +bundle of his few supplies, he tied that to the tarpaulin. His blanket he used +for a saddle-blanket on Nagger. Of the utensils left by the Stewarts he chose +a couple of small iron pans, with long handles. The rest he left. In his +saddle-bags he had a few extra horseshoes, some nails, bullets for his +rifle, and a knife with a heavy blade. + +"Not a rich outfit for a far country," he mused. Slone did not talk very much, +and when he did he addressed Nagger and himself simultaneously. Evidently he +expected a long chase, one from which he would not return, and light as his +outfit was it would grow too heavy. + +Then he mounted and rode down the gradual slope, facing the valley and the +black, bold, flat mountain to the southeast. Some few hundred yards from camp +he halted Nagger and bent over in the saddle to scrutinize the ground. + +The clean-cut track of a horse showed in the bare, hard sand. The hoof-marks +were large, almost oval, perfect in shape, and manifestly they were beautiful +to Lin Slone. He gazed at them for a long time, and then he looked across the +dotted red valley up the vast ridgy steps, toward the black plateau and +beyond. It was the look that an Indian gives to a strange country. Then Slone +slipped off the saddle and knelt to scrutinize the horse tracks. A little sand +had blown into the depressions, and some of it was wet and some of it was dry. +He took his time about examining it, and he even tried gently blowing other +sand into the tracks, to compare that with what was already there. Finally he +stood up and addressed Nagger. + +"Reckon we won't have to argue with Abe an' Bill this mornin'," he said, with +satisfaction. "Wildfire made that track yesterday, before sun-up." + +Thereupon Slone remounted and put Nagger to a trot. The pack-horse followed +with an alacrity that showed he had no desire for loneliness. + +As straight as a bee-line Wildfire had left a trail down into the floor of the +valley. He had not stopped to graze, and he had not looked for water. Slone +had hoped to find a water-hole in one of the deep washes in the red earth, but +if there had been any water there Wildfire would have scented it. He had not +had a drink for three days that Slone knew of. And Nagger had not drunk for +forty hours. Slone had a canvas water-bag hanging over the pommel, but it was +a habit of his to deny himself, as far as possible, till his horse could drink +also. Like an Indian, Slone ate and drank but little. + +It took four hours of steady trotting to reach the middle and bottom of that +wide, flat valley. A network of washes cut up the whole center of it, and they +were all as dry as bleached bone. To cross these Slone had only to keep +Wildfire's trail. And it was proof of Nagger's quality that he did not have to +veer from the stallion's course. + +It was hot down in the lowland. The heat struck up, reflected from the sand. +But it was a March sun, and no more than pleasant to Slone. The wind rose, +however, and blew dust and sand in the faces of horse and rider. Except +lizards, Slone did not see any living things. + +Miles of low greasewood and sparse yellow sage led to the first almost +imperceptible rise of the valley floor on that side. The distant cedars +beckoned to Slone. He was not patient, because he was on the trail of +Wildfire; but, nevertheless, the hours seemed short. + +Slone had no past to think about, and the future held nothing except a horse, +and so his thoughts revolved the possibilities connected with this chase of +Wildfire. The chase was hopeless in such country as he was traversing, and if +Wildfire chose to roam around valleys like this one Slone would fail utterly. +But the stallion had long ago left his band of horses, and then, one by one +his favorite consorts, and now he was alone, headed with unerring instinct for +wild, untrammeled ranges. He had been used to the pure, cold water and the +succulent grass of the cold desert uplands. Assuredly he would not tarry in +such barren lands as these. + +For Slone an ever-present and growing fascination lay in Wildfire's clear, +sharply defined tracks. It was as if every hoof-mark told him something. Once, +far up the interminable ascent, he found on a ridge-top tracks showing where +Wildfire had halted and turned. + +"Ha, Nagger!" cried Slone, exultingly. "Look there! He's begun facin' about. +He's wonderin' if we're still after him. He's worried. . . . But we'll keep +out of sight--a day behind." + +When Slone reached the cedars the sun was low down in the west. He looked back +across the fifty miles of valley to the colored cliffs and walls. He seemed to +be above them now, and the cool air, with tang of cedar and juniper, +strengthened the impression that he had climbed high. + +A mile or more ahead of him rose a gray cliff with breaks in it and a line of +dark cedars or pinyons on the level rims. He believed these breaks to be the +mouths of canyons, and so it turned out. Wildfire's trail led into the mouth +of a narrow canyon with very steep and high walls. Nagger snorted his +perception of water, and the mustang whistled. Wildfire's tracks led to a +point under the wall where a spring gushed forth. There were mountain-lion and +deer tracks also, as well as those of smaller game. + +Slone made camp here. The mustang was tired. But Nagger, upon taking a long +drink, rolled in the grass as if he had just begun the trip. After eating, +Slone took his rifle and went out to look for deer. But there appeared to be +none at hand. He came across many lion tracks and saw, with apprehension, +where one had taken Wildfire's trail. Wildfire had grazed up the canyon, +keeping on and on, and he was likely to go miles in a night. Slone reflected +that as small as were his own chances of getting Wildfire, they were still +better than those of a mountain-lion. Wildfire was the most cunning of all +animals--a wild stallion; his speed and endurance were incomparable; his scent +as keen as those animals that relied wholly upon scent to warn them of danger, +and as for sight, it was Slone's belief that no hoofed creature, except the +mountain-sheep used to high altitudes, could see as far as a wild horse. + +It bothered Slone a little that he was getting into a lion country. Nagger +showed nervousness, something unusual for him. Slone tied both horses with +long halters and stationed them on patches of thick grass. Then he put a cedar +stump on the fire and went to sleep. Upon awakening and going to the spring he +was somewhat chagrined to see that deer had come down to drink early. +Evidently they were numerous. A lion country was always a deer country, for +the lions followed the deer. + +Slone was packed and saddled and on his way before the sun reddened the canyon +wall. He walked the horses. From time to time he saw signs of Wildfire's +consistent progress. The canyon narrowed and the walls grew lower and the +grass increased. There was a decided ascent all the time. Slone could find no +evidence that the canyon had ever been traveled by hunters or Indians. The day +was pleasant and warm and still. Every once in a while a little breath of wind +would bring a fragrance of cedar and pinyon, and a sweet hint of pine and +sage. At every turn he looked ahead, expecting to see the green of pine and +the gray of sage. Toward the middle of the afternoon, coming to a place where +Wildfire had taken to a trot, he put Nagger to that gait, and by sundown had +worked up to where the canyon was only a shallow ravine. And finally it turned +once more, to lose itself in a level where straggling pines stood high above +the cedars, and great, dark-green silver spruces stood above the pines. And +here were patches of sage, fresh and pungent, and long reaches of bleached +grass. It was the edge of a forest. Wildfire's trail went on. Slone came at +length to a group of pines, and here he found the remains of a camp-fire, and +some flint arrow-heads. Indians had been in there, probably having come from +the opposite direction to Slone's. This encouraged him, for where Indians +could hunt so could he. Soon he was entering a forest where cedars and pinyons +and pines began to grow thickly. Presently he came upon a faintly defined +trail, just a dim, dark line even to an experienced eye. But it was a trail, +and Wildfire had taken it. + +Slone halted for the night. The air was cold. And the dampness of it gave him +an idea there were snow-banks somewhere not far distant. The dew was already +heavy on the grass. He hobbled the horses and put a bell on Nagger. A bell +might frighten lions that had never heard one. Then he built a fire and cooked +his meal. + +It had been long since he had camped high up among the pines. The sough of the +wind pleased him, like music. There had begun to be prospects of pleasant +experience along with the toil of chasing Wildfire. He was entering new and +strange and beautiful country. How far might the chase take him? He did not +care. He was not sleepy, but even if he had been it developed that he must +wait till the coyotes ceased their barking round his camp-fire. They came so +close that he saw their gray shadows in the gloom. But presently they wearied +of yelping at him and went away. After that the silence, broken only by the +wind as it roared and lulled, seemed beautiful to Slone. He lost completely +that sense of vague regret which had remained with him, and he forgot the +Stewarts. And suddenly he felt absolutely free, alone, with nothing behind to +remember, with wild, thrilling, nameless life before him. Just then the long +mourn of a timber wolf wailed in with the wind. Seldom had he heard the cry of +one of those night wanderers. There was nothing like it--no sound like it to +fix in the lone camper's heart the great solitude and the wild. + + + +CHAPTER V + +In the early morning when all was gray and the big, dark pines were shadowy +specters, Slone was awakened by the cold. His hands were so numb that he had +difficulty starting a fire. He stood over the blaze, warming them. The air was +nipping, clear and thin, and sweet with frosty fragrance. + +Daylight came while he was in the midst of his morning meal. A white frost +covered the ground and crackled under his feet as he went out to bring in the +horses. He saw fresh deer tracks. Then he went back to camp for his rifle. +Keeping a sharp lookout for game, he continued his search for the horses. + +The forest was open and park-like. There were no fallen trees or evidences of +fire. Presently he came to a wide glade in the midst of which Nagger and the +pack-mustang were grazing with a herd of deer. The size of the latter amazed +Slone. The deer he had hunted back on the Sevier range were much smaller than +these. Evidently these were mule deer, closely allied to the elk. They were so +tame they stood facing him curiously, with long ears erect. It was sheer +murder to kill a deer standing and watching like that, but Slone was out of +meat and hungry and facing a long, hard trip. He shot a buck, which leaped +spasmodically away, trying to follow the herd, and fell at the edge of the +glade. Slone cut out a haunch, and then, catching the horses, he returned to +camp, where he packed and saddled, and at once rode out on the dim trail. + +The wildness of the country he was entering was evident in the fact that as he +passed the glade where he had shot the deer a few minutes before, there were +coyotes quarreling over the carcass. + +Stone could see ahead and on each side several hundred yards, and presently he +ascertained that the forest floor was not so level as he had supposed. He had +entered a valley or was traversing a wide, gently sloping pass. He went +through thickets of juniper, and had to go around clumps of quaking aspen. The +pines grew larger and farther apart. Cedars and pinyons had been left behind, +and he had met with no silver spruces after leaving camp. Probably that point +was the height of a divide. There were banks of snow in some of the hollows on +the north side. Evidently the snow had very recently melted, and it was +evident also that the depth of snow through here had been fully ten feet, +judging from the mutilation of the juniper-trees where the deer, standing on +the hard, frozen crust, had browsed upon the branches. + +The quiet of the forest thrilled Slone. And the only movement was the +occasional gray flash of a deer or coyote across a glade. No birds of any +species crossed Stone's sight. He came, presently, upon a lion track in the +trail, made probably a day before. Slone grew curious about it, seeing how it +held, as he was holding, to Wildfire's tracks. After a mile or so he made sure +the lion had been trailing the stallion, and for a second he felt a cold +contraction of his heart. Already he loved Wildfire, and by virtue of all this +toil of travel considered the wild horse his property. + +"No lion could ever get close to Wildfire," he soliloquized, with a short +laugh. Of that he was absolutely certain. + +The sun rose, melting the frost, and a breath of warm air, laden with the +scent of pine, moved heavily under the huge, yellow trees. Slone passed a +point where the remains of an old camp-fire and a pile of deer antlers were +further proof that Indians visited this plateau to hunt. From this camp +broader, more deeply defined trails led away to the south and east. Slone kept +to the east trail, in which Wildfire's tracks and those of the lion showed +clearly. It was about the middle of the forenoon when the tracks of the +stallion and lion left the trail to lead up a little draw where grass grew +thick. Slone followed, reading the signs of Wildfire's progress, and the +action of his pursuer, as well as if he had seen them. Here the stallion had +plowed into a snow-bank, eating a hole two feet deep; then he had grazed +around a little; then on and on; there his splendid tracks were deep in the +soft earth. Slone knew what to expect when the track of the lion veered from +those of the horse, and he followed the lion tracks. The ground was soft from +the late melting of snow, and Nagger sunk deep. The lion left a plain track. +Here he stole steadily along; there he left many tracks at a point where he +might have halted to make sure of his scent. He was circling on the trail of +the stallion, with cunning intent of ambush. The end of this slow, careful +stalk of the lion, as told in his tracks, came upon the edge of a knoll where +he had crouched to watch and wait. + +From this perch he had made a magnificent spring--Slone estimating it to be +forty feet--but he had missed the stallion. There were Wildfire's tracks again, +slow and short, and then deep and sharp where in the impetus of fright he had +sprung out of reach. A second leap of the lion, and then lessening bounds, and +finally an abrupt turn from Wildfire's trail told the futility of that stalk. +Slone made certain that Wildfire was so keen that as he grazed along he had +kept to open ground. + +Wildfire had run for a mile, then slowed down to a trot, and he had circled to +get back to the trail he had left. Slone believed the horse was just so +intelligent. At any rate, Wildfire struck the trail again, and turned at right +angles to follow it. + +Here the forest floor appeared perfectly level. Patches of snow became +frequent, and larger as Slone went on. At length the patches closed up, and +soon extended as far as he could see. It was soft, affording difficult travel. +Slone crossed hundreds of deer tracks, and the trail he was on eventually +became a deer runway. + +Presently, far down one of the aisles between the great pines Slone saw what +appeared to be a yellow cliff, far away. It puzzled him. And as he went on he +received the impression that the forest dropped out of sight ahead. Then the +trees grew thicker, obstructing his view. Presently the trail became soggy and +he had to help his horse. The mustang floundered in the soft snow and earth. +Cedars and pinyons appeared again, making travel still more laborious. + +All at once there came to Slone a strange consciousness of light and wind and +space and void. On the instant his horse halted with a snort. Slone quickly +looked up. Had he come to the end of the world? An abyss, a canyon, yawned +beneath him, beyond all comparison in its greatness. His keen eye, educated to +desert distance and dimension, swept down and across, taking in the tremendous +truth, before it staggered his comprehension. But a second sweeping glance, +slower, becoming intoxicated with what it beheld, saw gigantic cliff-steps and +yellow slopes dotted with cedars, leading down to clefts filled with purple +smoke, and these led on and on to a ragged red world of rock, bare, shining, +bold, uplifted in mesa, dome, peak, and crag, clear and strange in the morning +light, still and sleeping like death. + +This, then, was the great canyon, which had seemed like a hunter's fable +rather than truth. Slone's sight dimmed, blurring the spectacle, and he found +that his eyes had filled with tears. He wiped them away and looked again and +again, until he was confounded by the vastness and the grandeur and the vague +sadness of the scene. Nothing he had ever looked at had affected him like this +canyon, although the Stewarts had tried to prepare him for it. + +It was the horse-hunter's passion that reminded him of his pursuit. The deer +trail led down through a break in the wall. Only a few rods of it could be +seen. This trail was passable, even though choked with snow. But the depth +beyond this wall seemed to fascinate Slone and hold him back, used as he was +to desert trails. Then the clean mark of Wildfire's hoof brought back the old +thrill. + +"This place fits you, Wildfire," muttered Slone, dismounting. + +He started down, leading Nagger. The mustang followed. Slone kept to the wall +side of the trail, fearing the horses might slip. The snow held firmly at +first and Slone had no trouble. The gap in the rim-rock widened to a slope +thickly grown over with cedars and pinyons and manzanita. This growth made the +descent more laborious, yet afforded means at least for Slone to go down with +less danger. There was no stopping. Once started, the horses had to keep on. +Slone saw the impossibility of ever climbing out while that snow was there. +The trail zigzagged down and down. Very soon the yellow wall hung tremendously +over him, straight up. The snow became thinner and softer. The horses began to +slip. They slid on their haunches. Fortunately the slope grew less steep, and +Slone could see below where it reached out to comparatively level ground. +Still, a mishap might yet occur. Slone kept as close to Nagger as possible, +helping him whenever he could do it. The mustang slipped, rolled over, and +then slipped past Slone, went down the slope to bring up in a cedar. Slone +worked down to him and extricated him. Then the huge Nagger began to slide. +Snow and loose rock slid with him, and so did Slone. The little avalanche +stopped of its own accord, and then Slone dragged Nagger on down and down, +presently to come to the end of the steep descent. Slone looked up to see that +he had made short work of a thousand-foot slope. Here cedars and pinyons grew +thickly enough to make a forest. The snow thinned out to patches, and then +failed. But the going remained bad for a while as the horses sank deep in a +soft red earth. This eventually grew more solid and finally dry. Slone worked +out of the cedars to what appeared a grassy plateau inclosed by the great +green-and-white slope with its yellow wall over hanging, and distant mesas and +cliffs. Here his view was restricted. He was down on the first bench of the +great canyon. And there was the deer trail, a well-worn path keeping to the +edge of the slope. Slone came to a deep cut in the earth, and the trail headed +it, where it began at the last descent of the slope. It was the source of a +canyon. He could look down to see the bare, worn rock, and a hundred yards +from where he stood the earth was washed from its rims and it began to show +depth and something of that ragged outline which told of violence of flood. +The trail headed many canyons like this, all running down across this bench, +disappearing, dropping invisibly. The trail swung to the left under the great +slope, and then presently it climbed to a higher bench. Here were brush and +grass and huge patches of sage, so pungent that it stung Slone's nostrils. +Then he went down again, this time to come to a clear brook lined by willows. +Here the horses drank long and Slone refreshed himself. The sun had grown hot. +There was fragrance of flowers he could not see and a low murmur of a +waterfall that was likewise invisible. For most of the time his view was shut +off, but occasionally he reached a point where through some break he saw +towers gleaming red in the sun. A strange place, a place of silence, and smoky +veils in the distance. Time passed swiftly. Toward the waning of the afternoon +he began to climb to what appeared to be a saddle of land, connecting the +canyon wall on the left with a great plateau, gold-rimmed and pine-fringed, +rising more and more in his way as he advanced. At sunset Slone was more shut +in than for several hours. He could tell the time was sunset by the golden +light on the cliff wall again overhanging him. The slope was gradual up to +this pass to the saddle, and upon coming to a spring, and the first +pine-trees, he decided to halt for a camp. The mustang was almost exhausted. + +Thereupon he hobbled the horses in the luxuriant grass round the spring, and +then unrolled his pack. Once as dusk came stealing down, while he was eating +his meal, Nagger whistled in fright. Slone saw a gray, pantherish form gliding +away into the shadows. He took a quick shot at it, but missed. + +"It's a lion country, all right," he said. And then he set about building a +big fire on the other side of the grassy plot, so to have the horses between +fires. He cut all the venison into thin strips, and spent an hour roasting +them. Then he lay down to rest, and he said: "Wonder where Wildfire is +to-night? Am I closer to him? Where's he headin' for?" + +The night was warm and still. It was black near the huge cliff, and overhead +velvety blue, with stars of white fire. It seemed to him that he had become +more thoughtful and observing of the aspects of his wild environment, and he +felt a welcome consciousness of loneliness. Then sleep came to him and the +night seemed short. In the gray dawn he arose refreshed. + +The horses were restive. Nagger snorted a welcome. Evidently they had passed +an uneasy night. Slone found lion tracks at the spring and in sandy places. +Presently he was on his way up to the notch between the great wall and the +plateau. A growth of thick scrub-oak made travel difficult. It had not +appeared far up to that saddle, but it was far. There were straggling +pine-trees and huge rocks that obstructed his gaze. But once up he saw that +the saddle was only a narrow ridge, curved to slope up on both sides. + +Straight before Slone and under him opened the canyon, blazing and glorious +along the peaks and ramparts, where the rising sun struck, misty and smoky and +shadowy down in those mysterious depths. + +It took an effort not to keep on gazing. But Slone turned to the grim business +of his pursuit. The trail he saw leading down had been made by Indians. It was +used probably once a year by them; and also by wild animals, and it was +exceedingly steep and rough. Wildfire had paced to and fro along the narrow +ridge of that saddle, making many tracks, before he had headed down again. +Slone imagined that the great stallion had been daunted by the tremendous +chasm, but had finally faced it, meaning to put this obstacle between him and +his pursuers. It never occurred to Slone to attribute less intelligence to +Wildfire than that. So, dismounting, Slone took Nagger's bridle and started +down. The mustang with the pack was reluctant. He snorted and whistled and +pawed the earth. But he would not be left alone, so he followed. + +The trail led down under cedars that fringed a precipice. Slone was aware of +this without looking. He attended only to the trail and to his horse. Only an +Indian could have picked out that course, and it was cruel to put a horse to +it. But Nagger was powerful, sure-footed, and he would go anywhere that Slone +led him. Gradually Slone worked down and away from the bulging rim-wall. It +was hard, rough work, and risky because it could not be accomplished slowly. +Brush and rocks, loose shale and weathered slope, long, dusty inclines of +yellow earth, and jumbles of stone--these made bad going for miles of slow, +zigzag trail down out of the cedars. Then the trail entered what appeared to +be a ravine. + +That ravine became a canyon. At its head it was a dry wash, full of gravel and +rocks. It began to cut deep into the bowels of the earth. It shut out sight of +the surrounding walls and peaks. Water appeared from under a cliff and, +augmented by other springs, became a brook. Hot, dry, and barren at its +beginning, this cleft became cool and shady and luxuriant with grass and +flowers and amber moss with silver blossoms. The rocks had changed color from +yellow to deep red. Four hours of turning and twisting, endlessly down and +down, over boulders and banks and every conceivable roughness of earth and +rock, finished the pack-mustang; and Slone mercifully left him in a long reach +of canyon where grass and water never failed. In this place Slone halted for +the noon hour, letting Nagger have his fill of the rich grazing. Nagger's +three days in grassy upland, despite the continuous travel by day, had +improved him. He looked fat, and Slone had not yet caught the horse resting. +Nagger was iron to endure. Here Slone left all the outfit except what was on +his saddle, and the sack containing the few pounds of meat and supplies, and +the two utensils. This sack he tied on the back of his saddle, and resumed his +journey. + +Presently he came to a place where Wildfire had doubled on his trail and had +turned up a side canyon. The climb out was hard on Slone, if not on Nagger. +Once up, Slone found himself upon a wide, barren plateau of glaring red rock +and clumps of greasewood and cactus. The plateau was miles wide, shut in by +great walls and mesas of colored rock. The afternoon sun beat down fiercely. A +blast of wind, as if from a furnace, swept across the plateau, and it was +laden with red dust. Slone walked here, where he could have ridden. And he +made several miles of up-and-down progress over this rough plateau. The great +walls of the opposite side of the canyon loomed appreciably closer. What, +Slone wondered, was at the bottom of this rent in the earth? The great desert +river was down there, of course, but he knew nothing of it. Would that turn +back Wildfire? Slone thought grimly how he had always claimed Nagger to be +part fish and part bird. Wildfire was not going to escape. + +By and by only isolated mescal plants with long, yellow-plumed spears broke +the bare monotony of the plateau. And Slone passed from red sand and gravel to +a red, soft shale, and from that to hard, red rock. Here Wildfire's tracks +were lost, the first time in seven weeks. But Slone had his direction down +that plateau with the cleavage lines of canyons to right and left. At times +Slone found a vestige of the old Indian trail, and this made him doubly sure +of being right. He did not need to have Wildfire's tracks. He let Nagger pick +the way, and the horse made no mistake in finding the line of least +resistance. But that grew harder and harder. This bare rock, like a file, +would soon wear Wildfire's hoofs thin. And Slone rejoiced. Perhaps somewhere +down in this awful chasm he and Nagger would have it out with the stallion. +Slone began to look far ahead, beginning to believe that he might see +Wildfire. Twice he had seen Wildfire, but only at a distance. Then he had +resembled a running streak of fire, whence his name, which Slone had given +him. + +This bare region of rock began to be cut up into gullies. It was necessary to +head them or to climb in and out. Miles of travel really meant little progress +straight ahead. But Slone kept on. He was hot and Nagger was hot, and that +made hard work easier. Sometimes on the wind came a low thunder. Was it a +storm or an avalanche slipping or falling water? He could not tell. The sound +was significant and haunting. + +Of one thing he was sure--that he could not have found his back-trail. But he +divined he was never to retrace his steps on this journey. The stretch of +broken plateau before him grew wilder and bolder of outline, darker in color, +weirder in aspect, and progress across it grew slower, more dangerous. There +were many places Nagger should not have been put to--where a slip meant a +broken leg. But Slone could not turn back. And something besides an +indomitable spirit kept him going. Again the sound resembling thunder assailed +his ears, louder this time. The plateau appeared to be ending in a series of +great capes or promontories. Slone feared he would soon come out upon a +promontory from which he might see the impossibility of further travel. He +felt relieved down in the gullies, where he could not see far. He climbed out +of one, presently, from which there extended a narrow ledge with a slant too +perilous for any horse. He stepped out upon that with far less confidence than +Nagger. To the right was a bulge of low wall, and a few feet to the left a +dark precipice. The trail here was faintly outlined, and it was six inches +wide and slanting as well. It seemed endless to Slone, that ledge. He looked +only down at his feet and listened to Nagger's steps. The big horse trod +carefully, but naturally, and he did not slip. That ledge extended in a long +curve, turning slowly away from the precipice, and ascending a little at the +further end. Slone, drew a deep breath of relief when he led Nagger up on +level rock. + +Suddenly a strange yet familiar sound halted Slone, as if he had been struck. +The wild, shrill, high-pitched, piercing whistle of a stallion! Nagger neighed +a blast in reply and pounded the rock with his iron-shod hoofs. With a thrill +Slone looked ahead. + +There, some few hundred yards distant, on a promontory, stood a red horse. + +"My Lord! . . . It's Wildfire!" breathed Slone, tensely. + +He could not believe his sight. He imagined he was dreaming. But as Nagger +stamped and snorted defiance Slone looked with fixed and keen gaze, and knew +that beautiful picture was no lie. + +Wildfire was as red as fire. His long mane, wild in the wind, was like a +whipping, black-streaked flame. Silhouetted there against that canyon +background he seemed gigantic, a demon horse, ready to plunge into fiery +depths. He was looking back over his shoulder, his head very high, and every +line of him was instinct with wildness. Again he sent out that shrill, +air-splitting whistle. Slone understood it to be a clarion call to Nagger. If +Nagger had been alone Wildfire would have killed him. The red stallion was a +killer of horses. All over the Utah ranges he had left the trail of a +murderer. Nagger understood this, too, for he whistled back in rage and +terror. It took an iron arm to hold him. Then Wildfire plunged, apparently +down, and vanished from Slone's sight. + +Slone hurried onward, to be blocked by a huge crack in the rocky plateau. This +he had to head. And then another and like obstacle checked his haste to reach +that promontory. He was forced to go more slowly. Wildfire had been close only +as to sight. And this was the great canyon that dwarfed distance and magnified +proximity. Climbing down and up, toiling on, he at last learned patience. He +had seen Wildfire at close range. That was enough. So he plodded on, once more +returning to careful regard of Nagger. It took an hour of work to reach the +point where Wildfire had disappeared. + +A promontory indeed it was, overhanging a valley a thousand feet below. A +white torrent of a stream wound through it. There were lines of green +cottonwoods following the winding course. Then Slone saw Wildfire slowly +crossing the flat toward the stream. He had gone down that cliff, which to +Slone looked perpendicular. + +Wildfire appeared to be walking lame. Slone, making sure of this, suffered a +pang. Then, when the significance of such lameness dawned upon him he whooped +his wild joy and waved his hat. The red stallion must have heard, for he +looked up. Then he went on again and waded into the stream, where he drank +long. When he started to cross, the swift current drove him back in several +places. The water wreathed white around him. But evidently it was not deep, +and finally he crossed. From the other side he looked up again at Nagger and +Slone, and, going on, he soon was out of sight in the cottonwoods. + +"How to get down!" muttered Slone. + +There was a break in the cliff wall, a bare stone slant where horses had gone +down and come up. That was enough for Slone to know. He would have attempted +the descent if he were sure no other horse but Wildfire had ever gone down +there. But Slone's hair began to rise stiff on his head. A horse like +Wildfire, and mountain sheep and Indian ponies, were all very different from +Nagger. The chances were against Nagger. + +"Come on, old boy. If I can do it, you can," he said. + +Slone had never seen a trail as perilous as this. He was afraid for his horse. +A slip there meant death. The way Nagger trembled in every muscle showed his +feelings. But he never flinched. He would follow Slone anywhere, providing +Slone rode him or led him. And here, as riding was impossible, Slone went +before. If the horse slipped there would be a double tragedy, for Nagger would +knock his master off the cliff. Slone set his teeth and stepped down. He did +not let Nagger see his fear. He was taking the greatest risk he had ever run. + +The break in the wall led to a ledge, and the ledge dropped from step to step, +and these had bare, slippery slants between. Nagger was splendid on a bad +trail. He had methods peculiar to his huge build and great weight. He crashed +down over the stone steps, both front hoofs at once. The slants he slid down +on his haunches with his forelegs stiff and the iron shoes scraping. He +snorted and heaved and grew wet with sweat. He tossed his head at some of the +places. But he never hesitated and it was impossible for him to go slowly. +Whenever Slone came to corrugated stretches in the trail he felt grateful. But +these were few. The rock was like smooth red iron. Slone had never seen such +hard rock. It took him long to realize that it was marble. His heart seemed a +tense, painful knot in his breast, as if it could not beat, holding back in +the strained suspense. But Nagger never jerked on the bridle. He never +faltered. Many times he slipped, often with both front feet, but never with +all four feet. So he did not fall. And the red wall began to loom above Slone. +Then suddenly he seemed brought to a point where it was impossible to descend. +It was a round bulge, slanting fearfully, with only a few little rough +surfaces to hold a foot. Wildfire had left a broad, clear-swept mark at that +place, and red hairs on some of the sharp points. He had slid down. Below was +an offset that fortunately prevented further sliding, Slone started to walk +down this place, but when Nagger began to slide Slone had to let go the bridle +and jump. Both he and the horse landed safely. Luck was with them. And they +went on, down and down, to reach the base of the great wall, scraped and +exhausted, wet with sweat, but unhurt. As Slone gazed upward he felt the +impossibility of believing what he knew to be true. He hugged and petted the +horse. Then he led on to the roaring stream. + +It was green water white with foam. Slone waded in and found the water cool +and shallow and very swift. He had to hold to Nagger to keep from being swept +downstream. They crossed in safety. There in the sand showed Wildfire's +tracks. And here were signs of another Indian camp, half a year old. + +The shade of the cottonwoods was pleasant. Slone found this valley +oppressively hot. There was no wind and the sand blistered his feet through +his boots. Wildfire held to the Indian trail that had guided him down into +this wilderness of worn rock. And that trail crossed the stream at every turn +of the twisting, narrow valley. Slone enjoyed getting into the water. He hung +his gun over the pommel and let the water roll him. A dozen times he and +Nagger forded the rushing torrent. Then they came to a box-like closing of the +valley to canyon walls, and here the trail evidently followed the stream bed. +There was no other way. Slone waded in, and stumbled, rolled, and floated +ahead of the sturdy horse. Nagger was wet to his breast, but he did not fall. +This gulch seemed full of a hollow rushing roar. It opened out into a wide +valley. And Wildfire's tracks took to the left side and began to climb the +slope. + +Here the traveling was good, considering what had been passed. Once up out of +the valley floor Slone saw Wildfire far ahead, high on the slope. He did not +appear to be limping, but he was not going fast. Slone watched as he climbed. +What and where would be the end of this chase? + +Sometimes Wildfire was plain in his sight for a moment, but usually he was +hidden by rocks. The slope was one great talus, a jumble of weathered rock, +fallen from what appeared a mountain of red and yellow wall. Here the heat of +the sun fell upon him like fire. The rocks were so hot Slone could not touch +them with bare hand. The close of the afternoon was approaching, and this +slope was interminably long. Still, it was not steep, and the trail was good. + +At last from the height of slope Wildfire appeared, looking back and down. +Then he was gone. Slone plodded upward. Long before he reached that summit be +heard the dull rumble of the river. It grew to be a roar, yet it seemed +distant. Would the great desert river stop Wildfire in his flight? Slone +doubted it. He surmounted the ridge, to find the canyon opening in a +tremendous gap, and to see down, far down, a glittering, sun-blasted slope +merging into a deep, black gulch where a red river swept and chafed and +roared. + +Somehow the river was what he had expected to see. A force that had cut and +ground this canyon could have been nothing but a river like that. The trail +led down, and Slone had no doubt that it crossed the river and led up out of +the canyon. He wanted to stay there and gaze endlessly and listen. At length +he began the descent. As he proceeded it seemed that the roar of the river +lessened. He could not understand why this was so. It took half an hour to +reach the last level, a ghastly, black, and iron-ribbed canyon bed, with the +river splitting it. He had not had a glimpse of Wildfire on this side of the +divide, but he found his tracks, and they led down off the last level, through +a notch in the black bank of marble to a sand-bar and the river. + +Wildfire had walked straight off the sand into the water. Slone studied the +river and shore. The water ran slow, heavily, in sluggish eddies. From far up +the canyon came the roar of a rapid, and from below the roar of another, +heavier and closer. The river appeared tremendous, in ways Slone felt rather +than realized, yet it was not swift. Studying the black, rough wall of rock +above him, he saw marks where the river had been sixty feet higher than where +he stood on the sand. It was low, then. How lucky for him that he had gotten +there before flood season! He believed Wildfire had crossed easily, and he +knew Nagger could make it. Then he piled and tied his supplies and weapons +high on the saddle, to keep them dry, and looked for a place to take to the +water. + +Wildfire had sunk deep before reaching the edge. Manifestly he had lunged the +last few feet. Slone found a better place, and waded in, urging Nagger. The +big horse plunged, almost going under, and began to swim. Slone kept up-stream +beside him. He found, presently, that the water was thick and made him tired, +so it was necessary to grasp a stirrup and be towed. The river appeared only a +few hundred feet wide, but probably it was wider than it looked. Nagger +labored heavily near the opposite shore; still, he landed safely upon a rocky +bank. There were patches of sand in which Wildfire's tracks showed so fresh +that the water had not yet dried out of them. + +Slone rested his horse before attempting to climb out of that split in the +rock. However, Wildfire had found an easy ascent. On this side of the canyon +the bare rock did not predominate. A clear trail led up a dusty, gravelly +slope, upon which scant greasewood and cactus appeared. Half an hour's +climbing brought Slone to where he could see that he was entering a vast +valley, sloping up and narrowing to a notch in the dark cliffs, above which +towered the great red wall and about that the slopes of cedar and the yellow +rim-rock. + +And scarcely a mile distant, bright in the westering sunlight, shone the red +stallion, moving slowly. + +Slone pressed on steadily. Just before dark he came to an ideal spot to camp. +The valley had closed up, so that the lofty walls cast shadows that met. A +clump of cottonwoods surrounding a spring, abundance of rich grass, willows +and flowers lining the banks, formed an oasis in the bare valley. Slone was +tired out from the day of ceaseless toil down and up, and he could scarcely +keep his eyes open. But he tried to stay awake. The dead silence of the +valley, the dry fragrance, the dreaming walls, the advent of night low down, +when up on the ramparts the last red rays of the sun lingered, the strange +loneliness--these were sweet and comforting to him. + +And that night's sleep was as a moment. He opened his eyes to see the crags +and towers and peaks and domes, and the lofty walls of that vast, broken chaos +of canyons across the river. They were now emerging from the misty gray of +dawn, growing pink and lilac and purple under the rising sun. + +He arose and set about his few tasks, which, being soon finished, allowed him +an early start. + +Wildfire had grazed along no more than a mile in the lead. Slone looked +eagerly up the narrowing canyon, but he was not rewarded by a sight of the +stallion. As he progressed up a gradually ascending trail he became aware of +the fact that the notch he had long looked up to was where the great red walls +closed in and almost met. And the trail zigzagged up this narrow vent, so +steep that only a few steps could be taken without rest. Slone toiled up for +an hour--an age--till he was wet, burning, choked, with a great weight on his +chest. Yet still he was only half-way up that awful break between the walls. +Sometimes he could have tossed a stone down upon a part of the trail, only a +few rods below, yet many, many weary steps of actual toil. As he got farther +up the notch widened. What had been scarcely visible from the valley below was +now colossal in actual dimensions. The trail was like a twisted mile of thread +between two bulging mountain walls leaning their ledges and fronts over this +tilted pass. + +Slone rested often. Nagger appreciated this and heaved gratefully at every +halt. In this monotonous toil Slone forgot the zest of his pursuit. And when +Nagger suddenly snorted in fright Slone was not prepared for what he saw. + +Above him ran a low, red wall, around which evidently the trail led. At the +curve, which was a promontory, scarcely a hundred feet in an airline above +him, he saw something red moving, bobbing, coming out into view. It was a +horse. + +Wildfire--no farther away than the length of three lassoes! + +There he stood looking down. He fulfilled all of Slone's dreams. Only he was +bigger. But he was so magnificently proportioned that he did not seem heavy. +His coat was shaggy and red. It was not glossy. The color was what made him +shine. His mane was like a crest, mounting, then failing low. Slone had never +seen so much muscle on a horse. Yet his outline was graceful, beautiful. The +head was indeed that of the wildest of all wild creatures--a stallion born +wild--and it was beautiful, savage, splendid, everything but noble. Whatever +Wildfire was, he was a devil, a murderer--he had no noble attributes. Slone +thought that if a horse could express hate, surely Wildfire did then. It was +certain that he did express curiosity and fury. + +Slone shook a gantleted fist at the stallion, as if the horse were human. That +was a natural action for a rider of his kind. Wildfire turned away, showed +bright against the dark background, and then disappeared. + + + +CHAPTER VI + +That was the last Slone saw of Wildfire for three days. + +It took all of this day to climb out of the canyon. The second was a slow +march of thirty miles into a scrub cedar and pinyon forest, through which the +great red and yellow walls of the canyon could be seen. That night Slone found +a water-hole in a rocky pocket and a little grass for Nagger. The third day's +travel consisted of forty miles or more through level pine forest, dry and +odorous, but lacking the freshness and beauty of the forest on the north side +of the canyon. On this south side a strange feature was that all the water, +when there was any, ran away from the rim. Slone camped this night at a muddy +pond in the woods, where Wildfire's tracks showed plainly. + +On the following day Slone rode out of the forest into a country of scanty +cedars, bleached and stunted, and out of this to the edge of a plateau, from +which the shimmering desert flung its vast and desolate distances, forbidding +and menacing. This was not the desert upland country of Utah, but a naked and +bony world of colored rock and sand--a painted desert of heat and wind and +flying sand and waterless wastes and barren ranges. But it did not daunt +Slone. For far down on the bare, billowing ridges moved a red speck, at a +snail's pace, a slowly moving dot of color which was Wildfire. + +On open ground like this, Nagger, carrying two hundred and fifty pounds, +showed his wonderful quality. He did not mind the heat nor the sand nor the +glare nor the distance nor his burden. He did not tire. He was an engine of +tremendous power. + +Slone gained upon Wildfire, and toward evening of that day he reached to +within half a mile of the stallion. And he chose to keep that far behind. That +night he camped where there was dry grass, but no water. + +Next day he followed Wildfire down and down, over the endless swell of rolling +red ridges, bare of all but bleached white grass and meager greasewood, always +descending in the face of that painted desert of bold and ragged steps. Slone +made fifty miles that day, and gained the valley bed, where a slender stream +ran thin and spread over a wide sandy bottom. It was salty water, but it was +welcome to both man and beast. + +The following day he crossed, and the tracks of Wildfire were still wet on the +sand-bars. The stallion was slowing down. Slone saw him, limping along, not +far in advance. There was a ten-mile stretch of level ground, blown hard as +rock, from which the sustenance had been bleached, for not a spear of grass +grew there. And following that was a tortuous passage through a weird region +of clay dunes, blue and violet and heliotrope and lavender, all worn smooth by +rain and wind. Wildfire favored the soft ground now. He had deviated from his +straight course. And he was partial to washes and dips in the earth where +water might have lodged. And he was not now scornful of a green-scummed +water-hole with its white margin of alkali. That night Slone made camp with +Wildfire in plain sight. The stallion stopped when his pursuers stopped. And +he began to graze on the same stretch with Nagger. How strange this seemed to +Slone! + +Here at this camp was evidence of Indians. Wildfire had swung round to the +north in his course. Like any pursued wild animal, he had began to circle. And +he had pointed his nose toward the Utah he had left. + +Next morning Wildfire was not in sight, but he had left his tracks in the +sand. Slone trailed him with Nagger at a trot. Toward the head of this sandy +flat Slone came upon old corn-fields, and a broken dam where the water had +been stored, and well-defined trails leading away to the right. Somewhere over +there in the desert lived Indians. At this point Wildfire abandoned the trail +he had followed for many days and cut out more to the north. It took all the +morning hours to climb three great steps and benches that led up to the summit +of a mesa, vast in extent. It turned out to be a sandy waste. The wind rose +and everywhere were moving sheets of sand, and in the distance circular yellow +dust-devils, rising high like waterspouts, and back down in the sun-scorched +valley a sandstorm moved along majestically, burying the desert in its yellow +pall. + +Then two more days of sand and another day of a slowly rising ground growing +from bare to gray and gray to green, and then to the purple of sage and +cedar--these three grinding days were toiled out with only one water-hole. + +And Wildfire was lame and in distress and Nagger was growing gaunt and showing +strain; and Slone, haggard and black and worn, plodded miles and miles on foot +to save his horse. + +Slone felt that it would be futile to put the chase to a test of speed. Nagger +could never head that stallion. Slone meant to go on and on, always pushing +Wildfire, keeping him tired, wearied, and worrying him, till a section of the +country was reached where he could drive Wildfire into some kind of a natural +trap. The pursuit seemed endless. Wildfire kept to open country where he could +not be surprised. + +There came a morning when Slone climbed to a cedared plateau that rose for a +whole day's travel, and then split into a labyrinthine maze of canyons. There +were trees, grass, water. It was a high country, cool and wild, like the +uplands he had left. For days he camped on Wildfire's trail, always +relentlessly driving him, always watching for the trap he hoped to find. And +the red stallion spent much of this time of flight in looking backward. +Whenever Slone came in sight of him he had his head over his shoulder, +watching. And on the soft ground of these canyons he had begun to recover from +his lameness. But this did not worry Slone. Sooner or later Wildfire would go +down into a high-walled wash, from which there would be no outlet; or he would +wander into a box-canyon; or he would climb out on a mesa with no place to +descend, unless he passed Slone; or he would get cornered on a soft, steep +slope where his hoofs would sink deep and make him slow. The nature of the +desert had changed. Slone had entered a wonderful region, the like of which he +had not seen--a high plateau crisscrossed in every direction by narrow canyons +with red walls a thousand feet high. + +And one of the strange turning canyons opened into a vast valley of monuments. + +The plateau had weathered and washed away, leaving huge sections of stone +walls, all standing isolated, different in size and shape, but all clean-cut, +bold, with straight lines. They stood up everywhere, monumental, towering, +many-colored, lending a singular and beautiful aspect to the great +green-and-gray valley, billowing away to the north, where dim, broken +battlements mounted to the clouds. + +The only living thing in Slone's sight was Wildfire. He shone red down on the +green slope. + +Slone's heart swelled. This was the setting for that grand horse--a perfect +wild range. But also it seemed the last place where there might be any chance +to trap the stallion. Still that did not alter Slone's purpose, though it lost +to him the joy of former hopes. He rode down the slope, out upon the billowing +floor of the valley. Wildfire looked back to see his pursuers, and then the +solemn stillness broke to a wild, piercing whistle. + +Day after day, camping where night found him, Slone followed the stallion, +never losing sight of him till darkness had fallen. The valley was immense and +the monuments miles apart. But they always seemed close together and near him. +The air magnified everything. Slone lost track of time. The strange, solemn, +lonely days and the silent, lonely nights, and the endless pursuit, and the +wild, weird valley--these completed the work of years on Slone and he became +satisfied, unthinking, almost savage. + +The toil and privation had worn him down and he was like iron. His garments +hung in tatters; his boots were ripped and soleless. Long since his flour had +been used up, and all his supplies except the salt. He lived on the meat of +rabbits, but they were scarce, and the time came when there were none. Some +days he did not eat. Hunger did not make him suffer. He killed a desert bird +now and then, and once a wildcat crossing the valley. Eventually he felt his +strength diminishing, and then he took to digging out the pack-rats and +cooking them. But these, too, were scarce. At length starvation faced Slone. +But he knew he would not starve. Many times he had been within rifle-shot of +Wildfire. And the grim, forbidding thought grew upon him that he must kill the +stallion. The thought seemed involuntary, but his mind rejected it. +Nevertheless, he knew that if he could not catch the stallion he would kill +him. That had been the end of many a desperate rider's pursuit of a coveted +horse. + +While Slone kept on his merciless pursuit, never letting Wildfire rest by day, +time went on just as relentlessly. Spring gave way to early summer. The hot +sun bleached the grass; water-holes failed out in the valley, and water could +be found only in the canyons; and the dry winds began to blow the sand. It was +a sandy valley, green and gray only at a distance, and out toward the north +there were no monuments, and the slow heave of sand lifted toward the dim +walls. + +Wildfire worked away from this open valley, back to the south end, where the +great monuments loomed, and still farther back, where they grew closer, till +at length some of them were joined by weathered ridges to the walls of the +surrounding plateau. For all that Slone could see, Wildfire was in perfect +condition. But Nagger was not the horse he had been. Slone realized that in +one way or another the pursuit was narrowing down to the end. + +He found a water-hole at the head of a wash in a split in the walls, and here +he let Nagger rest and graze one whole day--the first day for a long time that +he had not kept the red stallion in sight. That day was marked by the good +fortune of killing a rabbit, and while eating it his gloomy, fixed mind +admitted that he was starving. He dreaded the next sunrise. But he could not +hold it back. There, behind the dark monuments, standing sentinel-like, the +sky lightened and reddened and burst into gold and pink, till out of the +golden glare the sun rose glorious. And Slone, facing the league-long shadows +of the monuments, rode out again into the silent, solemn day, on his hopeless +quest. + +For a change Wildfire had climbed high up a slope of talus, through a narrow +pass, rounded over with drifting sand. And Slone gazed down into a huge +amphitheater full of monuments, like all that strange country. A basin three +miles across lay beneath him. Walls and weathered slants of rock and steep +slopes of reddish-yellow sand inclosed this oval depression. The floor was +white, and it seemed to move gently or radiate with heat-waves. Studying it, +Slone made out that the motion was caused by wind in long bleached grass. He +had crossed small areas of this grass in different parts of the region. + +Wildfire's tracks led down into this basin, and presently Slone, by straining +his eyes, made out the red spot that was the stallion. + +"He's lookin' to quit the country," soliloquized Slone, as he surveyed the +scene. + +With keen, slow gaze Slone studied the lay of wall and slope, and when he had +circled the huge depression he made sure that Wildfire could not get out +except by the narrow pass through which he had gone in. Slone sat astride +Nagger in the mouth of this pass--a wash a few yards wide, walled by broken, +rough rock on one side and an insurmountable slope on the other. + +"If this hole was only little, now," sighed Slone, as he gazed at the +sweeping, shimmering oval floor, "I might have a chance. But down there--we +couldn't get near him." + +There was no water in that dry bowl. Slone reflected on the uselessness of +keeping Wildfire down there, because Nagger could not go without water as long +as Wildfire. For the first time Slone hesitated. It seemed merciless to Nagger +to drive him down into this hot, windy hole. The wind blew from the west, and +it swooped up the slope, hot, with the odor of dry, dead grass. + +But that hot wind stirred Slone with an idea, and suddenly he was tense, +excited, glowing, yet grim and hard. + +"Wildfire, I'll make you run with your namesake in that high grass," called +Slone. The speech was full of bitter failure, of regret, of the hardness of a +rider who could not give up the horse to freedom. + +Slone meant to ride down there and fire the long grass. In that wind there +would indeed be wildfire to race with the red stallion. It would perhaps mean +his death; at least it would chase him out of that hole, where to follow him +would be useless. + +"I'd make you hump now to get away if I could get behind you," muttered Slone. +He saw that if he could fire the grass on the other side the wind of flame +would drive Wildfire straight toward him. The slopes and walls narrowed up to +the pass, but high grass grew to within a few rods of where Slone stood. But +it seemed impossible to get behind Wildfire. + +"At night--then--I could get round him," said Slone, thinking hard and +narrowing his gaze to scan the circle of wall and slope. "Why not? . . . No +wind at night. That grass would burn slow till mornin'--till the wind came +up--an' it's been west for days." + +Suddenly Slone began to pound the patient Nagger and to cry out to him in wild +exultance. + +"Old horse, we've got him! . . . We've got him! . . . We'll put a rope on him +before this time to-morrow!" + +Slone yielded to his strange, wild joy, but it did not last long, soon +succeeding to sober, keen thought. He rode down into the bowl a mile, making +absolutely certain that Wildfire could not climb out on that side. The far +end, beyond the monuments, was a sheer wall of rock. Then he crossed to the +left side. Here the sandy slope was almost too steep for even him to go up. +And there was grass that would burn. He returned to the pass assured that +Wildfire had at last fallen into a trap the like Slone had never dreamed of. +The great horse was doomed to run into living flame or the whirling noose of a +lasso. + +Then Slone reflected. Nagger had that very morning had his fill of good +water--the first really satisfying drink for days. If he was rested that day, +on the morrow he would be fit for the grueling work possibly in store for him. +Slone unsaddled the horse and turned him loose, and with a snort he made down +the gentle slope for the grass. Then Slone carried his saddle to a shady spot +afforded by a slab of rock and a dwarf cedar, and here he composed himself to +rest and watch and think and wait. + +Wildfire was plainly in sight no more than two miles away. Gradually he was +grazing along toward the monuments and the far end of the great basin. Slone +believed, because the place was so large, that Wildfire thought there was a +way out on the other side or over the slopes or through the walls. Never +before had the far-sighted stallion made a mistake. Slone suddenly felt the +keen, stabbing fear of an outlet somewhere. But it left him quickly. He had +studied those slopes and walls. Wildfire could not get out, except by the pass +he had entered, unless he could fly. + +Slone lay in the shade, his head propped on his saddle, and while gazing down +into the shimmering hollow he began to plan. He calculated that he must be +able to carry fire swiftly across the far end of the basin, so that he would +not be absent long from the mouth of the pass. Fire was always a difficult +matter, since he must depend only on flint and steel. He decided to wait till +dark, build a fire with dead cedar sticks, and carry a bundle of them with +burning ends. He felt assured that the wind caused by riding would keep them +burning. After he had lighted the grass all he had to do was to hurry back to +his station and there await developments. + +The day passed slowly, and it was hot. The heat-waves rose in dark, wavering +lines and veils from the valley. The wind blew almost a gale. Thin, curling +sheets of sand blew up over the crests of the slopes, and the sound it made +was a soft, silken rustling, very low. The sky was a steely blue above and +copper close over the distant walls. + +That afternoon, toward the close, Slone ate the last of the meat. At sunset +the wind died away and the air cooled. There was a strip of red along the wall +of rock and on the tips of the monuments, and it lingered there for long, a +strange, bright crown. Nagger was not far away, but Wildfire had disappeared, +probably behind one of the monuments. + +When twilight fell Slone went down after Nagger and, returning with him, put +on bridle and saddle. Then he began to search for suitable sticks of wood. +Farther back in the pass he found stunted dead cedars, and from these secured +enough for his purpose. He kindled a fire and burnt the ends of the sticks +into red embers. Making a bundle of these, he put them under his arm, the +dull, glowing ends backward, and then mounted his horse. + +It was just about dark when he faced down into the valley. When he reached +level ground he kept to the edge of the left slope and put Nagger to a good +trot. The grass and brush were scant here, and the color of the sand was +light, so he had no difficulty in traveling. + +From time to time his horse went through grass, and its dry, crackling rustle, +showing how it would burn, was music to Slone. Gradually the monuments began +to loom up, bold and black against the blue sky, with stars seemingly hanging +close over them. Slone had calculated that the basin was smaller than it +really was, in both length and breadth. This worried him. Wildfire might see +or hear or scent him, and make a break back to the pass and thus escape. Slone +was glad when the huge, dark monuments were indistinguishable from the black, +frowning wall. He had to go slower here, because of the darkness. But at last +he reached the slow rise of jumbled rock that evidently marked the extent of +weathering on that side. Here he turned to the right and rode out into the +valley. The floor was level and thickly overgrown with long, dead grass and +dead greasewood, as dry as tinder. It was easy to account for the dryness; +neither snow nor rain had visited that valley for many months. Slone whipped +one of the sticks in the wind and soon had the smoldering end red and +showering sparks. Then he dropped the stick in the grass, with curious intent +and a strange feeling of regret. + +Instantly the grass blazed with a little sputtering roar. Nagger snorted. +"Wildfire!" exclaimed Slone. That word was a favorite one with riders, and now +Slone used it both to call out his menace to the stallion and to express his +feeling for that blaze, already running wild. + +Without looking back Slone rode across the valley, dropping a glowing stick +every quarter of a mile. When he reached the other side there were a dozen +fires behind him, burning slowly, with white smoke rising lazily. Then he +loped Nagger along the side back to the sandy ascent, and on up to the mouth +of the pass. There he searched for tracks. Wildfire had not gone out, and +Slone experienced relief and exultation. He took up a position in the middle +of the narrowest part of the pass, and there, with Nagger ready for anything, +he once more composed himself to watch and wait. + +Far across the darkness of the valley, low down, twelve lines of fire, widely +separated, crept toward one another. They appeared thin and slow, with only an +occasional leaping flame. And some of the black spaces must have been +monuments, blotting out the creeping snail-lines of red. Slone watched, +strangely fascinated. + +"What do you think of that?" he said, aloud, and he meant his query for +Wildfire. + +As he watched the lines perceptibly lengthened and brightened and pale shadows +of smoke began to appear. Over at the left of the valley the two brightest +fires, the first he had started, crept closer and closer together. They seemed +long in covering distance. But not a breath of wind stirred, and besides they +really might move swiftly, without looking so to Slone. When the two lines met +a sudden and larger blaze rose. + +"Ah!" said the rider, and then he watched the other lines creeping together. +How slowly fire moved, he thought. The red stallion would have every chance to +run between those lines, if he dared. But a wild horse feared nothing like +fire. This one would not run the gantlet of flames. Nevertheless, Slone felt +more and more relieved as the lines closed. The hours of the night dragged +past until at length one long, continuous line of fire spread level across the +valley, its bright, red line broken only where the monuments of stone were +silhouetted against it. + +The darkness of the valley changed. The light of the moon changed. The +radiance of the stars changed. Either the line of fire was finding denser fuel +to consume or it was growing appreciably closer, for the flames began to grow, +to leap, and to flare. + +Slone strained his ears for the thud of hoofs on sand. + +The time seemed endless in its futility of results, but fleeting after it had +passed; and he could tell how the hours fled by the ever-recurring need to +replenish the little fire he kept burning in the pass. + +A broad belt of valley grew bright in the light, and behind it loomed the +monuments, weird and dark, with columns of yellow and white smoke wreathing +them. + +Suddenly Slone's sensitive ear vibrated to a thrilling sound. He leaned down +to place his ear to the sand. Rapid, rhythmic beat of hoofs made him leap to +his feet, reaching for his lasso with right hand and a gun with his left. + +Nagger lifted his head, sniffed the air, and snorted. Slone peered into the +black belt of gloom that lay below him. It would be hard to see a horse there, +unless he got high enough to be silhouetted against that line of fire now +flaring to the sky. But he heard the beat of hoofs, swift, sharp, +louder--louder. The night shadows were deceptive. That wonderful light +confused him, made the place unreal. Was he dreaming? Or had the long chase +and his privations unhinged his mind? He reached for Nagger. No! The big black +was real, alive, quivering, pounding the sand. He scented an enemy. + +Once more Slone peered down into the void or what seemed a void. But it, too, +had changed, lightened. The whole valley was brightening. Great palls of +curling smoke rose white and yellow, to turn back as the monuments met their +crests, and then to roll upward, blotting out the stars. It was such a light +as he had never seen, except in dreams. Pale moonlight and dimmed starlight +and wan dawn all vague and strange and shadowy under the wild and vivid light +of burning grass. + +In the pale path before Slone, that fanlike slope of sand which opened down +into the valley, appeared a swiftly moving black object, like a fleeting +phantom. It was a phantom horse. Slone felt that his eyes, deceived by his +mind, saw racing images. Many a wild chase he had lived in dreams on some far +desert. But what was that beating in his ears--sharp, swift, even, rhythmic? +Never had his ears played him false. Never had he heard things in his dreams. +That running object was a horse and he was coming like the wind. Slone felt +something grip his heart. All the time and endurance and pain and thirst and +suspense and longing and hopelessness--the agony of the whole endless chase-- +closed tight on his heart in that instant. + +The running horse halted just in the belt of light cast by the burning grass. +There he stood sharply defined, clear as a cameo, not a hundred paces from +Slone. It was Wildfire. + +Slone uttered an involuntary cry. Thrill on thrill shot through him. Delight +and hope and fear and despair claimed him in swift, successive flashes. And +then again the ruling passion of a rider held him--the sheer glory of a grand +and unattainable horse. For Slone gave up Wildfire in that splendid moment. +How had he ever dared to believe he could capture that wild stallion? Slone +looked and looked, filling his mind, regretting nothing, sure that the moment +was reward for all he had endured. + +The weird lights magnified Wildfire and showed him clearly. He seemed +gigantic. He shone black against the fire. His head was high, his mane flying. +Behind him the fire flared and the valley-wide column of smoke rolled +majestically upward, and the great monuments seemed to retreat darkly and +mysteriously as the flames advanced beyond them. It was a beautiful, unearthly +spectacle, with its silence the strangest feature. + +But suddenly Wildfire broke that silence with a whistle which to Slone's +overstrained faculties seemed a blast as piercing as the splitting sound of +lightning. And with the whistle Wildfire plunged up toward the pass. Slone +yelled at the top of his lungs and fired his gun before he could terrorize the +stallion and drive him back down the slope. Soon Wildfire became again a +running black object, and then he disappeared. + +The great line of fire had gotten beyond the monuments and now stretched +unbroken across the valley from wall to slope. Wildfire could never pierce +that line of flames. And now Slone saw, in the paling sky to the east, that +dawn was at hand. + + + +CHAPTER VII + +Slone looked grimly glad when simultaneously with the first red flash of +sunrise a breeze fanned his cheek. All that was needed now was a west wind. +And here came the assurance of it. + +The valley appeared hazy and smoky, with slow, rolling clouds low down where +the line of fire moved. The coming of daylight paled the blaze of the grass, +though here and there Slone caught flickering glimpses of dull red flame. The +wild stallion kept to the center of the valley, restlessly facing this way and +that, but never toward the smoke. Slone made sure that Wildfire gradually gave +ground as the line of smoke slowly worked toward him. + +Every moment the breeze freshened, grew steadier and stronger, until Slone saw +that it began to clear the valley of the low-hanging smoke. There came a time +when once more the blazing line extended across from slope to slope. + +Wildfire was cornered, trapped. Many times Slone nervously uncoiled and +recoiled his lasso. Presently the great chance of his life would come--the +hardest and most important throw he would ever have with a rope. He did not +miss often, but then he missed sometimes, and here he must be swift and sure. +It annoyed him that his hands perspired and trembled and that something +weighty seemed to obstruct his breathing. He muttered that he was pretty much +worn out, not in the best of condition for a hard fight with a wild horse. +Still he would capture Wildfire; his mind was unalterably set there. He +anticipated that the stallion would make a final and desperate rush past him; +and he had his plan of action all outlined. What worried him was the +possibility of Wildfire doing some unforeseen feat at the very last. Slone was +prepared for hours of strained watching, and then a desperate effort, and then +a shock that might kill Wildfire and cripple Nagger, or a long race and fight. + +But he soon discovered that he was wrong about the long watch and wait. The +wind had grown strong and was driving the fire swiftly. The flames, fanned by +the breeze, leaped to a formidable barrier. In less than an hour, though the +time seemed only a few moments to the excited Slone, Wildfire had been driven +down toward the narrowing neck of the valley, and he had begun to run, to and +fro, back and forth. Any moment, then, Slone expected him to grow terrorized +and to come tearing up toward the pass. + +Wildfire showed evidence of terror, but he did not attempt to make the pass. +Instead he went at the right-hand slope of the valley and began to climb. The +slope was steep and soft, yet the stallion climbed up and up. The dust flew in +clouds; the gravel rolled down, and the sand followed in long streams. +Wildfire showed his keenness by zigzagging up the slope. + +"Go ahead, you red devil!" yelled Slone. He was much elated. In that soft bank +Wildfire would tire out while not hurting himself. + +Slone watched the stallion in admiration and pity and exultation. Wildfire did +not make much headway, for he slipped back almost as much as he gained. He +attempted one place after another where he failed. There was a bank of clay, +some few feet high, and he could not round it at either end or surmount it in +the middle. Finally he literally pawed and cut a path, much as if he were +digging in the sand for water. When he got over that he was not much better +off. The slope above was endless and grew steeper, more difficult toward the +top. Slone knew absolutely that no horse could climb over it. He grew +apprehensive, however, for Wildfire might stick up there on the slope until +the line of fire passed. The horse apparently shunned any near proximity to +the fire, and performed prodigious efforts to escape. + +"He'll be ridin' an avalanche pretty soon," muttered Slone. + +Long sheets of sand and gravel slid down to spill thinly over the low bank. +Wildfire, now sinking to his knees, worked steadily upward till he had reached +a point halfway up the slope, at the head of a long, yellow bank of +treacherous-looking sand. Here he was halted by a low bulge, which he might +have surmounted had his feet been free. But he stood deep in the sand. For the +first time he looked down at the sweeping fire, and then at Slone. + +Suddenly the bank of sand began to slide with him. He snorted in fright. The +avalanche started slowly and was evidently no mere surface slide. It was deep. +It stopped--then started again--and again stopped. Wildfire appeared to be +sinking deeper and deeper. His struggles only embedded him more firmly. Then +the bank of sand, with an ominous, low roar, began to move once more. This +time it slipped swiftly. The dust rose in a cloud, almost obscuring the horse. +Long streams of gravel rattled down, and waterfalls of sand waved over the +steps of the slope. + +Just as suddenly the avalanche stopped again. Slone saw, from the great oval +hole it had left above, that it was indeed deep. That was the reason it did +not slide readily. When the dust cleared away Slone saw the stallion, sunk to +his flanks in the sand, utterly helpless. + +With a wild whoop Slone leaped off Nagger, and, a lasso in each hand, he ran +down the long bank. The fire was perhaps a quarter of a mile distant, and, +since the grass was thinning out, it was not coming so fast as it had been. +The position of the stallion was half-way between the fire and Slone, and a +hundred yards up the slope. + +Like a madman Slone climbed up through the dragging, loose sand. He was beside +himself with a fury of excitement. He fancied his eyes were failing him, that +it was not possible the great horse really was up there, helpless in the sand. +Yet every huge stride Slone took brought him closer to a fact he could not +deny. In his eagerness he slipped, and fell, and crawled, and leaped, until he +reached the slide which held Wildfire prisoner. + +The stallion might have been fast in quicksand, up to his body, for all the +movement he could make. He could move only his head. He held that up, his eyes +wild, showing the whites, his foaming mouth wide open, his teeth gleaming. A +sound like a scream rent the air. Terrible fear and hate were expressed in +that piercing neigh. And shaggy, wet, dusty red, with all of brute savageness +in the look and action of his head, he appeared hideous. + +As Slone leaped within roping distance the avalanche slipped a foot or two, +halted, slipped once more, and slowly started again with that low roar. He did +not care whether it slipped or stopped. Like a wolf he leaped closer, whirling +his rope. The loop hissed round his head and whistled as he flung it. And when +fiercely he jerked back on the rope, the noose closed tight round Wildfire's +neck. + +"By G--d--I--got--a rope--on him!" cried Slone, in hoarse pants. + +He stared, unbelieving. It was unreal, that sight--unreal like the slow, +grinding movement of the avalanche under him. Wildfire's head seemed a demon +head of hate. It reached out, mouth agape, to bite, to rend. That horrible +scream could not be the scream of a horse. + +Slone was a wild-horse hunter, a rider, and when that second of incredulity +flashed by, then came the moment of triumph. No moment could ever equal that +one, when he realized he stood there with a rope around that grand stallion's +neck. All the days and the miles and the toil and the endurance and the +hopelessness and the hunger were paid for in that moment. His heart seemed too +large for his breast. + +"I tracked--you!" he cried, savagely. "I stayed--with you! . . . An' I got a +rope--on you! An'--I'll ride you--you red devil!" + +The passion of the man was intense. That endless, racking pursuit had brought +out all the hardness the desert had engendered in him. Almost hate, instead of +love, spoke in Slone's words. He hauled on the lasso, pulling the stallion's +head down and down. The action was the lust of capture as well as the rider's +instinctive motive to make the horse fear him. Life was unquenchably wild and +strong in that stallion; it showed in the terror which made him hideous. And +man and beast somehow resembled each other in that moment which was inimical +to noble life. + +The avalanche slipped with little jerks, as if treacherously loosing its hold +for a long plunge. The line of fire below ate at the bleached grass and the +long column of smoke curled away on the wind. + +Slone held the taut lasso with his left hand, and with the right he swung the +other rope, catching the noose round Wildfire's nose. Then letting go of the +first rope he hauled on the other, pulling the head of the stallion far down. +Hand over hand Slone closed in on the horse. He leaped on Wildfire's head, +pressed it down, and, holding it down on the sand with his knees, with swift +fingers he tied the noose in a hackamore--an improvised halter. Then, just as +swiftly, he bound his scarf tight round Wildfire's head, blindfolding him. + +"All so easy!" exclaimed Slone, under his breath. "Lord! who would believe it! +. . . Is it a dream?" + +He rose and let the stallion have a free head. + +"Wildfire, I got a rope on you--an' a hackamore--an' a blinder," said Slone. +"An' if I had a bridle I'd put that on you. . . . Who'd ever believe you'd +catch yourself, draggin' in the sand?" + +Slone, finding himself failing on the sand, grew alive to the augmented +movement of the avalanche. It had begun to slide, to heave and bulge and +crack. Dust rose in clouds from all around. The sand appeared to open and let +him sink to his knees. The rattle of gravel was drowned in a soft roar. Then +he shot down swiftly, holding the lassoes, keeping himself erect, and riding +as if in a boat. He felt the successive steps of the slope, and then the long +incline below, and then the checking and rising and spreading of the avalanche +as it slowed down on the level. All movement then was checked violently. He +appeared to be half buried in sand. While he struggled to extricate himself +the thick dust blew away and settled so that he could see. Wildfire lay before +him, at the edge of the slide, and now he was not so deeply embedded as he had +been up on the slope. He was struggling and probably soon would have been able +to get out. The line of fire was close now, but Slone did not fear that. + +At his shrill whistle Nagger bounded toward him, obedient, but snorting, with +ears laid back. He halted. A second whistle started him again. Slone finally +dug himself out of the sand, pulled the lassoes out, and ran the length of +them toward Nagger. The black showed both fear and fight. His eyes roiled and +he half shied away. + +"Come on!" called Slone, harshly. + +He got a hand on the horse, pulled him round, and, mounting in a flash, wound +both lassoes round the pommel of the saddle. + +"Haul him out, Nagger, old boy!" cried Slone, and he dug spurs into the black. + +One plunge of Nagger's slid the stallion out of the sand. Snorting, wild, +blinded, Wildfire got up, shaking in every limb. He could not see his enemies. +The blowing smoke, right in his nose, made scent impossible. But in the taut +lassoes he sensed the direction of his captors. He plunged, rearing at the end +of the plunge, and struck out viciously with his hoofs. Slone, quick with spur +and bridle, swerved Nagger aside and Wildfire, off his balance, went down with +a crash. Slone dragged him, stretched him out, pulled him over twice before he +got forefeet planted. Once up, he reared again, screeching his rage, striking +wildly with his hoofs. Slone wheeled aside and toppled him over again. + +"Wildfire, it's no fair fight," he called, grimly. "But you led me a chase. . +. . An' you learn right now I'm boss!" + +Again he dragged the stallion. He was ruthless. He would have to be so, +stopping just short of maiming or killing the horse, else he would never break +him. But Wildfire was nimble. He got to his feet and this time he lunged out. +Nagger, powerful as he was, could not sustain the tremendous shock, and went +down. Slone saved himself with a rider's supple skill, falling clear of the +horse, and he leaped again into the saddle as Nagger pounded up. Nagger braced +his huge frame and held the plunging stallion. But the saddle slipped a +little, the cinches cracked. Slone eased the strain by wheeling after +Wildfire. + +The horses had worked away from the fire, and Wildfire, free of the stifling +smoke, began to break and lunge and pitch, plunging round Nagger in a circle, +running blindly, but with unerring scent. Slone, by masterly horsemanship, +easily avoided the rushes, and made a pivot of Nagger, round which the wild +horse dashed in his frenzy. It seemed that he no longer tried to free himself. +He lunged to kill. + +"Steady, Nagger, old boy!" Slone kept calling. "He'll never get at you. . . . +If he slips that blinder I'll kill him!" + +The stallion was a fiend in his fury, quicker than a panther, wonderful on his +feet, and powerful as an ox. But he was at a disadvantage. He could not see. +And Slone, in his spoken intention to kill Wildfire should the scarf slip, +acknowledged that he never would have a chance to master the stallion. +Wildfire was bigger, faster, stronger than Slone had believed, and as for +spirit, that was a grand and fearful thing to see. + +The soft sand in the pass was plowed deep before Wildfire paused in his mad +plunges. He was wet and heaving. His red coat seemed to blaze. His mane stood +up and his ears lay flat. + +Slone uncoiled the lassoes from the pommel and slacked them a little. Wildfire +stood up, striking at the air, snorting fiercely. Slone tried to wheel Nagger +in close behind the stallion. Both horse and man narrowly escaped the vicious +hoofs. But Slone had closed in. He took a desperate chance and spurred Nagger +in a single leap as Wildfire reared again. The horses collided. Slone hauled +the lassoes tight. The impact threw Wildfire off his balance, just as Slone +had calculated, and as the stallion plunged down on four feet Slone spurred +Nagger close against him. Wildfire was a little in the lead. He could only +half rear now, for the heaving, moving Nagger, always against him, jostled him +down, and Slone's iron arm hauled on the short ropes. When Wildfire turned to +bite, Slone knocked the vicious nose back with a long swing of his fist. + +Up the pass the horses plunged. With a rider's wild joy Slone saw the long +green-and-gray valley, and the isolated monuments in the distance. There, on +that wide stretch, he would break Wildfire. How marvelously luck had favored +him at the last! + +"Run, you red devil!" Slone called. "Drag us around now till you're done!" + +They left the pass and swept out upon the waste of sage. Slone realized, from +the stinging of the sweet wind in his face, that Nagger was being pulled along +at a tremendous pace. The faithful black could never have made the wind cut +so. Lower the wild stallion stretched and swifter he ran, till it seemed to +Slone that death must end that thunderbolt race. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +Lucy Bostil had called twice to her father and he had not answered. He was out +at the hitching-rail, with Holley, the rider, and two other men. If he heard +Lucy he gave no sign of it. She had on her chaps and did not care to go any +farther than the door where she stood. + +"Somers has gone to Durango an' Shugrue is out huntin' hosses," Lucy heard +Bostil say, gruffly. + +"Wal now, I reckon I could handle the boat an' fetch Creech's hosses over," +said Holley. + +Bostil raised an impatient hand, as if to wave aside Holley's assumption. + +Then one of the other two men spoke up. Lucy had seen him before, but did not +know his name. + +"Sure there ain't any need to rustle the job. The river hain't showed any +signs of risin' yet. But Creech is worryin'. He allus is worryin' over them +hosses. No wonder! Thet Blue Roan is sure a hoss. Yesterday at two miles he +showed Creech he was a sight faster than last year. The grass is gone over +there. Creech is grainin' his stock these last few days. An' thet's +expensive." + +"How about the flat up the canyon?" queried Bostil. "Ain't there any grass +there?" + +"Reckon not. It's the dryest spell Creech ever had," replied the other. "An' +if there was grass it wouldn't do him no good. A landslide blocked the only +trail up." + +"Bostil, them hosses, the racers special, ought to be brought acrost the +river," said Holley, earnestly. He loved horses and was thinking of them. + +"The boat's got to be patched up," replied Bostil, shortly. + +It occurred to Lucy that her father was also thinking of Creech's +thoroughbreds, but not like Holley. She grew grave and listened intently. + +There was an awkward pause. Creech's rider, whoever he was, evidently tried to +conceal his anxiety. He flicked his boots with a quirt. The boots were covered +with wet mud. Probably he had crossed the river very recently. + +"Wal, when will you have the hosses fetched over?" he asked, deliberately. +"Creech'll want to know." + +"Just as soon as the boat's mended," replied Bostil. "I'll put Shugrue on the +job to-morrow." + +"Thanks, Bostil. Sure, thet'll be all right. Creech'll be satisfied," said the +rider, as if relieved. Then he mounted, and with his companion trotted down +the lane. + +The lean, gray Holley bent a keen gaze upon Bostil. But Bostil did not notice +that; he appeared preoccupied in thought. + +"Bostil, the dry winter an' spring here ain't any guarantee thet there wasn't +a lot of snow up in the mountains." Holley's remark startled Bostil. + +"No--it ain't--sure," he replied. + +"An' any mornin' along now we might wake up to hear the Colorado boomin'," +went on Holley, significantly. + +Bostil did not reply to that. + +"Creech hain't lived over there so many years. What's he know about the river? +An' fer that matter, who knows anythin' sure about thet hell-bent river?" + +"It ain't my business thet Creech lives over there riskin' his stock every +spring," replied Bostil, darkly. + +Holley opened his lips to speak, hesitated, looked away from Bostil, and +finally said, "No, it sure ain't." Then he turned and walked away, head bent +in sober thought. Bostil came toward the open door where Lucy stood. He looked +somber. At her greeting he seemed startled. + +"What?" he said. + +"I just said, 'Hello, Dad,'" she replied, demurely. Yet she thoughtfully +studied her father's dark face. + +"Hello yourself. . . . Did you know Van got throwed an' hurt?" + +"Yes." + +Bostil swore under his breath. "There ain't any riders on the range thet can +be trusted," he said, disgustedly. "They're all the same. They like to get in +a bunch an' jeer each other an' bet. They want MEAN hosses. They make good +hosses buck. They haven't any use for a hoss thet won't buck. They all want to +give a hoss a rakin' over. . . . Think of thet fool Van gettin' throwed by a +two-dollar Ute mustang. An' hurt so he can't ride for days! With them races +comin' soon! It makes me sick." + +"Dad, weren't you a rider once?" asked Lucy. + +"I never was thet kind." + +"Van will be all right in a few days." + +"No matter. It's bad business. If I had any other rider who could handle the +King I'd let Van go." + +"I can get just as much out of the King as Van can," said Lucy, spiritedly. + +"You!" exclaimed Bostil. But there was pride in his glance. + +"I know I can." + +"You never had any use for Sage King," said Bostil, as if he had been wronged. + +"I love the King a little, and hate him a lot," laughed Lucy. + +"Wal, I might let you ride at thet, if Van ain't in shape," rejoined her +father. + +"I wouldn't ride him in the race. But I'll keep him in fine fettle." + +"I'll bet you'd like to see Sarch beat him," said Bostil, jealously. + +"Sure I would," replied Lucy, teasingly. "But, Dad, I'm afraid Sarch never +will beat him." + +Bostil grunted. "See here. I don't want any weight up on the King. You take +him out for a few days. An' ride him! Savvy thet?" + +"Yes, Dad." + +"Give him miles an' miles--an' then comin' home, on good trails, ride him for +all your worth. . . . Now, Lucy, keep your eye open. Don't let any one get +near you on the sage." + +"I won't. . . . Dad, do you still worry about poor Joel Creech?" + +"Not Joel. But I'd rather lose all my stock then have Cordts or Dick Sears get +within a mile of you." + +"A mile!" exclaimed Lucy, lightly, though a fleeting shade crossed her face. +"Why, I'd run away from him, if I was on the King, even if he got within ten +yards of me." + +"A mile is close enough, my daughter," replied Bostil. "Don't ever forget to +keep your eye open. Cordts has sworn thet if he can't steal the King he'll get +you." + +"Oh! he prefers the horse to me." + +"Wal, Lucy, I've a sneakin' idea thet Cordts will never leave the uplands +unless he gets you an' the King both." + +"And, Dad--you consented to let that horse-thief come to our races?" exclaimed +Lucy, with heat. + +"Why not? He can't do any harm. If he or his men get uppish, the worse for +them. Cordts gave his word not to turn a trick till after the races." + +"Do you trust him?" + +"Yes. But his men might break loose, away from his sight. Especially thet Dick +Sears. He's a bad man. So be watchful whenever you ride out." + +As Lucy went down toward the corrals she was thinking deeply. She could always +tell, woman-like, when her father was excited or agitated. She remembered the +conversation between him and Creech's rider. She remembered the keen glance +old Holley had bent upon him. And mostly she remembered the somber look upon +his face. She did not like that. Once, when a little girl, she had seen it and +never forgotten it, nor the thing that it was associated with--something +tragical which had happened in the big room. There had been loud, angry voices +of men--and shots--and then the men carried out a long form covered with a +blanket. She loved her father, but there was a side to him she feared. And +somehow related to that side was his hardness toward Creech and his +intolerance of any rider owning a fast horse and his obsession in regard to +his own racers. Lucy had often tantalized her father with the joke that if it +ever came to a choice between her and his favorites they would come first. But +was it any longer a joke? Lucy felt that she had left childhood behind with +its fun and fancies, and she had begun to look at life thoughtfully. + +Sight of the corrals, however, and of the King prancing around, drove serious +thoughts away. There were riders there, among them Farlane, and they all had +pleasant greetings for her. + +"Farlane, Dad says I'm to take out Sage King," announced Lucy. + +"No!" ejaculated Farlane, as he pocketed his pipe. + +"Sure. And I'm to RIDE him. You know how Dad means that." + +"Wal, now, I'm doggoned!" added Farlane, looking worried and pleased at once. +"I reckon, Miss Lucy, you--you wouldn't fool me?" + +"Why, Farlane!" returned Lucy, reproachfully. "Did I ever do a single thing +around horses that you didn't want me to?" + +Farlane rubbed his chin beard somewhat dubiously. "Wal, Miss Lucy, not exactly +while you was around the hosses. But I reckon when you onct got up, you've +sorta forgot a few times." + +All the riders laughed, and Lucy joined them. + +"I'm safe when I'm up, you know that," she replied. + +They brought out the gray, and after the manner of riders who had the care of +a great horse and loved him, they curried and combed and rubbed him before +saddling him. + +"Reckon you'd better ride Van's saddle," suggested Farlane. "Them races is +close now, an' a strange saddle--" + +"Of course. Don't change anything he's used to, except the stirrups," replied +Lucy. + +Despite her antipathy toward Sage King, Lucy could not gaze at him without all +a rider's glory in a horse. He was sleek, so graceful, so racy, so near the +soft gray of the sage, so beautiful in build and action. Then he was the kind +of a horse that did not have to be eternally watched. He was spirited and full +of life, eager to run, but when Farlane called for him to stand still he +obeyed. He was the kind of a horse that a child could have played around in +safety. He never kicked. He never bit. He never bolted. It was splendid to see +him with Farlane or with Bostil. He did not like Lucy very well, a fact that +perhaps accounted for Lucy's antipathy. For that matter, he did not like any +woman. If he had a bad trait, it came out when Van rode him, but all the +riders, and Bostil, too, claimed that Van was to blame for that. + +"Thar, I reckon them stirrups is right," declared Farlane. "Now, Miss Lucy, +hold him tight till he wears off thet edge. He needs work." + +Sage King would not kneel for Lucy as Sarchedon did, and he was too high for +her to mount from the ground, so she mounted from a rock. She took to the +road, and then the first trail into the sage, intending to trot him ten or +fifteen miles down into the valley, and give him some fast, warm work on the +return. + +The day was early in May and promised to grow hot. There was not a cloud in +the blue sky. The wind, laden with the breath of sage, blew briskly from the +west. All before Lucy lay the vast valley, gray and dusky gray, then blue, +then purple where the monuments stood, and, farther still, dark ramparts of +rock. Lucy had a habit of dreaming while on horseback, a habit all the riders +had tried to break, but she did not give it rein while she rode Sarchedon, and +assuredly now, up on the King, she never forgot him for an instant. He shied +at mockingbirds and pack-rats and blowing blossoms and even at butterflies; +and he did it, Lucy thought, just because he was full of mischief. Sage King +had been known to go steady when there had been reason to shy. He did not like +Lucy and he chose to torment her. Finally he earned a good dig from a spur, +and then, with swift pounding of hoofs, he plunged and veered and danced in +the sage. Lucy kept her temper, which was what most riders did not do, and by +patience and firmness pulled Sage King out of his prancing back into the +trail. He was not the least cross-grained, and, having had his little spurt, +he settled down into easy going. + +In an hour Lucy was ten miles or more from home, and farther down in the +valley than she had ever been. In fact, she had never before been down the +long slope to the valley floor. How changed the horizon became! The monuments +loomed up now, dark, sentinel-like, and strange. The first one, a great red +rock, seemed to her some five miles away. It was lofty, straight-sided, with a +green slope at its base. And beyond that the other monuments stretched out +down the valley. Lucy decided to ride as far as the first one before turning +back. Always these monuments had fascinated her, and this was her opportunity +to ride near one. How lofty they were, how wonderfully colored, and how +comely! + +Presently, over the left, where the monuments were thicker, and gradually +merged their slopes and lines and bulk into the yellow walls, she saw low, +drifting clouds of smoke. + +"Well, what's that, I wonder?" she mused. To see smoke on the horizon in that +direction was unusual, though out toward Durango the grassy benches would +often burn over. And these low clouds of smoke resembled those she had seen +before. + +"It's a long way off," she added. + +So she kept on, now and then gazing at the smoke. As she grew nearer to the +first monument she was surprised, then amazed, at its height and surpassing +size. It was mountain-high--a grand tower--smooth, worn, glistening, yellow +and red. The trail she had followed petered out in a deep wash, and beyond +that she crossed no more trails. The sage had grown meager and the greasewoods +stunted and dead; and cacti appeared on barren places. The grass had not +failed, but it was not rich grass such as the horses and cattle grazed upon +miles back on the slope. The air was hot down here. The breeze was heavy and +smelled of fire, and the sand was blowing here and there. She had a sense of +the bigness, the openness of this valley, and then she realized its wildness +and strangeness. These lonely, isolated monuments made the place different +from any she had visited. They did not seem mere standing rocks. They seemed +to retreat all the time as she approached, and they watched her. They +interested her, made her curious. What had formed all these strange monuments? +Here the ground was level for miles and miles, to slope gently up to the bases +of these huge rocks. In an old book she had seen pictures of the Egyptian +pyramids, but these appeared vaster, higher, and stranger, and they were +sheerly perpendicular. + +Suddenly Sage King halted sharply, shot up his ears, and whistled. Lucy was +startled. That from the King meant something. Hastily, with keen glance she +swept the foreground. A mile on, near the monument, was a small black spot. It +seemed motionless. But the King's whistle had proved it to be a horse. When +Lucy had covered a quarter of the intervening distance she could distinguish +the horse and that there appeared some thing strange about his position. Lucy +urged Sage King into a lope and soon drew nearer. The black horse had his head +down, yet he did not appear to be grazing. He was as still as a statue. He +stood just outside a clump of greasewood and cactus. + +Suddenly a sound pierced the stillness. The King jumped and snorted in fright. +For an instant Lucy's blood ran cold, for it was a horrible cry. Then she +recognized it as the neigh of a horse in agony. She had heard crippled and +dying horses utter that long-drawn and blood-curdling neigh. The black horse +had not moved, so the sound could not have come from him. Lucy thought Sage +King acted more excited than the occasion called for. Then remembering her +father's warning, she reined in on top of a little knoll, perhaps a hundred +yards from where the black horse stood, and she bent her keen gaze forward. + +It was a huge, gaunt, shaggy black horse she saw, with the saddle farther up +on his shoulders than it should have been. He stood motionless, as if utterly +exhausted. His forelegs were braced, so that he leaned slightly back. Then +Lucy saw a rope. It was fast to the saddle and stretched down into the cactus. +There was no other horse in sight, nor any living thing. The immense monument +dominated the scene. It seemed stupendous to Lucy, sublime, almost frightful. + +She hesitated. She knew there was another horse, very likely at the other end +of that lasso. Probably a rider had been thrown, perhaps killed. Certainly a +horse had been hurt. Then on the moment rang out the same neigh of agony, only +weaker and shorter. Lucy no longer feared an ambush. That was a cry which +could not be imitated by a man or forced from a horse. There was probably +death, certainly suffering, near at hand. She spurred the King on. + +There was a little slope to descend, a wash to cross, a bench to climb--and +then she rode up to the black horse. Sage King needed harder treatment than +Lucy had ever given him. + +"What's wrong with you?" she demanded, pulling him down. Suddenly, as she felt +him tremble, she realized that he was frightened. "That's funny!" Then when +she got him quiet she looked around. + +The black horse was indeed huge. His mane, his shaggy flanks, were lathered as +if he had been smeared with heavy soap-suds. He raised his head to look at +her. Lucy, accustomed to horses all her life, saw that this one welcomed her +arrival. But he was almost ready to drop. + +Two taut lassoes stretched from the pommel of his saddle down a little into a +depression full of brush and cactus and rocks. Then Lucy saw a red horse. He +was down in a bad position. She heard his low, choking heaves. Probably he had +broken legs or back. She could not bear to see a horse in pain. She would do +what was possible, even to the extent of putting him out of his misery, if +nothing else could be done. Yet she scanned the surroundings closely, and +peered into the bushes and behind the rocks before she tried to urge Sage King +closer. He refused to go nearer, and Lucy dismounted. + +The red horse was partly hidden by overbending brush. He had plunged into a +hole full of cactus. There was a hackamore round his nose and a tight noose +round his neck. The one round his neck was also round his forelegs. And both +lassoes were held taut by the black horse. A torn and soiled rider's scarf +hung limp round the red horse's nose, kept from falling off by the hackamore. + +"A wild horse, a stallion, being broken!" exclaimed Lucy, instantly grasping +the situation. "Oh! where's the rider?" + +She gazed around, ran to and fro, glanced down the little slope, and beyond, +but she did not see anything resembling the form of a man. Then she ran back. + +Lucy took another quick look at the red stallion. She did not believe either +his legs or back were hurt. He was just played out and tangled and tied in the +ropes, and could not get up. The shaggy black horse stood there braced and +indomitable. But he, likewise, was almost ready to drop. Looking at the +condition of both horses and the saddle and ropes, Lucy saw what a fight there +had been, and a race! Where was the rider? Thrown, surely, and back on the +trail, perhaps dead or maimed. + +Lucy went closer to the stallion so that she could almost touch him. He saw +her. He was nearly choked. Foam and blood wheezed out with his heaves. She +must do something quickly. And in her haste she pricked her arms and shoulders +on the cactus. + +She led the black horse closer in, letting the ropes go, slack. The black +seemed as glad of that release as she was. What a faithful brute he looked! +Lucy liked his eyes. + +Then she edged down in among the cactus and brush. The red horse no longer lay +in a strained position. He could lift his head. Lucy saw that the noose still +held tight round his neck. Fearlessly she jerked it loose. Then she backed +away, but not quite out of his reach. He coughed and breathed slowly, with +great heaves. Then he snorted. + +"You're all right now," said Lucy, soothingly. Slowly she reached a hand +toward his head. He drew it back as far as he could. She stepped around, +closer, and more back of him, and put a hand on him, gently, for an instant. +Then she slipped out of the brush and, untying one lasso from the pommel, she +returned to the horse and pulled it from round his legs. He was free now, +except the hackamore, and that rope was slack. Lucy stood near him, watching +him, talking to him, waiting for him to get up. She could not be sure he was +not badly hurt till he stood up. At first he made no efforts to rise. He +watched Lucy, less fearfully, she imagined. And she never made a move. She +wanted him to see, to understand that she had not hurt him and would not hurt +him. It began to dawn upon her that he was magnificent. + +Finally, with a long, slow heave he got to his feet. Lucy led him out of the +hole to open ground. She seemed somehow confident. There occurred to her only +one way to act. + +"A little horse sense, as Dad would say," she soliloquized, and then, when she +got him out of the brush, she stood thrilled and amazed. + +"Oh, what a wild, beautiful horse! What a giant! He's bigger than the King. +Oh, if Dad could see him!" + +The red stallion did not appear to be hurt. The twitching of his muscles must +have been caused by the cactus spikes embedded in him. There were drops of +blood all over one side. Lucy thought she dared to try to pull these thorns +out. She had never in her life been afraid of any horse. Farlane, Holley, all +the riders, and her father, too, had tried to make her realize the danger in a +horse, sooner or later. But Lucy could not help it; she was not afraid; she +believed that the meanest horse was actuated by natural fear of a man; she was +not a man and she had never handled a horse like a man. This red stallion +showed hate of the black horse and the rope that connected them; he showed +some spirit at the repeated blasts of Sage King. But he showed less fear of +her. + +"He has been a proud, wild stallion," mused Lucy. "And he's now +broken--terribly broken--all but ruined." + +Then she walked up to him naturally and spoke softly, and reached a hand for +his shoulder. + +"Whoa, Reddy. Whoa now. . . . There. That's a good fellow. Why, I wouldn't +rope you or hit you. I'm only a girl." + +He drew up, made a single effort to jump, which she prevented, and then he +stood quivering, eying her, while she talked soothingly, and patted him and +looked at him in the way she had found infallible with most horses. Lucy +believed horses were like people, or easier to get along with. Presently she +gently pulled out one of the cactus spikes. The horse flinched, but he stood. +Lucy was slow, careful, patient, and dexterous. The cactus needles were loose +and easily removed or brushed off. At length she got him free of them, and was +almost as proud as she was glad. The horse had gradually dropped his head; he +was tired and his spirit was broken. + +"Now, what shall I do?" she queried. "I'll take the back trail of these +horses. They certainly hadn't been here long before I saw them. And the rider +may be close. If not I'll take the horses home." + +She slipped the noose from the stallion's head, leaving the hackamore, and, +coiling the loose lasso, she hung it over the pommel of the black's saddle. +Then she took up his bridle. + +"Come on," she called. + +The black followed her, and the stallion, still fast to him by the lasso Lucy +had left tied, trooped behind with bowed head. Lucy was elated. But Sage King +did not like the matter at all. Lucy had to drop the black's bridle and catch +the King, and then ride back to lead the other again. + +A broad trail marked the way the two horses had come, and it led off to the +left, toward where the monuments were thickest, and where the great sections +of wall stood, broken and battlemented. Lucy was hard put to it to hold Sage +King, but the horses behind plodded along. The black horse struck Lucy as +being an ugly, but a faithful and wonderful animal. He understood everything. +Presently she tied the bridle she was leading him by to the end of her own +lasso, and thus let him drop back a few yards, which lessened the King's +fretting. + +Intent on the trail, Lucy failed to note time or distance till the looming and +frowning monuments stood aloft before her. What weird effect they had! Each +might have been a colossal statue left there to mark the work of the ages. +Lucy realized that the whole vast valley had once been solid rock, just like +the monuments, and through the millions of years the softer parts had eroded +and weathered and blown away--gone with the great sea that had once been +there. But the beauty, the solemnity, the majesty of these monuments +fascinated her most. She passed the first one, a huge square butte, and then +the second, a ragged, thin, double shaft, and then went between two much +alike, reaching skyward in the shape of monstrous mittens. She watched and +watched them, sparing a moment now and then to attend to the trail. She +noticed that she was coming into a region of grass, and faint signs of water +in the draws. She was getting high again, not many miles now from the wall of +rock. + +All at once Sage King shied, and Lucy looked down to see a man lying on the +ground. He lay inert. But his eyes were open--dark, staring eyes. They moved. +And he called. But Lucy could not understand him. + +In a flash she leaped off the King. She ran to the prostrate man--dropped to +her knees. + +"Oh!" she cried. His face was ghastly. "Oh! are you--you badly hurt?" + +"Lift me--my head," he said, faintly. + +She raised his head. What a strained, passionate, terrible gaze he bent upon +the horses. + +"Boy, they're mine--the black an' the red!" he cried. + +"They surely must be," replied Lucy. "Oh! tell me. Are you hurt?" + +"Boy! did you catch them--fetch them back--lookin' for me?" + +"I sure did." + +"You caught-that red devil--an' fetched him--back to me?" went on the +wondering, faint voice. "Boy--oh--boy!" + +He lifted a long, ragged arm and pulled Lucy down. The action amazed her +equally as his passion of gratitude. He might have been injured, but he had an +arm of iron. Lucy was powerless. She felt her face against his--and her breast +against his. The pounding of his heart was like blows. The first instant she +wanted to laugh, despite her pity. Then the powerful arm--the contact affected +her as nothing ever before. Suppose this crippled rider had taken her for a +boy--She was not a boy! She could not help being herself. And no man had ever +put a hand on her. Consciousness of this brought shame and anger. She +struggled so violently that she freed herself. And he lay back. + +"See here--that's no way to act--to hug--a person," she cried, with flaming +cheeks. + +"Boy, I--" + +"I'm NOT a boy. I'm a girl." + +"What!" + +Lucy tore off her sombrero, which had been pulled far forward, and this +revealed her face fully, and her hair came tumbling down. The rider gazed, +stupefied. Then a faint tinge of red colored his ghastly cheeks. + +"A girl! . . . Why--why 'scuse me, miss. I--I took you--for a boy." + +He seemed so astounded, he looked so ashamed, so scared, and withal, so +haggard and weak, that Lucy immediately recovered her equanimity. + +"Sure I'm a girl. But that's no matter. . . . You've been thrown. Are you +hurt?" + +He smiled a weak assent. + +"Badly?" she queried. She did not like the way he lay--so limp, so motionless. + +"I'm afraid so. I can't move." + +"Oh! . . . What shall I do?" + +"Can you--get me water?" he whispered, with dry lips. + +Lucy flew to her horse to get the small canteen she always carried. But that +had been left on her saddle, and she had ridden Van's. Then she gazed around. +The wash she had crossed several times ran near where the rider lay. Green +grass and willows bordered it. She ran down and, hurrying along, searched for +water. There was water in places, yet she had to go a long way before she +found water that was drinkable. Filling her sombrero, she hurried back to the +side of the rider. It was difficult to give him a drink. + +"Thanks, miss," he said, gratefully. His voice was stronger and less hoarse. + +"Have you any broken bones?" asked Lucy. + +"I don't know. I can't feel much." + +"Are you in pain?" + +"Hardly. I feel sort of thick." + +Lucy, being an intelligent girl, born in the desert and used to its needs, had +not often encountered a situation with which she was unable to cope. + +"Let me feel if you have any broken bones. . . . THAT arm isn't broken, I'm +positive." + +The rider smiled faintly again. How he stared with his strained, dark eyes! +His face showed ghastly through the thin, soft beard and the tan. Lucy found +his right arm badly bruised, but not broken. She made sure his collar-bones +and shoulder-blades were intact. Broken ribs were harder to locate; still, as +he did not feel pain from pressure, she concluded there were no fractures +there. With her assistance he moved his legs, proving no broken bones there. + +"I'm afraid it's my--spine," he said. + +"But you raised your head once," she replied. "If your back was--was broken +or injured you couldn't raise your head." + +"So I couldn't. I guess I'm just knocked out. I was--pretty weak before +Wildfire knocked me--off Nagger." + +"Wildfire?" + +"That's the red stallion's name." + +"Oh, he's named already?" + +"I named him--long ago. He's known on many a range." + +"Where?" + +"I think far north of here. I--trailed him--days--weeks--months. We crossed +the great canyon--" + +"The Grand Canyon?" + +"It must be that." + +"The Grand Canyon is down there," said Lucy, pointing. "I live on it. . . . +You've come a long way." + +"Hundreds of miles! . . . Oh, the ground I covered that awful canyon country! +. . . But I stayed with Wildfire. An' I put a rope on him. An' he got away. . +. . An' it was a boy--no--a GIRL who--saved him for me--an' maybe saved my +life, too!" + +Lucy looked away from the dark, staring eyes. A light in them confused her. + +"Never mind me. You say you were weak? Have you been ill?" + +"No, miss, just starved. . . . I starved on Wildfire's trail." + +Lucy ran to her saddle and got the biscuits out of the pockets of her coat, +and she ran back to the rider. + +"Here. I never thought. Oh, you've had a hard time of it! I understand. That +wonderful flame of a horse! I'd have stayed, too. My father was a rider once. +Bostil. Did you ever hear of him?" + +"Bostil. The name--I've heard." Then the rider lay thinking, as he munched a +biscuit. "Yes, I remember, but it was long ago. I spent a night with a +wagon-train, a camp of many men and women, religious people, working into +Utah. Bostil had a boat at the crossing of the Fathers." + +"Yes, they called the Ferry that." + +"I remember well now. They said Bostil couldn't count his horses--that he was +a rich man, hard on riders--an' he'd used a gun more than once." + +Lucy bowed her head. "Yes, that's my dad." + +The rider did not seem to see how he had hurt her. + +"Here we are talking--wasting time," she said. "I must start home. You can't +be moved. What shall I do?" + +"That's for you to say, Bostil's daughter." + +"My name's Lucy," replied the girl, blushing painfully, "I mean I'll be glad +to do anything you think best." + +"You're very good." + +Then he turned his face away. Lucy looked closely at him. He was indeed a +beggared rider. His clothes and his boots hung in tatters. He had no hat, no +coat, no vest. His gaunt face bore traces of what might have been a fine, +strong comeliness, but now it was only thin, worn, wan, pitiful, with that +look which always went to a woman's heart. He had the look of a homeless +rider. Lucy had seen a few of his wandering type, and his story was so plain. +But he seemed to have a touch of pride, and this quickened her interest. + +"Then I'll do what I think best for you," said Lucy. + +First she unsaddled the black Nagger. With the saddle she made a pillow for +the rider's head, and she covered him with the saddle blanket. Before she had +finished this task he turned his eyes upon her. And Lucy felt she would be +haunted. Was he badly hurt, after all? It seemed probable. How strange he was! + +"I'll water the horses--then tie Wildfire here on a double rope. There's +grass." + +"But you can't lead him," replied the rider. + +"He'll follow me." + +"That red devil!" The rider shuddered as he spoke. + +Lucy had some faint inkling of what a terrible fight that had been between man +and horse. "Yes; when I found him he was broken. Look at him now." + +But the rider did not appear to want to see the stallion. He gazed up at Lucy, +and she saw something in his eyes that made her think of a child. She left +him, had no trouble in watering the horses, and haltered Wildfire among the +willows on a patch of grass. Then she returned. + +"I'll go now," she said to the rider. + +"Where?" + +"Home. I'll come back to-morrow, early, and bring some one to help you--" + +"Girl, if YOU want to help me more--bring me some bread an' meat. Don't tell +any one. Look what a ragamuffin I am. . . . An' there's Wildfire. I don't want +him seen till I'm--on my feet again. I know riders. . . . That's all. If you +want to be so good--come." + +"I'll come," replied Lucy, simply. + +"Thank you. I owe you--a lot. . . . What did you say your name was?" + +"Lucy--Lucy Bostil." + +"Oh, I forgot. . . . Are you sure you tied Wildfire good an' tight?" + +"Yes, I'm sure. I'll go now. I hope you'll be better to-morrow." + +Lucy hesitated, with her hand on the King's bridle. She did not like to leave +this young man lying there helpless on the desert. But what else could she do? +What a strange adventure had befallen her! At the following thought that it +was not yet concluded she felt a little stir of excitement at her pulses. She +was so strangely preoccupied that she forgot it was necessary for her to have +a step to mount Sage King. She realized it quickly enough when she attempted +it. Then she led him off in the sage till she found a rock. Mounting, she +turned him straight across country, meaning to cut out miles of travel that +would have been necessary along her back-trail. Once she looked back. The +rider was not visible; the black horse, Nagger, was out of sight, but +Wildfire, blazing in the sun, watched her depart. + + + +CHAPTER IX + +Lucy Bostil could not control the glow of strange excitement under which she +labored, but she could put her mind on the riding of Sage King. She did not +realize, however, that she was riding him under the stress and spell of that +excitement. + +She had headed out to make a short cut, fairly sure of her direction, yet she +was not unaware of the fact that she would be lost till she ran across her +trail. That might be easy to miss and time was flying. She put the King to a +brisk trot, winding through the aisles of the sage. + +Soon she had left the monument region and was down on the valley floor again. +From time to time she conquered a desire to look back. Presently she was +surprised and very glad to ride into a trail where she saw the tracks she had +made coming out. With much relief she turned Sage King into this trail, and +then any anxiety she had felt left her entirely. But that did not mitigate her +excitement. She eased the King into a long, swinging lope. And as he warmed to +the work she was aroused also. It was hard to hold him in, once he got out of +a trot, and after miles and miles of this, when she thought best to slow down +he nearly pulled her arms off. Still she finally got him in hand. Then +followed miles of soft and rough going, which seemed long and tedious. Beyond +that was the home stretch up the valley, whose gradual slope could be seen +only at a distance. Here was a straight, broad trail, not too soft nor too +hard, and for all the years she could remember riders had tried out and +trained their favorites on that course. + +Lucy reached down to assure herself that the cinch was tight, then she pulled +her sombrero down hard, slackened the bridle, and let the King go. He simply +broke his gait, he was so surprised. Lucy saw him trying to look back at her, +as if he could not realize that this young woman rider had given him a free +rein. Perhaps one reason he disliked her had been always and everlastingly +that tight rein. Like the wary horse he was he took to a canter, to try out +what his new freedom meant. + +"Say, what's the matter with you?" called Lucy, disdainfully. "Are you lazy? +Or don't you believe I can ride you?" + +Whereupon she dug him with her spurs. Sage King snorted. His action shifted +marvelously. Thunder rolled from under his hoofs. And he broke out of that +clattering roar into his fleet stride, where his hoof-beats were swift, +regular, rhythmic. + +Lucy rode him with teeth and fists clenched, bending low. After all, she +thought, it was no trick to ride him. In that gait he was dangerous, for a +fall meant death; but he ran so smoothly that riding him was easy and +certainly glorious. He went so fast that the wind blinded her. The trail was +only a white streak in blurred gray. She could not get her breath; the wind +seemed to whip the air away from her. And then she felt the lessening of the +tremendous pace. Sage King had run himself out and the miles were behind her. +Gradually her sight became clear, and as the hot and wet horse slowed down, +satisfied with his wild run, Lucy realized that she was up on the slope only a +few miles from home. Suddenly she thought she saw something dark stir behind a +sage-bush just ahead. Before she could move a hand at the bridle Sage King +leaped with a frantic snort. It was a swerving, nimble, tremendous bound. He +went high. Lucy was unseated, but somehow clung on, and came down with him, +finding the saddle. And it seemed, while in the air, she saw a long, snaky, +whipping loop of rope shoot out and close just where Sage King's legs had +been. + +She screamed. The horse broke and ran. Lucy, righting herself, looked back to +see Joel Creech holding a limp lasso. He had tried to rope the King. + +The blood of her father was aroused in Lucy. She thought of the horse--not +herself. If the King had not been so keen-sighted, so swift, he would have +gone down with a broken leg. Lucy never in her life had been so furious. + +Joel shook his fist at her and yelled, "I'd 'a' got you--on any other hoss!" + +She did not reply, though she had to fight herself to keep from pulling her +gun and shooting at him. She guided the running horse back into the trail, +rapidly leaving Creech out of sight. + +"He's gone crazy, that's sure," said Lucy. "And he means me harm!" + +She ran the King clear up to the corrals, and he was still going hard when she +turned down the lane to the barns. Then she pulled him in. + +Farlane was there to meet her. She saw no other riders and was glad. + +"Wal, Miss Lucy, the King sure looks good," said Farlane, as she jumped off +and flung him the bridle. "He's just had about right, judgin'. . . . Say, +girl, you're all pale! Oh, say, you wasn't scared of the King, now?" + +"No," replied Lucy, panting. + +"Wal, what's up, then?" The rider spoke in an entirely different voice, and +into his clear, hazel eyes a little dark gleam shot. + +"Joel Creech waylaid me out in the sage--and--and tried to catch me." Lucy +checked herself. It might not do to tell how Joel had tried to catch her. + +"He did? An' you on the King!" Farlane laughed, as if relieved. "Wal, he's +tried thet before. Miss Lucy. But when you was up on the gray--thet shows +Joel's crazy, sure." + +"He sure is. Farlane, I--I am mad!" + +"Wal, cool off, Miss Lucy. It ain't nothin' to git set up about. An' don't +tell the old man." + +"Why not?" demanded Lucy. + +"Wal, because he's in a queer sort of bad mood lately. It wouldn't be safe. He +hates them Creeches. So don't tell him." + +"All right, Farlane, I won't. Don't you tell, either," replied Lucy, soberly. + +"Sure I'll keep mum. But if Joel doesn't watch out I'll put a crimp in him +myself." + +Lucy hurried away down the lane and entered the house without meeting any one. +In her room she changed her clothes and lay down to rest and think. + +Strangely enough, Lucy might never have encountered Joel Creech out in the +sage, for all the thought she gave him. Her mind was busy with the crippled +rider. Who was he? Where was he from? What strange passion he had shown over +the recovery of that wonderful red horse! Lucy could not forget the feeling of +his iron arm when he held her in a kind of frenzied gratitude. A wild upland +rider, living only for a wild horse! How like Indians some of these riders! +Yet this fellow had seemed different from most of the uncouth riders she had +known. He spoke better. He appeared to have had some little schooling. Lucy +did not realize that she was interested in him. She thought she was sorry for +him and interested in the stallion. She began to compare Wildfire with Sage +King, and if she remembered rightly Wildfire, even in his disheveled state, +had appeared a worthy rival of the King. What would Bostil say at sight of +that flame-colored stallion? Lucy thrilled. + +Later she left her room to see if the hour was opportune for her plan to make +up a pack of supplies for the rider. Her aunt was busy in the kitchen, and +Bostil had not come in. Lucy took advantage of the moment to tie up a pack and +carry it to her room. Somehow the task pleased her. She recalled the lean face +of the rider. And that recalled his ragged appearance. Why not pack up an +outfit of clothes? Bostil had a stock-room full of such accessories for his +men. Then Lucy, glowing with the thought, hurried to Bostil's stock-room, and +with deft hands and swift judgment selected an outfit for the rider, even down +to a comb and razor. All this she carried quickly to her room, where in her +thoughtfulness she added a bit of glass from a broken mirror, and soap and a +towel. Then she tied up a second pack. + +Bostil did not come home to supper, a circumstance that made Lucy's aunt +cross. They ate alone, and, waiting awhile, were rather late in clearing away +the table. After this Lucy had her chance in the dusk of early evening, and +she carried both packs way out into the sage and left them near the trail. + +"Hope a coyote doesn't come along," she said. That possibility, however, did +not worry her as much as getting those packs up on the King. How in the world +would she ever do it? + +She hurried back to the house, stealthily keeping to the shadow of the +cottonwoods, for she would have faced an embarrassing situation if she had met +her father, even had he been in a good humor. And she reached the sitting-room +unobserved. The lamps had been lighted and a log blazed on the hearth. She was +reading when Bostil entered. + +"Hello, Lucy!" he said. + +He looked tired, and Lucy knew he had been drinking, because when he had been +he never offered to kiss her. The strange, somber shade was still on his face, +but it brightened somewhat at sight of her. Lucy greeted him as always. + +"Farlane tells me you handled the King great--better 'n Van has worked him +lately," said Bostil. "But don't tell him I told you." + +That was sweet praise from Farlane. "Oh, Dad, it could hardly be true," +expostulated Lucy. "Both you and Farlane are a little sore at Van now." + +"I'm a lot sore," replied Bostil, gruffly. + +"Anyway, how did Farlane know how I handled Sage King?" queried Lucy. + +"Wal, every hair on a hoss talks to Farlane, so Holley says. . . . Lucy, you +take the King out every day for a while. Ride him now an' watch out! Joel +Creech was in the village to-day. He sure sneaked when he seen me. He's up to +some mischief." + +Lucy did not want to lie and she did not know what to say. Presently Bostil +bade her good night. Lucy endeavored to read, but her mind continually +wandered back to the adventure of the day. + +Next morning she had difficulty in concealing her impatience, but luck favored +her. Bostil was not in evidence, and Farlane, for once, could spare no more +time than it took to saddle Sage King. Lucy rode out into the sage, pretty +sure that no one watched her. + +She had hidden the packs near the tallest bunch of greasewood along the trail; +and when she halted behind it she had no fear of being seen from the corrals. +She got the packs. The light one was not hard to tie back of the saddle, but +the large one was a very different matter. She decided to carry it in front. +There was a good-sized rock near, upon which she stepped, leading Sage King +alongside; and after an exceedingly trying moment she got up, holding the +pack. For a wonder Sage King behaved well. + +Then she started off, holding the pack across her lap, and she tried the +King's several gaits to see which one would lend itself more comfortably to +the task before her. The trouble was that Sage King had no slow gait, even his +walk was fast. And Lucy was compelled to hold him into that. She wanted to +hurry, but that seemed out of the question. She tried to keep from gazing out +toward the monuments, because they were so far away. + +How would she find the crippled rider? It flashed into her mind that she might +find him dead, and this seemed horrible. But her common sense persuaded her +that she would find him alive and better. The pack was hard to hold, and Sage +King fretted at the monotonous walk. The hours dragged. The sun grew hot. And +it was noon, almost, when she reached the point where she cut off the trail to +the left. Thereafter, with the monuments standing ever higher, and the +distance perceptibly lessening, the minutes passed less tediously. + +At length she reached the zone of lofty rocks, and found them different, how, +she could not tell. She rode down among them, and was glad when she saw the +huge mittens--her landmarks. At last she espied the green-bordered wash and +the few cedar-trees. Then a horse blazed red against the sage and another +shone black. That sight made Lucy thrill. She rode on, eager now, but moved by +the strangeness of the experience. + +Before she got quite close to the cedars she saw a man. He took a few slow +steps out of the shade. His back was bent. Lucy recognized the rider, and in +her gladness to see him on his feet she cried out. Then, when Sage King +reached the spot, Lucy rolled the pack off to the ground. + +"Oh, that was a job!" she cried. + +The rider looked up with eyes that seemed keener, less staring than she +remembered. "You came? . . . I was afraid you wouldn't," he said. + +"Sure I came. . . . You're better--not badly hurt?" she said, gravely, "I--I'm +so glad." + +"I've got a crimp in my back, that's all." + +Lucy was quick to see that after the first glance at her he was all eyes for +Sage King. She laughed. How like a rider! She watched him, knowing that +presently he would realize what a horse she was riding. She slipped off and +threw the bridle, and then, swiftly untying the second pack, she laid it down. + +The rider, with slow, painful steps and bent back, approached Sage King and +put a lean, strong, brown hand on him, and touched him as if he wished to feel +if he were real. Then he whistled softly. When he turned to Lucy his eyes +shone with a beautiful light. + +"It's Sage King, Bostil's favorite," said Lucy. + +"Sage King! . . . He looks it. . . . But never a wild horse?" + +"No." + +"A fine horse," replied the rider. "Of course he can run?" This last held a +note of a rider's jealousy. + +Lucy laughed. "Run! . . . The King is Bostil's favorite. He can run away from +any horse in the uplands." + +"I'll bet you Wildfire can beat him," replied the rider, with a dark glance. + +"Come on!" cried Lucy, daringly. + +Then the rider and girl looked more earnestly at each other. He smiled in a +way that changed his face--brightened out the set hardness. + +"I reckon I'll have to crawl," he said, ruefully. "But maybe I can ride in a +few days--if you'll come back again." + +His remark brought to Lucy the idea that of course she would hardly see this +rider again after to-day. Even if he went to the Ford, which event was +unlikely, he would not remain there long. The sensation of blankness puzzled +her, and she felt an unfamiliar confusion. + +"I--I've brought you--some things," she said, pointing to the larger pack. + +"Grub, you mean?" + +"No." + +"That was all I asked you for, miss," he said, somewhat stiffly. + +"Yes, but--I--I thought--" Lucy became unaccountably embarrassed. Suppose this +strange rider would be offended. "Your clothes were--so torn. . . . And no +wonder you were thrown--in those boots! . . . So I thought I'd--" + +"You thought I needed clothes as bad as grub," he said, bitterly. "I reckon +that's so." + +His look, more than his tone, cut Lucy; and involuntarily she touched his arm. +"Oh, you won't refuse to take them! Please don't!" + +At her touch a warmth came into his face. "Take them? I should smile I will." + +He tried to reach down to lift the pack, but as it was obviously painful for +him to bend, Lucy intercepted him. + +"But you've had no breakfast," she protested. "Why not eat before you open +that pack?" + +"Nope. I'm not hungry. . . . Maybe I'll eat a little, after I dress up." He +started to walk away, then turned. "Miss Bostil, have you been so good to +every wanderin' rider you happened to run across?" + +"Good!" she exclaimed, flushing. She dropped her eyes before his. "Nonsense. +. . . Anyway, you're the first wandering rider I ever met--like this." + +"Well, you're good," he replied, with emotion. Then he walked away with slow, +stiff steps and disappeared behind the willows in the little hollow. + +Lucy uncoiled the rope on her saddle and haltered Sage King on the best grass +near at hand. Then she opened the pack of supplies, thinking the while that +she must not tarry here long. + +"But on the King I can run back like the wind," she mused. + +The pack contained dried fruits and meat and staples, also an assortment of +good things to eat that were of a perishable nature, already much the worse +for the long ride. She spread all this out in the shade of a cedar. The +utensils were few--two cups, two pans, and a tiny pot. She gathered wood, and +arranged it for a fire, so that the rider could start as soon as he came back. +He seemed long in coming. Lucy waited, yet still he did not return. Finally +she thought of the red stallion, and started off down the wash to take a look +at him. He was grazing. He had lost some of the dirt and dust and the +bedraggled appearance. When he caught sight of her he lifted his head high and +whistled. How wild he looked! And his whistle was shrill, clear, strong. Both +the other horses answered it. Lucy went on closer to Wildfire. She was +fascinated now. + +"If he doesn't know me!" she cried. Never had she been so pleased. She had +expected every sign of savageness on his part, and certainly had not intended +to go near him. But Wildfire did not show fear or hate in his recognition. +Lucy went directly to him and got a hand on him. Wildfire reared a little and +shook a little, but this disappeared presently under her touch. He held his +head very high and watched her with wonderful eyes. Gradually she drew his +head down. Standing before him, she carefully and slowly changed the set of +the hackamore, which had made a welt on his nose. It seemed to have been her +good fortune that every significant move she had made around this stallion had +been to mitigate his pain. Lucy believed he knew this as well as she knew it. +Her theory, an often disputed one, was that horses were as intelligent as +human beings and had just the same fears, likes, and dislikes. Lucy knew she +was safe when she untied the lasso from the strong root where she had fastened +it, and led the stallion down the wash to a pool of water. And she stood +beside him with a hand on his shoulder while he bent his head to sniff at the +water. He tasted it, plainly with disgust. It was stagnant water, full of +vermin. But finally he drank. Lucy led him up the wash to another likely +place, and tied him securely. + +When she got back to the camp in the cedars the rider was there, on his knees, +kindling the fire. His clean-shaved face and new apparel made him vastly +different. He was young, and, had he not been so gaunt, he would have been +fine-looking, Lucy thought. + +"Wildfire remembered me," Lucy burst out. "He wasn't a bit scary. Let me +handle him. Followed me to water." + +"He's taken to you," replied the rider, seriously. "I've heard of the like, +but not so quick. Was he in a bad fix when you got to him yesterday?" + +Lucy explained briefly. + +"Aha! . . . If that red devil has any love in him I'll never get it. I wish I +could have done so much for him. But always when he sees me he'll remember." + +Lucy saw that the rider was in difficulties. He could not bend his back, and +evidently it pained him to try. His brow was moist. + +"Let me do that," she said. + +"Thanks. It took about all my strength to get into this new outfit," he said, +relinquishing, his place to Lucy. + +When she looked up from her task, presently, he was sitting in the shade of +the cedar, watching her. He had the expression of a man who hardly believed +what he saw. + +"Did you have any trouble gettin' away, without tellin'--about me?" he asked. + +"No. But I sure had a job with those packs," she replied. + +"You must be a wonder with a horse." + +As far as vanity was concerned Lucy had only one weakness--and he had touched +upon it. + +"Well, Dad and Holley and Farlane argue much about me. Still, I guess they all +agree I can ride." + +"Holley an' Farlane are riders?" he questioned. + +"Yes, Dad's right-hand men." + +"Your dad hires many riders, I supposed?" + +"Sure I never heard of him turning any rider down, at least not without a +try." + +"I wonder if he would give me a job?" + +Lucy glanced up quickly. The idea surprised her--pleased her. "In a minute," +she replied. "And he'd be grand to you. You see, he'd have an eye for +Wildfire." + +The rider nodded his head as if he understood how that would be. + +"And of course you'd never sell nor trade Wildfire?" went on Lucy. + +The rider's smile was sad, but it was conclusive. + +"Then you'd better stay away from Bostil," returned Lucy, shortly. + +He remained silent, and Lucy, busy about the campfire, did not speak again +till the simple fare was ready. Then she spread a tarpaulin in the shade. + +"I'm pretty hungry myself," she said. "But I don't suppose I know what hunger +is." + +"After a while a fellow loses the feelin' of hunger," he replied. "I reckon +it'll come back quick. . . . This all looks good." + +So they began to eat. Lucy's excitement, her sense of the unreality of this +adventure, in no wise impaired her appetite. She seemed acutely sensitive to +the perceptions of the moment. The shade of the cedars was cool. And out on +the desert she could see the dark smoky veils of heat lifting. The breeze +carried a dry odor of sand and grass. She heard bees humming by. And all +around the great isolated monuments stood up, red tops against the blue sky. +It was a silent, dreaming, impressive place, where she felt unlike herself. + +"I mustn't stay long," she said, suddenly remembering. + +"Will you come back--again?" he asked. + +The question startled Lucy. "Why--I--I don't know. . . . Won't you ride in to +the Ford just as soon as you're able?" + +"I reckon not." + +"But it's the only place where there's people in hundreds of miles. Surely you +won't try to go back the way you came?" + +"When Wildfire left that country I left it. We can't back." + +"Then you've no people--no one you care for?" she asked, in sweet seriousness. + +"There's no one. I'm an orphan. My people were lost in an Indian +massacre--with a wagon-train crossin' Wyomin'. A few escaped, an' I was one of +the youngsters. I had a tough time, like a stray dog, till I grew up. An' then +I took to the desert." + +"Oh, I see. I--I'm sorry," replied Lucy. "But that's not very different from +my dad's story, of his early years. . . . What will you do now?" + +"I'll stay here till my back straightens out. . . . Will you ride out again?" + +"Yes," replied Lucy, without looking at him; and she wondered if it were +really she who was speaking. + +Then he asked her about the Ford, and Bostil, and the ranches and villages +north, and the riders and horses. Lucy told him everything she knew and could +think of, and, lastly, after waxing eloquent on the horses of the uplands, +particularly Bostil's, she gave him a graphic account of Cordts and Dick +Sears. + +"Horse-thieves!" exclaimed the rider, darkly. There was a grimness as well as +fear in his tone. "I've heard of Sears, but not Cordts. Where does this band +hang out?" + +"No one knows. Holley says they hide up in the canyon country. None of the +riders have ever tried to track them far. It would be useless. Holley says +there are plateaus of rich grass and great forests. The Ute Indians say that +much, too. But we know little about the wild country." + +"Aren't there any hunters at Bostil's Ford?" + +"Wild-horse hunters, you mean?" + +"No. Bear an' deer hunters." + +"There's none. And I suppose that's why we're not familiar with the wild +canyon country. I'd like to ride in there sometime and camp. But our people +don't go in for that. They love the open ranges. No one I know, except a +half-witted boy, ever rode down among these monuments. And how wonderful a +place! It can't be more than twenty miles from home. . . . I must be going +soon. I'm forgetting Sage King. Did I tell you I was training him for the +races?" + +"No, you didn't. What races? Tell me," he replied, with keen interest. + +Then Lucy told him about the great passion of her father--about the long, +time-honored custom of free-for-all races, and the great races that had been +run in the past; about the Creeches and their swift horses; about the rivalry +and speculation and betting; and lastly about the races to be run in a few +weeks--races so wonderful in prospect that even the horse-thief, Cordts, had +begged to be allowed to attend. + +"I'm going to see the King beat Creech's roan," shouted the rider, with red in +his cheeks and a flash in his eye. + +His enthusiasm warmed Lucy's interest, yet it made her thoughtful. Ideas +flashed into her mind. If the rider attended the races he would have that +fleet stallion with him. He could not be separated from the horse that had +cost him so dearly. What would Bostil and Holley and Farlane say at sight of +Wildfire? Suppose Wildfire was to enter the races! It was probable that he +could run away from the whole field--even beat the King. Lucy thrilled and +thrilled. What a surprise it would be! She had the rider's true love of seeing +the unheralded horse win over the favorite. She had for years wanted to see a +horse--and ride a horse--out in front of Sage King. Then suddenly all these +flashing ideas coruscated seemingly into a gleam--a leaping, radiant, +wonderful thought. Irresistibly it burst from her. + +"Let ME ride your Wildfire in the great race?" she cried, breathlessly. + +His response was instantaneous--a smile that was keen and sweet and strong, +and a proffered hand. Impulsively Lucy clasped that hand with both hers. + +"You don't mean it," she said. "Oh, it's what Auntie would call one of my wild +dreams! . . . And I'm growing up--they say. . . . But-- Oh, if I could ride +Wildfire against the field in that race. . . . If I ONLY COULD!" + +She was on fire with the hope, flushing, tingling. She was unconscious of her +effect upon the rider, who gazed at her with a new-born light in his eyes. + +"You can ride him. I reckon I'd like to see that race just as much as Bostil +or Cordts or any man. . . . An' see here, girl, Wildfire can beat this gray +racer of your father's." + +"Oh!" cried Lucy. + +"Wildfire can beat the King," repeated the rider, intensely. "The tame horse +doesn't step on this earth that can run with Wildfire. He's a stallion. He has +been a killer of horses. It's in him to KILL. If he ran a race it would be +that instinct in him." + +"How can we plan it?" went on Lucy, impulsively. She had forgotten to withdraw +her hands from his. "It must be a surprise--a complete surprise. If you came +to the Ford we couldn't keep it secret. And Dad or Farlane would prevent me, +somehow." + +"It's easy. Ride out here as often as you can. Bring a light saddle an' let me +put you up on Wildfire. You'll run him, train him, get him in shape. Then the +day of the races or the night before I'll go in an' hide out in the sage till +you come or send for Wildfire." + +"Oh, it'll be glorious," she cried, with eyes like stars. "I know just where +to have you hide. A pile of rocks near the racecourse. There's a spring and +good grass. I could ride out to you just before the big race, and we'd come +back, with me on Wildfire. The crowd always stays down at the end of the +racecourse. Only the starters stay out there. . . . Oh, I can see Bostil when +that red stallion runs into sight!" + +"Well, is it settled?" queried the rider, strangely. + +Lucy was startled into self-consciousness by his tone. + +How strangely he must have felt. And his eyes were piercing. + +"You mean--that I ride Wildfire?" she replied, shyly. "Yes, if you'll let me." + +"I'll be proud." + +"You're very good. . . . And do you think Wildfire can beat the King?" + +"I know it." + +"How do you?" + +"I've seen both horses." + +"But it will be a grand race." + +"I reckon so. It's likely to be the grandest ever seen. But Wildfire will win +because he's run wild all his life--an' run to kill other horses. . . . The +only question is--CAN you ride him?" + +"Yes. I never saw the horse I couldn't ride. Bostil says there are some I +can't ride. Farlane says not. Only two horses have thrown me, the King and +Sarchedon. But that was before they knew me. And I was sort of wild. I can +make your Wildfire love me." + +"THAT'S the last part of it I'd ever doubt," replied the rider. "It's settled, +then. I'll camp here. I'll be well in a few days. Then I'll take Wildfire in +hand. You will ride out whenever you have a chance, without bein' seen. An' +the two of us will train the stallion to upset that race." + +"Yes--then--it's settled." + +Lucy's gaze was impelled and held by the rider's. Why was he so pale? But then +he had been injured--weakened. This compact between them had somehow changed +their relation. She seemed to have known him long. + +"What's your name?" she asked. + +"Lin Slone," replied the rider. + +Then she released her hands. "I must ride in now. If this isn't a dream I'll +come back soon." She led Sage King to a rock and mounted him. + +"It's good to see you up there," said Slone. "An' that splendid horse! . . . +He knows what he is. It'll break Bostil's heart to see that horse beat." + +"Dad'll feel bad, but it'll do him good," replied Lucy. + +That was the old rider's ruthless spirit speaking out of his daughter's lips. + +Slone went close to the King and, putting a hand on the pommel, he looked up +at Lucy. "Maybe--it is--a dream--an' you won't come back," he said, with +unsteady voice. + +"Then I'll come in dreams," she flashed. "Be careful of yourself. . . . +Good-by." + +And at a touch the impatient King was off. From far up the slope near a +monument Lucy looked back. Slone was watching her. She waved a gauntleted +hand--and then looked back no more. + + + +CHAPTER X + +Two weeks slipped by on the wings of time and opportunity and achievement, all +colored so wonderfully for Lucy, all spelling that adventure for which she had +yearned. + +Lucy was riding down into the sage toward the monuments with a whole day +before her. Bostil kept more and more to himself, a circumstance that worried +her, though she thought little about it. Van had taken up the training of the +King; and Lucy had deliberately quarreled with him so that she would be free +to ride where she listed. Farlane nagged her occasionally about her rides into +the sage, insisting that she must not go so far and stay so long. And after +Van's return to work he made her ride Sarchedon. + +Things had happened at the Ford which would have concerned Lucy greatly had +she not been over-excited about her own affairs. Some one had ambushed Bostil +in the cottonwoods near his house and had shot at him, narrowly missing him. +Bostil had sworn he recognized the shot as having come from a rifle, and that +he knew to whom it belonged. The riders did not believe this, and said some +boy, shooting at a rabbit or coyote, had been afraid to confess he had nearly +hit Bostil. The riders all said Bostil was not wholly himself of late. The +river was still low. The boat had not been repaired. And Creech's horses were +still on the other side. + +These things concerned Lucy, yet they only came and went swiftly through her +mind. She was obsessed by things intimately concerning herself. + +"Oh, I oughtn't to go," she said, aloud. But she did not even check +Sarchedon's long swing, his rocking-chair lope. She had said a hundred times +that she ought not go again out to the monuments. For Lin Slone had fallen +despairingly, terribly in love with her. + +It was not this, she averred, but the monuments and the beautiful Wildfire +that had woven a spell round her she could not break. She had ridden Wildfire +all through that strange region of monuments and now they claimed something of +her. Just as wonderful was Wildfire's love for her. The great stallion hated +Slone and loved Lucy. Of all the remarkable circumstances she had seen or +heard about a horse, this fact was the most striking. She could do anything +with him. All that savageness and wildness disappeared when she approached +him. He came at her call. He whistled at sight of her. He sent out a ringing +blast of disapproval when she rode away. Every day he tried to bite or kick +Slone, but he was meek under Lucy's touch. + +But this morning there came to Lucy the first vague doubt of herself. Once +entering her mind, that doubt became clear. And then she vowed she liked Slone +as she might a brother. And something within her accused her own conviction. +The conviction was her real self, and the accusation was some other girl +lately born in her. Lucy did not like this new person. She was afraid of her. +She would not think of her unless she had to. + +"I never cared for him--that way," she said, aloud. "I don't--I +couldn't--ever--I--I--love Lin Slone!" + +The spoken thought--the sound of the words played havoc with Lucy's +self-conscious calmness. She burned. She trembled. She was in a rage with +herself. She spurred Sarchedon into a run and tore through the sage, down into +the valley, running him harder than she should have run him. Then she checked +him, and, penitent, petted him out of all proportion to her thoughtlessness. +The violent exercise only heated her blood and, if anything, increased this +sudden and new torment. Why had she discarded her boy's rider outfit and chaps +for a riding-habit made by her aunt, and one she had scorned to wear? Some +awful, accusing voice thundered in Lucy's burning ears that she had done this +because she was ashamed to face Lin Slone any more in that costume--she wanted +to appear different in his eyes, to look like a girl. If that shameful +suspicion was a fact why was it---what did it mean? She could not tell, yet +she was afraid of the truth. + +All of a sudden Lin Slone stood out clearer in her mental vision--the finest +type of a rider she had ever known--a strong, lithe, magnificent horseman, +whose gentleness showed his love for horses, whose roughness showed his +power--a strange, intense, lonely man in whom she had brought out pride, +gratitude, kindness, passion, and despair. She felt her heart swell at the +realization that she had changed him, made him kinder, made him divide his +love as did her father, made him human, hopeful, longing for a future +unfettered by the toils of desert allurement. She could not control her pride. +She must like him very much. She confessed that, honestly, without a qualm. It +was only bewildering moments of strange agitation and uncertainty that +bothered her. She had refused to be concerned by them until they had finally +impinged upon her peace of mind. Then they accused her; now she accused +herself. She ought not go to meet Lin Slone any more. + +"But then--the race!" she murmured. "I couldn't give that up. . . . And oh! +I'm afraid the harm is done! What can I do?" + +After the race--what then? To be sure, all of Bostil's Ford would know she had +been meeting Slone out in the sage, training his horse. What would people say? + +"Dad will simply be radiant, IF he can buy Wildfire--and a fiend if he can't," +she muttered. + +Lucy saw that her own impulsiveness had amounted to daring. She had gone too +far. She excused that--for she had a rider's blood--she was Bostil's girl. But +she had, in her wildness and joy and spirit, spent many hours alone with a +rider, to his undoing. She could not excuse that. She was ashamed. What would +he say when she told him she could see him no more? The thought made her weak. +He would accept and go his way--back to that lonely desert, with only a horse. + +"Wildfire doesn't love him!" she said. + +And the scarlet fired her neck and cheek and temple. That leap of blood seemed +to release a riot of emotions. What had been a torment became a torture. She +turned Sarchedon homeward, but scarcely had faced that way when she wheeled +him again. She rode slowly and she rode swiftly. The former was hateful +because it held her back--from what she no longer dared think; the latter was +fearful because it hurried her on swiftly, irresistibly to her fate. + +Lin Slone had changed his camp and had chosen a pass high up where the great +walls had began to break into sections. Here there was intimacy with the sheer +cliffs of red and yellow. Wide avenues between the walls opened on all points +of the compass, and that one to the north appeared to be a gateway down into +the valley of monuments. The monuments trooped down into the valley to spread +out and grow isolated in the distance. Slone's camp was in a clump of cedars +surrounding a spring. There was grass and white sage where rabbits darted in +and out. + +Lucy did not approach this camp from that roundabout trail which she had made +upon the first occasion of her visiting Slone. He had found an opening in the +wall, and by riding this way into the pass Lucy cut off miles. In fact, the +camp was not over fifteen miles from Bostil's Ford. It was so close that Lucy +was worried lest some horse-tracker should stumble on the trail and follow her +up into the pass. + +This morning she espied Slone at his outlook on a high rock that had fallen +from the great walls. She always looked to see if he was there, and she always +saw him. The days she had not come, which were few, he had spent watching for +her there. His tasks were not many, and he said he had nothing to do but wait +for her. Lucy had a persistent and remorseful, yet sweet memory of Slone at +his lonely lookout. Here was a fine, strong, splendid young man who had +nothing to do but watch for her--a waste of precious hours! + +She waved her hand from afar, and he waved in reply. Then as she reached the +cedared part of the pass Slone was no longer visible. She put Sarchedon to a +run up the hard, wind-swept sand, and reached the camp before Slone had +climbed down from his perch. + +Lucy dismounted reluctantly. What would he say about the riding-habit that she +wore? She felt very curious to learn, and shyer than ever before, and +altogether different. The skirt made her more of a girl, it seemed. + +"Hello, Lin!" she called. There was nothing in her usual greeting to betray +the state of her mind. + +"Good mornin'--Lucy," he replied, very slowly. He was looking at her, she +thought, with different eyes. And he seemed changed, too, though he had long +been well, and his tall, lithe rider's form, his lean, strong face, and his +dark eyes were admirable in her sight. Only this morning, all because she had +worn a girl's riding-skirt instead of boy's chaps, everything seemed +different. Perhaps her aunt had been right, after all, and now things were +natural. + +Slone gazed so long at her that Lucy could not keep silent. She laughed. + +"How do you like--me--in this?" + +"I like you much better," Slone said, bluntly. + +"Auntie made this--and she's been trying to get me to ride in it." + +"It changes you, Lucy. . . . But can you ride as well?" + +"I'm afraid not. . . . What's Wildfire going to think of me?" + +"He'll like you better, too. . . . Lucy, how's the King comin' on?" + +"Lin, I'll tell you, if I wasn't as crazy about Wildfire as you are, I'd say +he'll have to kill himself to beat the King," replied Lucy, with gravity. + +"Sometimes I doubt, too," said Slone. "But I only have to look at Wildfire to +get back my nerve. . . . Lucy, that will be the grandest race ever run!" + +"Yes," sighed Lucy. + +"What's wrong? Don't you want Wildfire to win?" + +"Yes and no. But I'm going to beat the King, anyway. . . . Bring on your +Wildfire!" + +Lucy unsaddled Sarchedon and turned him loose to graze while Slone went out +after Wildfire. And presently it appeared that Lucy might have some little +time to wait. Wildfire had lately been trusted to hobbles, which fact made it +likely that he had strayed. + +Lucy gazed about her at the great looming red walls and out through the +avenues to the gray desert beyond. This adventure of hers would soon have an +end, for the day of the races was not far distant, and after that it was +obvious she would not have occasion to meet Slone. To think of never coming to +the pass again gave Lucy a pang. Unconsciously she meant that she would never +ride up here again, because Slone would not be here. A wind always blew +through the pass, and that was why the sand was so clean and hard. To-day it +was a pleasant wind, not hot, nor laden with dust, and somehow musical in the +cedars. The blue smoke from Slone's fire curled away and floated out of sight. +It was lonely, with the haunting presence of the broken walls ever manifest. +But the loneliness seemed full of content. She no longer wondered at Slone's +desert life. That might be well for a young man, during those years when +adventure and daring called him, but she doubted that it would be well for all +of a man's life. And only a little of it ought to be known by a woman. She saw +how the wildness and loneliness and brooding of such a life would prevent a +woman's development. Yet she loved it all and wanted to live near it, so that +when the need pressed her she could ride out into the great open stretches and +see the dark monuments grow nearer and nearer, till she was under them, in the +silent and colored shadows. + +Slone returned presently with Wildfire. The stallion shone like a flame in the +sunlight. His fear and hatred of Slone showed in the way he obeyed. Slone had +mastered him, and must always keep the upper hand of him. It had from the +first been a fight between man and beast, and Lucy believed it would always be +so. + +But Wildfire was a different horse when he saw Lucy. Day by day evidently +Slone loved him more and tried harder to win a little of what Wildfire showed +at sight of Lucy. Still Slone was proud of Lucy's control over the stallion. +He was just as much heart and soul bent on winning the great race as Lucy was. +She had ridden Wildfire bareback at first, and then they had broken him to the +saddle. + +It was serious business, that training of Wildfire, and Slone had peculiar +ideas regarding it. Lucy rode him up and down the pass until he was warm. Then +Slone got on Sarchedon. Wildfire always snorted and showed fight at sight of +Sage King or Nagger, and the stallion Sarchedon infuriated him because +Sarchedon showed fight, too. Slone started out ahead of Lucy, and then they +raced down the long pass. The course was hard-packed sand. Fast as Sarchedon +was, and matchless as a horseman as was Slone, the race was over almost as +soon as it began. Wildfire ran indeed like fire before the wind. He wanted to +run, and the other horse made him fierce. Like a burr Lucy stuck low over his +neck, a part of the horse, and so light he would not have known he was +carrying her but for the repeated calls in his ears. Lucy never spurred him. +She absolutely refused to use spurs on him. This day she ran away from Slone, +and, turning at the end of the two-mile course they had marked out, she loped +Wildfire back. Slone turned with her, and they were soon in camp. Lucy did not +jump off. She was in a transport. Every race kindled a mounting fire in her. +She was scarlet of face, out of breath, her hair flying. And she lay on +Wildfire's neck and hugged him and caressed him and talked to him in low tones +of love. + +Slone dismounted and got Sarchedon out of the way, then crossed to where Lucy +still fondled Wildfire. He paused a moment to look at her, but when she saw +him he started again, and came close up to her as she sat the saddle. + +"You went past me like a bullet," he said. + +"Oh, can't he run!" murmured Lucy. + +"Could he beat the King to-day?" + +Slone had asked that question every day, more than once. + +"Yes, he could--to-day. I know it," replied Lucy. "Oh--I get so--so excited. +I--I make a fool of myself--over him. But to ride him--going like that--Lin! +it's just glorious!" + +"You sure can ride him," replied Slone. "I can't see a fault anywhere--in +him--or in your handling him. He never breaks. He goes hard, but he saves +something. He gets mad--fierce--all the time, yet he WANTS to go your way. +Lucy, I never saw the like of it. Somehow you an' Wildfire make a combination. +You can't be beat." + +"Do I ride him--well?" she asked, softly. + +"I could never ride him so well." + +"Oh, Lin--you just want to please me. Why, Van couldn't ride with you." + +"I don't care, Lucy," replied Slone, stoutly. "You rode this horse perfect. +I've found fault with you on the King, on your mustangs, an' on this black +horse Sarch. But on Wildfire! You grow there." + +"What will Dad say, and Farlane, and Holley, and Van? Oh, I'll crow over Van," +said Lucy. "I'm crazy to ride Wildfire out before all the Indians and ranchers +and riders, before the races, just to show him off, to make them stare." + +"No, Lucy. The best plan is to surprise them all. Enter your horse for the +race, but don't show up till all the riders are at the start." + +"Yes, that'll be best. . . . And, Lin, only five days more--five days!" + +Her words made Slone thoughtful, and Lucy, seeing that, straightway grew +thoughtful, too. + +"Sure--only five days more," repeated Slone, slowly. + +His tone convinced Lucy that he meant to speak again as he had spoken once +before, precipitating the only quarrel they had ever had. + +"Does ANY ONE at Bostil's Ford know you meet me out here?" he asked, suddenly. + +"Only Auntie. I told her the other day. She had been watching me. She thought +things. So I told her." + +"What did she say?" went on Slone, curiously. + +"She was mad," replied Lucy. "She scolded me. She said. . . . But, anyway, I +coaxed her not to tell on me." + +"I want to know what she said," spoke up the rider, deliberately. + +Lucy blushed, and it was a consciousness of confusion as well as Slone's tone +that made her half-angry. + +"She said when I was found out there'd be a--a great fuss at the Ford. There +would be talk. Auntie said I'm now a grown-up girl. . . . Oh, she carried on! +. . . Bostil would likely shoot you. And if he didn't some of the riders +would. . . . Oh, Lin, it was perfectly ridiculous the way Auntie talked." + +"I reckon not," replied Slone. "I'm afraid I've done wrong to let you come out +here. . . . But I never thought. I'm not used to girls. I'll--I'll deserve +what I get for lettin' you came." + +"It's my own business," declared Lucy, spiritedly. "And I guess they'd better +let you alone." + +Slone shook his head mournfully. He was getting one of those gloomy spells +that Lucy hated. Nevertheless, she felt a stir of her pulses. + +"Lucy, there won't be any doubt about my stand--when I meet Bostil," said +Slone. Some thought had animated him. + +"What do you mean?" Lucy trembled a little. + +There was a sternness about Slone, a dignity that seemed new. "I'll ask him +to--to let you marry me." + +Lucy stared aghast. Slone appeared in dead earnest. + +"Nonsense!" she exclaimed, shortly. + +"I reckon the possibility is--that," replied Slone, bitterly, "but my motive +isn't." + +"It is. Why, you've known me only a few days. . . . Dad would be mad. Like +as not he'd knock you down. . . . I tell you, Lin, my dad is--is pretty +rough. And just at this time of the races. . . . And if Wildfire beats +the King! . . . Whew!" + +"WHEN Wildfire beats the King, not IF," corrected Slone. + +"Dad will be dangerous," warned Lucy. "Please don't---don't ask him that. Then +everybody would know I--I--you---you--" + +"That's it. I want everybody at your home to know." + +"But it's a little place," flashed Lucy. "Every one knows me. I'm the only +girl. There have been--other fellows who. . . . And oh! I don't want you made +fun of!" + +"Why?" he asked. + +Lucy turned away her head without answering. Something deep within her was +softening her anger. She must fight to keep angry; and that was easy enough, +she thought, if she could only keep in mind Slone's opposition to her. +Strangely, she discovered that it had been sweet to find him always governed +by her desire or will. + +"Maybe you misunderstand," he began, presently. And his voice was not steady. +"I don't forget I'm only--a beggarly rider. I couldn't have gone into the Ford +at all--I was such a ragamuffin--" + +"Don't talk like that!" interrupted Lucy, impatiently. + +"Listen," he replied. "My askin' Bostil for you doesn't mean I've any hope. +. . . It's just I want him an' everybody to know that I asked." + +"But Dad--everybody will think that YOU think there's reason--why--I--why, +you OUGHT to ask," burst out Lucy, with scarlet face. + +"Sure, that's it," he replied. + +"But there's no reason. None! Not a reason under the sun," retorted Lucy, +hotly. "I found you out here. I did you a--a little service. We planned to +race Wildfire. And I came out to ride him. . . . That's all." + +Slone's dark, steady gaze disconcerted Lucy. "But, no one knows me, and we've +been alone in secret." + +"It's not altogether--that. I--I told Auntie," faltered Lucy. + +"Yes, just lately." + +"Lin Slone, I'll never forgive you if you ask Dad that," declared Lucy, with +startling force. + +"I reckon that's not so important." + +"Oh!--so you don't care." Lucy felt herself indeed in a mood not +comprehensible to her. Her blood raced. She wanted to be furious with Slone, +but somehow she could not wholly be so. There was something about him that +made her feel small and thoughtless and selfish. Slone had hurt her pride. But +the thing that she feared and resented and could not understand was the +strange gladness Slone's declaration roused in her. She tried to control her +temper so she could think. Two emotions contended within her--one of intense +annoyance at the thought of embarrassment surely to follow Slone's action, and +the other a vague, disturbing element, all sweet and furious and inexplicable. +She must try to dissuade him from approaching her father. + +"Please don't go to Dad." She put a hand on Slone's arm as he stood close up +to Wildfire. + +"I reckon I will," he said. + +"Lin!" In that word there was the subtle, nameless charm of an intimacy she +had never granted him until that moment. He seemed drawn as if by invisible +wires. He put a shaking hand on hers and crushed her gauntleted fingers. And +Lucy, in the current now of her woman's need to be placated if not obeyed, +pressed her small hand to his. How strange to what lengths a little submission +to her feeling had carried her! Every spoken word, every movement, seemed to +exact more from her. She did not know herself. + +"Lin! . . . Promise not to--speak to Dad!" + +"No." His voice rang. + +"Don't give me away--don't tell my Dad!" + +"What?" he queried, incredulously. + +Lucy did not understand what. But his amazed voice, his wide-open eyes of +bewilderment, seemed to aid her into piercing the maze of her own mind. A +hundred thoughts whirled together, and all around them was wrapped the warm, +strong feeling of his hand on hers. What did she mean that he would tell her +father? There seemed to be a deep, hidden self in her. Up out of these depths +came a whisper, like a ray of light, and it said to her that there was more +hope for Lin Slone than he had ever had in one of his wildest dreams. + +"Lin, if you tell Dad--then he'll know--and there WON'T be any hope for you!" +cried Lucy, honestly. + +If Slone caught the significance of her words he did not believe it. + +"I'm goin' to Bostil after the race an' ask him. That's settled," declared +Slone, stubbornly. + +At this Lucy utterly lost her temper. "Oh! you--you fool!" she cried. + +Slone drew back suddenly as if struck, and a spot of dark blood leaped to his +lean face. "No! It seems to me the right way." + +"Right or wrong there's no sense in it--because--because. Oh! can't you see?" + +"I see more than I used to," he replied. "I was a fool over a horse. An' now +I'm a fool over a girl. . . . I wish you'd never found me that day!" + +Lucy whirled in the saddle and made Wildfire jump. She quieted him, and, +leaping off, threw the bridle to Slone. "I won't ride your horse in the race!" +she declared with sudden passion. She felt herself shaking all over. + +"Lucy Bostil, I wish I was as sure of Heaven as I am you'll be up on Wildfire +in that race," he said. + +"I won't ride your horse." + +"MY horse. Oh, I see. . . . But you'll ride Wildfire." + +"I won't." + +Slone suddenly turned white, and his eyes flashed dark fire. "You won't be +able to help ridin' him any more than I could help it." + +"A lot you know about me, Lin Slone!" returned Lucy, with scorn. "I can be +as--as bull-headed as you, any day." + +Slone evidently controlled his temper, though his face remained white. He even +smiled at her. + +"You are Bostil's daughter," he said. + +"Yes." + +"You are blood an' bone, heart an' soul a rider, if any girl ever was. You're +a wonder with a horse--as good as any man I ever saw. You love Wildfire. An' +look--how strange! That wild stallion--that killer of horses, why he follows +you, he whistles for you, he runs like lightnin' for you; he LOVES you." + +Slone had attacked Lucy in her one weak point. She felt a force rending her. +She dared not look at Wildfire. Yes--all, that was true Slone had said. How +desperately hard to think of forfeiting the great race she knew she could win! + +"Never! I'll never ride your Wildfire AGAIN!" she said, very, low. + +"MINE! . . . So that's the trouble. Well, Wildfire won't be mine when you ride +the race." + +"What do you mean?" demanded Lucy. "You'll sell him to Bostil. . . . Bah! you +couldn't . . ." + +"Sell Wildfire!--after what it cost me to catch an' break him? . . . Not for +all your father's lands an' horses an' money!" + +Slone's voice rolled out with deep, ringing scorn. And Lucy, her temper +quelled, began to feel the rider's strength, his mastery of the situation, and +something vague, yet splendid about him that hurt her. + +Slone strode toward her. Lucy backed against the cedar-tree and could go no +farther. How white he was now! Lucy's heart gave a great, fearful leap, for +she imagined Slone intended to take her in his arms. But he did not. + +"When you ride--Wildfire in that--race he'll be--YOURS!" said Slone, huskily. + +"How can that be?" questioned Lucy, in astonishment. + +"I give him to you." + +"You--give--Wildfire--to me?" gasped Lucy. + +"Yes. Right now." + +The rider's white face and dark eyes showed the strain of great and passionate +sacrifice. + +"Lin Slone! . . . I can't--understand you." + +"You've got to ride Wildfire in that race. You've got to beat the King. . . . +So I give Wildfire to you. An' now you can't help but ride him." + +"Why--why do you give him--to me?" faltered Lucy. + +All her pride and temper had vanished, and she seemed lost in blankness. + +"Because you love Wildfire. An' Wildfire loves you. . . . If that isn't reason +enough--then . . . because I love him--as no rider ever loved a horse. . . . +An' I love you as no man ever loved a girl!" + +Slone had never before spoken words of love to Lucy. She dropped her head. She +knew of his infatuation. But he had always been shy except once when he had +been bold, and that had caused a quarrel. With a strange pain at her breast +Lucy wondered why Slone had not spoken that way before? It made as great a +change in her as if she had been born again. It released something. A bolt +shot back in her heart. She knew she was quivering like a leaf, with no power +to control her muscles. She knew if she looked up then Slone might see the +depths of her soul. Even with her hands shutting out the light she thought the +desert around had changed and become all mellow gold and blue and white, +radiant as the moonlight of dreams--and that the monuments soared above them +grandly, and were beautiful and noble, like the revelations of love and joy to +her. And suddenly she found herself sitting at the foot of the cedar, weeping, +with tear-wet hands over her face. + +"There's nothin' to---to cry about," Slone was saying. "But I'm sorry if I +hurt you." + +"Will--you--please--fetch Sarch?" asked Lucy, tremulously. + +While Slone went for the horse and saddled him Lucy composed herself +outwardly. And she had two very strong desires--one to tell Slone something, +and the other to run. She decided she would do both together. + +Slone brought Sarchedon. Lucy put on her gauntlets, and, mounting the horse, +she took a moment to arrange her skirts before she looked down at Slone. He +was now pale, rather than white, and instead of fire in his eyes there was +sadness. Lucy felt the swelling and pounding of her heart--and a long, +delicious shuddering thrill that ran over her. + +"Lin, I won't take Wildfire," she said. + +"Yes, you will. You can't refuse. Remember he's grown to look to you. It +wouldn't be right by the horse." + +"But he's all you have in the world," she protested. Yet she knew any +protestations would be in vain. + +"No. I have good old faithful Nagger." + +"Would you go try to hunt another wild stallion--like Wildfire?" asked Lucy, +curiously. She was playing with the wonderful sweet consciousness of her power +to render happiness when she chose. + +"No more horse-huntin' for me," declared Slone. "An' as for findin' one like +Wildfire--that'd never be." + +"Suppose I won't accept him?" + +"How could you refuse? Not for me but for Wildfire's sake! . . . But if you +could be mean an' refuse, why, Wildfire can go back to the desert." + +"No!" exclaimed Lucy. + +"I reckon so." + +Lucy paused a moment. How dry her tongue seemed! And her breathing was +labored! An unreal shimmering gleam shone on all about her. Even the red +stallion appeared enveloped in a glow. And the looming monuments looked down +upon her, paternal, old, and wise, bright with the color of happiness. + +"Wildfire ought to have several more days' training--then a day of rest--and +then the race," said Lucy, turning again to look at Slone. + +A smile was beginning to change the hardness of his face. "Yes, Lucy," he +said. + +"And I'll HAVE to ride him?" + +"You sure will--if he's ever to beat the King." + +Lucy's eyes flashed blue. She saw the crowd--the curious, friendly +Indians--the eager riders--the spirited horses--the face of her father--and +last the race itself, such a race as had never been ran, so swift, so fierce, +so wonderful. + +"Then Lin," began Lucy, with a slowly heaving breast, "if I accept Wildfire +will you keep him for me--until . . . and if I accept him, and tell you why, +will you promise to say--" + +"Don't ask me again!" interrupted Slone, hastily. "I WILL speak to Bostil." + +"Wait, will you . . . promise not to say a word--a single word to ME--till +after the race?" + +"A word--to you! What about?" he queried, wonderingly. Something in his eyes +made Lucy think of the dawn. + +"About--the--Because--Why, I'm--I'll accept your horse." + +"Yes," he replied, swiftly. + +Lucy settled herself in the saddle and, shortening the bridle, she got ready +to spur Sarchedon into a bolt. + +"Lin, I'll accept Wildfire because I love you." + +Sarchedon leaped forward. Lucy did not see Slone's face nor hear him speak. +Then she was tearing through the sage, out past the whistling Wildfire, with +the wind sweet in her face. She did not look back. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +All through May there was an idea, dark and sinister, growing in Bostil's +mind. Fiercely at first he had rejected it as utterly unworthy of the man he +was. But it returned. It would not be denied. It was fostered by singular and +unforeseen circumstances. The meetings with Creech, the strange, sneaking +actions of young Joel Creech, and especially the gossip of riders about the +improvement in Creech's swift horse--these things appeared to loom larger and +larger and to augment in Bostil's mind the monstrous idea which he could not +shake off. So he became brooding and gloomy. + +It appeared to be an indication of his intense preoccupation of mind that he +seemed unaware of Lucy's long trips down into the sage. But Bostil had +observed them long before Holley and other riders had approached him with the +information. + +"Let her alone," he growled to his men. "I gave her orders to train the King. +An' after Van got well mebbe Lucy just had a habit of ridin' down there. She +can take care of herself." + +To himself, when alone, Bostil muttered: "Wonder what the kid has looked up +now? Some mischief, I'll bet!" + +Nevertheless, he did not speak to her on the subject. Deep in his heart he +knew he feared his keen-eyed daughter, and during these days he was glad she +was not in evidence at the hours when he could not very well keep entirely to +himself. Bostil was afraid Lucy might divine what he had on his mind. There +was no one else he cared for. Holley, that old hawk-eyed rider, might see +through him, but Bostil knew Holley would be loyal, whatever he saw. + +Toward the end of the month, when Somers returned from horse-hunting, Bostil +put him and Shugrue to work upon the big flatboat down at the crossing. Bostil +himself went down, and he walked--a fact apt to be considered unusual if it +had been noticed. + +"Put in new planks," was his order to the men. "An' pour hot tar in the +cracks. Then when the tar dries shove her in . . . but I'll tell you when." + +Every morning young Creech rowed over to see if the boat was ready to take the +trip across to bring his father's horses back. The third morning of work on +the boat Bostil met Joel down there. Joel seemed eager to speak to Bostil. He +certainly was a wild-looking youth. + +"Bostil, my ole man is losin' sleep waitin' to git the hosses over," he said, +frankly. "Feed's almost gone." + +"That'll be all right, Joel," replied Bostil. "You see, the river ain't begun +to raise yet. . . . How're the hosses comin' on?" + +"Grand, sir--grand!" exclaimed the simple Joel. "Peg is runnin' faster than +last year, but Blue Roan is leavin' her a mile. Dad's goin' to bet all he has. +The roan can't lose this year." + +Bostil felt like a bull bayed at by a hound. Blue Roan was a young horse, and +every season he had grown bigger and faster. The King had reached the limit of +his speed. That was great, Bostil knew, and enough to win over any horse in +the uplands, providing the luck of the race fell even. Luck, however, was a +fickle thing. + +"I was advisin' Dad to swim the hosses over," declared Joel, deliberately. + +"A-huh! You was? . . . An' why?" rejoined Bostil. + +Joel's simplicity and frankness vanished, and with them his rationality. He +looked queer. His contrasting eyes shot little malignant gleams. He muttered +incoherently, and moved back toward the skiff, making violent gestures, and +his muttering grew to shouting, though still incoherent. He got in the boat +and started to row back over the river. + +"Sure he's got a screw loose," observed Somers. Shugrue tapped his grizzled +head significantly. + +Bostil made no comment. He strode away from his men down to the river shore, +and, finding a seat on a stone, he studied the slow eddying red current of the +river and he listened. If any man knew the strange and remorseless Colorado, +that man was Bostil. He never made any mistakes in anticipating what the river +was going to do. + +And now he listened, as if indeed the sullen, low roar, the murmuring hollow +gurgle, the sudden strange splash, were spoken words meant for his ears alone. +The river was low. It seemed tired out. It was a dirty red in color, and it +swirled and flowed along lingeringly. At times the current was almost +imperceptible; and then again it moved at varying speed. It seemed a petulant, +waiting, yet inevitable stream, with some remorseless end before it. It had a +thousand voices, but not the one Bostil listened to hear. + +He plodded gloomily up the trail, resting in the quiet, dark places of the +canyon, loath to climb out into the clear light of day. And once in the +village, Bostil shook himself as if to cast off an evil, ever-present, +pressing spell. + +The races were now only a few days off. Piutes and Navajos were camped out on +the sage, and hourly the number grew as more came in. They were building cedar +sunshades. Columns of blue smoke curled up here and there. Mustangs and ponies +grazed everywhere, and a line of Indians extended along the racecourse, where +trials were being held. The village was full of riders, horse-traders and +hunters, and ranchers. Work on the ranges had practically stopped for the time +being, and in another day or so every inhabitant of the country would be in +Bostil's Ford. + +Bostil walked into the village, grimly conscious that the presence of the +Indians and riders and horses, the action and color and bustle, the near +approach of the great race-day--these things that in former years had brought +him keen delight and speculation--had somehow lost their tang. He had changed. +Something was wrong in him. But he must go among these visitors and welcome +them as of old; he who had always been the life of these racing-days must be +outwardly the same. And the task was all the harder because of the pleasure +shown by old friends among the Indians and the riders at meeting him. Bostil +knew he had been a cunning horse-trader, but he had likewise been a good +friend. Many were the riders and Indians who owed much to him. So everywhere +he was hailed and besieged, until finally the old excitement of betting and +bantering took hold of him and he forgot his brooding. + +Brackton's place, as always, was a headquarters for all visitors. Macomber had +just come in full of enthusiasm and pride over the horse he had entered, and +he had money to wager. Two Navajo chiefs, called by white men Old Horse and +Silver, were there for the first time in years. They were ready to gamble +horse against horse. Cal Blinn and his riders of Durango had arrived; likewise +Colson, Sticks, and Burthwait, old friends and rivals of Bostil's. + +For a while Brackton's was merry. There was some drinking and much betting. It +was characteristic of Bostil that he would give any odds asked on the King in +a race; and, furthermore, he would take any end of wagers on other horses. As +far as his own horses were concerned he bet shrewdly, but in races where his +horses did not figure he seemed to find fun in the betting, whether or not he +won. + +The fact remained, however, that there were only two wagers against the King, +and both were put up by Indians. Macomber was betting on second or third place +for his horse in the big race. No odds of Bostil's tempted him. + +"Say, where's Wetherby?" rolled out Bostil. "He'll back his hoss." + +"Wetherby's ridin' over to-morrow," replied Macomber. "But you gotta bet him +two to one." + +"See hyar, Bostil," spoke up old Cal Blinn, "you jest wait till I git an eye +on the King's runnin'. Mebbe I'll go you even money." + +"An' as fer me, Bostil," said Colson, "I ain't set up yit which hoss I'll +race." + +Burthwait, an old rider, came forward to Brackton's desk and entered a wager +against the field that made all the men gasp. + +"By George! pard, you ain't a-limpin' along!" ejaculated Bostil, admiringly, +and he put a hand on the other's shoulder. + +"Bostil, I've a grand hoss," replied Burthwait. "He's four years old, I guess, +fer he was born wild, an' you never seen him." + +"Wild hoss? . . . Huh!" growled Bostil. "You must think he can run." + +"Why, Bostil, a streak of lightnin' ain't anywheres with him." + +"Wal, I'm glad to hear it," said Bostil, gruffly. "Brack, how many hosses +entered now for the big race?" + +The lean, gray Brackton bent earnestly over his soiled ledger, while the +riders and horsemen round him grew silent to listen. + +"Thar's the Sage King by Bostil," replied Brackton. "Blue Roan an' Peg, by +Creech; Whitefoot, by Macomber; Rocks, by Holley; Hoss-shoes, by Blinn; Bay +Charley, by Burthwait. Then thar's the two mustangs entered by Old Hoss an' +Silver--an' last--Wildfire, by Lucy Bostil." + +"What's thet last?" queried Bostil. + +"Wildfire, by Lucy Bostil," repeated Brackton. + +"Has the girl gone an' entered a hoss?" + +"She sure has. She came in to-day, regular an' business-like, writ her name +an' her hoss's--here 'tis--an' put up the entrance money." + +"Wal, I'll be d--d!" exclaimed Bostil. He was astonished and pleased. "She +said she'd do it. But I didn't take no stock in her talk. . . . An' the hoss's +name?" + +"Wildfire." + +"Huh! . . . Wildfire. Mebbe thet girl can't think of names for hosses! What's +this hoss she calls Wildfire?" + +"She sure didn't say," replied Brackton. "Holley an' Van an' some more of the +boys was here. They joked her a little. You oughter seen the look Lucy give +them. But fer once she seemed mum. She jest walked away mysterious like." + +"Lucy's got a pony off some Indian, I reckon," returned Bostil, and he +laughed. "Then thet makes ten hosses entered so far?" + +"Right. An' there's sure to be one more. I guess the track's wide enough for +twelve." + +"Wal, Brack, there'll likely be one hoss out in front an' some stretched out +behind," replied Bostil, dryly. "The track's sure wide enough." + +"Won't thet be a grand race!" exclaimed an enthusiastic rider. "Wisht I had +about a million to bet!" + +"Bostil, I 'most forgot," went on Brackton, "Cordts sent word by the Piutes +who come to-day thet he'd be here sure." + +Bostil's face subtly changed. The light seemed to leave it. He did not reply +to Brackton--did not show that he heard the comment on all sides. Public +opinion was against Bostil's permission to allow Cordts and his horse-thieves +to attend the races. Bostil appeared grave, regretful. Yet it was known by all +that in the strangeness and perversity of his rider's nature he wanted Cordts +to see the King win that race. It was his rider's vanity and defiance in the +teeth of a great horse-thief. But no good would come of Cordts's presence +--that much was manifest. + +There was a moment of silence. All these men, if they did not fear Bostil, +were sometimes uneasy when near him. Some who were more reckless than discreet +liked to irritate him. That, too, was a rider's weakness. + +"When's Creech's hosses comin' over?" asked Colson, with sudden interest. + +"Wal, I reckon--soon," replied Bostil, constrainedly, and he turned away. + +By the time he got home all the excitement of the past hour had left him and +gloom again abided in his mind. He avoided his daughter and forgot the fact of +her entering a horse in the race. He ate supper alone, without speaking to his +sister. Then in the dusk he went out to the corrals and called the King to the +fence. There was love between master and horse. Bostil talked low, like a +woman, to Sage King. And the hard old rider's heart was full and a lump +swelled in his throat, for contact with the King reminded him that other men +loved other horses. + +Bostil returned to the house and went to his room, where he sat thinking in +the dark. By and by all was quiet. Then seemingly with a wrench he bestirred +himself and did what for him was a strange action. Removing his boots, he put +on a pair of moccasins. He slipped out of the house; he kept to the flagstone +of the walk; he took to the sage till out of the village, and then he sheered +round to the river trail. With the step and sureness and the eyes of an Indian +he went down through that pitch-black canyon to the river and the ford. + +The river seemed absolutely the same as during the day. He peered through the +dark opaqueness of gloom. It moved there, the river he knew, shadowy, +mysterious, murmuring. Bostil went down to the edge of the water, and, sitting +there, he listened. Yes--the voices of the stream were the same. But after a +long time he imagined there was among them an infinitely low voice, as if from +a great distance. He imagined this; he doubted; he made sure; and then all +seemed fancy again. His mind held only one idea and was riveted round it. He +strained his hearing, so long, so intently, that at last he knew he had heard +what he was longing for. Then in the gloom he took to the trail, and returned +home as he had left, stealthily, like an Indian. + +But Bostil did not sleep nor rest. + +Next morning early he rode down to the river. Somers and Shugrue had finished +the boat and were waiting. Other men were there, curious and eager. Joel +Creech, barefooted and ragged, with hollow eyes and strange actions, paced the +sands. + +The boat was lying bottom up. Bostil examined the new planking and the seams. +Then he straightened his form. + +"Turn her over," he ordered. "Shove her in. An' let her soak up to-day." + +The men seemed glad and relieved. Joel Creech heard and he came near to +Bostil. + +"You'll--you'll fetch Dad's hosses over?" he queried. + +"Sure. To-morrow," replied Bostil, cheerily. + +Joel smiled, and that smile showed what might have been possible for him under +kinder conditions of life. "Now, Bostil, I'm sorry fer what I said," blurted +Joel. + +"Shut up. Go tell your old man." + +Joel ran down to his skiff and, leaping in, began to row vigorously across. +Bostil watched while the workmen turned the boat over and slid it off the +sand-bar and tied it securely to the mooring. Bostil observed that not a man +there saw anything unusual about the river. But, for that matter, there was +nothing to see. The river was the same. + +That night when all was quiet in and around the village Bostil emerged from +his house and took to his stealthy stalk down toward the river. + +The moment he got out into the night oppression left him. How interminable the +hours had been! Suspense, doubt, anxiety, fear no longer burdened him. The +night was dark, with only a few stars, and the air was cool. A soft wind blew +across his heated face. A neighbor's dog, baying dismally, startled Bostil. He +halted to listen, then stole on under the cottonwoods, through the sage, down +the trail, into the jet-black canyon. Yet he found his way as if it had been +light. In the darkness of his room he had been a slave to his indecision; now +in the darkness of the looming cliffs he was free, resolved, immutable. + +The distance seemed short. He passed out of the narrow canyon, skirted the +gorge over the river, and hurried down into the shadowy amphitheater under the +looming walls. + +The boat lay at the mooring, one end resting lightly the sand-bar. With +strong, nervous clutch Bostil felt the knots of the cables. Then he peered +into the opaque gloom of that strange and huge V-shaped split between the +great canyon walls. Bostil's mind had begun to relax from the single idea. Was +he alone? Except for the low murmur of the river there was dead silence--a +silence like no other--a silence which seemed held under imprisoning walls. +Yet Bostil peered long into the shadows. Then he looked up. The ragged +ramparts far above frowned bold and black at a few cold stars, and the blue of +its sky was without the usual velvety brightness. How far it was up to that +corrugated rim! All of a sudden Bostil hated this vast ebony pit. + +He strode down to the water and, sitting upon the stone he had occupied so +often, he listened. He turned his ear up-stream, then down-stream, and to the +side, and again up-stream and listened. + +The river seemed the same. + +It was slow, heavy, listless, eddying, lingering, moving--the same apparently +as for days past. It splashed very softly and murmured low and gurgled +faintly. It gave forth fitful little swishes and musical tinkles and lapping +sounds. It was flowing water, yet the proof was there of tardiness. Now it was +almost still, and then again it moved on. It was a river of mystery telling a +lie with its low music. As Bostil listened all those soft, watery sounds +merged into what seemed a moaning, and that moaning held a roar so low as to +be only distinguishable to the ear trained by years. + +No--the river was not the same. For the voice of its soft moaning showed to +Bostil its meaning. It called from the far north--the north of great ice-clad +peaks beginning to glisten under the nearing sun; of vast snow-filled canyons +dripping and melting; of the crystal brooks suddenly colored and roiled and +filled bank-full along the mountain meadows; of many brooks plunging down and +down, rolling the rocks, to pour their volume into the growing turbid streams +on the slopes. It was the voice of all that widely separated water spilled +suddenly with magical power into the desert river to make it a mighty, +thundering torrent, red and defiled, terrible in its increasing onslaught into +the canyon, deep, ponderous, but swift--the Colorado in flood. + +And as Bostil heard that voice he trembled. What was the thing he meant to do? +A thousand thoughts assailed him in answer and none were clear. A chill passed +over him. Suddenly he felt that the cold stole up from his feet. They were +both in the water. He pulled them out and, bending down, watched the dim, dark +line of water. It moved up and up, inch by inch, swiftly. The river was on the +rise! + +Bostil leaped up. He seemed possessed of devils. A rippling hot gash of blood +fired his every vein and tremor after tremor shook him. + +"By G---d! I had it right--she's risin'!" he exclaimed, hoarsely. + +He stared in fascinated certainty at the river. All about it and pertaining to +it had changed. The murmur and moan changed to a low, sullen roar. The music +was gone. The current chafed at its rock-bound confines. Here was an uneasy, +tormented, driven river! The light from the stars shone on dark, glancing, +restless waters, uneven and strange. And while Bostil watched, whether it was +a short time or long, the remorseless, destructive nature of the river showed +itself. + +Bostil began to pace the sands. He thought of those beautiful race-horses +across the river. + +"It's not too late!" he muttered. "I can get the boat over an' back--yet!" + +He knew that on the morrow the Colorado in flood would bar those horses, +imprison them in a barren canyon, shut them in to starve. + +"It'd be hellish! . . . Bostil, you can't do it. You ain't thet kind of a man +. . . . Bostil poison a water-hole where hosses loved to drink, or burn over +grass! . . . What would Lucy think of you? . . . No, Bostil, you've let spite +rule bad. Hurry now and save them hosses!" + +He strode down to the boat. It swung clear now, and there was water between it +and the shore. Bostil laid hold of the cables. As he did so he thought of +Creech and a blackness enfolded him. He forgot Creech's horses. Something +gripped him, burned him--some hard and bitter feeling which he thought was +hate of Creech. Again the wave of fire ran over him, and his huge hands +strained on the cables. The fiend of that fiendish river had entered his soul. +He meant ruin to a man. He meant more than ruin. He meant to destroy what his +enemy, his rival loved. The darkness all about him, the gloom and sinister +shadow of the canyon, the sullen increasing roar of the' river--these lent +their influence to the deed, encouraged him, drove him onward, fought and +strangled the resistance in his heart. As he brooded all the motives for the +deed grew like that remorseless river. Had not his enemy's son shot at him +from ambush? Was not his very life at stake? A terrible blow must be dealt +Creech, one that would crush him or else lend him manhood enough to come forth +with a gun. Bostil, in his torment, divined that Creech would know who had +ruined him. They would meet then, as Bostil had tried more than once to bring +about a meeting. Bostil saw into his soul, and it was a gulf like this canyon +pit where the dark and sullen river raged. He shrank at what he saw, but the +furies of passion held him fast. His hands tore at the cables. Then he fell to +pacing to and fro in the gloom. Every moment the river changed its voice. In +an hour flood would be down. Too late, then! Bostil again remembered the +sleek, slim, racy thoroughbreds--Blue Roan, a wild horse he had longed to own, +and Peg, a mare that had no equal in the uplands. Where did Bostil's hate of a +man stand in comparison with love of a horse? He began to sweat and the sweat +burned him. + +"How soon'll Creech hear the river an' know what's comin'?" muttered Bostil, +darkly. And that question showed him how he was lost. All this strife of doubt +and fear and horror were of no use. He meant to doom Creech's horses. The +thing had been unalterable from the inception of the insidious, hateful idea. +It was irresistible. He grew strong, hard, fierce, and implacable. He found +himself. He strode back to the cables. The knots, having dragged in the water, +were soaking wet and swollen. He could not untie them. Then he cut one strand +after another. The boat swung out beyond his reach. + +Instinctively Bostil reached to pull it back. + +"My God! . . . It's goin'!" he whispered. "What have I done?" + +He--Bostil--who had made this Crossing of the Fathers more famous as Bostil's +Ford--he--to cut the boat adrift! The thing was inconceivable. + +The roar of the river rose weird and mournful and incessant, with few breaks, +and these were marked by strange ripping and splashing sounds made as the +bulges of water broke on the surface. Twenty feet out the boat floated, +turning a little as it drifted. It seemed loath to leave. It held on the shore +eddy. Hungrily, spitefully the little, heavy waves lapped it. Bostil watched +it with dilating eyes. There! the current caught one end and the water rose in +a hollow splash over the corner. An invisible hand, like a mighty giant's, +seemed to swing the boat out. It had been dark; now it was opaque, now +shadowy, now dim. How swift this cursed river! Was there any way in which +Bostil could recover his boat? The river answered him with hollow, deep +mockery. Despair seized upon him. And the vague shape of the boat, spectral +and instinct with meaning, passed from Bostil's strained gaze. + +"So help me God, I've done it!" he groaned, hoarsely. And he staggered back +and sat down. Mind and heart and soul were suddenly and exquisitely acute to +the shame of his act. Remorse seized upon his vitals. He suffered physical +agony, as if a wolf gnawed him internally. + +"To hell with Creech an' his hosses, but where do I come in as a man?" he +whispered. And he sat there, arms tight around his knees, locked both mentally +and physically into inaction. + +The rising water broke the spell and drove him back. The river was creeping no +longer. It swelled. And the roar likewise swelled. Bostil hurried across the +flat to get to the rocky trail before he was cut off, and the last few rods he +waded in water up to his knees. + +"I'll leave no trail there," he muttered, with a hard laugh. It sounded +ghastly to him, like the laugh of the river. + +And there at the foot of the rocky trail he halted to watch and listen. The +old memorable boom came to his ears. The flood was coming. For twenty-three +years he had heard the vanguard boom of the Colorado in flood. But never like +this, for in the sound he heard the strife and passion of his blood, and +realized himself a human counterpart of that remorseless river. The moments +passed and each one saw a swelling of the volume of sound. The sullen roar +just below him was gradually lost in a distant roar. A steady wind now blew +through the canyon. The great walls seemed to gape wider to prepare for the +torrent. Bostil backed slowly up the trail as foot by foot the water rose. The +floor of the amphitheater was now a lake of choppy, angry waves. The willows +bent and seethed in the edge of the current. Beyond ran an uneven, bulging +mass that resembled some gray, heavy moving monster. In the gloom Bostil could +see how the river turned a corner of wall and slanted away from it toward the +center, where it rose higher. Black objects that must have been driftwood +appeared on this crest. They showed an instant, then flashed out of sight. The +boom grew steadier, closer, louder, and the reverberations, like low +detonations of thunder, were less noticeable because all sounds were being +swallowed up. + +A harder breeze puffed into Bostil's face. It brought a tremendous thunder, as +if all the colossal walls were falling in avalanche. Bostil knew the crest of +the flood had turned the corner above and would soon reach him. He watched. He +listened, but sound had ceased. His ears seemed ringing and they hurt. All his +body felt cold, and he backed up and up, with dead feet. + +The shadows of the canyon lightened. A river-wide froth, like a curtain, moved +down, spreading mushroom-wise before it, a rolling, heaving maelstrom. Bostil +ran to escape the great wave that surged into the amphitheater, up and up the +rocky trail. When he turned again he seemed to look down into hell. Murky +depths, streaked by pale gleams, and black, sinister, changing forms yawned +beneath them. He watched with fixed eyes until once more the feeling of filled +ears left him and an awful thundering boom assured him of actualities. It was +only the Colorado in flood. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +Bostil slept that night, but his sleep was troubled, and a strange, dreadful +roar seemed to run through it, like a mournful wind over a dark desert. He was +awakened early by a voice at his window. He listened. There came a rap on the +wood. + +"Bostil! . . . Bostil!" It was Holley's voice. + +Bostil rolled off the bed. He had slept without removing any apparel except +his boots. + +"Wal, Hawk, what d'ye mean wakin' a man at this unholy hour?" growled Bostil. + +Holley's face appeared above the rude sill. It was pale and grave, with the +hawk eyes like glass. "It ain't so awful early," he said. "Listen, boss." + +Bostil halted in the act of pulling on a boot. He looked at his man while he +listened. The still air outside seemed filled with low boom, like thunder at a +distance. Bostil tried to look astounded. + +"Hell! . . . It's the Colorado! She's boomin'!" + +"Reckon it's hell all right--for Creech," replied Holley. "Boss, why didn't +you fetch them hosses over?" + +Bostil's face darkened. He was a bad man to oppose--to question at times. +"Holley, you're sure powerful anxious about Creech. Are you his friend?" + +"Naw! I've little use fer Creech," replied Holley. "An' you know thet. But I +hold for his hosses as I would any man's." + +"A-huh! An' what's your kick?" + +"Nothin'--except you could have fetched them over before the flood come down. +That's all." + +The old horse-trader and his right-hand rider looked at each other for a +moment in silence. They understood each other. Then Bostil returned to the +task of pulling on wet boots and Holley went away. + +Bostil opened his door and stepped outside. The eastern ramparts of the desert +were bright red with the rising sun. With the night behind him and the morning +cool and bright and beautiful, Bostil did not suffer a pang nor feel a regret. +He walked around under the cottonwoods where the mocking-birds were singing. +The shrill, screeching bray of a burro split the morning stillness, and with +that the sounds of the awakening village drowned that sullen, dreadful boom of +the river. Bostil went in to breakfast. + +He encountered Lucy in the kitchen, and he did not avoid her. He could tell +from her smiling greeting that he seemed to her his old self again. Lucy wore +an apron and she had her sleeves rolled up, showing round, strong, brown arms. +Somehow to Bostil she seemed different. She had been pretty, but now she was +more than that. She was radiant. Her blue eyes danced. She looked excited. She +had been telling her aunt something, and that worthy woman appeared at once +shocked and delighted. But Bostil's entrance had caused a mysterious break in +everything that had been going on, except the preparation of the morning meal. + +"Now I rode in on some confab or other, that's sure," said Bostil, +good-naturedly. + +"You sure did, Dad," replied Lucy, with a bright smile. + +"Wal, let me sit in the game," he rejoined. + +"Dad, you can't even ante," said Lucy. + +"Jane, what's this kid up to?" asked Bostil, turning to his sister. + +"The good Lord only knows!" replied Aunt Jane, with a sigh. + +"Kid? . . . See here, Dad, I'm eighteen long ago. I'm grown up. I can do as I +please, go where I like, and anything. . . . Why, Dad, I could get--married." + +"Haw! haw!" laughed Bostil. "Jane, hear the girl." + +"I hear her, Bostil," sighed Aunt Jane. + +"Wal, Lucy, I'd just like to see you fetch some fool love-sick rider around +when I'm feelin' good," said Bostil. + +Lucy laughed, but there was a roguish, daring flash in her eyes. "Dad, you do +seem to have all the young fellows scared. Some day maybe one will ride +along--a rider like you used to be--that nobody could bluff. . . . And he can +have me!" + +"A-huh! . . . Lucy, are you in fun?" + +Lucy tossed her bright head, but did not answer. + +"Jane, what's got into her?" asked Bostil, appealing to his sister. + +"Bostil, she's in fun, of course," declared Aunt Jane. "Still, at that, +there's some sense in what she says. Come to your breakfast, now." + +Bostil took his seat at the table, glad that he could once more be amiable +with his women-folk. "Lucy, to-morrow'll be the biggest day Bostil's Ford ever +seen," he said. + +"It sure will be, Dad. The biggest SURPRISING day the Ford ever had," replied +Lucy. + +"Surprisin'?" + +"Yes, Dad." + +"Who's goin' to get surprised?" + +"Everybody." + +Bostil said to himself that he had been used to Lucy's banter, but during his +moody spell of days past he had forgotten how to take her or else she was +different. + +"Brackton tells me you've entered a hoss against the field." + +"It's an open race, isn't it?" + +"Open as the desert, Lucy," he replied. "What's this hoss Wildfire you've +entered?" + +"Wouldn't you like to know?" taunted Lucy. + +"If he's as good as his name you might be in at the finish. . . . But, Lucy, +my dear, talkin' good sense now--you ain't a-goin' to go up on some unbroken +mustang in this big race?" + +"Dad, I'm going to ride a horse." + +"But, Lucy, ain't it a risk you'll be takin'--all for fun?" + +"Fun! ... I'm in dead earnest." + +Bostil liked the look of her then. She had paled a little; her eyes blazed; +she was intense. His question had brought out her earnestness, and straightway +Bostil became thoughtful. If Lucy had been a boy she would have been the +greatest rider on the uplands; and even girl as she was, superbly mounted, she +would have been dangerous in any race. + +"Wal, I ain't afraid of your handlin' of a hoss," he said, soberly. "An' as +long as you're in earnest I won't stop you. But, Lucy, no bettin'. I won't let +you gamble." + +"Not even with you?" she coaxed. + +Bostil stared at the girl. What had gotten into her? "What'll you bet?" he, +queried, with blunt curiosity. + +"Dad, I'll go you a hundred dollars in gold that I finish one--two--three." + +Bostil threw back his head to laugh heartily. What a chip of the old block she +was! "Child, there's some fast hosses that'll be back of the King. You'd be +throwin' away money." + +Blue fire shone in his daughter's eyes. She meant business, all right, and +Bostil thrilled with pride in her. + +"Dad, I'll bet you two hundred, even, that I beat the King!" she flashed. + +"Wal, of all the nerve!" ejaculated Bostil. "No, I won't take you up. Reckon I +never before turned down an even bet. Understand, Lucy, ridin' in the race is +enough for you." + +"All right, Dad," replied Lucy, obediently. + +At that juncture Bostil suddenly shoved back his plate and turned his face to +the open door. "Don't I hear a runnin' hoss?" + +Aunt Jane stopped the noise she was making, and Lucy darted to the door. Then +Bostil heard the sharp, rhythmic hoof-beats he recognized. They shortened to +clatter and pound--then ceased somewhere out in front of the house. + +"It's the King with Van up," said Lucy, from the door. "Dad, Van's jumped +off--he's coming in . . . he's running. Something has happened. . . . There +are other horses coming--riders--Indians." + +Bostil knew what was coming and prepared himself. Rapid footsteps sounded +without. + +"Hello, Miss Lucy! Where's Bostil?" + +A lean, supple rider appeared before the door. It was Van, greatly excited. + +"Come in, boy," said Bostil. "What're you flustered about?" + +Van strode in, spurs jangling, cap in hand. "Boss, there's--a sixty-foot +raise--in the river!" Van panted. + +"Oh!" cried Lucy, wheeling toward her father. + +"Wal, Van, I reckon I knowed thet," replied Bostil. "Mebbe I'm gettin' old, +but I can still hear. . . . Listen." + +Lucy tiptoed to the door and turned her head sidewise and slowly bowed it till +she stiffened. Outside were, sounds of birds and horses and men, but when a +lull came it quickly filled with a sullen, low boom. + +"Highest flood we--ever seen," said Van. + +"You've been down?" queried Bostil, sharply. + +"Not to the river," replied Van. "I went as far as--where the gulch opens--on +the bluff. There was a string of Navajos goin' down. An' some comin' up. I +stayed there watchin' the flood, an' pretty soon Somers come up the trail with +Blakesley an' Brack an' some riders. . . . An' Somers hollered out, 'The +boat's gone!'" + +"Gone!" exclaimed Bostil, his loud cry showing consternation. + +"Oh, Dad! Oh, Van!" cried Lucy, with eyes wide and lips parted. + +"Sure she's gone. An' the whole place down there--where the willows was an' +the sand-bar--it was deep under water." + +"What will become of Creech's horses?" asked Lucy, breathlessly. + +"My God! ain't it a shame!" went on Bostil, and he could have laughed aloud at +his hypocrisy. He felt Lucy's blue eyes riveted upon his face. + +"Thet's what we all was sayin'," went on Van. "While we was watchin' the awful +flood an' listenin' to the deep bum--bum--bum of rollin' rocks some one seen +Creech an' two Piutes leadin' the hosses up thet trail where the slide was. We +counted the hosses--nine. An' we saw the roan shine blue in the sunlight." + +"Piutes with Creech!" exclaimed Bostil, the deep gloom in his eyes lighting. +"By all thet's lucky! Mebbe them Indians can climb the hosses out of thet hole +an' find water an' grass enough." + +"Mebbe," replied Van, doubtfully. "Sure them Piutes could if there's a chance. +But there ain't any grass." + +"It won't take much grass travelin' by night." + +"So lots of the boys say. But the Navajos they shook their heads. An' Farlane +an' Holley, why, they jest held up their hands." + +"With them Indians Creech has a chance to get his hosses out," declared +Bostil. He was sure of his sincerity, but he was not certain that his +sincerity was not the birth of a strange, sudden hope. And then he was able to +meet the eyes of his daughter. That was his supreme test. + +"Oh, Dad, why, why didn't you hurry Creech's horses over?" said Lucy, with her +tears falling. + +Something tight within Bostil's breast seemed to ease and lessen. "Why didn't +I? . . . Wal, Lucy, I reckon I wasn't in no hurry to oblige Creech. I'm sorry +now." + +"It won't be so terrible if he doesn't lose the horses," murmured Lucy. + +"Where's young Joel Creech?" asked Bostil. + +"He stayed on this side last night," replied Van. "Fact is, Joel's the one who +first knew the flood was on. Some one said he said he slept in the canyon last +night. Anyway, he's ravin' crazy now. An' if he doesn't do harm to some one or +hisself I'll miss my guess." + +"A-huh!" grunted Bostil. "Right you are." + +"Dad, can't anything be done to help Creech now?" appealed Lucy, going close +to her father. + +Bostil put his arm around her and felt immeasurably relieved to have the +golden head press close to his shoulder. "Child, we can't fly acrost the +river. Now don't you cry about Creech's hosses. They ain't starved yet. It's +hard luck. But mebbe it'll turn out so Creech'll lose only the race. An', +Lucy, it was a dead sure bet he'd have lost thet anyway." + +Bostil fondled his daughter a moment, the first time in many a day, and then +he turned to his rider at the door. "Van, how's the King?" + +"Wild to run, Bostil, jest plumb wild. There won't be any hoss with the ghost +of a show to-morrow." + +Lucy raised her drooping head. "Is THAT so, Van Sickle? . . . Listen here. If +you and Sage King don't get more wild running to-morrow than you ever had I'll +never ride again!" With this retort Lucy left the room. + +Van stared at the door and then at Bostil. "What'd I say, Bostil?" he asked, +plaintively. "I'm always r'ilin' her." + +"Cheer up, Van. You didn't say much. Lucy is fiery these days. She's got a +hoss somewhere an' she's goin' to ride him in the race. She offered to bet on +him--against the King! It certainly beat me all hollow. But see here, Van. +I've a hunch there's a dark hoss goin' to show up in this race. So don't +underrate Lucy an' her mount, whatever he is. She calls him Wildfire. Ever see +him?" + +"I sure haven't. Fact is, I haven't seen Lucy for days an' days. As for the +hunch you gave, I'll say I was figurin' Lucy for some real race. Bostil, she +doesn't MAKE a hoss run. He'll run jest to please her. An' Lucy's lighter 'n a +feather. Why, Bostil, if she happened to ride out there on Blue Roan or some +other hoss as fast I'd--I'd jest wilt." + +Bostil uttered a laugh full of pride in his daughter. "Wal, she won't show up +on Blue Roan," he replied, with grim gruffness. "Thet's sure as death. . . . +Come on out now. I want a look at the King." + +Bostil went into the village. All day long he was so busy with a thousand and +one things referred to him, put on him, undertaken by him, that he had no time +to think. Back in his mind, however, there was a burden of which he was +vaguely conscious all the time. He worked late into the night and slept late +the next morning. + +Never in his life had Bostil been gloomy or retrospective on the day of a +race. In the press of matters he had only a word for Lucy, but that earned a +saucy, dauntless look. He was glad when he was able to join the procession of +villagers, visitors, and Indians moving out toward the sage. + +The racecourse lay at the foot of the slope, and now the gray and purple sage +was dotted with more horses and Indians, more moving things and colors, than +Bostil had ever seen there before. It was a spectacle that stirred him. Many +fires sent up blue columns of smoke from before the hastily built brush huts +where the Indians cooked and ate. Blankets shone bright in the sun; burros +grazed and brayed; horses whistled piercingly across the slope; Indians lolled +before the huts or talked in groups, sitting and lounging on their ponies; +down in the valley, here and there, were Indians racing, and others were +chasing the wiry mustangs. Beyond this gay and colorful spectacle stretched +the valley, merging into the desert marked so strikingly and beautifully by +the monuments. + +Bostil was among the last to ride down to the high bench that overlooked the +home end of the racecourse. He calculated that there were a thousand Indians +and whites congregated at that point, which was the best vantage-ground to see +the finish of a race. And the occasion of his arrival, for all the gaiety, was +one of dignity and importance. If Bostil reveled in anything it was in an hour +like this. His liberality made this event a great race-day. The thoroughbreds +were all there, blanketed, in charge of watchful riders. In the center of the +brow of this long bench lay a huge, flat rock which had been Bostil's seat in +the watching of many a race. Here were assembled his neighbors and visitors +actively interested in the races, and also the important Indians of both +tribes, all waiting for him. + +As Bostil dismounted, throwing the bridle to a rider, he saw a face that +suddenly froze the thrilling delight of the moment. A tall, gaunt man with +cavernous black eyes and huge, drooping black mustache fronted him and seemed +waiting. Cordts! Bostil had forgotten. Instinctively Bostil stood on guard. +For years he had prepared himself for the moment when he would come face to +face with this noted horse-thief. + +"Bostil, how are you?" said Cordts. He appeared pleasant, and certainly +grateful for being permitted to come there. From his left hand hung a belt +containing two heavy guns. + +"Hello, Cordts," replied Bostil, slowly unbending. Then he met the other's +proffered hand. + +"I've bet heavy on the King," said Cordts. + +For the moment there could have been no other way to Bostil's good graces, and +this remark made the gruff old rider's hard face relax. + +"Wal, I was hopin' you'd back some other hoss, so I could take your money," +replied Bostil. + +Cordts held out the belt and guns to Bostil. "I want to enjoy this race," he +said, with a smile that somehow hinted of the years he had packed those guns +day and night. + +"Cordts, I don't want to take your guns," replied Bostil, bluntly. "I've taken +your word an' that's enough." + +"Thanks, Bostil. All the same, as I'm your guest I won't pack them," returned +Cordts, and he hung the belt on the horn of Bostil's saddle. "Some of my men +are with me. They were all right till they got outside of Brackton's whisky. +But now I won't answer for them." + +"Wal, you're square to say thet," replied Bostil. "An' I'll run this race an' +answer for everybody." + +Bostil recognized Hutchinson and Dick Sears, but the others of Cordts's gang +he did not know. They were a hard-looking lot. Hutchinson was a spare, +stoop-shouldered, red-faced, squinty-eyed rider, branded all over with the +marks of a bad man. And Dick Sears looked his notoriety. He was a little knot +of muscle, short and bow-legged, rough in appearance as cactus. He wore a +ragged slouch-hat pulled low down. His face and stubby beard were +dust-colored, and his eyes seemed sullen, watchful. He made Bostil think of a +dusty, scaly, hard, desert rattlesnake. Bostil eyed this right-hand man of +Cordts's and certainly felt no fear of him, though Sears had the fame of swift +and deadly skill with a gun. Bostil felt that he was neither afraid nor loath +to face Sears in gun-play, and he gazed at the little horse-thief in a manner +that no one could mistake. Sears was not drunk, neither was he wholly free +from the unsteadiness caused by the bottle. Assuredly he had no fear of Bostil +and eyed him insolently. Bostil turned away to the group of his riders and +friends, and he asked for his daughter. + +"Lucy's over there," said Farlane, pointing to a merry crowd. + +Bostil waved a hand to her, and Lucy, evidently mistaking his action, came +forward, leading one of her ponies. She wore a gray blouse with a red scarf, +and a skirt over overalls and boots. She looked pale, but she was smiling, and +there was a dark gleam of excitement in her blue eyes. She did not have on her +sombrero. She wore her hair in a braid, and had a red band tight above her +forehead. Bostil took her in all at a glance. She meant business and she +looked dangerous. Bostil knew once she slipped out of that skirt she could +ride with any rider there. He saw that she had become the center toward which +all eyes shifted. It pleased him. She was his, like her mother, and as +beautiful and thoroughbred as any rider could wish his daughter. + +"Lucy, where's your hoss?" he asked, curiously. + +"Never you mind, Dad. I'll be there at the finish," she replied. + +"Red's your color for to-day, then?" he questioned, as he put a big hand on +the bright-banded head. + +She nodded archly. + +"Lucy, I never thought you'd flaunt red in your old Dad's face. Red, when the +color of the King is like the sage out yonder. You've gone back on the King." + +"No, Dad, I never was for Sage King, else I wouldn't wear red to-day." + +"Child, you sure mean to run in this race--the big one?" + +"Sure and certain." + +"Wal, the only bitter drop in my cup to-day will be seein' you get beat. But +if you ran second I'll give you a present thet'll make the purse look sick." + +Even the Indian chiefs were smiling. Old Horse, the Navajo, beamed benignly +upon this daughter of the friend of the Indians. Silver, his brother +chieftain, nodded as if he understood Bostil's pride and regret. Some of the +young riders showed their hearts in their eyes. Farlane tried to look +mysterious, to pretend he was in Lucy's confidence. + +"Lucy, if you are really goin' to race I'll withdraw my hoss so you can win," +said Wetherby, gallantly. + +Bostil's sonorous laugh rolled down the slope. + +"Miss Lucy, I sure hate to run a hoss against yours," said old Cal Blinn. Then +Colson, Sticks, Burthwait, the other principals, paid laughing compliments to +the bright-haired girl. + +Bostil enjoyed this hugely until he caught the strange intensity of regard in +the cavernous eyes of Cordts. That gave him a shock. Cordts had long wanted +this girl as much probably as he wanted Sage King. There were dark and +terrible stories that stained the name of Cordts. Bostil regretted his impulse +in granting the horse-thief permission to attend the races. Sight of Lucy's +fair, sweet face might inflame this Cordts--this Kentuckian who had boasted of +his love of horses and women. Behind Cordts hung the little dust-colored +Sears, like a coiled snake, ready to strike. Bostil felt stir in him a +long-dormant fire--a stealing along his veins, a passion he hated. + +"Lucy, go back to the women till you're ready to come out on your hoss," he +said. "An' mind you, be careful to-day!" + +He gave her a meaning glance, which she understood perfectly, he saw, and then +he turned to start the day's sport. + +The Indian races run in twos and threes, and on up to a number that crowded +the racecourse; the betting and yelling and running; the wild and plunging +mustangs; the heat and dust and pounding of hoofs; the excited betting; the +surprises and defeats and victories, the trial tests of the principals, +jealously keeping off to themselves in the sage; the endless moving, colorful +procession, gaudy and swift and thrilling--all these Bostil loved +tremendously. + +But they were as nothing to what they gradually worked up to--the climax--the +great race. + +It was afternoon when all was ready for this race, and the sage was bright +gray in the westering sun. Everybody was resting, waiting. The tense quiet of +the riders seemed to settle upon the whole assemblage. Only the thoroughbreds +were restless. They quivered and stamped and tossed their small, fine heads. +They knew what was going to happen. They wanted to run. Blacks, bays, and +whites were the predominating colors; and the horses and mustangs were alike +in those points of race and speed and spirit that proclaimed them +thoroughbreds. + +Bostil himself took the covering off his favorite. Sage King was on edge. He +stood out strikingly in contrast with the other horses. His sage-gray body was +as sleek and shiny as satin. He had been trained to the hour. He tossed his +head as he champed the bit, and every moment his muscles rippled under his +fine skin. Proud, mettlesome, beautiful! + +Sage King was the favorite in the betting, the Indians, who were ardent +gamblers, plunging heavily on him. + +Bostil saddled the horse and was long at the task. + +Van stood watching. He was pale and nervous. Bostil saw this. + +"Van," he said, "it's your race." + +The rider reached a quick hand for bridle and horn, and when his foot touched +the stirrup Sage King was in the air. He came down, springy-quick, graceful, +and then he pranced into line with the other horses. + +Bostil waved his hand. Then the troop of riders and racers headed for the +starting-point, two miles up the valley. Macomber and Blinn, with a rider and +a Navajo, were up there as the official starters of the day. + +Bostil's eyes glistened. He put a friendly hand on Cordts's shoulder, an +action which showed the stress of the moment. Most of the men crowded around +Bostil. Sears and Hutchinson hung close to Cordts. And Holley, keeping near +his employer, had keen eyes for other things than horses. + +Suddenly he touched Bostil and pointed down the slope. "There's Lucy," he +said. "She's ridin' out to join the bunch." + +"Lucy! Where? I'd forgotten my girl! . . . Where?" + +"There," repeated Holly, and he pointed. Others of the group spoke up, having +seen Lucy riding down. + +"She's on a red hoss," said one. + +"'Pears all-fired big to me--her hoss," said another. "Who's got a glass?" + +Bostil had the only field-glass there and he was using it. Across the round, +magnified field of vision moved a giant red horse, his mane waving like a +flame. Lucy rode him. They were moving from a jumble of broken rocks a mile +down the slope. She had kept her horse hidden there. Bostil felt an added stir +in his pulse-beat. Certainly he had never seen a horse like this one. But the +distance was long, the glass not perfect; he could not trust his sight. +Suddenly that sight dimmed. + +"Holley, I can't make out nothin'," he complained. "Take the glass. Give me a +line on Lucy's mount." + +"Boss, I don't need the glass to see that she's up on a HOSS," replied Holley, +as he took the glass. He leveled it, adjusted it to his eyes, and then looked +long. Bostil grew impatient. Lucy was rapidly overhauling the troop of racers +on her way to the post. Nothing ever hurried or excited Holley. + +"Wal, can't you see any better 'n me?" queried Bostil, eagerly. + +"Come on, Holl, give us a tip before she gits to the post," spoke up a rider. + +Cordts showed intense eagerness, and all the group were excited. Lucy's +advent, on an unknown horse that even her father could not disparage, was the +last and unexpected addition to the suspense. They all knew that if the horse +was fast Lucy would be dangerous. + +Holley at last spoke: "She's up on a wild stallion. He's red, like fire. He's +mighty big--strong. Looks as if he didn't want to go near the bunch. Lord! +what action! . . . Bostil, I'd say--a great hoss!" + +There was a moment's intense silence in the group round Bostil. Holley was +never known to mistake a horse or to be extravagant in judgment or praise. + +"A wild stallion!" echoed Bostil. "A-huh! An' she calls him Wildfire. Where'd +she get him? . . . Gimme thet glass." + +But all Bostil could make out was a blur. His eyes were wet. He realized now +that his first sight of Lucy on the strange horse had been clear and strong, +and it was that which had dimmed his eyes. + +"Holley, you use the glass--an' tell me what comes off," said Bostil, as he +wiped his eyes with his scarf. He was relieved to find that his sight was +clearing. "My God! if I couldn't see this finish!" + +Then everybody watched the close, dark mass of horses and riders down the +valley. And all waited for Holley to speak. "They're linin' up," began the +rider. "Havin' some muss, too, it 'pears. . . . Bostil, thet red hoss is +raisin' hell! He wants to fight. There! he's up in the air. . . . Boys, he's a +devil--a hoss-killer like all them wild stallions. . . . He's plungin' at the +King--strikin'! There! Lucy's got him down. She's handlin' him. . . . Now +they've got the King on the other side. Thet's better. But Lucy's hoss won't +stand. Anyway, it's a runnin' start. . . . Van's got the best position. Foxy +Van! . . . He'll be leadin' before the rest know the race's on.. . . Them +Indian mustangs are behavin' scandalous. Guess the red stallion scared 'em. +Now they're all lined up back of the post. . . . Ah! gun-smoke! They move. +. . . It looks like a go." + +Then Holley was silent, strained, in watching. So were all the watchers +silent. Bostil saw far down the valley a moving, dark line of horses. + +"THEY'RE OFF! THEY'RE OFF!" called Holley, thrillingly. + +Bostil uttered a deep and booming yell, which rose above the shouts of the men +round him and was heard even in the din of Indian cries. Then as quickly as +the yells had risen they ceased. + +Holley stood up on the rock with leveled glass. + +"Mac's dropped the flag. It's a sure go. Now! . . . Van's out there +front--inside. The King's got his stride. Boss, the King's stretchin' out! . . +. Look! Look! see thet red hoss leap! . . . Bostil, he's runnin' down the +King! I knowed it. He's like lightnin'. He's pushin' the King over--off the +course! See him plunge! Lord! Lucy can't pull him! She goes +up--down--tossed--but she sticks like a burr. Good, Lucy! Hang on! . . . My +Gawd, Bostil, the King's thrown! He's down! . . . He comes up, off the course. +The others flash by. . . . Van's out of the race! . . . An', Bostil--an', +gentlemen, there ain't anythin' more to this race but a red hoss!" + +Bostil's heart gave a great leap and then seemed to stand still. He was half +cold, half hot. + +What a horrible, sickening disappointment. Bostil rolled out a cursing query. +Holley's answer was short and sharp. The King was out! Bostil raved. He could +not see. He could not believe. After all the weeks of preparation, of +excitement, of suspense--only this! There was no race. The King was out! The +thing did not seem possible. A thousand thoughts flitted through Bostil's +mind. Rage, impotent rage, possessed him. He cursed Van, he swore he would +kill that red stallion. And some one shook him hard. Some one's incisive words +cut into his thick, throbbing ears: "Luck of the game! The King ain't beat! +He's only out!" + +Then the rider's habit of mind asserted itself and Bostil began to recover. +For the King to fall was hard luck. But he had not lost the race! Anguish and +pride battled for mastery over him. Even if the King were out it was a Bostil +who would win the great race. + +"He ain't beat!" muttered Bostil. "It ain't fair! He's run off the track by a +wild stallion!" + +His dimmed sight grew clear and sharp. And with a gasp he saw the moving, dark +line take shape as horses. A bright horse was in the lead. Brighter and larger +he grew. Swiftly and more swiftly he came on. The bright color changed to red. +Bostil heard Holley calling and Cordts calling--and other voices, but he did +not distinguish what was said. The line of horses began to bob, to bunch. The +race looked close, despite what Holley had said. The Indians were beginning to +lean forward, here and there uttering a short, sharp yell. Everything within +Bostil grew together in one great, throbbing, tingling mass. His rider's eye, +keen once more, caught a gleam of gold above the red, and that gold was Lucy's +hair. Bostil forgot the King. + +Then Holley bawled into his ear, "They're half-way!" + +The race was beautiful. Bostil strained his eyes. He gloried in what he +saw--Lucy low over the neck of that red stallion. He could see plainer now. +They were coming closer. How swiftly! What a splendid race! But it was too +swift--it would not last. The Indians began to yell, drowning the hoarse +shouts of the riders. Out of the tail of his eye Bostil saw Cordts and Sears +and Hutchinson. They were acting like crazy men. Strange that horse-thieves +should care! The million thrills within Bostil coalesced into one great +shudder of rapture. He grew wet with sweat. His stentorian voice took up the +call for Lucy to win. + +"Three-quarters!" bowled Holley into Bostil's ear. "An' Lucy's give thet wild +hoss free rein! Look, Bostil! You never in your life seen a hoss ran like +thet!" + +Bostil never had. His heart swelled. Something shook him. Was that his +girl--that tight little gray burr half hidden in the huge stallion's flaming +mane? The distance had been close between Lucy and the bunched riders. + +But it lengthened. How it widened! That flame of a horse was running away from +the others. And now they were close--coming into the home stretch. A deafening +roar from the onlookers engulfed all other sounds. A straining, stamping, +arm-flinging horde surrounded Bostil. + +Bostil saw Lucy's golden hair whipping out from the flame-streaked mane. And +then he could only see that red brute of a horse. Wildfire before the wind! +Bostil thought of the leaping prairie flame, storm-driven. + +On came the red stallion--on--on! What a tremendous stride! What a marvelous +recovery! What ease! What savage action! + +He flashed past, low, pointed, long, going faster every magnificent +stride--winner by a dozen lengths. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +Wildfire ran on down the valley far beyond the yelling crowd lined along the +slope. Bostil was deaf to the throng; he watched the stallion till Lucy forced +him to stop and turn. + +Then Bostil whirled to see where Van was with the King. Most of the crowd +surged down to surround the racers, and the yells gave way to the buzz of many +voices. Some of the ranchers and riders remained near Bostil, all apparently +talking at once. Bostil gathered that Holley's Whitefoot had ran second, and +the Navajo's mustang third. It was Holley himself who verified what Bostil had +heard. The old rider's hawk eyes were warm with delight. + +"Boss, he run second!" Holley kept repeating. + +Bostil had the heart to shake hands with Holley and say he was glad, when it +was on his lips to blurt out there had been no race. Then Bostil's nerves +tingled at sight of Van trotting the King up the course toward the slope. +Bostil watched with searching eyes. Sage King did not appear to be injured. +Van rode straight up the slope and leaped off. He was white and shaking. + +The King's glossy hide was dirty with dust and bits of cactus and brush. He +was not even hot. There did not appear to be a bruise or mark on him. He +whinnied and rubbed his face against Bostil, and then, flinching, he swept up +his head, ears high. Both fear and fire shone in his eyes. + +"Wal, Van, get it out of your system," said Bostil, kindly. He was a harder +loser before a race was run than after he had lost it. + +"Thet red hoss run in on the King before the start an' scared the race out of +him," replied Van, swiftly. "We had a hunch, you know, but at thet Lucy's hoss +was a surprise. I'll say, sir, thet Lucy rode her wild hoss an' handled him. +Twice she pulled him off the King. He meant to kill the King! . . . Ask any of +the boys. . . . We got started. I took the lead, sir. The King was in the +lead. I never looked back till I heard Lucy scream. She couldn't pull +Wildfire. He was rushin' the King--meant to kill him. An' Sage King wanted to +fight. If I could only have kept him runnin'! Thet would have been a race! +. . . But Wildfire got in closer an' closer. He crowded us. He bit at the +King's flank an' shoulder an' neck. Lucy pulled till I yelled she'd throw +the hoss an' kill us both. Then Wildfire jumped for us. Runnin' an' strikin' +with both feet at once! Bostil, thet hoss's hell! Then he hit us an' down +we went. I had a bad spill. But the King's not hurt an' thet's a blessed +wonder." + +"No race, Van! It was hard luck. Take him home," said Bostil. + +Van's story of the accident vindicated Bostil's doubts. A new horse had +appeared on the scene, wild and swift and grand, but Sage King was still +unbeaten in a fair race. There would come a reckoning, Bostil grimly muttered. +Who owned this Wildfire? + +Holley might as well have read his mind. "Reckon this feller ridin' up will +take down the prize money," remarked Holley, and he pointed to a man who rode +a huge, shaggy, black horse and was leading Lucy's pony. + +"A-huh!" exclaimed Bostil. "A strange rider." + +"An' here comes Lucy coaxin' the stallion back," added Holley. + +"A wild stallion never clear broke!" ejaculated Cordts. + +All the men looked and all had some remark of praise for Lucy and her mount. + +Bostil gazed with a strange, irresistible attraction. Never had he expected to +live to see a wild stallion like this one, to say nothing of his daughter +mounted on him, with the record of having put Sage King out of the race! + +A thousand pairs of eyes watched Wildfire. He pranced out there beyond the +crowd of men and horses. He did not want to come closer. Yet he did not seem +to fight his rider. Lucy hung low over his neck, apparently exhausted, and she +was patting him and caressing him. There were horses and Indians on each side +of the race track, and between these lines Lucy appeared reluctant to come. + +Bostil strode down and, waving and yelling for everybody to move back to the +slope, he cleared the way and then stood out in front alone. + +"Ride up, now," he called to Lucy. + +It was then Bostil discovered that Lucy did not wear a spur and she had +neither quirt nor whip. She turned Wildfire and he came prancing on, head and +mane and tail erect. His action was beautiful, springy, and every few steps, +as Lucy touched him, he jumped with marvelous ease and swiftness. + +Bostil became all eyes. He did not see his daughter as she paraded the winner +before the applauding throng. And Bostil recorded in his mind that which he +would never forget--a wild stallion, with unbroken spirit; a giant of a horse, +glistening red, with mane like dark-striped, wind-blown flame, all muscle, all +grace, all power; a neck long and slender and arching to the small, savagely +beautiful head; the jaws open, and the thin-skinned, pink-colored nostrils +that proved the Arabian blood; the slanting shoulders and the deep, broad +chest, the powerful legs and knees not too high nor too low, the symmetrical +dark hoofs that rang on the little stones--all these marks so significant of +speed and endurance. A stallion with a wonderful physical perfection that +matched the savage, ruthless spirit of the desert killer of horses! + +Lucy waved her hand, and the strange rider to whom Holley had called attention +strode out of the crowd toward Wildfire. + +Bostil's gaze took in the splendid build of this lithe rider, the clean-cut +face, the dark eye. This fellow had a shiny, coiled lasso in hand. He advanced +toward Wildfire. The stallion snorted and plunged. If ever Bostil saw hate +expressed by a horse he saw it then. But he seemed to be tractable to the +control of the girl. Bostil swiftly grasped the strange situation. Lucy had +won the love of the savage stallion. That always had been the secret of her +power. And she had hated Sage King because he alone had somehow taken a +dislike to her. Horses were as queer as people, thought Bostil. + +The rider walked straight up to the trembling Wildfire. When Wildfire plunged +and reared up and up the rider leaped for the bridle and with an iron arm +pulled the horse down. Wildfire tried again, almost lifting the rider, but a +stinging cut from the lasso made him come to a stand. Plainly the rider held +the mastery. + +"Dad!" called Lucy, faintly. + +Bostil went forward, close, while the rider held Wildfire. Lucy was as +wan-faced as a flower by moonlight. Her eyes were dark with emotions, fear +predominating. Then for Bostil the half of his heart that was human reasserted +itself. Lucy was only a girl now, and weakening. Her fear, her pitiful little +smile, as if she dared not hope for her father's approval yet could not help +it, touched Bostil to the quick, and he opened his arms. Lucy slid down into +them. + +"Lucy, girl, you've won the King's race an' double-crossed your poor old dad!" + +"Oh, Dad, I never knew--I never dreamed Wildfire--would jump the King," Lucy +faltered. "I couldn't hold him. He was terrible. . . . It made me sick. . . . +Daddy, tell me Van wasn't hurt--or the King!" + +"The hoss's all right an' so's Van," replied Bostil. "Don't cry, Lucy. It was +a fool trick you pulled off, but you did it great. By Gad! you sure was ridin' +thet red devil. . . . An' say, it's all right with me!" + +Lucy did not faint then, but she came near it. Bostil put her down and led her +through the lines of admiring Indians and applauding riders, and left her with +the women. + +When he turned again he was in time to see the strange rider mount Wildfire. +It was a swift and hazardous mount, the stallion being in the air. When he +came down he tore the turf and sent it flying, and when he shot up again he +was doubled in a red knot, bristling with fiery hair, a furious wild beast, +mad to throw the rider. Bostil never heard as wild a scream uttered by a +horse. Likewise he had never seen so incomparable a horseman as this stranger. +Indians and riders alike thrilled at a sight which was after their own hearts. +The rider had hooked his long spurs under the horse and now appeared a part of +him. He could not be dislodged. This was not a bucking mustang, but a fierce, +powerful, fighting stallion. No doubt, thought Bostil, this fight took place +every time the rider mounted his horse. It was the sort of thing riders loved. +Most of them would not own a horse that would not pitch. Bostil presently +decided, however, that in the case of this red stallion no rider in his right +senses would care for such a fight, simply because of the extraordinary +strengths, activity, and ferocity of the stallion. + +The riders were all betting the horse would throw the stranger. And Bostil, +seeing the gathering might of Wildfire's momentum, agreed with them. No +horseman could stick on that horse. Suddenly Wildfire tripped in the sage, and +went sprawling in the dust, throwing his rider ahead. Both man and beast were +quick to rise, but the rider had a foot in the stirrup before Wildfire was +under way. Then the horse plunged, ran free, came circling back, and slowly +gave way to the rider's control. Those few moments of frenzied activity had +brought out the foam and the sweat--Wildfire was wet. The man pulled him in +before Bostil and dismounted. + +"Sometimes I ride him, then sometimes I don't," he said, with a smile. + +Bostil held out his hand. He liked this rider. He would have liked the frank +face, less hard than that of most riders, and the fine, dark eyes, straight +and steady, even if their possessor had not come with the open sesame to +Bostil's regard--a grand, wild horse, and the nerve to ride him. + +"Wal, you rode him longer 'n any of us figgered," said Bostil, heartily +shaking the man's hand. "I'm Bostil. Glad to meet you." + +"My name's Slone--Lin Slone," replied the rider, frankly. "I'm a wild-horse +hunter an' hail from Utah." + +"Utah? How'd you ever get over? Wal, you've got a grand hoss--an' you put a +grand rider up on him in the race. . . . My girl Lucy--" + +Bostil hesitated. His mind was running swiftly. Back of his thoughts gathered +the desire and the determination to get possession of this horse Wildfire. He +had forgotten what he might have said to this stranger under different +circumstances. He looked keenly into Slone's face and saw no fear, no +subterfuge. The young man was honest. + +"Bostil, I chased this wild horse days an' weeks an' months, hundreds of +miles--across the canyon an' the river--" + +"No!" interrupted Bostil, blankly. + +"Yes. I'll tell you how later. . . . Out here somewhere I caught Wildfire, +broke him as much as he'll ever be broken. He played me out an' got away. Your +girl rode along--saved my horse--an' saved my life, too. I was in bad shape +for days. But I got well--an'--an' then she wanted me to let her run Wildfire +in the big race. I couldn't refuse. . . . An' it would have been a great race +but for the unlucky accident to Sage King. I'm sorry, sir." + +"Slone, it jarred me some, thet disappointment. But it's over," replied +Bostil. "An' so thet's how Lucy found her hoss. She sure was mysterious. . . . +Wal, wal." Bostil became aware of others behind him. "Holley, shake hands with +Slone, hoss-wrangler out of Utah. . . . You, too, Cal Blinn. . . . An' +Macomber--an' Wetherby, meet my friend here--young Slone. . . . An', Cordts, +shake hands with a feller thet owns a grand hoss!" + +Bostil laughed as he introduced the horse-thief to Slone. The others laughed, +too, even Cordts joining in. There was much of the old rider daredevil spirit +left in Bostil, and it interested and amused him to see Cordts and Slone meet. +Assuredly Slone had heard of the noted stealer of horses. The advantage was +certainly on Cordts's side, for he was good-natured and pleasant while Slone +stiffened, paling slightly as he faced about to acknowledge the introduction. + +"Howdy, Slone," drawled Cordts, with hand outstretched. "I sure am glad to +meet yuh. I'd like to trade the Sage King for this red stallion!" + +A roar of laughter greeted this sally, all but Bostil and Slone joining in. +The joke was on Bostil, and he showed it. Slone did not even smile. + +"Howdy, Cordts," he replied. "I'm glad to meet you--so I'll know you when I +see you again." + +"Wal, we're all good fellers to-day," interposed Bostil. "An' now let's ride +home an' eat. Slone, you come with me." + +The group slowly mounted the slope where the horses waited. Macomber, +Wetherby, Burthwait, Blinn--all Bostil's friends proffered their felicitations +to the young rider, and all were evidently prepossessed with him. + +The sun was low in the west; purple shades were blotting out the gold lights +down the valley; the day of the great races was almost done. Indians were +still scattered here and there in groups; others were turning out the +mustangs; and the majority were riding and walking with the crowd toward the +village. + +Bostil observed that Cordts had hurried ahead of the group and now appeared to +be saying something emphatic to Dick Sears and Hutchinson. Bostil heard Cordts +curse. Probably he was arraigning the sullen Sears. Cordts had acted first +rate--had lived up to his word, as Bostil thought he would do. Cordts and +Hutchinson mounted their horses and rode off, somewhat to the left of the +scattered crowd. But Sears remained behind. Bostil thought this strange and +put it down to the surliness of the fellow, who had lost on the races. Bostil, +wishing Sears would get out of his sight, resolved never to make another +blunder like inviting horse-thieves to a race. + +All the horses except Wildfire stood in a bunch back on the bench. Sears +appeared to be fussing with the straps on his saddle. And Bostil could not +keep his glance from wandering back to gloat over Wildfire's savage grace and +striking size. + +Suddenly there came a halt in the conversation of the men, a curse in Holley's +deep voice, a violent split in the group. Bostil wheeled to see Sears in a +menacing position with two guns leveled low. + +"Don't holler!" he called. "An' don't move!" + +"What 'n the h--l now, Sears?" demanded Bostil. + +"I'll bore you if you move--thet's what!" replied Sears. His eyes, bold, +steely, with a glint that Bostil knew, vibrated as he held in sight all points +before him. A vicious little sand-rattlesnake about to strike! + +"Holley, turn yer back!" ordered Sears. + +The old rider, who stood foremost of the group' instantly obeyed, with hands +up. He took no chances here, for he alone packed a gun. With swift steps Sears +moved, pulled Holley's gun, flung it aside into the sage. + +"Sears, it ain't a hold-up!" expostulated Bostil. The act seemed too bold, too +wild even for Dick Sears. + +"Ain't it?" scoffed Sears, malignantly. "Bostil, I was after the King. But I +reckon I'll git the hoss thet beat him!" + +Bostil's face turned dark-blood color and his neck swelled. "By Gawd, Sears! +You ain't a-goin' to steal this boy's hoss!" + +"Shut up!" hissed the horse-thief. He pushed a gun close to Bostil. "I've +always laid fer you! I'm achin' to bore you now. I would but fer scarin' this +hoss. If you yap again I'll KILL YOU, anyhow, an' take a chance!" + +All the terrible hate and evil and cruelty and deadliness of his kind burned +in his eyes and stung in his voice. + +"Sears, if it's my horse you want you needn't kill Bostil," spoke up Slone. +The contrast of his cool, quiet voice eased the terrible strain. + +"Lead him round hyar!" snapped Sears. + +Wildfire appeared more shy of the horses back of him than of the men. Slone +was able to lead him, however, to within several paces of Sears. Then Slone +dropped the reins. He still held a lasso which was loosely coiled, and the +loop dropped in front of him as he backed away. + +Sears sheathed the left-hand gun. Keeping the group covered with the other, he +moved backward, reaching for the hanging reins. Wildfire snorted, appeared +about to jump. But Sears got the reins. Bostil, standing like a stone, his +companions also motionless, could not help but admire the daring of this +upland horse-thief. How was he to mount that wild stallion? Sears was noted +for two qualities--his nerve before men and his skill with horses. Assuredly +he would not risk an ordinary mount. Wildfire began to suspect Sears--to look +at him instead of the other horses. Then quick as a cat Sears vaulted into the +saddle. Wildfire snorted and lifted his forefeet in a lunge that meant he +would bolt. + +Sears in vaulting up had swung the gun aloft. He swept it down, but +waveringly, for Wildfire had begun to rear. + +Bostil saw how fatal that single instant would have been for Sears if he or +Holley had a gun. + +Something whistled. Bostil saw the leap of Slone's lasso--the curling, snaky +dart of the noose which flew up to snap around Sears. The rope sung taut. +Sears was swept bodily clean from the saddle, to hit the ground in sodden +impact. + +Almost swifter than Bostil's sight was the action of Slone--flashing by--in +the air--himself on the plunging horse. Sears shot once, twice. Then Wildfire +bolted as his rider whipped the lasso round the horn. Sears, half rising, was +jerked ten feet. An awful shriek was throttled in his throat. + +A streak of dust on the slope--a tearing, parting line in the sage! + +Bostil stood amazed. The red stallion made short plunges. Slone reached low +for the tripping reins. When he straightened up in the saddle Wildfire broke +wildly into a run. + +It was characteristic of Holley that at this thrilling, tragic instant he +walked over into the sage to pick up his gun. + +"Throwed a gun on me, got the drop, an' pitched mine away!" muttered Holley, +in disgust. The way he spoke meant that he was disgraced. + +"My Gawd! I was scared thet Sears would get the hoss!" rolled out Bostil. + +Holley thought of his gun; Bostil thought of the splendid horse. The thoughts +were characteristic of these riders. The other men, however, recovering from a +horror-broken silence, burst out in acclaim of Slone's feat. + +"Dick Sears's finish! Roped by a boy rider!" exclaimed Cal Blinn, fervidly. + +"Bostil, that rider is worthy of his horse," said Wetherby. "I think Sears +would have bored you. I saw his finger pressing--pressing on the trigger. Men +like Sears can't help but pull at that stage." + +"Thet was the quickest trick I ever seen," declared Macomber. + +They watched Wildfire run down the slope, out into the valley, with a streak +of rising dust out behind. They all saw when there ceased to be that peculiar +rising of dust. Wildfire appeared to shoot ahead at greater speed. Then he +slowed up. The rider turned him and faced back toward the group, coming at a +stiff gallop. Soon Wildfire breasted the slope, and halted, snorting, shaking +before the men. The lasso was still trailing out behind, limp and sagging. +There was no weight upon it now. + +Bostil strode slowly ahead. He sympathized with the tension that held Slone; +he knew why the rider's face was gray, why his lips only moved mutely, why +there was horror in the dark, strained eyes, why the lean, strong hands, +slowly taking up the lasso, now shook like leaves in the wind. + +There was only dust on the lasso. But Bostil knew--they all knew that none the +less it had dealt a terrible death to the horse-thief. + +Somehow Bostil could not find words for what he wanted to say. He put a hand +on the red stallion--patted his shoulder. Then he gripped Slone close and +hard. He was thinking how he would have gloried in a son like this young, wild +rider. Then he again faced his comrades. + +"Fellers, do you think Cordts was in on thet trick?" he queried. + +"Nope. Cordts was on the square," replied Holley. "But he must have seen it +comin' an' left Sears to his fate. It sure was a fittin' last ride for a +hoss-thief." + +Bostil sent Holley and Farlane on ahead to find Cordts and Hutchinson, with +their comrades, to tell them the fate of Sears, and to warn them to leave +before the news got to the riders. + +The sun was setting golden and red over the broken battlements of the canyons +to the west. The heat of the day blew away on a breeze that bent the tips of +the sage-brush. A wild song drifted back from the riders to the fore. And the +procession of Indians moved along, their gay trappings and bright colors +beautiful in the fading sunset light. + +When Bostil and, his guests arrived at the corrals, Holley, with Farlane and +other riders, were waiting. + +"Boss," said Holley, "Cordts an' his outfit never rid in. They was last seen +by some Navajos headin' for the canyon." + +"Thet's good!" ejaculated Bostil, in relief. "Wal boys, look after the hosses. +. . . Slone, just turn Wildfire over to the boys with instructions, an' feel +safe." + +Farlane scratched his head and looked dubious. "I'm wonderin' how safe it'll +be fer us." + +"I'll look after him," said Slone. + +Bostil nodded as if he had expected Slone to refuse to let any rider put the +stallion away for the night. Wildfire would not go into the barn, and Slone +led him into one of the high-barred corrals. Bostil waited, talking with his +friends, until Slone returned, and then they went toward the house. + +"I reckon we couldn't get inside Brack's place now," remarked Bostil. "But in +a case like this I can scare up a drink." Lights from the windows shone bright +through the darkness under the cottonwoods. Bostil halted at the door, as if +suddenly remembering, and he whispered, huskily: "Let's keep the women from +learnin' about Sears--to-night, anyway." + +Then he led the way through the big door into the huge living-room. There were +hanging-lights on the walls and blazing sticks on the hearth. Lucy came +running in to meet them. It did not escape Bostil's keen eyes that she was +dressed in her best white dress. He had never seen her look so sweet and +pretty, and, for that matter, so strange. The flush, the darkness of her eyes, +the added something in her face, tender, thoughtful, strong--these were new. +Bostil pondered while she welcomed his guests. Slone, who had hung back, was +last in turn. Lucy greeted him as she had the others. Slone met her with +awkward constraint. The gray had not left his face. Lucy looked up at him +again, and differently. + +"What--what has happened?" she asked. + +It annoyed Bostil that Slone and all the men suddenly looked blank. + +"Why, nothin'," replied Slone, slowly, "'cept I'm fagged out." + +Lucy, or any other girl, could have seen that he, was evading the truth. She +flashed a look from Slone to her father. + +"Until to-day we never had a big race that something dreadful didn't happen," +said Lucy. "This was my day--my race. And, oh! I wanted it to pass +without--without--" + +"Wal, Lucy dear," replied Bostil, as she faltered. "Nothin' came off thet'd +make you feel bad. Young Slone had a scare about his hoss. Wildfire's safe out +there in the corral, an' he'll be guarded like the King an' Sarch. Slone needs +a drink an' somethin' to eat, same as all of us." + +Lucy's color returned and her smile, but Bostil noted that, while she was +serving them and brightly responsive to compliments, she gave more than one +steady glance at Slone. She was deep, thought Bostil, and it angered him a +little that she showed interest in what concerned this strange rider. + +Then they had dinner, with twelve at table. The wives of Bostil's three +friends had been helping Aunt Jane prepare the feast, and they added to the +merriment. Bostil was not much given to social intercourse--he would have +preferred to be with his horses and riders--but this night he outdid himself +as host, amazed his sister Jane, who evidently thought he drank too much, and +delighted Lucy. Bostil's outward appearance and his speech and action never +reflected all the workings of his mind. No one would ever know the depth of +his bitter disappointment at the outcome of the race. With Creech's Blue Roan +out of the way, another horse, swifter and more dangerous, had come along to +spoil the King's chance. Bostil felt a subtly increasing covetousness in +regard to Wildfire, and this colored all his talk and action. The upland +country, vast and rangy, was for Bostil too small to hold Sage King and +Wildfire unless they both belonged to him. And when old Cal Blinn gave a +ringing toast to Lucy, hoping to live to see her up on Wildfire in the grand +race that must be run with the King, Bostil felt stir in him the birth of a +subtle, bitter fear. At first he mocked it. He--Bostil--afraid to race! It was +a lie of the excited mind. He repudiated it. Insidiously it returned. He +drowned it down--smothered it with passion. Then the ghost of it remained, +hauntingly. + +After dinner Bostil with the men went down to Brackton's, where Slone and the +winners of the day received their prizes. + +"Why, it's more money than I ever had in my whole life!" exclaimed Slone, +gazing incredulously at the gold. + +Bostil was amused and pleased, and back of both amusement and pleasure was the +old inventive, driving passion to gain his own ends. + +Bostil was abnormally generous in many ways; monstrously selfish in one way. + +"Slone, I seen you didn't drink none," he said, curiously. + +"No; I don't like liquor." + +"Do you gamble?" + +"I like a little bet--on a race," replied Slone, frankly. + +"Wal, thet ain't gamblin'. These fool riders of mine will bet on the switchin' +of a hoss's tail." He drew Slone a little aside from the others, who were +interested in Brackton's delivery of the different prizes. "Slone, how'd you +like to ride for me?" + +Slone appeared surprised. "Why, I never rode for any one," he replied, slowly. +"I can't stand to be tied down. I'm a horse-hunter, you know." + +Bostil eyed the young man, wondering what he knew about the difficulties of +the job offered. It was no news to Bostil that he was at once the best and the +worst man to ride for in all the uplands. + +"Sure, I know. But thet doesn't make no difference," went on Bostil, +persuasively. "If we got along--wal, you'd save some of thet yellow coin +you're jinglin'. A roamin' rider never builds no corral!" + +"Thank you, Bostil," replied Slone, earnestly. "I'll think it over. It would +seem kind of tame now to go back to wild-horse wranglin', after I've caught +Wildfire. I'll think it over. Maybe I'll do it, if you're sure I'm good enough +with rope an' horse." + +"Wal, by Gawd!" blurted out Bostil. "Holley says he'd rather you throwed a gun +on him than a rope! So would I. An' as for your handlin' a hoss, I never seen +no better." + +Slone appeared embarrassed and kept studying the gold coins in his palm. Some +one touched Bostil, who, turning, saw Brackton at his elbow. The other men +were now bantering with the Indians. + +"Come now while I've got a minnit," said Brackton, taking up a lantern. "I've +somethin' to show you." + +Bostil followed Brackton, and Slone came along. The old man opened a door into +a small room, half full of stores and track. The lantern only dimly lighted +the place. + +"Look thar!" And Brackton flashed the light upon a man lying prostrate. + +Bostil recognized the pale face of Joel Creech. "Brack! . . . What's this? Is +he dead?" Bostil sustained a strange, incomprehensible shock. Sight of a dead +man had never before shocked him. + +"Nope, he ain't dead, which if he was might be good for this community," +replied Brackton. "He's only fallen in a fit. Fust off I reckoned he was +drunk. But it ain't thet." + +"Wal, what do you want to show him to me for?" demanded Bostil, gruffly. + +"I reckoned you oughter see him." + +"An' why, Brackton?" + +Brackton set down the lantern and, pushing Slone outside, said: "Jest a +minnit, son," and then he closed the door. "Joel's been on my hands since the +flood cut him off from home," said Brackton. "An' he's been some trial. But +nobody else would have done nothin' for him, so I had to. I reckon I felt +sorry for him. He cried like a baby thet had lost its mother. Then he gets +wild-lookin' an' raved around. When I wasn't busy I kept an eye on him. But +some of the time I couldn't, an' he stole drinks, which made him wuss. An' +when I seen he was tryin' to sneak one of my guns, I up an' gets suspicious. +Once he said, 'My dad's hosses are goin' to starve, an' I'm goin' to kill +somebody!' He was out of his head an' dangerous. Wal, I was worried some, but +all I could do was lock up my guns. Last night I caught him confabin' with +some men out in the dark, behind the store. They all skedaddled except Joel, +but I recognized Cordts. I didn't like this, nuther. Joel was surly an' ugly. +An' when one of the riders called him he said: 'Thet boat NEVER DRIFTED OFF. +Fer the night of the flood I went down there myself an' tied the ropes. They +never come untied. Somebody cut them--jest before the flood--to make sure my +dad's hosses couldn't be crossed. Somebody figgered the river an' the flood. +An' if my dad's hosses starve I'm goin' to kill somebody!'" + +Brackton took up the lantern and placed a hand on the door ready to go out. + +"Then a rider punched Joel--I never seen who--an' Joel had a fit. I dragged +him in here. An' as you see, he ain't come to yet." + +"Wal, Brackton, the boy's crazy," said Bostil. + +"So I reckon. An' I'm afeared he'll burn us out--he's crazy on fires, +anyway--or do somethin' like." + +"He's sure a problem. Wal, we'll see," replied Bostil, soberly. + +And they went out to find Slone waiting. Then Bostil called his guests, and +with Slone also accompanying him, went home. + +Bostil threw off the recurring gloom, and he was good-natured when Lucy came +to his room to say good night. He knew she had come to say more than that. + +"Hello, daughter!" he said. "Aren't you ashamed to come facin' your poor old +dad?" + +Lucy eyed him dubiously. "No, I'm not ashamed. But I'm still a +little--afraid." + +"I'm harmless, child. I'm a broken man. When you put Sage King out of the race +you broke me." + +"Dad, that isn't funny. You make me an--angry when you hint I did something +underhand." + +"Wal, you didn't consult ME." + +"I thought it would be fun to surprise you all. Why, you're always delighted +with a surprise in a race, unless it beats you. . . . Then, it was my great +and only chance to get out in front of the King. Oh, how grand it'd have been! +Dad, I'd have run away from him the same as the others!" + +"No, you wouldn't," declared Bostil. + +"Dad, Wildfire can beat the King!" + +"Never, girl! Knockin' a good-tempered hoss off his pins ain't beatin' him in +a runnin'-race." + +Then father and daughter fought over the old score, the one doggedly, +imperturbably, the other spiritedly, with flashing eyes. It was different this +time, however, for it ended in Lucy saying Bostil would never risk another +race. That stung Bostil, and it cost him an effort to control his temper. + +"Let thet go now. Tell me all about how you saved Wildfire, an' Slone, too." + +Lucy readily began the narrative, and she had scarcely started before Bostil +found himself intensely interested. Soon he became absorbed. That was the most +thrilling and moving kind of romance to him, like his rider's dreams. + +"Lucy, you're sure a game kid," he said, fervidly, when she had ended. "I +reckon I don't blame Slone for fallin' in love with you." + +"Who said THAT!" inquired Lucy. + +"Nobody. But it's true--ain't it?" + +She looked up with eyes as true as ever they were, yet a little sad, he +thought, a little wistful and wondering, as if a strange and grave thing +confronted her. + +"Yes, Dad--it's--it's true," she answered, haltingly. + +"Wal, you didn't need to tell me, but I'm glad you did." + +Bostil meant to ask her then if she in any sense returned the rider's love, +but unaccountably he could not put the question. The girl was as true as +ever--as good as gold. Bostil feared a secret that might hurt him. Just as +sure as life was there and death but a step away, some rider, sooner or later, +would win this girl's love. Bostil knew that, hated it, feared it. Yet he +would never give his girl to a beggarly rider. Such a man as Wetherby ought to +win Lucy's hand. And Bostil did not want to know too much at present; he did +not want his swift-mounting animosity roused so soon. Still he was curious, +and, wanting to get the drift of Lucy's mind, he took to his old habit of +teasing. + +"Another moonstruck rider!" he said. "Your eyes are sure full moons, Lucy. I'd +be ashamed to trifle with these poor fellers." + +"Dad!" + +"You're a heartless flirt--same as your mother was before she met ME." + +"I'm not. And I don't believe mother was, either," replied Lucy. It was easy +to strike fire from her. + +"Wal, you did dead wrong to ride out there day after day meetin' Slone, +because--young woman--if he ever has the nerve to ask me for you I'll beat him +up bad." + +"Then you'd be a brute!" retorted Lucy. + +"Wal, mebbe," returned Bostil, secretly delighted and surprised at Lucy's +failure to see through him. But she was looking inward. He wondered what hid +there deep in her. "But I can't stand for the nerve of thet." + +"He--he means to--to ask you." + +"The h---. . . . A-huh!" + +Lucy did not catch the slip of tongue. She was flushing now. "He said he'd +never have let me meet him out there alone--unless--he--he loved me--and as +our neighbors and the riders would learn of it--and talk--he wanted you and +them to know he'd asked to--to marry me." + +"Wal, he's a square young man!" ejaculated Bostil, involuntarily. It was hard +for Bostil to hide his sincerity and impulsiveness; much harder than to hide +unworthy attributes. Then he got back on the other track. "That'll make me +treat him decent, so when he rides up to ask for you I'll let him off with, +'No!" + +Lucy dropped her head. Bostil would have given all he had, except his horses, +to feel sure she did not care for Slone. + +"Dad--I said--'No'--for myself," she murmured. + +This time Bostil did not withhold the profane word of surprise. ". . . So he's +asked you, then? Wal, wal! When?" + +"To-day--out there in the rocks where he waited with Wildfire for me. +He--he--" + +Lucy slipped into her father's arms, and her slender form shook. Bostil +instinctively felt what she then needed was her mother. Her mother was dead, +and he was only a rough, old, hard rider. He did not know what to do--to say. +His heart softened and he clasped her close. It hurt him keenly to realize +that he might have been a better, kinder father if it were not for the fear +that she would find him out. But that proved he loved her, craved her respect +and affection. + +"Wal, little girl, tell me," he said. + +"He--he broke his word to me." + +"A-huh! Thet's too bad. An' how did he?" + +"He--he--" Lucy seemed to catch her tongue. + +Bostil was positive she had meant to tell him something and suddenly changed +her mind. Subtly the child vanished--a woman remained. Lucy sat up +self-possessed once more. Some powerfully impelling thought had transformed +her. Bostil's keen sense gathered that what she would not tell was not hers to +reveal. For herself, she was the soul of simplicity and frankness. + +"Days ago I told him I cared for him," she went on. "But I forbade him to speak +of it to me. He promised. I wanted to wait till after the race--till after I +had found courage to confess to you. He broke his word. . . . Today when he +put me up on Wildfire he--he suddenly lost his head." + +The slow scarlet welled into Lucy's face and her eyes grew shamed, but bravely +she kept facing her father. + +"He--he pulled me off--he hugged me--he k-kissed me. . . . Oh, it was +dreadful--shameful! . . . Then I gave him back--some--something he had given +me. And I told him I--I hated him--and I told him, 'No!'" + +"But you rode his hoss in the race," said Bostil. + +Lucy bowed her head at that. "I--I couldn't resist!" + +Bostil stroked the bright head. What a quandary for a thick-skulled old +horseman! "Wal, it seems to me Slone didn't act so bad, considerin'. You'd +told him you cared for him. If it wasn't for thet! . . . I remember I did much +the same to your mother. She raised the devil, but I never seen as she cared +any less for me." + +"I'll never forgive him," Lucy cried, passionately. "I hate him. A man who +breaks his word in one thing will do it in another." + +Bostil sadly realized that his little girl had reached womanhood and love, and +with them the sweet, bitter pangs of life. He realized also that here was a +crisis when a word--an unjust or lying word from him would forever ruin any +hope that might still exist for Slone. Bostil realized this acutely, but the +realization was not even a temptation. + +"Wal, listen. I'm bound to confess your new rider is sure swift. An', Lucy, +to-day if he hadn't been as swift with a rope as he is in love--wal, your old +daddy might be dead!" + +She grew as white as her dress. "Oh, Dad! I KNEW something had happened," she +cried, reaching for him. + +Then Bostil told her how Dick Sears had menaced him--how Slone had foiled the +horse-thief. He told the story bluntly, but eloquently, with all a rider's +praise. Lucy rose with hands pressed against her breast. When had Bostil seen +eyes like those--dark, shining, wonderful? Ah! he remembered her mother's +once--only once, as a girl. + +Then Lucy kissed him and without a word fled from the room. + +Bostil stared after her. "D--n me!" he swore, as he threw a boot against the +wall. "I reckon I'll never let her marry Slone, but I just had to tell her +what I think of him!" + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +Slone lay wide awake under an open window, watching the stars glimmer through +the rustling foliage of the cottonwoods. Somewhere a lonesome hound bayed. +Very faintly came the silvery tinkle of running water. + +For five days Slone had been a guest of Bostil's, and the whole five days had +been torment. + +On the morning of the day after the races Lucy had confronted him. Would he +ever forget her eyes--her voice? "Bless you for saving my dad!" she had said. +"It was brave. . . . But don't let dad fool you. Don't believe in his +kindness. Above all, don't ride for him! He only wants Wildfire, and if he +doesn't get him he'll hate you!" + +That speech of Lucy's had made the succeeding days hard for Slone. Bostil +loaded him with gifts and kindnesses, and never ceased importuning him to +accept his offers. But for Lucy, Slone would have accepted. It was she who +cast the first doubt of Bostil into his mind. Lucy averred that her father was +splendid and good in every way except in what pertained to fast horses; there +he was impossible. + +The great stallion that Slone had nearly sacrificed his life to catch was like +a thorn in the rider's flesh. Slone lay there in the darkness, restless, hot, +rolling from side to side, or staring out at the star-studded sky--miserably +unhappy all on account of that horse. Almost he hated him. What pride he had +felt in Wildfire! How he had gloried in the gift of the stallion to Lucy! +Then, on the morning of the race had come that unexpected, incomprehensible +and wild act of which he had been guilty. Yet not to save his life, his soul, +could he regret it! Was it he who had been responsible, or an unknown savage +within him? He had kept his word to Lucy, when day after day he had burned +with love until that fatal moment when the touch of her, as he lifted her to +Wildfire's saddle, had made a madman out of him. He had swept her into his +arms and held her breast to his, her face before him, and he had kissed the +sweet, parting lips till he was blind. + +Then he had learned what a little fury she was. Then he learned how he had +fallen, what he had forfeited. In his amaze at himself, in his humility and +shame, he had not been able to say a word in his own defense. She did not know +yet that his act had been ungovernable and that he had not known what he was +doing till too late. And she had finished with: "I'll ride Wildfire in the +race--but I won't have him--and I won't have YOU! NO!" + +She had the steel and hardness of her father. + +For Slone, the watching of that race was a blend of rapture and despair. He +lived over in mind all the time between the race and this hour when he lay +there sleepless and full of remorse. His mind was like a racecourse with many +races; and predominating in it was that swift, strange, stinging race of his +memory of Lucy Bostil's looks and actions. + +What an utter fool he was to believe she had meant those tender words when, +out there under the looming monuments, she had accepted Wildfire! She had been +an impulsive child. Her scorn and fury that morning of the race had left +nothing for him except footless fancies. She had mistaken love of Wildfire for +love of him. No, his case was hopeless with Lucy, and if it had not been so +Bostil would have made it hopeless. Yet there were things Slone could not +fathom--the wilful, contradictory, proud and cold and unaccountably sweet +looks and actions of the girl. They haunted Slone. They made him conscious he +had a mind and tortured him with his development. But he had no experience +with girls to compare with what was happening now. It seemed that accepted +fact and remembered scorn and cold certainty were somehow at variance with +hitherto unknown intuitions and instincts. Lucy avoided him, if by chance she +encountered him alone. When Bostil or Aunt Jane or any one else was present +Lucy was kind, pleasant, agreeable. What made her flush red at sight of him +and then, pale? Why did she often at table or in the big living-room softly +brush against him when it seemed she could have avoided that? Many times he +had felt some inconceivable drawing power, and looked up to find her eyes upon +him, strange eyes full of mystery, that were suddenly averted. Was there any +meaning attachable to the fact that his room was kept so tidy and neat, that +every day something was added to its comfort or color, that he found fresh +flowers whenever he returned, or a book, or fruit, or a dainty morsel to eat, +and once a bunch of Indian paint-brush, wild flowers of the desert that Lucy +knew he loved? Most of all, it was Lucy's eyes which haunted Slone--eyes that +had changed, darkened, lost their audacious flash, and yet seemed all the +sweeter. The glances he caught, which he fancied were stolen--and then +derided his fancy--thrilled him to his heart. Thus Slone had spent waking +hours by day and night, mad with love and remorse, tormented one hour by +imagined grounds for hope and resigned to despair the next. + +Upon the sixth morning of his stay at Bostil's Slone rose with something of +his former will reasserting itself. He could not remain in Bostil's home any +longer unless he accepted Bostil's offer, and this was not to be thought of. +With a wrench Slone threw off the softening indecision and hurried out to find +Bostil while the determination was hot. + +Bostil was in the corral with Wildfire. This was the second time Slone had +found him there. Wildfire appeared to regard Bostil with a much better favor +than he did his master. As Slone noted this a little heat stole along his +veins. That was gall to a rider. + +"I like your hoss," said Bostil, with gruff frankness. But a tinge of red +showed under his beard. + +"Bostil, I'm sorry I can't take you up on the job," rejoined Slone, swiftly. +"It's been hard for me to decide. You've been good to me. I'm grateful. But +it's time I was tellin' you." + +"Why can't you?" demanded Bostil, straightening up with a glint in his big +eyes. It was the first time he had asked Slone that. + +"I can't ride for you," replied Slone, briefly. + +"Anythin' to do with Lucy?" queried Bostil. + +"How so?" returned Slone, conscious of more heat. + +"Wal, you was sweet on her an' she wouldn't have you," replied Bostil. + +Slone felt the blood swell and boil in his veins. This Bostil could say as +harsh and hard things as repute gave him credit for. + +"Yes, I AM sweet on Lucy, an' she won't have me," said Slone, steadily. "I +asked her to let me come to you an' tell you I wanted to marry her. But she +wouldn't." + +"Wal, it's just as good you didn't come, because I might. . . ." Bostil broke +off his speech and began again. "You don't lack nerve, Slone. What'd you have +to offer Lucy?" + +"Nothin' except--But that doesn't matter," replied Slone, cut to the quick by +Bostil's scorn. "I'm glad you know, an' so much for that." + +Bostil turned to look at Wildfire once more, and he looked long. When he faced +around again he was another man. Slone felt the powerful driving passion of +this old horse-trader. + +"Slone, I'll give you pick of a hundred mustangs an' a thousand dollars for +Wildfire!" + +So he unmasked his power in the face of a beggarly rider! Though it struck +Slone like a thunderbolt, he felt amused. But he did not show that. Bostil had +only one possession, among all his uncounted wealth, that could win Wildfire +from his owner. + +"No," said Slone, briefly. + +"I'll double it," returned Bostil, just as briefly. + +"No!" + +"I'll--" + +"Save your breath, Bostil," flashed Slone. "You don't know me. But let me tell +you--you CAN'T BUY my horse!" + +The great veins swelled and churned in Bostil's bull neck; a thick and ugly +contortion worked in his face; his eyes reflected a sick rage. + +Slone saw that two passions shook Bostil--one, a bitter, terrible +disappointment, and the other, the passion of a man who could not brook being +crossed. It appeared to Slone that the best thing he could do was to get away +quickly, and to this end he led Wildfire out of the corral to the stable +courtyard, and there quickly saddled him. Then he went into another corral for +his other horse, Nagger, and, bringing him out, returned to find Bostil had +followed as far as the court. The old man's rage apparently had passed or had +been smothered. + +"See here," he began, in thick voice, "don't be a d--- fool an' ruin your +chance in life. I'll--" + +"Bostil, my one chance was ruined--an' you know who did it," replied Slone, as +he gathered Nagger's rope and Wildfire's bridle together. "I've no hard +feelin's. . . . But I can't sell you my horse. An' I can't ride for +you--because--well, because it would breed trouble." + +"An' what kind?" queried Bostil. + +Holley and Farlane and Van, with several other riders, had come up and were +standing open-mouthed. Slone gathered from their manner and expression that +anything might happen with Bostil in such a mood. + +"We'd be racin' the King an' Wildfire, wouldn't we?" replied Slone. + +"An' supposin' we would?" returned Bostil, ominously. His huge frame vibrated +with a slight start. + +"Wildfire would run off with your favorite--an' you wouldn't like that," +answered Slone. It was his rider's hot blood that prompted him to launch this +taunt. He could not help it. + +"You wild-hoss chaser," roared Bostil, "your Wildfire may be a bloody killer, +but he can't beat the King in a race!" + +"Excuse ME, Bostil, but Wildfire did beat the King!" + +This was only adding fuel to the fire. Slone saw Holley making signs that must +have meant silence would be best. But Slone's blood was up. Bostil had rubbed +him the wrong way. + +"You're a lair!" declared Bostil, with a tremendous stride forward. Slone saw +then how dangerous the man really was. "It was no race. Your wild hoss knocked +the King off the track." + +"Sage King had the lead, didn't he? Why didn't he keep it?" + +Bostil was like a furious, intractable child whose favorite precious treasure +had been broken; and he burst out into a torrent of incoherent speech, +apparently reasons why this and that were so. Slone did not make out what +Bostil meant and he did not care. When Bostil got out of breath Slone said: + +"We're both wastin' talk. An' I'm not wantin' you to call me a liar twice. +. . . Put your rider up on the King an' come on, right now. I'll--" + +"Slone, shut up an' chase yourself," interrupted Holley + +"You go to h--l!" returned Slone, coolly. + +There was a moment's silence, in which Slone took Holley's measure. The +hawk-eyed old rider may have been square, but he was then thinking only of +Bostil. + +"What am I up, against here?" demanded Slone. "Am I goin' to be shot because +I'm takin' my own part? Holley, you an' the rest of your pards are all afraid +of this old devil. But I'm not--an' you stay out of this." + +"Wal, son, you needn't git riled," replied Holley, placatingly. "I was only +tryin' to stave off talk you might be sorry for." + +"Sorry for nothin'! I'm goin' to make this great horse-trader, this rich an' +mighty rancher, this judge of grand horses, this BOSTIL! . . . I'm goin' to +make him race the King or take water!" Then Slone turned to Bostil. That +worthy evidently had been stunned by the rider who dared call him to his face. +"Come on! Fetch the King! Let your own riders judge the race!" + +Bostil struggled both to control himself and to speak. "Naw! I ain't goin' to +see thet red hoss-killer jump the King again!" + +"Bah! you're afraid. You know there'd be no girl on his back. You know he can +outrun the King an' that's why you want to buy him." + +Slone caught his breath then. He realized suddenly, at Bostil's paling face, +that perhaps he had dared too much. Yet, maybe the truth flung into this hard +old rider's teeth was what he needed more than anything else. Slone divined, +rather than saw, that he had done an unprecedented thing. + +"I'll go now, Bostil." + +Slone nodded a good-by to the riders, and, turning away, he led the two horses +down the lane toward the house. It scarcely needed sight of Lucy under the +cottonwoods to still his anger and rouse his regret. Lucy saw him coming, and, +as usual, started to avoid meeting him, when sight of the horses, or something +else, caused her to come toward him instead. + +Slone halted. Both Wildfire and Nagger whinnied at sight of the girl. Lucy +took one flashing glance at them, at Slone, and then she evidently guessed +what was amiss. + +"Lucy, I've done it now--played hob, sure," said Slone. + +"What?" she cried. + +"I called your dad--called him good an' hard--an' he--he--" + +"Lin! Oh, don't say Dad." Lucy's face whitened and she put a swift hand upon +his arm--a touch that thrilled him. "Lin! there's blood--on your face. +Don't--don't tell me Dad hit you?" + +"I should say not," declared Slone, quickly lifting his hand to his face. +"Must be from my cut, that blood. I barked my hand holdin' Wildfire." + +"Oh! I--I was sick with--with--" Lucy faltered and broke off, and then drew +back quickly, as if suddenly conscious of her actions and words. + +Then Slone began to relate everything that had been said, and before he +concluded his story his heart gave a wild throb at the telltale face and eyes +of the girl. + +"You said that to Dad!" she cried, in amaze and fear and admiration. "Oh, Dad +richly deserved it! But I wish you hadn't. Oh, I wish you hadn't!" + +"Why?" asked Slone. + +But she did not answer that. "Where are you going?" she questioned. + +"Come to think of that, I don't know," replied Slone, blankly. "I started back +to fetch my things out of my room. That's as far as my muddled thoughts got." + +"Your things? . . . Oh!" Suddenly she grew intensely white. The little +freckles that had been so indistinct stood out markedly, and it was as if she +had never had any tan. One brown hand went to her breast, the other fluttered +to his arm again. "You mean to--to go away--for good." + +"Sure. What else can I do?" + +"Lin! . . . Oh, there comes Dad! He mustn't see me. I must run. . . . Lin, +don't leave Bostil's Ford--don't go--DON'T!" + +Then she flew round the corner of the house, to disappear. Slone stood there +transfixed and thrilling. Even Bostil's heavy tread did not break the trance, +and a meeting would have been unavoidable had not Bostil turned down the path +that led to the back of the house. Slone, with a start collecting his +thoughts, hurried into the little room that had been his and gathered up his +few belongings. He was careful to leave behind the gifts of guns, blankets, +gloves, and other rider's belongings which Bostil had presented to him. Thus +laden, he went outside and, tingling with emotions utterly sweet and +bewildering, he led the horses down into the village. + +Slone went down to Brackton's, and put the horses into a large, high-fenced +pasture adjoining Brackton's house. Slone felt reasonably sure his horses +would be safe there, but he meant to keep a mighty close watch on them. And +old Brackton, as if he read Slone's mind, said this: "Keep your eye on thet +daffy boy, Joel Creech. He hangs round my place, sleeps out somewheres, an' +he's crazy about hosses." + +Slone did not need any warning like that, nor any information to make him +curious regarding young Creech. Lucy had seen to that, and, in fact, Slone was +anxious to meet this half-witted fellow who had so grievously offended and +threatened Lucy. That morning, however, Creech did not put in an appearance. +The village had nearly returned to its normal state now, and the sleepy tenor +of its way. The Indians, had been the last to go, but now none remained. The +days were hot while the sun stayed high, and only the riders braved its heat. + +The morning, however, did not pass without an interesting incident. Brackton +approached Slone with an offer that he take charge of the freighting between +the Ford and Durango. "What would I do with Wildfire?" was Slone's questioning +reply, and Brackton held up his hands. A later incident earned more of Slone's +attention. He had observed a man in Brackton's store, and it chanced that this +man heard Slone's reply to Brackton's offer, and he said: "You'll sure need to +corral thet red stallion. Grandest hoss I ever seen!" + +That praise won Slone, and he engaged in conversation with the man, who said +his name was Vorhees. It developed soon that Vorhees owned a little house, a +corral, and a patch of ground on a likely site up under the bluff, and he was +anxious to sell cheap because he had a fine opportunity at Durango, where his +people lived. What interested Slone most was the man's remark that he had a +corral which could not be broken into. The price he asked was ridiculously low +if the property was worth anything. An idea flashed across Slone's mind. He +went up to Vorhees's place and was much pleased with everything, especially +the corral, which had been built by a man who feared horse-thieves as much as +Bostil. The view from the door of the little cabin was magnificent beyond +compare. Slone remembered Lucy's last words. They rang like bells in his ears. +"Don't go--don't!" They were enough to chain him to Bostil's Ford until the +crack of doom. He dared not dream of what they meant. He only listened to +their music as they pealed over and over in his ears. + +"Vorhees, are you serious?" he asked. "The money you ask is little enough." + +"It's enough an' to spare," replied the man. "An' I'd take it as a favor of +you." + +"Well, I'll go you," said Slone, and he laughed a little irrationally. "Only +you needn't tell right away that I bought you out." + +The deal was consummated, leaving Slone still with half of the money that had +been his prize in the race. He felt elated. He was rich. He owned two +horses--one the grandest in all the uplands, the other the faithfulest--and he +owned a neat little cabin where it was a joy to sit and look out, and a corral +which would let him sleep at night, and he had money to put into supplies and +furnishings, and a garden. After he drank out of the spring that bubbled from +under the bluff he told himself it alone was worth the money. + +"Looks right down on Bostil's place," Slone soliloquized, with glee. "Won't he +just be mad! An' Lucy! . . . Whatever's she goin' to think?" + +The more Slone looked around and thought, the more he became convinced that +good fortune had knocked at his door at last. And when he returned to +Brackton's he was in an exultant mood. The old storekeeper gave him a nudge +and pointed underhand to a young man of ragged aspect sitting gloomily on a +box. Slone recognized Joel Creech. The fellow surely made a pathetic sight, +and Slone pitied him. He looked needy and hungry. + +"Say," said Slone, impulsively, "want to help me carry some grub an' stuff?" + +"Howdy!" replied Creech, raising his head. "Sure do." + +Slone sustained the queerest shock of his life when he met the gaze of those +contrasting eyes. Yet he did not believe that his strange feeling came from +sight of different-colored eyes. There was an instinct or portent in that +meeting. + +He purchased a bill of goods from Brackton, and, with Creech helping, carried +it up to the cabin under the bluff. Three trips were needed to pack up all the +supplies, and meanwhile Creech had but few words to say, and these of no +moment. Slone offered him money, which he refused. + +"I'll help you fix up, an' eat a bite," he said. "Nice up hyar." + +He seemed rational enough and certainly responded to kindness. Slone found +that Vorhees had left the cabin so clean there was little cleaning to do. An +open fireplace of stone required some repair and there was wood to cut. + +"Joel, you start a fire while I go down after my horses," said Slone. + +Young Creech nodded and Slone left him there. It was not easy to catch +Wildfire, nor any easier to get him into the new corral; but at last Slone saw +him safely there. And the bars and locks on the gate might have defied any +effort to open or break them quickly. Creech was standing in the doorway, +watching the horses, and somehow Slone saw, or imagined he saw, that Creech +wore a different aspect. + +"Grand wild hoss! He did what Blue was a-goin' to do--beat thet there d--d +Bostil's King!" + +Creech wagged his head. He was gloomy and strange. His eyes were unpleasant to +look into. His face changed. And he mumbled. Slone pitied him the more, but +wished to see the last of him. Creech stayed on, however, and grew stranger +and more talkative during the meal. He repeated things often--talked +disconnectedly, and gave other indications that he was not wholly right in his +mind. Yet Slone suspected that Creech's want of balance consisted only in what +concerned horses and the Bostils. And Slone, wanting to learn all he could, +encouraged Creech to talk about his father and the racers and the river and +boat, and finally Bostil. + +Slone became convinced that, whether young Creech was half crazy or not, he +knew his father's horses were doomed, and that the boat at the ferry had been +cut adrift. Slone could not understand why he was convinced, but he was. +Finally Creech told how he had gone down to the river only a day before; how +he had found the flood still raging, but much lower; how he had worked round +the cliffs and had pulled up the rope cables to find they had been cut. + +"You see, Bostil cut them when he didn't need to," continued Creech, shrewdly. +"But he didn't know the flood was comin' down so quick. He was afeared we'd +come across an' git the boat thet night. An' he meant to take away them cut +cables. But he hadn't no time." + +"Bostil?" queried Slone, as he gazed hard at Creech. The fellow had told that +rationally enough. Slone wondered if Bostil could have been so base. No! and +yet--when it came to horses Bostil was scarcely human. + +Slone's query served to send Creech off on another tangent which wound up in +dark, mysterious threats. Then Slone caught the name of Lucy. It abruptly +killed his sympathy for Creech. + +"What's the girl got to do with it?" he demanded, angrily. "If you want to +talk to me don't use her name." + +"I'll use her name when I want," shouted Creech. + +"Not to me!" + +"Yes, to you, mister. I ain't carin' a d--n fer you!" + +"You crazy loon!" exclaimed Slone, with impatience and disgust added to anger. +"What's the use of being decent to you?" + +Creech crouched low, his hands digging like claws into the table, as if he +were making ready to spring. At that instant he was hideous. + +"Crazy, am I?" he yelled. "Mebbe not d--n crazy! I kin tell you're gone on +Lucy Bostil! I seen you with her out there in the rocks the mornin' of the +race. I seen what you did to her. An' I'm a-goin' to tell it! . . . An' I'm +a-goin' to ketch Lucy Bostil an' strip her naked, an' when I git through with +her I'll tie her on a hoss an' fire the grass! By Gawd! I am!" Livid and wild, +he breathed hard as he got up, facing Slone malignantly. + +"Crazy or not, here goes!" muttered Slone, grimly; and, leaping up, with one +blow he knocked Creech half out of the door, and then kicked him the rest of +the way. "Go on and have a fit!" cried Slone. "I'm liable to kill you if you +don't have one!" + +Creech got up and ran down the path, turning twice on the way. Then he +disappeared among the trees. + +Slone sat down. "Lost my temper again!" he said. "This has been a day. Guess +I'd better cool off right now an' stay here. . . . That poor devil! Maybe he's +not so crazy. But he's wilder than an Indian. I must warn Lucy. . . . Lord! I +wonder if Bostil could have held back repairin' that boat, an' then cut it +loose? I wonder? Yesterday I'd have sworn never. To-day--" + +Slone drove the conclusion of that thought out of his consciousness before he +wholly admitted it. Then he set to work cutting the long grass from the wet +and shady nooks under the bluff where the spring made the ground rich. He +carried an armful down to the corral. Nagger was roaming around outside, +picking grass for himself. Wildfire snorted as always when he saw Slone, and +Slone as always, when time permitted, tried to coax the stallion to him. He +had never succeeded, nor did he this time. When he left the bundle of grass on +the ground and went outside Wildfire readily came for it. + +"You're that tame, anyhow, you hungry red devil," said Slone, jealously. +Wildfire would take a bunch of grass from Lucy Bostil's hand. Slone's feelings +had undergone some reaction, though he still loved the horse. But it was love +mixed with bitterness. More than ever he made up his mind that Lucy should +have Wildfire. Then he walked around his place, planning the work he meant to +start at once. + +Several days slipped by with Slone scarcely realizing how they flew. +Unaccustomed labor tired him so that he went to bed early and slept like a +log. If it had not been for the ever-present worry and suspense and longing, +in regard to Lucy, he would have been happier than ever he could remember. +Almost at once he had become attached to his little home, and the more he +labored to make it productive and comfortable the stronger grew his +attachment. Practical toil was not conducive to daydreaming, so Slone felt a +loss of something vague and sweet. Many times he caught himself watching with +eager eyes for a glimpse of Lucy Bostil down there among the cottonwoods. +Still, he never saw her, and, in fact, he saw so few villagers that the place +began to have a loneliness which endeared it to him the more. Then the view +down the gray valley to the purple monuments was always thrillingly memorable +to Slone. It was out there Lucy had saved his horse and his life. His keen +desert gaze could make out even at that distance the great, dark monument, +gold-crowned, in the shadow of which he had heard Lucy speak words that had +transformed life for him. He would ride out there some day. The spell of those +looming grand shafts of colored rock was still strong upon him. + +One morning Slone had a visitor--old Brackton. Slone's cordiality died on his +lips before it was half uttered. Brackton's former friendliness was not in +evidence. Indeed, he looked at Slone with curiosity and disfavor. + +"Howdy, Slone! I jest wanted to see what you was doin' up hyar," he said. + +Slone spread his hands and explained in few words. + +"So you took over the place, hey? We all figgered thet. But Vorhees was mum. +Fact is, he was sure mysterious." Brackton sat down and eyed Slone with +interest. "Folks are talkin' a lot about you," he said, bluntly. + +"Is that so?" + +"You 'pear to be a pretty mysterious kind of a feller, Slone. I kind of took a +shine to you at first, an' thet's why I come up hyar to tell you it'd be wise +fer you to vamoose." + +"What!" exclaimed Slone. + +Brackton repeated substantially what he had said, then, pausing an instant, +continued: "I've no call to give you a hunch, but I'll do it jest because I +did like you fust off." + +The old man seemed fussy and nervous and patronizing and disparaging all at +once. + +"What'd you beat up thet poor Joel Creech fer?" demanded Brackton. + +"He got what he deserved," replied Slone, and the memory, coming on the head +of this strange attitude of Brackton's, roused Slone's temper. + +"Wal, Joel tells some queer things about you--fer instance, how you took +advantage of little Lucy Bostil, grabbin' her an' maulin' her the way Joel +seen you." + +"D--n the loon!" muttered Slone, rising to pace the path. + +"Wal, Joel's a bit off, but he's not loony all the time. He's seen you an' +he's tellin' it. When Bostil hears it you'd better be acrost the canyon!" + +Slone felt the hot, sick rush of blood to his face, and humiliation and rage +overtook him. + +"Joel's down at my house. He had fits after you beat him, an' he 'ain't got +over them yet. But he could blab to the riders. Van Sickle's lookin' fer you. +An' to-day when I was alone with Joel he told me some more queer things about +you. I shut him up quick. But I ain't guaranteein' I can keep him shut up." + +"I'll bet you I shut him up," declared Slone. "What more did the fool say?" + +"Slone, hev you been round these hyar parts---down among the monuments--fer +any considerable time?" queried Brackton. + +"Yes, I have--several weeks out there, an' about ten days or so around the +Ford." + +"Where was you the night of the flood?" + +The shrewd scrutiny of the old man, the suspicion, angered Slone. + +"If it's any of your mix, I was out on the slope among the rocks. I heard that +flood comin' down long before it got here," replied Slone, deliberately. + +Brackton averted his gaze, and abruptly rose as if the occasion was ended. +"Wal, take my hunch an' leave!" he said, turning away. + +"Brackton, if you mean well, I'm much obliged," returned Slone, slowly, +ponderingly. "But I'll not take the hunch." + +"Suit yourself," added Brackton, coldly, and he went away. + +Slone watched him go down the path and disappear in the lane of cottonwoods. + +"I'll be darned!" muttered Slone. "Funny old man. Maybe Creech's not the only +loony one hereabouts." + +Slone tried to laugh off the effect of the interview, but it persisted and +worried him all day. After supper he decided to walk down into the village, +and would have done so but for the fact that he saw a man climbing his path. +When he recognized the rider Holley he sensed trouble, and straightway he +became gloomy. Bostil's right-hand man could not call on him for any friendly +reason. Holley came up slowly, awkwardly, after the manner of a rider unused +to walking. Slone had built a little porch on the front of his cabin and a +bench, which he had covered with goatskins. It struck him a little strangely +that he should bend over to rearrange these skins just as Holley approached +the porch. + +"Howdy, son!" was the rider's drawled remark. "Sure makes--me--puff to +climb--up this mountain." + +Slone turned instantly, surprised at the friendly tone, doubting his own ears, +and wanting to verify them. He was the more surprised to see Holley +unmistakably amiable. + +"Hello, Holley! How are you?" he replied. "Have a seat." + +"Wal, I'm right spry fer an old bird. But I can't climb wuth a d--n . . . . +Say, this here beats Bostil's view." + +"Yes, it's fine," replied Slone, rather awkwardly, as he sat down on the porch +step. What could Holley want with him? This old rider was above curiosity or +gossip. + +"Slone, you ain't holdin' it ag'in me--thet I tried to shut you up the other +day?" he drawled, with dry frankness. + +"Why, no, Holley, I'm not. I saw your point. You were right. But Bostil made +me mad." + +"Sure! He'd make anybody mad. I've seen riders bite themselves, they was so +mad at Bostil. You called him, an' you sure tickled all the boys. But you hurt +yourself, fer Bostil owns an' runs this here Ford." + +"So I've discovered," replied Slone. + +"You got yourself in bad right off, fer Bostil has turned the riders ag'in +you, an' this here punchin' of Creech has turned the village folks ag'in you. +What'd pitch into him fer?" + +Slone caught the kindly interest and intent of the rider, and it warmed him as +Brackton's disapproval had alienated him. + +"Wal, I reckon I'd better tell you," drawled Holley, as Slone hesitated, "thet +Lucy wants to know IF you beat up Joel an' WHY you did." + +"Holley! Did she ask you to find out?" + +"She sure did. The girl's worried these days, Slone. . . . You see, you +haven't been around, an' you don't know what's comin' off." + +"Brackton was here to-day an' he told me a good deal. I'm worried, too," said +Slone, dejectedly. + +"Thet hoss of yours, Wildfire, he's enough to make you hated in Bostil's camp, +even if you hadn't made a fool of yourself, which you sure have." + +Slone dropped his head as admission. + +"What Creech swears he seen you do to Miss Lucy, out there among the rocks, +where you was hid with Wildfire--is there any truth in thet?" asked Holley, +earnestly. "Tell me, Slone. Folks believe it. An' it's hurt you at the Ford. +Bostil hasn't heard it yet, an' Lucy she doesn't know. But I'm figgerin' thet +you punched Joel because he throwed it in your face." + +"He did, an' I lambasted him," replied Slone, with force. + +"You did right. But what I want to know, is it true what Joel seen?" + +"It's true, Holley. But what I did isn't so bad--so bad as he'd make it look." + +"Wal, I knowed thet. I knowed fer a long time how Lucy cares fer you," +returned the old rider, kindly. + +Slone raised his head swiftly, incredulously. "Holley! You can't be serious." + +"Wal, I am. I've been sort of a big brother to Lucy Bostil for eighteen years. +I carried her in these here hands when she weighed no more 'n my spurs. I +taught her how to ride--what she knows about hosses. An' she knows more 'n her +dad. I taught her to shoot. I know her better 'n anybody. An' lately she's +been different. She's worried an' unhappy." + +"But Holley, all that--it doesn't seem--" + +"I reckon not," went on Holley, as Slone halted. "I think she cares fer you. +An' I'm your friend, Slone. You're goin' to buck up ag'in some hell round here +sooner or later. An' you'll need a friend." + +"Thanks--Holley," replied Slone, unsteadily. He thrilled under the iron grasp +of the rider's hard hand. + +"You've got another friend you can gamble on," said Holley, significantly. + +"Another! Who?" + +"Lucy Bostil. An' don't you fergit thet. I'll bet she'll raise more trouble +than Bostil when she hears what Joel Creech is tellin'. Fer she's bound to +hear it. Van Sickle swears he's a-goin' to tell her an' then beat you up with +a quirt." + +"He is, is he?" snapped Slone, darkly. + +"I've a hunch Lucy's guessed why you punched Joel. But she wants to know fer +sure. Now, Slone, I'll tell her why." + +"Oh, don't!" said Slone, involuntarily. + +"Wal, it'll be better comin' from you an' me. Take my word fer thet. I'll +prepare Lucy. An' she's as good a scrapper as Bostil, any day." + +"It all scares me," replied Slone. He did feel panicky, and that was from +thoughts of what shame might befall Lucy. The cold sweat oozed out of every +pore. What might not Bostil do? "Holley, I love the girl. So I--I didn't +insult her. Bostil will never understand. An' what's he goin' to do when he +finds out?" + +"Wal, let's hope you won't git any wuss'n you give Joel." + +"Let Bostil beat me!" ejaculated Slone. "I think I'm willin--now--the--way I +feel. But I've a temper, and Bostil rubs me the wrong way." + +"Wall leave your gun home, an' fight Bostil. You're pretty husky. Sure he'll +lick you, but mebbe you could give the old cuss a black eye." Holley laughed +as if the idea gave him infinite pleasure. + +"Fight Bostil? . . . Lucy would hate me!" cried Slone. + +"Nix! You don't know thet kid. If the old man goes after you Lucy'll care more +fer you. She's jest like him in some ways." Holley pulled out a stubby black +pipe and, filling and lighting it, he appeared to grow more thoughtful. "It +wasn't only Lucy thet sent me up here to see you. Bostil had been pesterin' me +fer days. But I kept fightin' shy of it till Lucy got hold of me." + +"Bostil sent you? Why?" + +"Reckon you can guess. He can't sleep, thinkin' about your red hoss. None of +us ever seen Bostil have sich a bad case. He raised Sage King. But he's always +been crazy fer a great wild stallion. An' here you come along--an' your hoss +jumps the King--an' there's trouble generally." + +"Holley, do you think Wildfire can beat Sage King?" asked Slone, eagerly. + +"Reckon I do. Lucy says so, an' I'll back her any day. But, son, I ain't +paradin' what I think. I'd git in bad myself. Farlane an' the other boys, +they're with Bostil. Van he's to blame fer thet. He's takin' a dislike to you, +right off. An' what he tells Bostil an' the boys about thet race don't agree +with what Lucy tells me. Lucy says Wildfire ran fiery an' cranky at the start. +He wanted to run round an' kill the King instead of racin'. So he was three +lengths behind when Macomber dropped the flag. Lucy says the King got into his +stride. She knows. An' there Wildfire comes from behind an' climbs all over +the King! . . . Van tells a different story." + +"It came off just as Lucy told you," declared Slone. "I saw every move." + +"Wal, thet's neither here nor there. What you're up ag'in is this. Bostil is +sore since you called him. But he holds himself in because he hasn't given up +hope of gittin' Wildfire. An', Slone, you're sure wise, ain't you, thet if +Bostil doesn't buy him you can't stay on here?" + +"I'm wise. But I won't sell Wildfire," replied Slone, doggedly. + +"Wal, I'd never wasted my breath tellin' you all this if I hadn't figgered +about Lucy. You've got her to think of." + +Slone turned on Holley passionately. "You keep hintin' there's a hope for me, +when I know there's none!" + +"You're only a boy," replied Holley. "Son, where there's life there's hope. I +ain't a-goin' to tell you agin thet I know Lucy Bostil." + +Slone could not stand nor walk nor keep still. He was shaking from head to +foot. + +"Wildfire's not mine to sell. He's Lucy's!" confessed Slone. + +"The devil you say!" ejaculated Holley, and he nearly dropped his pipe. + +"I gave Wildfire to her. She accepted him. It was DONE. Then--then I lost my +head an' made her mad. . . . An'--she said she'd ride him in the race, but +wouldn't keep him. But he IS hers." + +"Oho! I see. Slone, I was goin' to advise you to sell Wildfire--all on +account of Lucy. You're young an' you'd have a big start in life if you would. +But Lucy's your girl an' you give her the hoss. . . . Thet settles thet!" + +"If I go away from here an' leave Wildfire for Lucy--do you think she could +keep him? Wouldn't Bostil take him from her?" + +"Wal, son, if he tried thet on Lucy she'd jump Wildfire an' hit your trail an' +hang on to it till she found you." + +"What'll you tell Bostil?" asked Slone, half beside himself. + +"I'm consarned if I know," replied Holley. "Mebbe I'll think of some idee. +I'll go back now. An' say, son, I reckon you'd better hang close to home. If +you meet Bostil down in the village you two'd clash sure. I'll come up soon, +but it'll be after dark." + +"Holley, all this is--is good of you," said Slone. "I--I'll--" + +"Shut up, son," interrupted the rider, dryly. "Thet's your only weakness, so +far as I can see. You say too much." + +Holley started down then, his long, clinking spurs digging into the steep +path. He left Slone a prey to deep thoughts at once anxious and dreamy. + +Next day Slone worked hard all day, looking forward to nightfall, expecting +that Holley would come up. He tried to resist the sweet and tantalizing +anticipation of a message from Lucy, but in vain. The rider had immeasurably +uplifted Slone's hope that Lucy, at least, cared for him. Not for a moment all +day could Slone drive away the hope. At twilight he was too eager to eat--too +obsessed to see the magnificent sunset. But Holley did not come, and Slone +went to bed late, half sick with disappointment. + +The next day was worse. Slone found work irksome, yet he held to it. On the +third day he rested and dreamed, and grew doubtful again, and then moody. On +the fourth day Slone found he needed supplies that he must obtain from the +store. He did not forget Holley's warning, but he disregarded it, thinking +there would scarcely be a chance of meeting Bostil at midday. + +There were horses standing, bridles down, before Brackton's place, and riders +lounging at the rail and step. Some of these men had been pleasant to Slone on +earlier occasions. This day they seemed not to see him. Slone was tingling all +over when he went into the store. Some deviltry was afoot! He had an angry +thought that these riders could not have minds of their own. Just inside the +door Slone encountered Wetherby, the young rancher from Durango. Slone spoke, +but Wetherby only replied with an insolent stare. Slone did not glance at the +man to whom Wetherby was talking. Only a few people were inside the store, and +Brackton was waiting upon them. Slone stood back a little in the shadow. +Brackton had observed his entrance, but did not greet him. Then Slone +absolutely knew that for him the good will of Bostil's Ford was a thing of the +past. + +Presently Brackton was at leisure, but he showed no disposition to attend to +Slone's wants. Then Slone walked up to the counter and asked for supplies. + +"Have you got the money?" asked Brackton, as if addressing one he would not +trust. + +"Yes," replied Slone, growing red under an insult that he knew Wetherby had +heard. + +Brackton handed out the supplies and received the money, without a word. He +held his head down. It was a singular action for a man used to dealing fairly +with every one. Slone felt outraged. He hurried out of the place, with shame +burning him, with his own eyes downcast, and in his hurry he bumped square +into a burly form. Slone recoiled--looked up. Bostil! The old rider was eying +him with cool speculation. + +"Wal, are you drunk?" he queried, without any particular expression. + +Yet the query was to Slone like a blow. It brought his head up with a jerk, +his glance steady and keen on Bostil's. + +"Bostil, you know I don't drink," he said. + +"A-huh! I know a lot about you, Slone. . . . I heard you bought Vorhees's +place, up on the bench." + +"Yes." + +"Did he tell you it was mortgaged to me for more'n it's worth?" + +"No, he didn't." + +"Did he make over any papers to you?" + +"No." + +"Wal, if it interests you I'll show you papers thet proves the property's +mine." + +Slone suffered a pang. The little home had grown dearer and dearer to him. + +"All right, Bostil. If it's yours--it's yours," he said, calmly enough. + +"I reckon I'd drove you out before this if I hadn't felt we could make a +deal." + +"We can't agree on any deal, Bostil," replied Slone, steadily. It was not what +Bostil said, but the way he said it, the subtle meaning and power behind it, +that gave Slone a sense of menace and peril. These he had been used to for +years; he could meet them. But he was handicapped here because it seemed that, +though he could meet Bostil face to face, he could not fight him. For he was +Lucy's father. Slone's position, the impotence of it, rendered him less able +to control his temper. + +"Why can't we?" demanded Bostil. "If you wasn't so touchy we could. An' let me +say, young feller, thet there's more reason now thet you DO make a deal with +me." + +"Deal? What about?" + +"About your red hoss." + +"Wildfire! . . . No deals, Bostil," returned Slone, and made as if to pass +him. + +The big hand that forced Slone back was far from gentle, and again he felt the +quick rush of blood. + +"Mebbe I can tell you somethin' thet'll make you sell Wildfire," said Bostil. + +"Not if you talked yourself dumb!" flashed Slone. There was no use to try to +keep cool with this Bostil, if he talked horses. "I'll race Wildfire against +the King. But no more." + +"Race! Wal, we don't run races around here without stakes," replied Bostil, +with deep scorn. "An' what can you bet? Thet little dab of prize money is +gone, an' wouldn't be enough to meet me. You're a strange one in these parts. +I've pride an' reputation to uphold. You brag of racin' with me--an' you a +beggarly rider! . . . You wouldn't have them clothes an' boots if my girl +hadn't fetched them to you." + +The riders behind Bostil laughed. Wetherby's face was there in the door, not +amused, but hard with scorn and something else. Slone felt a sickening, +terrible gust of passion. It fairly shook him. And as the wave subsided the +quick cooling of skin and body pained him like a burn made with ice. + +"Yes, Bostil, I'm what you say," responded Slone, and his voice seemed to fill +his ears. "But you're dead wrong when you say I've nothin' to bet on a race." + +"An' what'll you bet?" + +"My life an' my horse!" + +The riders suddenly grew silent and intense. Bostil vibrated to that. He +turned white. He more than any rider on the uplands must have felt the nature +of that offer. + +"Ag'in what?" he demanded, hoarsely. + +"YOUR DAUGHTER LUCY!" + +One instant the surprise held Bostil mute and motionless. Then he seemed to +expand. His huge bulk jerked into motion and he bellowed like a mad bull. + +Slone saw the blow coming, made no move to avoid it. The big fist took him +square on the mouth and chin and laid him flat on the ground. Sight failed +Slone for a little, and likewise ability to move. But he did not lose +consciousness. His head seemed to have been burst into rays and red mist that +blurred his eyes. Then these cleared away, leaving intense pain. He started to +get up, his brain in a whirl. Where was his gun? He had left it at home. But +for that he would have killed Bostil. He had already killed one man. The thing +was a burning flash--then all over! He could do it again. But Bostil was +Lucy's father! + +Slone gathered up the packages of supplies, and without looking at the men he +hurried away. He seemed possessed of a fury to turn and run back. Some force, +like an invisible hand, withheld him. When he reached the cabin he shut +himself in, and lay on his bunk, forgetting that the place did not belong to +him, alive only to the mystery of his trouble, smarting with the shame of the +assault upon him. It was dark before he composed himself and went out, and +then he had not the desire to eat. He made no move to open the supplies of +food, did not even make a light. But he went out to take grass and water to +the horses. When he returned to the cabin a man was standing at the porch. +Slone recognized Holley's shape and then his voice. + +"Son, you raised the devil to-day." + +"Holley, don't you go back on me!" cried Slone. "I was driven!" + +"Don't talk so loud," whispered the rider in return. "I've only a minnit. +. . . Here--a letter from Lucy. . . . An', son, don't git the idee thet +I'll go back on you." + +Slone took the letter with trembling fingers. All the fury and gloom instantly +fled. Lucy had written him! He could not speak. + +"Son, I'm double-crossin' the boss, right this minnit!" whispered Holley, +hoarsely. "An' the same time I'm playin' Lucy's game. If Bostil finds out +he'll kill me. I mustn't be ketched up here. But I won't lose track of +you--wherever you go." + +Holley slipped away stealthily in the dusk, leaving Slone with a throbbing +heart. + +"Wherever you go!" he echoed. "Ah! I forgot! I can't stay here." + +Lucy's letter made his fingers tingle--made them so hasty and awkward that he +had difficulty in kindling blaze enough to see to read. The letter was short, +written in lead-pencil on the torn leaf of a ledger. Slone could not read +rapidly--those years on the desert had seen to that--and his haste to learn +what Lucy said bewildered him. At first all the words blurred: + +"Come at once to the bench in the cottonwoods. I'll meet you there. My heart +is breaking. It's a lie--a lie--what they say. I'll swear you were with me +the night the boat was cut adrift. I KNOW you didn't do that. I know who. +. . . Oh, come! I will stick to you. I will run off with you. I love you!" + + + +CHAPTER XV + +Slone's heart leaped to his throat, and its beating choked his utterances of +rapture and amaze and dread. But rapture dominated the other emotions. He +could scarcely control the impulse to run to meet Lucy, without a single +cautious thought. + +He put the precious letter inside his blouse, where it seemed to warm his +breast. He buckled on his gun-belt, and, extinguishing the light, he hurried +out. + +A crescent moon had just tipped the bluff. The village lanes and cabins and +trees lay silver in the moon-light. A lonesome coyote barked in the distance. +All else was still. The air was cool, sweet, fragrant. There appeared to be a +glamour of light, of silence, of beauty over the desert. + +Slone kept under the dark lee of the bluff and worked around so that he could +be above the village, where there was little danger of meeting any one. Yet +presently he had to go out of the shadow into the moon-blanched lane. Swift +and silent as an Indian he went along, keeping in the shade of what trees +there were, until he came to the grove of cottonwoods. The grove was a black +mystery lanced by silver rays. He slipped in among the trees, halting every +few steps to listen. The action, the realization had helped to make him cool, +to steel him, though never before in his life had he been so exalted. The +pursuit and capture of Wildfire, at one time the desire of his heart, were as +nothing to this. Love had called him--and life--and he knew death hung in the +balance. If Bostil found him seeking Lucy there would be blood spilled. Slone +quaked at the thought, for the cold and ghastly oppression following the death +he had meted out to Sears came to him at times. But such thoughts were +fleeting; only one thought really held his mind--and the one was that Lucy +loved him, had sent strange, wild, passionate words to him. + +He found the narrow path, its white crossed by slowly moving black bars of +shadow, and stealthily he followed this, keen of eye and ear, stopping at +every rustle. He well knew the bench Lucy had mentioned. It was in a remote +corner of the grove, under big trees near the spring. Once Slone thought he +had a glimpse of white. Perhaps it was only moonlight. He slipped on and on, +and when beyond the branching paths that led toward the house he breathed +freer. The grove appeared deserted. At last he crossed the runway from the +spring, smelled the cool, wet moss and watercress, and saw the big cottonwood, +looming dark above the other trees. A patch of moonlight brightened a little +glade just at the edge of dense shade cast by the cottonwood. Here the bench +stood. It was empty! + +Slone's rapture vanished. He was suddenly chilled. She was not there! She +might have been intercepted. He would not see her. The disappointment, the +sudden relaxation, was horrible. Then a white, slender shape flashed from +beside the black tree-trunk and flew toward him. It was noiseless, like a +specter, and swift as the wind. Was he dreaming? He felt so strange. Then--the +white shape reached him and he knew. + +Lucy leaped into his arms. + +"Lin! Lin! Oh, I'm so--so glad to see you!" she whispered. She seemed +breathless, keen, new to him, not in the least afraid nor shy. Slone could +only hold her. He could not have spoken, even if she had given him a chance. +"I know everything--what they accuse you of--how the riders treated you--how +my dad struck you. Oh! . . . He's a brute! I hate him for that. Why didn't you +keep out of his way? . . . Van saw it all. Oh, I hate him, too! He said you +lay still--where you fell! . . . Dear Lin, that blow may have hurt you +dreadfully--shamed you because you couldn't strike back at my dad--but it +reached me, too. It hurt me. It woke my heart. . . . Where--where did he hit +you? Oh, I've seen him hit men! His terrible fists!" + +"Lucy, never mind," whispered Slone. "I'd stood to be shot just for this." + +He felt her hands softly on his face, feeling around tenderly till they found +the swollen bruise on mouth and chin. + +"Ah! . . . He struck you. And I--I'll kiss you," she whispered. "If kisses +will make it well--it'll be well!" + +She seemed strange, wild, passionate in her tenderness. She lifted her face +and kissed him softly again and again and again, till the touch that had been +exquisitely painful to his bruised lips became rapture. Then she leaned back +in his arms, her hands on his shoulders, white-faced, dark-eyed, and laughed +up in his face, lovingly, daringly, as if she defied the world to change what +she had done. + +"Lucy! Lucy! . . . He can beat me--again!" said Slone, low and hoarsely. + +"If you love me you'll keep out of his way," replied the girl. + +"If I love you? . . . My God! . . . I've felt my heart die a thousand times +since that mornin'--when--when you--" + +"Lin, I didn't know," she interrupted, with sweet, grave earnestness. "I know +now!" + +And Slone could not but know, too, looking at her; and the sweetness, the +eloquence, the noble abandon of her avowal sounded to the depths of him. His +dread, his resignation, his shame, all sped forever in the deep, full breath +of relief with which he cast off that burden. He tasted the nectar of +happiness, the first time in his life. He lifted his head--never, he knew, to +lower it again. He would be true to what she had made him. + +"Come in the shade," he whispered, and with his arm round her he led her to +the great tree-trunk. "Is it safe for you here? An' how long can you stay?" + +"I had it out with Dad--left him licked once in his life," she replied. "Then +I went to my room, fastened the door, and slipped out of my window. I can stay +out as long as I want. No one will know." + +Slone's heart throbbed. She was his. The clasp of her hands on his, the gleam +of her eyes, the white, daring flash of her face in the shadow of the +moon--these told him she was his. How it had come about was beyond him, but he +realized the truth. What a girl! This was the same nerve which she showed when +she had run Wildfire out in front of the fleetest horses in the uplands. + +"Tell me, then," he began, quietly, with keen gaze roving under the trees and +eyes strained tight, "tell me what's come off." + +"Don't you know?" she queried, in amaze. + +"Only that for some reason I'm done in Bostil's Ford. It can't be because I +punched Joel Creech. I felt it before I met Bostil at the store. He taunted +me. We had bitter words. He told before all of them how the outfit I wore you +gave me. An' then I dared him to race the King. My horse an' my life against +YOU!" + +"Yes, I know," she whispered, softly. "It's all over town. . . . Oh, Lin! it +was a grand bet! And Bostil four-flushed, as the riders say. For days a race +between Wildfire and the King had been in the air. There'll never be peace in +Bostil's Ford again till that race is run." + +"But, Lucy, could Bostil's wantin' Wildfire an' hatin' me because I won't +sell--could that ruin me here at the Ford?" + +"It could. But, Lin, there's more. Oh, I hate to tell you!" she whispered, +passionately. "I thought you'd know. . . . Joel Creech swore you cut the ropes +on the ferry-boat and sent it adrift." + +"The loon!" ejaculated Slone, and he laughed low in both anger and ridicule. +"Lucy, that's only a fool's talk." + +"He's crazy. Oh, if I ever get him in front of me again when I'm on +Sarch--I'll--I'll. . . ." She ended with a little gasp and leaned a moment +against Slone. He felt her heart beat--felt the strong clasp of her hands. She +was indeed Bostil's flesh and blood, and there was that in her dangerous to +arouse. + +"Lin, the folks here are queer," she resumed, more calmly. "For long years Dad +has ruled them. They see with his eyes and talk with his voice. Joel Creech +swore you cut those cables. Swore he trailed you. Brackton believed him. Van +believed him. They told my father. And he--my dad--God forgive him! he jumped +at that. The village as one person now believes you sent the boat adrift so +Creech's horses could not cross and you could win the race." + +"Lucy, if it wasn't so--so funny I'd be mad as--as--" burst out Slone. + +"It isn't funny. It's terrible. . . . I know who cut those cables. . . Holley +knows. . . . DAD knows--an', oh, Lin--I--hate--I hate my own father!" + +"My God!" gasped Slone, as the full signification burst upon him. Then his +next thought was for Lucy. "Listen, dear--you mustn't say that," he entreated. +"He's your father. He's a good man every way except when he's after horses. +Then he's half horse. I understand him. I feel sorry for him. . . . An' if +he's throwed the blame on me, all right. I'll stand it. What do I care? I was +queered, anyhow, because I wouldn't part with my horse. It can't matter so +much if people think I did that just to help win a race. But if they knew +your--your father did it, an' if Creech's horses starve, why it'd be a +disgrace for him--an' you." + +"Lin Slone--you'll accept the blame!" she whispered, with wide, dark eyes on +him, hands at his shoulders. + +"Sure I will," replied Slone. "I can't be any worse off." + +"You're better than all of them--my rider!" she cried, full-voiced and +tremulous. "Lin, you make me love you so--it--it hurts!" And she seemed about +to fling herself into his arms again. There was a strangeness about her--a +glory. "But you'll not take the shame of that act. For I won't let you. I'll +tell my father I was with you when the boat was cut loose. He'll believe me." + +"Yes, an' he'll KILL me!" groaned Slone. "Good Lord! Lucy, don't do that!" + +"I will! An' he'll not kill you. Lin, Dad took a great fancy to you. I know +that. He thinks he hates you. But in his heart he doesn't. If he got hold of +Wildfire--why, he'd never be able to do enough for you. He never could make it +up. What do you think? I told him you hugged and kissed me shamefully that +day." + +"Oh, Lucy! you didn't?" implored Slone. + +"I sure did. And what do you think? He said he once did the same to my mother! +. . . No, Lin, Dad'd never kill you for anything except a fury about horses. +All the fights he ever had were over horse deals. The two men--he--he--" Lucy +faltered and her shudder was illuminating to Slone. "Both of them--fights over +horse trades!" + +"Lucy, if I'm ever unlucky enough to meet Bostil again I'll be deaf an' dumb. +An' now you promise me you won't tell him you were with me that night." + +"Lin, if the occasion comes, I will--I couldn't help it," replied Lucy. + +"Then fight shy of the occasion," he rejoined, earnestly. "For that would be +the end of Lin Slone!" + +"Then--what on earth can--we do?" Lucy said, with sudden break of spirit. + +"I think we must wait. You wrote in your letter you'd stick to me--you'd--" +He could not get the words out, the thought so overcame him. + +"If it comes to a finish, I'll go with you," Lucy returned, with passion +rising again. + +"Oh! to ride off with you, Lucy--to have you all to myself--I daren't think of +it. But that's only selfish." + +"Maybe it's not so selfish as you believe. If you left the Ford--now--it'd +break my heart. I'd never get over it." + +"Lucy! You love me--that well?" + +Then their lips met again and their hands locked, and they stood silent, +straining toward each other. He held the slight form, so pliant, so +responsive, so alive, close to him, and her face lay hidden on his breast; and +he looked out over her head into the quivering moonlit shadows. The night was +as still as one away on the desert far from the abode of men. It was more +beautiful than any dream of a night in which he had wandered far into strange +lands where wild horses were and forests lay black under moon-silvered peaks. + +"We'll run--then--if it comes to a finish," said Slone, huskily. "But I'll +wait. I'll stick it out here. I'll take what comes. So--maybe I'll not +disgrace you more." + +"I told Van I--I gloried in being hugged by you that day," she replied, and +her little defiant laugh told what she thought of the alleged disgrace. + +"You torment him," remonstrated Slone. "You set him against us. It would be +better to keep still." + +"But my blood is up!" she said, and she pounded his shoulder with her fist. +"I'll fight--I'll fight! . . . I couldn't avoid Van. It was Holley who told me +Van was threatening you. And when I met Van he told me how everybody said you +insulted me--had been worse than a drunken rider--and that he'd beat you half +to death. So I told Van Joel Creech might have seen us--I didn't doubt +that--but he didn't see that I liked being hugged." + +"What did Van say then?" asked Slone, all aglow with his wonderful joy. + +"He wilted. He slunk away. . . . And so I'll tell them all." + +"But, Lucy, you've always been so--so truthful." + +"What do you mean?" + +"Well, to say you liked being hugged that day was--was a story, wasn't it?" + +"That was what made me so furious," she admitted, shyly. "I was surprised when +you grabbed me off Wildfire. And my heart beat--beat--beat so when you hugged +me. And when you kissed me I--I was petrified. I knew I liked it then--and I +was furious with myself." + +Slone drew a long, deep breath of utter enchantment. "You'll take back +Wildfire?" + +"Oh, Lin--don't--ask--me," she implored. + +"Take him back--an' me with him." + +"Then I will. But no one must know that yet." + +They drew apart then. + +"An' now you must go," said Slone, reluctantly. "Listen. I forgot to warn you +about Joel Creech. Don't ever let him near you. He's crazy an' he means evil." + +"Oh, I know, Lin! I'll watch. But I'm not afraid of him." + +"He's strong, Lucy. I saw him lift bags that were hefty for me. . . . Lucy, do +you ride these days?" + +"Every day. If I couldn't ride I couldn't live." + +"I'm afraid," said Slone, nervously. "There's Creech an' Cordts--both have +threatened you." + +"I'm afraid of Cordts," replied Lucy, with a shiver. "You should have seen him +look at me race-day. It made me hot with anger, yet weak, too, somehow. But +Dad says I'm never in any danger if I watch out. And I do. Who could catch me +on Sarch?" + +"Any horse can be tripped in the sage. You told me how Joel tried to rope Sage +King. Did you ever tell your dad that?" + +"I forgot. But then I'm glad I didn't. Dad would shoot for that, quicker than +if Joel tried to rope him. . . . Don't worry, Lin, I always pack a gun." + +"But can you use it?" + +Lucy laughed. "Do you think I can only ride?" + +Slone remembered that Holley had said he had taught Lucy how to shoot as well +as ride. "You'll be watchful--careful," he said, earnestly. + +"Oh, Lin, you need to be that more than I. . . . What will you do?" + +"I'll stay up at the little cabin I thought I owned till to-day." + +"Didn't you buy it?" asked Lucy, quickly. + +"I thought I did. But . . . never mind. Maybe I won't get put out just yet. +An' when will I see you again?" + +"Here, every night. Wait till I come," she replied. "Good night, Lin." + +"I'll--wait!" he exclaimed, with a catch in his voice. "Oh, my luck! . . . +I'll wait, Lucy, every day--hopin' an' prayin' that this trouble will lighten. +An' I'll wait at night--for you!" + +He kissed her good-by and watched the slight form glide away, flit to and fro, +white in the dark patches, grow indistinct and vanish. He was left alone in +the silent grove. + +Slone stole back to the cabin and lay sleepless and tranced, watching the +stars, till late that night. + +All the next day he did scarcely anything but watch and look after his horses +and watch and drag the hours out and dream despite his dread. But no one +visited him. The cabin was left to him that day. + +It had been a hot day, with great thunderhead, black and creamy white clouds +rolling down from the canyon country. No rain had fallen at the Ford, though +storms near by had cooled the air. At sunset Slone saw a rainbow bending down, +ruddy and gold, connecting the purple of cloud with the purple of horizon. + +Out beyond the valley the clouds were broken, showing rifts of blue, and they +rolled low, burying the heads of the monuments, creating a wild and strange +spectacle. Twilight followed, and appeared to rise to meet the darkening +clouds. And at last the gold on the shafts faded; the monuments faded; and the +valley grew dark. + +Slone took advantage of the hour before moonrise to steal down into the grove, +there to wait for Lucy. She came so quickly he scarcely felt that he waited at +all; and then the time spent with her, sweet, fleeting, precious, left him +stronger to wait for her again, to hold himself in, to cease his brooding, to +learn faith in something deeper than he could fathom. + +The next day he tried to work, but found idle waiting made the time fly +swifter because in it he could dream. In the dark of the rustling cottonwoods +he met Lucy, as eager to see him as he was to see her, tender, loving, +remorseful--a hundred sweet and bewildering things all so new, so unbelievable +to Slone. + +That night he learned that Bostil had started for Durango with some of his +riders. This trip surprised Slone and relieved him likewise, for Durango was +over two hundred miles distant, and a journey there even for the hard riders +was a matter of days. + +"He left no orders for me," Lucy said, "except to behave myself. . . . Is this +behaving?" she whispered, and nestled close to Slone, audacious, tormenting as +she had been before this dark cloud of trouble. "But he left orders for Holley +to ride with me and look after me. Isn't that funny? Poor old Holley! He hates +to doublecross Dad, he says." + +"I'm glad Holley's to look after you," replied Slone. "Yesterday I saw you +tearin' down into the sage on Sarch. I wondered what you'd do, Lucy, if Cordts +or that loon Creech should get hold of you?" + +"I'd fight!" + +"But, child, that's nonsense. You couldn't fight either of them." + +"Couldn't I? Well, I just could. I'd--I'd shoot Cordts. And I'd whip Joel +Creech with my quirt. And if he kept after me I'd let Sarch run him down. +Sarch hates him." + +"You're a brave sweetheart," mused Slone. "Suppose you were caught an' +couldn't get away. Would you leave a trail somehow?" + +"I sure would." + +"Lucy, I'm a wild-horse hunter," he went on, thoughtfully, as if speaking to +himself. "I never failed on a trail. I could track you over bare rock." + +"Lin, I'll leave a trail, so never fear," she replied. "But don't borrow +trouble. You're always afraid for me. Look at the bright side. Dad seems to +have forgotten you. Maybe it all isn't so bad as we thought. Oh, I hope so! +. . . How is my horse, Wildfire? I want to ride him again. I can hardly keep +from going after him." + +And so they whispered while the moments swiftly passed. + +It was early during the afternoon of the next day that Slone, hearing the +clip-clop of unshod ponies, went outside to look. One part of the lane he +could see plainly, and into it stalked Joel Creech, leading the leanest and +gauntest ponies Slone had ever seen. A man as lean and gaunt as the ponies +stalked behind. + +The sight shocked Slone. Joel Creech and his father! Slone had no proof, +because he had never seen the elder Creech, yet strangely he felt convinced of +it. And grim ideas began to flash into his mind. Creech would hear who was +accused of cutting the boat adrift. What would he say? If he believed, as all +the villagers believed, then Bostil's Ford would become an unhealthy place for +Lin Slone. Where were the great race-horses--Blue Roan and Peg--and the other +thoroughbreds? A pang shot through Slone. + +"Oh, not lost--not starved?" he muttered. "That would be hell!" + +Yet he believed just this had happened. How strange he had never considered +such an event as the return of Creech. + +"I'd better look him up before he looks me," said Slone. + +It took but an instant to strap on his belt and gun. Then Slone strode down +his path, out into the lane toward Brackton's. Whatever before boded ill to +Slone had been nothing to what menaced him now. He would have a man to face--a +man whom repute called just, but stern. + +Before Slone reached the vicinity of the store he saw riders come out to meet +the Creech party. It so happened there were more riders than usually +frequented Brackton's at that hour. The old storekeeper came stumbling out and +raised his hands. The riders could be heard, loud-voiced and excited. Slone +drew nearer, and the nearer he got the swifter he strode. Instinct told him +that he was making the right move. He would face this man whom he was accused +of ruining. The poor mustangs hung their heads dejectedly. + +"Bags of bones," some rider loudly said. + +And then Slone drew dose to the excited group. Brackton held the center; he +was gesticulating; his thin voice rose piercingly. + +"Creech! Whar's Peg an' the Roan? Gawd Almighty, man! You ain't meanin' them +cayuses thar are all you've got left of thet grand bunch of hosses?" + +There was scarcely a sound. All the riders were still. Slone fastened his eyes +on Creech. He saw a gaunt, haggard face almost black with dust--worn and +sad--with big eyes of terrible gloom. He saw an unkempt, ragged form that had +been wet and muddy, and was now dust-caked. + +Creech stood silent in a dignity of despair that wrung Slone's heart. His +silence was an answer. It was Joel Creech who broke the suspense. + +"Didn't I tell you-all what'd happen?" he shrilled. "PARCHED AN' STARVED!" + +"Aw no!" chorused the riders. + +Brackton shook all over. Tears dimmed his eyes--tears that he had no shame +for. "So help me Gawd--I'm sorry!" was his broken exclamation. + +Slone had forgotten himself and possible revelation concerning him. But when +Holley appeared close to him with a significant warning look, Slone grew keen +once more on his own account. He felt a hot flame inside him--a deep and +burning anger at the man who might have saved Creech's horses. And he, like +Brackton, felt sorrow for Creech, and a rider's sense of loss, of pain. These +horses--these dumb brutes--faithful and sometimes devoted, had to suffer an +agonizing death because of the selfishness of men. + +"I reckon we'd all like to hear what come off, Creech, if you don't feel too +bad to tell us," said Brackton. + +"Gimme a drink," replied Creech. + +"Wal, d--n my old head!" exclaimed Brackton. "I'm gittin' old. Come on in. All +of you! We're glad to see Creech home." + +The riders filed in after Brackton and the Creeches. Holley stayed close +beside Slone, both of them in the background. + +"I heerd the flood comin' thet night," said Creech to his silent and +tense-faced listeners. "I heerd it miles up the canyon. 'Peared a bigger roar +than any flood before. As it happened, I was alone, an' it took time to git +the hosses up. If there'd been an Indian with me--or even Joel--mebbe--" His +voice quavered slightly, broke, and then he resumed. "Even when I got the +hosses over to the landin' it wasn't too late--if only some one had heerd me +an' come down. I yelled an' shot. Nobody heerd. The river was risin' fast. An' +thet roar had begun to make my hair raise. It seemed like years the time I +waited there. . . . Then the flood came down--black an' windy an' awful. I +had hell gittin' the hosses back. + +"Next mornin' two Piutes come down. They had lost mustangs up on the rocks. +All the feed on my place was gone. There wasn't nothin' to do but try to git +out. The Piutes said there wasn't no chance north--no water--no grass--an' so +I decided to go south, if we could climb over thet last slide. Peg broke her +leg there, an'--I--I had to shoot her. But we climbed out with the rest of the +bunch. I left it then to the Piutes. We traveled five days west to head the +canyons. No grass an' only a little water, salt at thet. Blue Roan was game if +ever I seen a game hoss. Then the Piutes took to workin' in an' out an' +around, not to git out, but to find a little grazin'. I never knowed the earth +was so barren. One by one them hosses went down. . . . An' at last, I +couldn't--I couldn't see Blue Roan starvin'--dyin' right before my eyes--an' I +shot him, too. . . . An' what hurts me most now is thet I didn't have the +nerve to kill him fust off." + +There was a long pause in Creech's narrative. + +"Them Piutes will git paid if ever I can pay them. I'd parched myself but for +them. . . . We circled an' crossed them red cliffs an' then the strip of red +sand, an' worked down into the canyon. Under the wall was a long stretch of +beach--sandy--an' at the head of this we found Bostil's boat." + +"Wal,--!" burst out the profane Brackton. "Bostil's boat! . . . Say, 'ain't +Joel told you yet about thet boat?" + +"No, Joel 'ain't said a word about the boat," replied Creech. "What about it?" + +"It was cut loose jest before the flood." + +Manifestly Brackton expected this to be staggering to Creech. But he did not +even show surprise. + +"There's a rider here named Slone--a wild-hoss wrangler," went on Brackton, +"an' Joel swears this Slone cut the boat loose so's he'd have a better chance +to win the race. Joel swears he tracked this feller Slone." + +For Slone the moment was fraught with many emotions, but not one of them was +fear. He did not need the sudden force of Holley's strong hand, pushing him +forward. Slone broke into the group and faced Creech. + +"It's not true. I never cut that boat loose," he declared ringingly. + +"Who're you?" queried Creech. + +"My name's Slone. I rode in here with a wild horse, an' he won a race. Then I +was blamed for this trick." + +Creech's steady, gloomy eyes seemed to pierce Slone through. They were +terrible eyes to look into, yet they held no menace for him. "An' Joel accused +you?" + +"So they say. I fought with him--struck him for an insult to a girl." + +"Come round hyar, Joel," called Creech, sternly. His big, scaly, black hand +closed on the boy's shoulder. Joel cringed under it. "Son, you've lied. What +for?" + +Joel showed abject fear of his father. "He's gone on Lucy--an' I seen him with +her," muttered the boy. + +"An' you lied to hurt Slone?" + +Joel would not reply to this in speech, though that was scarcely needed to +show he had lied. He seemed to have no sense of guilt. Creech eyed him +pityingly and then pushed him back. + +"Men, my son has done this rider dirt," said Creech. "You-all see thet. Slone +never cut the boat loose. . . . An' say, you-all seem to think cuttin' thet +boat loose was the crime. . . . No! Thet wasn't the crime. The crime was +keepin' the boat out of the water fer days when my hosses could have been +crossed." + +Slone stepped back, forgotten, it seemed to him. Both joy and sorrow swayed +him. He had been exonerated. But this hard and gloomy Creech--he knew things. +And Slone thought of Lucy. + +"Who did cut thet thar boat loose?" demanded Brackton, incredulously. + +Creech gave him a strange glance. "As I was sayin', we come on the boat fast +at the head of the long stretch. I seen the cables had been cut. An' I seen +more'n thet. . . . Wal, the river was high an' swift. But this was a long +stretch with good landin' way below on the other side. We got the boat in, an' +by rowin' hard an' driftin' we got acrost, leadin' the hosses. We had five +when we took to the river. Two went down on the way over. We climbed out then. +The Piutes went to find some Navajos an' get hosses. An' I headed fer the +Ford--made camp twice. An' Joel seen me comin' out a ways." + +"Creech, was there anythin' left in thet boat?" began Brackton, with intense +but pondering curiosity. "Anythin' on the ropes--or so--thet might give an +idee who cut her loose?" + +Creech made no reply to that. The gloom burned darker in his eyes. He seemed a +man with a secret. He trusted no one there. These men were all friends of his, +but friends under strange conditions. His silence was tragic, and all about +the man breathed vengeance. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +No moon showed that night, and few stars twinkled between the slow-moving +clouds. The air was thick and oppressive, full of the day's heat that had not +blown away. A dry storm moved in dry majesty across the horizon, and the +sheets and ropes of lightning, blazing white behind the black monuments, gave +weird and beautiful grandeur to the desert. + +Lucy Bostil had to evade her aunt to get out of the house, and the window, +that had not been the means of exit since Bostil left, once more came into +use. Aunt Jane had grown suspicious of late, and Lucy, much as she wanted to +trust her with her secret, dared not do it. For some reason unknown to Lucy, +Holley had also been hard to manage, particularly to-day. Lucy certainly did +not want Holley to accompany her on her nightly rendezvous with Slone. She +changed her light gown to the darker and thicker riding-habit. + +There was a longed-for, all-satisfying flavor in this night adventure +--something that had not all to do with love. The stealth, the outwitting of +guardians, the darkness, the silence, the risk--all these called to some deep, +undeveloped instinct in her, and thrilled along her veins, cool, keen, +exciting. She had the blood in her of the greatest adventurer of his day. + +Lucy feared she was a little late. Allaying the suspicions of Aunt Jane and +changing her dress had taken time. Lucy burned with less cautious steps. Still +she had only used caution in the grove because she had promised Slone to do +so. This night she forgot or disregarded it. And the shadows were +thick--darker than at any other time when she had undertaken this venture. She +had always been a little afraid of the dark--a fact that made her contemptuous +of herself. Nevertheless, she did not peer into the deeper pits of gloom. She +knew her way and could slip swiftly along with only a rustle of leaves she +touched. + +Suddenly she imagined she heard a step and she halted, still as a tree-trunk. +There was no reason to be afraid of a step. It had been a surprise to her that +she had never encountered a rider walking and smoking under the trees. +Listening, she assured herself she had been mistaken, and then went on. But +she looked back. Did she see a shadow--darker than others--moving? It was only +her imagination. Yet she sustained a slight chill. The air seemed more +oppressive, or else there was some intangible and strange thing hovering in +it. She went on--reached the lane that divided the grove. But she did not +cross at once. It was lighter in this lane; she could see quite far. + +As she stood there, listening, keenly responsive to all the influences of the +night, she received an impression that did not have its origin in sight nor +sound. And only the leaves touched her--and only their dry fragrance came to +her. But she felt a presence--a strange, indefinable presence. + +But Lucy was brave, and this feeling, whatever it might be, angered her. She +entered the lane and stole swiftly along toward the end of the grove. Paths +crossed the lane at right angles, and at these points she went swifter. It +would be something to tell Slone--she had been frightened. But thought of him +drove away her fear and nervousness, and her anger with herself. + +Then she came to a wider path. She scarcely noted it and passed on. Then came +a quick rustle--a swift shadow. Between two steps--as her heart +leaped--violent arms swept her off the ground. A hard hand was clapped over +her mouth. She was being carried swiftly through the gloom. + +Lucy tried to struggle. She could scarcely move a muscle. Iron arms wrapped +her in coils that crushed her. She tried to scream, but her lips were +tight-pressed. Her nostrils were almost closed between two hard fingers that +smelled of horse. + +Whoever had her, she was helpless. Lucy's fury admitted of reason. Then both +succumbed to a paralyzing horror. Cordts had got her! She knew it. She grew +limp as a rag and her senses dulled. She almost fainted. The sickening +paralysis of her faculties lingered. But she felt her body released--she was +placed upon her feet--she was shaken by a rough hand. She swayed, and but for +that hand might have fallen. She could see a tall, dark form over her, and +horses, and the gloomy gray open of the sage slope. The hand left her face. + +"Don't yap, girl!" This command in a hard, low voice pierced her ears. She saw +the glint of a gun held before her. Instinctive fear revived her old +faculties. The horrible sick weakness, the dimness, the shaking internal +collapse all left her. + +"I'll--be--quiet!" she faltered. She knew what her father had always feared +had come to pass. And though she had been told to put no value on her life, in +that event, she could not run. All in an instant--when life had been so +sweet--she could not face pain or death. + +The man moved back a step. He was tall, gaunt, ragged. But not like Cordts! +Never would she forget Cordts. She peered up at him. In the dim light of the +few stars she recognized Joel Creech's father. + +"Oh, thank God!" she whispered, in the shock of blessed relief. "I +thought--you were--Cordts!" + +"Keep quiet," he whispered back, sternly, and with rough hand he shook her. + +Lucy awoke to realities. Something evil menaced her, even though this man was +not Cordts. Her mind could not grasp it. She was amazed--stunned. She +struggled to speak, yet to keep within that warning command. + +"What--on earth--does this--mean?" she gasped, very low. She had no sense of +fear of Creech. Once, when he and her father had been friends, she had been a +favorite of Creech's. When a little girl she had ridden his knee many times. +Between Creech and Cordts there was immeasurable distance. Yet she had been +violently seized and carried out into the sage and menaced. + +Creech leaned down. His gaunt face, lighted by terrible eyes, made her recoil. +"Bostil ruined me--an' killed my hosses," he whispered, grimly. "An' I'm +takin' you away. An' I'll hold you in ransom for the King an' Sarchedon--an' +all his racers!" + +"Oh!" cried Lucy, in startling surprise that yet held a pang. "Oh, Creech! +. . . Then you mean me no harm!" + +The man straightened up and stood a moment, darkly silent, as if her query had +presented a new aspect of the case. "Lucy Bostil, I'm a broken man an' wild +an' full of hate. But God knows I never thought of thet--of harm to you. . . . +No, child, I won't harm you. But you must obey an' go quietly, for there's a +devil in me." + +"Where will you take me?" she asked. + +"Down in the canyons, where no one can track me," he said. "It'll be hard +goin' fer you, child, an' hard fare. . . . But I'm strikin' at Bostil's heart +as he has broken mine. I'll send him word. An' I'll tell him if he won't give +his hosses thet I'll sell you to Cordts." + +"Oh, Creech--but you wouldn't!" she whispered, and her hand went to his brawny +arm. + +"Lucy, in thet case I'd make as poor a blackguard as anythin' else I've been," +he said, forlornly. "But I'm figgerin' Bostil will give up his hosses fer +you." + +"Creech, I'm afraid he won't. You'd better give me up. Let me go back. I'll +never tell. I don't blame you. I think you're square. My dad is. . . . But, +oh, don't make ME suffer! You used to--to care for me, when I was little." + +"Thet ain't no use," he replied. "Don't talk no more. . . . Git up hyar now +an' ride in front of me." + +He led her to a lean mustang. Lucy swung into the saddle. She thought how +singular a coincidence it was that she had worn a riding-habit. It was dark +and thick, and comfortable for riding. Suppose she had worn the flimsy dress, +in which she had met Slone every night save this one? Thought of Slone gave +her a pang. He would wait and wait and wait. He would go back to his cabin, +not knowing what had befallen her. + +Suddenly Lucy noticed another man, near at hand, holding two mustangs. He +mounted, rode before her, and then she recognized Joel Creech. Assurance of +this brought back something of the dread. But the father could control the +son! + +"Ride on," said Creech, hitting her horse from behind. + +And Lucy found herself riding single file, with two men and a pack-horse, out +upon the windy, dark sage slope. They faced the direction of the monuments, +looming now and then so weirdly black and grand against the broad flare of +lightning-blazed sky. + +Ever since Lucy had reached her teens there had been predictions that she +would be kidnapped, and now the thing had come to pass. She was in danger, she +knew, but in infinitely less than had any other wild character of the uplands +been her captor. She believed, if she went quietly and obediently with Creech, +that she would be, at least, safe from harm. It was hard luck for Bostil, she +thought, but no worse than he deserved. Retribution had overtaken him. How +terribly hard he would take the loss of his horses! Lucy wondered if he really +ever would part with the King, even to save her from privation and peril. +Bostil was more likely to trail her with his riders and to kill the Creeches +than to concede their demands. Perhaps, though, that threat to sell her to +Cordts would frighten the hard old man. + +The horses trotted and swung up over the slope, turning gradually, evidently +to make a wide detour round the Ford, until Lucy's back was toward the +monuments. Before her stretched the bleak, barren, dark desert, and through +the opaque gloom she could see nothing. Lucy knew she was headed for the +north, toward the wild canyons, unknown to the riders. Cordts and his gang hid +in there. What might not happen if the Creeches fell in with Cordts? Lucy's +confidence sustained a check. Still, she remembered the Creeches were like +Indians. And what would Slone do? He would ride out on her trail. Lucy +shivered for the Creeches if Slone ever caught up with them, and remembering +his wild-horse-hunter's skill at tracking, and the fleet and tireless +Wildfire, she grew convinced that Creech could not long hold her captive. For +Slone would be wary. He would give no sign of his pursuit. He would steal upon +the Creeches in the dark and-- Lucy shivered again. What an awful fate had +been that of Dick Sears! + +So as she rode on Lucy's mind was full. She was used to riding, and in the +motion of a horse there was something in harmony with her blood. Even now, +with worry and dread and plotting strong upon her, habit had such power over +her that riding made the hours fleet. She was surprised to be halted, to see +dimly low, dark mounds of rock ahead. + +"Git off," said Creech. + +"Where are we?" asked Lucy. + +"Reckon hyar's the rocks. An' you sleep some, fer you'll need it." He spread a +blanket, laid her saddle at the head of it, and dropped another blanket. "What +I want to know is--shall I tie you up or not?" asked Creech. "If I do you'll +git sore. An' this'll be the toughest trip you ever made." + +"You mean will I try to get away from you--or not?" queried Lucy. + +"Jest thet." + +Lucy pondered. She divined some fineness of feeling in this coarse man. He +wanted to spare her not only pain, but the necessity of watchful eyes on her +every moment. Lucy did not like to promise not to try to escape, if +opportunity presented. Still, she reasoned, that once deep in the canyons, +where she would be in another day, she would be worse off if she did get away. +The memory of Cordts's cavernous, hungry eyes upon her was not a small factor +in Lucy's decision. + +"Creech, if I give my word not to try to get away, would you believe me?" she +asked. + +Creech was slow in replying. "Reckon I would," he said, finally. + +"All right, I'll give it." + +"An' thet's sense. Now you lay down." + +Lucy did as she was bidden and pulled the blanket over her. The place was +gloomy and still. She heard the sound of mustangs' teeth on grass, and the +soft footfalls of the men. Presently these sounds ceased. A cold wind blew +over her face and rustled in the sage near her. Gradually the chill passed +away, and a stealing warmth took its place. Her eyes grew tired. What had +happened to her? With eyes closed she thought it was all a dream. Then the +feeling of the hard saddle as a pillow under her head told her she was indeed +far from her comfortable little room. What would poor Aunt Jane do in the +morning when she discovered who was missing? What would Holley do? When would +Bostil return? It might be soon and it might be days. And Slone--Lucy felt +sorriest for him. For he loved her best. She thrilled at thought of Slone on +that grand horse--on her Wildfire. And with her mind running on and on, +seemingly making sleep impossible, the thoughts at last became dreams. Lucy +awakened at dawn. One hand ached with cold, for it had been outside the +blanket. Her hard bed had cramped her muscles. She heard the crackling of fire +and smelled cedar smoke. In the gray of morning she saw the Creeches round a +camp-fire. + +Lucy got up then. Both men saw her, but made no comment. In that cold, gray +dawn she felt her predicament more gravely. Her hair was damp. She had ridden +nearly all night without a hat. She had absolutely nothing of her own except +what was on her body. But Lucy thanked her lucky stars that she had worn the +thick riding-suit and her boots, for otherwise, in a summer dress, her +condition would soon have been miserable. + +"Come an' eat," said Creech. "You have sense--an' eat if it sticks in your +throat." + +Bostil had always contended in his arguments with riders that a man should eat +heartily on the start of a trip so that the finish might find him strong. And +Lucy ate, though the coarse fare sickened her. Once she looked curiously at +Joel Creech. She felt his eyes upon her, but instantly he averted them. He had +grown more haggard and sullen than ever before. + +The Creeches did not loiter over the camp tasks. Lucy was left to herself. The +place appeared to be a kind of depression from which the desert rolled away to +a bulge against the rosy east, and the rocks behind rose broken and yellow, +fringed with cedars. + +"Git the hosses in, if you want to," Creech called to her, and then as Lucy +started off to where the mustangs grazed she heard him curse his son. "Come +back hyar! Leave the girl alone or I'll rap you one!" + +Lucy drove three of the mustangs into camp, where Creech began to saddle them. +The remaining one, the pack animal, Lucy found among the scrub cedars at the +base of the low cliffs. When she drove him in Creech was talking hard to Joel, +who had mounted. + +"When you come back, work up this canyon till you git up. It heads on the pine +plateau. I can't miss seein' you, or any one, long before you git up on top. +An' you needn't come without Bostil's hosses. You know what to tell Bostil if +he threatens you, or refuses to send his hosses, or turns his riders on my +trail. Thet's all. Now git!" + +Joel Creech rode away toward the rise in the rolling, barren desert. + +"An' now we'll go on," said Creech to Lucy. + +When he had gotten all in readiness he ordered Lucy to follow closely in his +tracks. He entered a narrow cleft in the low cliffs which wound in and out, +and was thick with sage and cedars. Lucy, riding close to the cedars, +conceived the idea of plucking the little green berries and dropping them on +parts of the trail where their tracks would not show. Warily she filled the +pockets of her jacket. + +Creech led the way without looking back, and did not seem to care where the +horses stepped. The time had not yet come, Lucy concluded, when he was ready +to hide his trail. Presently the narrow cleft opened into a low-walled canyon, +full of debris from the rotting cliffs, and this in turn opened into a main +canyon with mounting yellow crags. It appeared to lead north. Far in the +distance above rims and crags rose in a long, black line like a horizon of +dark cloud. + +Creech crossed this wide canyon and entered one of the many breaks in the +wall. This one was full of splintered rock and weathered shale--the hardest +kind of travel for both man and beast. Lucy was nothing if not considerate of +a horse, and here she began to help her animal in all the ways a good rider +knows. Much as this taxed her attention, she remembered to drop some of the +cedar berries upon hard ground or rocks. And she knew she was leaving a trail +for Slone's keen eyes. + +That day was the swiftest and the most strenuous in all Lucy Bostil's +experience in the open. At sunset, when Creech halted in a niche in a gorge +between lowering cliffs, Lucy fell off her horse and lay still and spent on +the grass. + +Creech had a glance of sympathy and admiration for her, but he did not say +anything about the long day's ride. Lucy never in her life before appreciated +rest nor the softness of grass nor the relief at the end of a ride. She lay +still with a throbbing, burning ache in all her body. Creech, after he had +turned the horses loose, brought her a drink of cold water from the brook she +heard somewhere near by. + +"How--far--did--we--come?" she whispered. + +"By the way round I reckon nigh on to sixty miles," he replied. "But we ain't +half thet far from where we camped last night." + +Then he set to work at camp tasks. Lucy shook her head when he brought her +food, but he insisted, and she had to force it down. Creech appeared rough but +kind. After she had become used to the hard, gaunt, black face she saw sadness +and thought in it. One thing Lucy had noticed was that Creech never failed to +spare a horse, if it was possible. He would climb on foot over bad places. + +Night soon mantled the gorge in blackness thick as pitch. Lucy could not tell +whether her eyes were open or shut, so far as what she saw was concerned. Her +eyes seemed filled, however, with a thousand pictures of the wild and tortuous +canyons and gorges through which she had ridden that day. The ache in her +limbs and the fever in her blood would not let her sleep. It seemed that these +were forever to be a part of her. For twelve hours she had ridden and walked +with scarce a thought of the nature of the wild country, yet once she lay down +to rest her mind was an endless hurrying procession of pictures--narrow red +clefts choked with green growths--yellow gorges and weathered slides--dusty, +treacherous divides connecting canyons--jumbles of ruined cliffs and piles of +shale--miles and miles and endless winding miles yellow, low, beetling walls. +And through it all she had left a trail. + +Next day Creech climbed out of that low-walled canyon, and Lucy saw a wild, +rocky country cut by gorges, green and bare, or yellow and cedared. The long, +black-fringed line she had noticed the day before loomed closer; overhanging +this crisscrossed region of canyons. Every half-hour Creech would lead them +downward and presently climb out again. There were sand and hard ground and +thick turf and acres and acres of bare rock where even a shod horse would not +leave a track. + +But the going was not so hard--there was not so much travel on foot for +Lucy--and she finished that day in better condition than the first one. + +Next day Creech proceeded with care and caution. Many times he left the direct +route, bidding Lucy wait for him, and he would ride to the rims of canyons or +the tops of ridges of cedar forests, and from these vantage-points he would +survey the country. Lucy gathered after a while that he was apprehensive of +what might be encountered, and particularly so of what might be feared in +pursuit. Lucy thought this strange, because it was out of the question for any +one to be so soon on Creech's trail. + +These peculiar actions of Creech were more noticeable on the third day, and +Lucy grew apprehensive herself. She could not divine why. But when Creech +halted on a high crest that gave a sweeping vision of the broken table-land +they had traversed Lucy made out for herself faint moving specks miles behind. + +"I reckon you see thet," said Creech + +"Horses," replied Lucy. + +He nodded his head gloomily, and seemed pondering a serious question. + +"Is some one trailing us?" asked Lucy, and she could not keep the tremor out +of her voice. + +"Wal, I should smile! Fer two days--an' it sure beats me. They've never had +a sight of us. But they keep comin'." + +"They! Who?" she asked, swiftly. + +"I hate to tell you, but I reckon I ought. Thet's Cordts an' two of his gang." + +"Oh--don't tell me so!" cried Lucy, suddenly terrified. Mention of Cordts had +not always had power to frighten her, but this time she had a return of that +shaking fear which had overcome her in the grove the night she was captured. + +"Cordts all right," replied Creech. "I knowed thet before I seen him. Fer two +mornin's back I seen his hoss grazin in thet wide canyon. But I thought I'd +slipped by. Some one seen us. Or they seen our trail. Anyway, he's after us. +What beats me is how he sticks to thet trail. Cordts never was no tracker. An' +since Dick Sears is dead there ain't a tracker in Cordts's outfit. An' I +always could hide my tracks. . . . Beats me!" + +"Creech, I've been leaving a trail," confessed Lucy. + +"What!" + +Then she told him how she had been dropping cedar berries and bits of cedar +leaves along the bare and stony course they had traversed. + +"Wal, I'm--" Creech stifled an oath. Then he laughed, but gruffly. "You air a +cute one. But I reckon you didn't promise not to do thet. . . . An' now if +Cordts gits you there'll be only yourself to blame." + +"Oh!" cried Lucy, frantically looking back. The moving specks were plainly in +sight. "How can he know he's trailing me?" + +"Thet I can't say. Mebbe he doesn't know. His hosses air fresh, though, an' if +I can't shake him he'll find out soon enough who he's trailin'." + +"Go on! We must shake him. I'll never do THAT again! . . . For God's sake, +Creech, don't let him get me!" + +And Creech led down off the high open land into canyons again. + +The day ended, and the night seemed a black blank to Lucy. Another sunrise +found Creech leading on, sparing neither Lucy nor the horses. He kept on a +steady walk or trot, and he picked out ground less likely to leave any tracks. +Like an old deer he doubled on his trail. He traveled down stream-beds where +the water left no trail. That day the mustangs began to fail. The others were +wearing out. + +The canyons ran like the ribs of a wash-board. And they grew deep and verdant, +with looming, towered walls. That night Lucy felt lost in an abyss. The +dreaming silence kept her awake many moments while sleep had already seized +upon her eyelids. And then she dreamed of Cordts capturing her, of carrying +her miles deeper into these wild and purple cliffs, of Slone in pursuit on the +stallion Wildfire, and of a savage fight. And she awoke terrified and cold in +the blackness of the night. + +On the next day Creech traveled west. This seemed to Lucy to be far to the +left of the direction taken before. And Lucy, in spite of her utter weariness, +and the necessity of caring for herself and her horse, could not but wonder at +the wild and frowning canyon. It was only a tributary of the great canyon, she +supposed, but it was different, strange, impressive, yet intimate, because all +about it was overpowering, near at hand, even the beetling crags. And at every +turn it seemed impossible to go farther over that narrow and rock-bestrewn +floor. Yet Creech found a way on. + +Then came hours of climbing such slopes and benches and ledges as Lucy had not +yet encountered. The grasping spikes of dead cedar tore her dress to shreds, +and many a scratch burned her flesh. About the middle of the afternoon Creech +led up over the last declivity, a yellow slope of cedar, to a flat upland +covered with pine and high bleached grass. They rested. + +"We've fooled Cordts, you can be sure of thet," said Creech. "You're a game +kid, an', by Gawd! if I had this job to do over I'd never tackle it again!" + +"Oh, you're sure we've lost him?" implored Lucy. + +"Sure as I am of death. An' we'll make surer in crossin' this bench. It's +miles to the other side where I'm to keep watch fer Joel. An' we won't leave a +track all the way." + +"But this grass?" questioned Lucy. "It'll show our tracks." + +"Look at the lanes an' trails between. All pine mats thick an' soft an' +springy. Only an Indian could follow us hyar on Wild Hoss Bench." + +Lucy gazed before her under the pines. It was a beautiful forest, with trees +standing far apart, yet not so far but that their foliage intermingled. A dry +fragrance, thick as a heavy perfume, blew into her face. She could not help +but think of fire--how it would race through here, and that recalled Joel +Creech's horrible threat. Lucy shuddered and put away the memory. "I can't +go--any farther--to-day," she said. + +Creech looked at her compassionately. Then Lucy became conscious that of late +he had softened. + +"You'll have to come," he said. "There's no water on this side, short of thet +canyon-bed. An' acrost there's water close under the wall." + +So they set out into the forest. And Lucy found that after all she could go +on. The horses walked and on the soft, springy ground did not jar her. Deer +and wild turkey abounded there and showed little alarm at sight of the +travelers. And before long Lucy felt that she would become intoxicated by the +dry odor. It was so strong, so thick, so penetrating. Yet, though she felt she +would reel under its influence, it revived her. + +The afternoon passed; the sun set off through the pines, a black-streaked, +golden flare; twilight shortly changed to night. The trees looked spectral in +the gloom, and the forest appeared to grow thicker. Wolves murmured, and there +were wild cries of cat and owl. Lucy fell asleep on her horse. At last, +sometime late in the night, when Creech lifted her from the saddle and laid +her down, she stretched out on the soft mat of pine needles and knew no more. + +She did not awaken until the afternoon of the next day. The site where Creech +had made his final camp overlooked the wildest of all that wild upland +country. The pines had scattered and trooped around a beautiful park of grass +that ended abruptly upon bare rock. Yellow crags towered above the rim, and +under them a yawning narrow gorge, overshadowed from above, blue in its +depths, split the end of the great plateau and opened out sheer into the head +of the canyon, which, according to Creech, stretched away through that +wilderness of red stone and green clefts. When Lucy's fascinated gaze looked +afar she was stunned at the vast, billowy, bare surfaces. Every green cleft +was a short canyon running parallel with this central and longer one. The dips +and breaks showed how all these canyons were connected. They led the gaze +away, descending gradually to the dim purple of distance--the bare, rolling +desert upland. + +Lucy did nothing but gaze. She was unable to walk or eat that day. Creech hung +around her with a remorse he apparently felt, yet could not put into words. + +"Do you expect Joel to come up this big canyon?" + +"I reckon I do--some day," replied Creech. "An' I wish he'd hurry." + +"Does he know the way?" + +"Nope. But he's good at findin' places. An' I told him to stick to the main +canyon. Would you believe you could ride offer this rim, straight down thar +fer fifty miles, an' never git off your hoss?" + +"No, I wouldn't believe it possible." + +"Wal, it's so. I've done it. An' I didn't want to come up thet way because I'd +had to leave tracks." + +"Do you think we're safe--from Cordts now?" she asked. + +"I reckon so. He's no tracker." + +"But suppose he does trail us?" + +"Wal, I reckon I've a shade the best of Cordts at gun-play, any day." + +Lucy regarded the man in surprise. "Oh, it's so--strange!" she said. "You'd +fight for me. Yet you dragged me for days over these awful rocks! . . . Look +at me, Creech. Do I look much like Lucy Bostil?" + +Creech hung his head. "Wal, I reckoned I wasn't a blackguard, but I AM." + +"You used to care for me when I was little. I remember how I used to take +rides on your knee." + +"Lucy, I never thought of thet when I ketched you. You was only a means to an +end. Bostil hated me. He ruined me. I give up to revenge. An' I could only git +thet through you." + +"Creech, I'm not defending Dad. He's--he's no good where horses are concerned. +I know he wronged you. Then why didn't you wait and meet him like a man +instead of dragging me to this misery?" + +"Wal, I never thought of thet, either. I wished I had." He grew gloomier then +and relapsed into silent watching. + +Lucy felt better next day, and offered to help Creech at the few camp duties. +He would not let her. There was nothing to do but rest and wait, and the +idleness appeared to be harder on Creech than on Lucy. He had always been +exceedingly active. Lucy divined that every hour his remorse grew keener, and +she did all she could think of to make it so. Creech made her a rude brush by +gathering small roots and binding them tightly and cutting the ends square. +And Lucy, after the manner of an Indian, got the tangles out of her hair. That +day Creech seemed to want to hear Lucy's voice, and so they often fell into +conversation. Once he said, thoughtfully: + +"I'm tryin' to remember somethin' I heerd at the Ford. I meant to ask you--" +Suddenly he turned to her with animation. He who had been so gloomy and +lusterless and dead showed a bright eagerness. "I heerd you beat the King on a +red hoss--a wild hoss! . . . Thet must have been a joke--like one of Joel's." + +"No. It's true. An' Dad nearly had a fit!" + +"Wal!" Creech simply blazed with excitement. "I ain't wonderin' if he did. His +own girl! Lucy, come to remember, you always said you'd beat thet gray racer. +. . . Fer the Lord's sake tell me all about it." + +Lucy warmed to him because, broken as he was, he could be genuinely glad some +horse but his own had won a race. Bostil could never have been like that. So +Lucy told him about the race--and then she had to tell about Wildfire, and +then about Slone. But at first all of Creech's interest centered round +Wildfire and the race that had not really been run. He asked a hundred +questions. He was as pleased as a boy listening to a good story. He praised +Lucy again and again. He crowed over Bostil's discomfiture. And when Lucy told +him that Slone had dared her father to race, had offered to bet Wildfire and +his own life against her hand, then Creech was beside himself. + +"This hyar Slone--he CALLED Bostil's hand!" + +"He's a wild-horse hunter. And HE can trail us!" + +"Trail us! Slone? Say, Lucy, are you in love with him?" + +Lucy uttered a strange little broken sound, half laugh, half sob. "Love him! +Ah!" + +"An' your Dad's ag'in him! Sure Bostil'll hate any rider with a fast hoss. Why +didn't the darn fool sell his stallion to your father?" + +"He gave Wildfire to me." + +"I'd have done the same. Wal, now, when you git back home what's comin' of it +all?" + +Lucy shook her head sorrowfully. "God only knows. Dad will never own Wildfire, +and he'll never let me marry Slone. And when you take the King away from him +to ransom me--then my life will be hell, for if Dad sacrifices Sage King, +afterward he'll hate me as the cause of his loss." + +"I can sure see the sense of all that," replied Creech, soberly. And he +pondered. + +Lucy saw through this man as if he had been an inch of crystal water. He was +no villain, and just now in his simplicity, in his plodding thought of +sympathy for her he was lovable. + +"It's one hell of a muss, if you'll excuse my talk," said Creech. "An' I don't +like the looks of what I 'pear to be throwin' in your way. . . . But see hyar, +Lucy, if Bostil didn't give up--or, say, he gits the King back, thet wouldn't +make your chance with Slone any brighter." + +"I don't know." + +"Thet race will have to be ran!" + +"What good will that do?" cried Lucy, with tears in her eyes. "I don't want to +lose Dad. I--I--love him--mean as he is. And it'll kill me to lose Lin. +Because Wildfire can beat Sage King, and that means Dad will be forever +against him." + +"Couldn't this wild-horse feller LET the King win thet race?" + +"Oh, he could, but he wouldn't." + +"Can't you be sweet round him--fetch him over to thet?" + +"Oh, I could, but I won't." + +Creech might have been plotting the happiness of his own daughter, he was so +deeply in earnest. + +"Wal, mebbe you don't love each other so much, after all. . . . Fast hosses +mean much to a man in this hyar country. I know, fer I lost mine! . . . But +they ain't all. . . . I reckon you young folks don't love so much, after all." + +"But--we--do!" cried Lucy, with a passionate sob. All this talk had unnerved +her. + +"Then the only way is fer Slone to lie to Bostil." + +"Lie!" exclaimed Lucy. + +"Thet's it. Fetch about a race, somehow--one Bostil can't see--an' then lie +an' say the King run Wildfire off his legs." + +Suddenly it occurred to Lucy that one significance of this idea of Creech's +had not dawned upon him. "You forget that soon my father will no longer own +Sage King or Sarchedon or Dusty Ben--or any racer. He loses them or me, I +thought. That's what I am here for." + +Creech's aspect changed. The eagerness and sympathy fled from his face, +leaving it once more hard and stern. He got up and stood a tall, dark, and +gloomy man, brooding over his loss, as he watched the canyon. Still, there was +in him then a struggle that Lucy felt. Presently he bent over and put his big +hand on her head. It seemed gentle and tender compared with former contacts, +and it made Lucy thrill. She could not see his face. What did he mean? She +divined something startling, and sat there trembling in suspense. + +"Bostil won't lose his only girl--or his favorite hoss! . . . Lucy, I never +had no girl. But it seems I'm rememberin' them rides you used to have on my +knee when you was little!" + +Then he strode away toward the forest. Lucy watched him with a full heart, and +as she thought of his overcoming the evil in him when her father had yielded +to it, she suffered poignant shame. This Creech was not a bad man. He was +going to let her go, and he was going to return Bostil's horses when they +came. Lucy resolved with a passionate determination that her father must make +ample restitution for the loss Creech had endured. She meant to tell Creech +so. + +Upon his return, however, he seemed so strange and forbidding again that her +heart failed her. Had he reconsidered his generous thought? Lucy almost +believed so. These old horse-traders were incomprehensible in any relation +concerning horses. Recalling Creech's intense interest in Wildfire and in the +inevitable race to be run between him and Sage King, Lucy almost believed that +Creech would sacrifice his vengeance just to see the red stallion beat the +gray. If Creech kept the King in ransom for Lucy he would have to stay deeply +hidden in the wild breaks of the canyon country or leave the uplands. For +Bostil would never let that deed go unreckoned with. Like Bostil, old Creech +was half horse and half human. The human side had warmed to remorse. He had +regretted Lucy's plight; he wanted her to be safe at home again and to find +happiness; he remembered what she had been to him when she was a little girl. +Creech's other side was more complex. + +Before the evening meal ended Lucy divined that Creech was dark and troubled +because he had resigned himself to a sacrifice harder than it had seemed in +the first flush of noble feeling. But she doubted him no more. She was safe. +The King would be returned. She would compel her father to pay Creech horse +for horse. And perhaps the lesson to Bostil would be worth all the pain of +effort and distress of mind that it had cost her. + +That night as she lay awake listening to the roar of the wind in the pines a +strange premonition--like a mysterious voice---came to her with the assurance +that Slone was on her trail. + +On the following day Creech appeared to have cast off the brooding mood. +Still, he was not talkative. He applied himself to constant watching from the +rim. + +Lucy began to feel rested. That long trip with Creech had made her thin and +hard and strong. She spent the hours under the shade of a cedar on the rim +that protected her from sun and wind. The wind, particularly, was hard to +stand. It blew a gale out of the west, a dry, odorous, steady rush that roared +through the pine-tops and flattened the long, white grass. This day Creech had +to build up a barrier of rock round his camp-fire, to keep it from blowing +away. And there was a constant danger of firing the grass. + +Once Lucy asked Creech what would happen in that case. + +"Wal, I reckon the grass would burn back even ag'in thet wind," replied +Creech. "I'd hate to see fire in the woods now before the rains come. It's +been the longest, dryest spell I ever lived through. But fer thet my hosses-- +This hyar's a west wind, an' it's blowin' harder every day. It'll fetch the +rains." + +Next day about noon, when both wind and heat were high, Lucy was awakened from +a doze. Creech was standing near her. When he turned his long gaze away from +the canyon he was smiling. It was a smile at once triumphant and sad. + +"Joel's comin' with the hosses!" + +Lucy jumped up, trembling and agitated. "Oh! . . . Where? Where?" + +Creech pointed carefully with bent hand, like an Indian, and Lucy either could +not get the direction or see far enough. + +"Right down along the base of thet red wall. A line of hosses. Jest like a few +crawlin' ants' . . . An' now they're creepin' out of sight." + +"Oh, I can't see them!" cried Lucy. "Are you SURE?" + +"Positive an' sartin," he replied. "Joel's comin'. He'll be up hyar before +long. I reckon we'd jest as well let him come. Fer there's water an' grass +hyar. An' down below grass is scarce." + +It seemed an age to Lucy, waiting there, until she did see horses zigzagging +the ridges below. They disappeared, and then it was another age before they +reappeared close under the bulge of wall. She thrilled at sight of Sage King +and Sarchedon. She got only a glimpse of them. They must pass round under her +to climb a split in the wall, and up a long draw that reached level ground +back in the forest. But they were near, and Lucy tried to wait. Creech showed +eagerness at first, and then went on with his camp-fire duties. While in camp +he always cooked a midday meal. + +Lucy saw the horses first. She screamed out. Creech jumped up in alarm. + +Joel Creech, mounted on Sage King, and leading Sarchedon, was coming at a +gallop. The other horses were following. + +"What's his hurry?" demanded Lucy. "After climbing out of that canyon Joel +ought not to push the horses." + +"He'll git it from me if there's no reason," growled Creech. "Them hosses is +wet." + +"Look at Sarch! He's wild. He always hated Joel." + +"Wal, Lucy, I reckon I ain't likin' this hyar. Look at Joel!" muttered Creech, +and he strode out to meet his son. + +Lucy ran out too, and beyond him. She saw only Sage King. He saw her, +recognized her, and, whistled even while Joel was pulling him in. For once the +King showed he was glad to see Lucy. He had been having rough treatment. But +he was not winded--only hot and wet. She assured herself of that, then ran to +quiet the plunging Sarch. He came down at once, and pushed his big nose almost +into her face. She hugged his great, hot neck. He was quivering all over. Lucy +heard the other horses pounding up; she recognized Two Face's high whinny, +like a squeal; and in her delight she was about to run to them when Creech's +harsh voice arrested her. And sight of Joel's face suddenly made her weak. + +"What'd you say?" demanded Creech. + +"I'd a good reason to run the hosses up-hill--thet's what!" snapped Joel. He +was frothing at the mouth. + +"Out with it!" + +"Cordts an' Hutch!" + +"What?" roared Creech, grasping the pale Joel and shaking him. + +"Cordts an' Hutch rode in behind me down at thet cross canyon. They seen me. +An' they're after me hard!" + +Creech gave close and keen scrutiny to the strange face of his son. Then he +wheeled away. + +"Help me pack. An' you, too, Lucy. We've got to rustle out of hyar." + +Lucy fought a sick faintness that threatened to make her useless. But she +tried to help, and presently action made her stronger. + +The Creeches made short work of that breaking of camp. But when it came to +getting the horses there appeared danger of delay. Sarchedon had led Dusty Ben +and Two Face off in the grass. When Joel went for them they galloped away +toward the woods. Joel ran back. + +"Son, you're a smart hossman!" exclaimed Creech, in disgust. + +"Shall I git on the King an' ketch them?" + +"No. Hold the King." Creech went out after Plume, but the excited and wary +horse eluded him. Then Creech gave up, caught his own mustangs, and hurried +into camp. + +"Lucy, if Cordts gits after Sarch an' the others it'll be as well fer us," he +said. + +Soon they were riding into the forest, Creech leading, Lucy in the center, and +Joel coming behind on the King. Two unsaddled mustangs carrying the packs were +driven in front. Creech limited the gait to the best that the pack-horses +could do. They made fast time. The level forest floor, hard and springy, +afforded the best kind of going. + +A cold dread had once more clutched Lucy's heart. What would be the end of +this flight? The way Creech looked back increased her dread. How horrible it +would be if Cordts accomplished what he had always threatened--to run off with +both her and the King! Lucy lost her confidence in Creech. She did not glance +again at Joel. Once had been enough. She rode on with heavy heart. Anxiety and +dread and conjecture and a gradual sinking of spirit weighed her down. Yet she +never had a clearer perception of outside things. The forest loomed thicker +and darker. The sky was seen only through a green, crisscross of foliage +waving in the roaring gale. This strong wind was like a blast in Lucy's face, +and its keen dryness cracked her lips. + +When they rode out of the forest, down a gentle slope of wind-swept grass, to +an opening into a canyon Lucy was surprised to recognize the place. How +quickly the ride through the forest had been made! + +Creech dismounted. "Git off, Lucy. You, Joel, hurry an' hand me the little +pack. . . . Now I'll take Lucy an' the King down in hyar. You go thet way with +the hosses an' make as if you was hidin' your trail, but don't. Do you savvy?" + +Joel shook his head. He looked sullen, somber, strange. His father repeated +what he had said. + +"You're wantin' Cordts to split on the trail?" asked Joel. + +"Sure. He'll ketch up with you sometime. But you needn't be afeared if he +does." + +"I ain't a-goin' to do thet." + +"Why not?" Creech demanded, slowly, with a rising voice. + +"I'm a-goin' with you. What d'ye mean, Dad, by this move? You'll be headin' +back fer the Ford. An' we'd git safer if we go the other way." + +Creech evidently controlled his temper by an effort. "I'm takin' Lucy an' the +King back to Bostil." + +Joel echoed those words, slowly divining them. "Takin' them BOTH! The girl. +. . . An' givin' up the King!" + +"Yes, both of them. I've changed my mind, Joel. Now--you--" + +But Creech never finished what he meant to say. Joel Creech was suddenly +seized by a horrible madness. It was then, perhaps, that the final thread +which linked his mind to rationality stretched and snapped. His face turned +green. His strange eyes protruded. His jaw worked. He frothed at the mouth. He +leaped, apparently to get near his father, but he missed his direction. Then, +as if sight had come back, he wheeled and made strange gestures, all the while +cursing incoherently. The father's shocked face began to show disgust. Then +part of Joel's ranting became intelligible. + +"Shut up!" suddenly roared Creech. + +"No, I won't!" shrieked Joel, wagging his head in spent passion. "An' you +ain't a-goin' to take thet girl home. . . . I'll take her with me. . . . An' +you take the hosses home!" + +"You're crazy!" hoarsely shouted Creech, his face going black. "They allus +said so. But I never believed thet." + +"An' if I'm crazy, thet girl made me. . . . You know what I'm a-goin' to do? +. . . I'll strip her naked--an' I'll--" + +Lucy saw old Creech lunge and strike. She heard the sodden blow. Joel went +down. But he scrambled up with his eyes and mouth resembling those of a mad +hound Lucy once had seen. The fact that he reached twice for his gun and could +not find it proved the breaking connection of nerve and sense. Creech jumped +and grappled with Joel. There was a wrestling, strained struggle. Creech's +hair stood up and his face had a kind of sick fury, and he continued to curse +and command. They fought for the possession of the gun. But Joel seemed to +have superhuman strength. His hold on the gun could not be broken. Moreover, +he kept straining to point the gun at his father. Lucy screamed. Creech yelled +hoarsely. But the boy was beyond reason or help, and he was beyond over +powering! Lucy saw him bend his arm in spite of the desperate hold upon it and +fire the gun. Creech's hoarse entreaties ceased as his hold on Joel broke. He +staggered. His arms went up with a tragic, terrible gesture. He fell. Joel +stood over him, shaking and livid, but he showed only the vaguest realization +of the deed. His actions were instinctive. He was the animal that had clawed +himself free. Further proof of his aberration stood out in the action of +sheathing his gun; he made the motion to do so, but he only dropped it in the +grass. + +Sight of that dropped gun broke Lucy's spell of horror, which had kept her +silent but for one scream. Suddenly her blood leaped like fire in her veins. +She measured the distance to Sage King. Joel was turning. Then Lucy darted at +the King, reached him, and, leaping, was half up on him when he snorted and +jumped, not breaking her hold, but keeping her from getting up. Then iron +hands clutched her and threw her, like an empty sack, to the grass. + +Joel Creech did not say a word. His distorted face had the deriding scorn of a +superior being. Lucy lay flat on her back, watching him. Her mind worked +swiftly. She would have to fight for her body and her life. Her terror had +fled with her horror. She was not now afraid of this demented boy. She meant +to fight, calculating like a cunning Indian, wild as a trapped wildcat. + +Lucy lay perfectly still, for she knew she had been thrown near the spot where +the gun lay. If she got her hands on that gun she would kill Joel. It would be +the action of an instant. She watched Joel while he watched her. And she saw +that he had his foot on the rope round Sage King's neck. The King never liked +a rope. He was nervous. He tossed his head to get rid of it. Creech, watching +Lucy all the while, reached for the rope, pulled the King closer and closer, +and untied the knot. The King stood then, bridle down and quiet. Instead of a +saddle he wore a blanket strapped round him. + +It seemed that Lucy located the gun without turning her eyes away from Joel's. +She gathered all her force--rolled over swiftly--again--got her hands on the +gun just as Creech leaped like a panther upon her. His weight crushed her +flat--his strength made her hand-hold like that of a child. He threw the gun +aside. Lucy lay face down, unable to move her body while he stood over her. +Then he struck her, not a stunning blow, but just the hard rap a cruel rider +gives to a horse that wants its own way. Under that blow Lucy's spirit rose to +a height of terrible passion. Still she did not lose her cunning; the blow +increased it. That blow showed Joel to be crazy. She might outwit a crazy man, +where a man merely wicked might master her. + +Creech tried to turn her. Lucy resisted. And she was strong. Resistance +infuriated Creech. He cuffed her sharply. This action only made him worse. +Then with hands like steel claws he tore away her blouse. + +The shock of his hands on her bare flesh momentarily weakened Lucy, and Creech +dragged at her until she lay seemingly helpless before him. + +And Lucy saw that at the sight of her like this something had come between +Joel Creech's mad motives and their execution. Once he had loved her--desired +her. He looked vague. He stroked her shoulder. His strange eyes softened, then +blazed with a different light. Lucy divined that she was lost unless she could +recall his insane fury. She must begin that terrible fight in which now the +best she could hope for was to make him kill her quickly. + +Swift and vicious as a cat she fastened her teeth in his arm. She bit deep and +held on. Creech howled like a dog. He beat her. He jerked and wrestled. Then +he lifted her, and the swing of her body tore the flesh loose from his arm and +broke her hold. Lucy half rose, crawled, plunged for the gun. She got it, too, +only to have Creech kick it out of her hand. The pain of that brutal kick was +severe, but when he cut her across the bare back with the rope she shrieked +out. Supple and quick, she leaped up and ran. In vain! With a few bounds he +had her again, tripped her up. Lucy fell over the dead body of the father. Yet +even that did not shake her desperate nerve. All the ferocity of a desert-bred +savage culminated in her, fighting for death. + +Creech leaned down, swinging the coiled rope. He meant to do more than lash +her with it. Lucy's hands flashed up, closed tight in his long hair. Then with +a bellow he jerked up and lifted her sheer off the ground. There was an +instant in which Lucy felt herself swung and torn; she saw everything as a +whirling blur; she felt an agony in her wrists at which Creech was clawing. +When he broke her hold there were handfuls of hair in Lucy's fists. + +She fell again and had not the strength to rise. But Creech was raging, and +little of his broken speech was intelligible. He knelt with a sharp knee +pressing her down. He cut the rope. Nimbly, like a rider in moments of needful +swiftness, he noosed one end of the rope round her ankle, then the end of the +other piece round her wrist. He might have been tying up an unbroken mustang. +Rising, he retained hold on both ropes. He moved back, sliding them through +his hands. Then with a quick move he caught up Sage King's bridle. + +Creech paused a moment, darkly triumphant. A hideous success showed in his +strange eyes. A long-cherished mad vengeance had reached its fruition. Then he +led the horse near to Lucy. + +Warily he reached down. He did not know Lucy's strength was spent. He feared +she might yet escape. With hard, quick grasp he caught her, lifted her, threw +her over the King's back. He forced her down. + +Lucy's resistance was her only salvation, because it kept him on the track of +his old threat. She resisted all she could. He pulled her arms down round the +King's neck and tied them close. Then he pulled hard on the rope on her ankle +and tied that to her other ankle. + +Lucy realized that she was bound fast. Creech had made good most of his +threat. And now in her mind the hope of the death she had sought changed to +the hope of life that was possible. Whatever power she had ever had over the +King was in her voice. If only Creech would slip the bridle or cut the +reins--if only Sage King could be free to run! + +Lucy could turn her face far enough to see Creech. Like a fiend he was +reveling in his work. Suddenly he picked up the gun. + +"Look a-hyar!" he called, hoarsely. + +With eyes on her, grinning horribly, he walked a few paces to where the long +grass had not been trampled or pressed down. The wind, whipping up out of the +canyon, was still blowing hard. Creech put the gun down in the grass and +fired. + +Sage King plunged. But he was not gun-shy. He steadied down with a pounding of +heavy hoofs. Then Lucy could see again. A thin streak of yellow smoke rose--a +little snaky flame--a slight crackling hiss! Then as the wind caught the blaze +there came a rushing, low roar. Fire, like magic, raced and spread before the +wind toward the forest. + +Lucy had forgotten that Creech had meant to drive her into fire. The sudden +horror of it almost caused collapse. Commotion within--cold and quake and +nausea and agony--deadened her hearing and darkened her sight. But Creech's +hard hands quickened her. She could see him then, though not clearly. His face +seemed inhuman, misshapen, gray. His hands pulled at her arms--a last +precaution to see that she was tightly bound. Then with the deft fingers of a +rider he slipped Sage King's bridle. + +Lucy could not trust her sight. What made the King stand so still? His ears +went up--stiff--pointed! + +Creech stepped back and laid a violent hand on Lucy's garments. She +bent--twisted her neck to watch him. But her sight grew no clearer. Still she +saw he meant to strip her naked. He braced himself for a strong, ripping pull. +His yellow teeth showed deep in his lip. His contrasting eyes were alight with +insane joy. + +But he never pulled. Something attracted his attention. He looked. He saw +something. The beast in him became human--the madness changed to +rationality--the devil to a craven! His ashen lips uttered a low, terrible +cry. + +Lucy felt the King trembling in every muscle. She knew that was flight. She +expected his loud snort, and was prepared for it when it rang out. In a second +he would bolt. She knew that. She thrilled. She tried to call to him, but her +lips were weak. Creech seemed paralyzed. The King shifted his position, and +Lucy's last glimpse of Creech was one she would never forget. It was as if +Creech faced burning hell! + +Then the King whistled and reared. Lucy heard swift, dull, throbbing beats. +Beats of a fast horse's hoofs on the run! She felt a surging thrill of joy. +She could not think. All of her blood and bone and muscle seemed to throb. +Suddenly the air split to a high-pitched, wild, whistling blast. It pierced to +Lucy's mind. She knew that whistle. + +"Wildfire!" she screamed, with bursting heart. + +The King gave a mighty convulsive bound of terror. He, too, knew that whistle. +And in that one great bound he launched out into a run. Straight across the +line of burning grass! Lucy felt the sting of flame. Smoke blinded and choked +her. Then clear, dry, keen wind sung in her ears and whipped her hair. The +light about her darkened. The King had headed into the pines. The heavy roar +of the gale overhead struck Lucy with new and torturing dread. Sage King once +in his life was running away, bridleless, and behind him there was fire on the +wings of the wind. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +For the first time in his experience Bostil found that horse-trading palled +upon him. This trip to Durango was a failure. Something was wrong. There was a +voice constantly calling into his inner ear--a voice to which he refused to +listen. And during the five days of the return trip the strange mood grew upon +him. + +The last day he and his riders covered over fifty miles and reached the Ford +late at night. No one expected them, and only the men on duty at the corrals +knew of the return. Bostil, much relieved to get home, went to bed and at once +fell asleep. + +He awakened at a late hour for him. When he dressed and went out to the +kitchen he found that his sister had learned of his return and had breakfast +waiting. + +"Where's the girl?" asked Bostil. + +"Not up yet," replied Aunt Jane. + +"What!" + +"Lucy and I had a tiff last night and she went to her room in a temper." + +"Nothin' new about thet." + +"Holley and I have had our troubles holding her in. Don't you forget that." + +Bostil laughed. "Wal, call her an' tell her I'm home." + +Aunt Jane did as she was bidden. Bostil finished his breakfast. But Lucy did +not come. + +Bostil began to feel something strange, and, going to Lucy's door, he knocked. +There was no reply. Bostil pushed open the door. Lucy was not in evidence, and +her room was not as tidy as usual. He saw her white dress thrown upon the bed +she had not slept in. Bostil gazed around with a queer contraction of the +heart. That sense of something amiss grew stronger. Then he saw a chair before +the open window. That window was rather high, and Lucy had placed a chair +before it so that she could look out or get out. Bostil stretched his neck, +looked out, and in the red earth beneath the window he saw fresh tracks of +Lucy's boots. Then he roared for Jane. + +She came running, and between Bostil's furious questions and her own excited +answers there was nothing arrived at. But presently she spied the white dress, +and then she ran to Lucy's closet. From there she turned a white face to +Bostil. + +"She put on her riding-clothes!" gasped Aunt Jane. + +"Supposin' she did! Where is she?" demanded Bostil. + +"SHE'S RUN OFF WITH SLONE!" + +Bostil could not have been shocked or hurt any more acutely by a knife-thrust. +He glared at his sister. + +"A-huh! So thet's the way you watch her!" + +"Watch her? It wasn't possible. She's--well, she's as smart as you are. . . . +Oh, I knew she'd do it! She was wild in love with him!" + +Bostil strode out of the room and the house. He went through the grove and +directly up the path to Slone's cabin. It was empty, just as Bostil expected +to find it. + +The bars of the corral were down. Both Slone's horses were gone. Presently +Bostil saw the black horse Nagger down in Brackton's pasture. + +There were riders in front of Brackton's. All spoke at once to Bostil, and he +only yelled for Brackton. The old man came hurriedly out, alarmed. + +"Where's this Slone?" demanded Bostil. + +"Slone!" ejaculated Brackton. "I'm blessed if I know. Ain't he home?" + +"No. An' he's left his black hoss in your field." + +"Wal, by golly, thet's news to me. . . . Bostil, there's been strange doin's +lately." Brackton seemed at a loss for words. "Mebbe Slone got out because of +somethin' thet come off last night. . . . Now, Joel Creech an'--an'--" + +Bostil waited to hear no more. What did he care about the idiot Creech? He +strode down the lane to the corrals. Farlane, Van, and other riders were +there, leisurely as usual. Then Holley appeared, coming out of the barn. He, +too, was easy, cool, natural, lazy. None of these riders knew what was amiss. +But instantly a change passed over them. It came because Bostil pulled a gun. +"Holley, I've a mind to bore you!" + +The old hawk-eyed rider did not flinch or turn a shade off color. "What fer?" +he queried. But his customary drawl was wanting. + +"I left you to watch Lucy. . . . An' she's gone!" + +Holley showed genuine surprise and distress. The other riders echoed Bostil's +last word. Bostil lowered the gun. + +"I reckon what saves you is you're the only tracker thet'd have a show to find +this cussed Slone." + +Holley now showed no sign of surprise, but the other riders were astounded. + +"Lucy's run off with Slone," added Bostil. + +"Wal, if she's gone, an' if he's gone, it's a cinch," replied Holley, throwing +up his hands. "Boss, she double-crossed me same as you! . . . She promised +faithful to stay in the house." + +"Promises nothin'!" roared Bostil. "She's in love with this wild-hoss +wrangler! She met him last night!" + +"I couldn't help thet," retorted Holley. "An' I trusted the girl." + +Bostil tossed his hands. He struggled with his rage. He had no fear that Lucy +would not soon be found. But the opposition to his will made him furious. + +Van left the group of riders and came close to Bostil. "It ain't an hour back +thet I seen Slone ride off alone on his red hoss." + +"What of thet?" demanded Bostil. "Sure she was waitin' somewheres. They'd have +too much sense to go together. . . . Saddle up, you boys, an' we'll--" + +"Say, Bostil, I happen to know Slone didn't see Lucy last night," interrupted +Holley. + +"A-huh! Wal, you'd better talk out." + +"I trusted Lucy," said Holley. "But all the same, knowin' she was in love, I +jest wanted to see if any girl in love could keep her word. . . . So about +dark I went down the grove an' watched fer Slone. Pretty soon I seen him. He +sneaked along the upper end an' I follered. He went to thet bench up by the +biggest cottonwood. An' he waited a long time. But Lucy didn't come. He must +have waited till midnight. Then he left. I watched him go back--seen him go up +to his cabin." + +"Wal, if she didn't meet him, where was she? She wasn't in her room." + +Bostil gazed at Holley and the other riders, then back to Holley. What was the +matter with this old rider? Bostil had never seen Holley seem so strange. The +whole affair began to loom strangely, darkly. Some portent quickened Bostil's +lumbering pulse. It seemed that Holley's mind must have found an obstacle to +thought. Suddenly the old rider's face changed--the bronze was blotted out--a +grayness came, and then a dead white. + +"Bostil, mebbe you 'ain't been told yet thet--thet Creech rode in yesterday. . +. . He lost all his racers! He had to shoot both Peg an' Roan!" + +Bostil's thought suffered a sudden, blank halt. Then, with realization, came +the shock for which he had long been prepared. + +"A-huh! Is thet so? . . . Wal, an' what did he say?" + +Holley laughed a grim, significant laugh that curdled Bostil's blood. "Creech +said a lot! But let thet go now. . . . Come with me." + +Holley started with rapid strides down the lane. Bostil followed. And he heard +the riders coming behind. A dark and gloomy thought settled upon Bostil. He +could not check that, but he held back impatience and passion. + +Holley went straight to Lucy's window. He got down on his knees to scrutinize +the tracks. + +"Made more 'n twelve hours ago," he said, swiftly. "She had on her boots, but +no spurs. . . . Now let's see where she went." + +Holley began to trail Lucy's progress through the grove, silently pointing now +and then to a track. He went swifter, till Bostil had to hurry. The other men +came whispering after them. + +Holley was as keen as a hound on scent. + +"She stopped there," he said, "mebbe to listen. Looks like she wanted to cross +the lane, but she didn't: here she got to goin' faster." + +Holley reached an intersecting path and suddenly halted stock-still, pointing +at a big track in the dust. + +"My God! . . . Bostil, look at thet!" + +One riving pang tore through Bostil--and then he was suddenly his old self, +facing the truth of danger to one he loved. He saw beside the big track a +faint imprint of Lucy's small foot. That was the last sign of her progress and +it told a story. + +"Bostil, thet ain't Slone's track," said Holley, ringingly. + +"Sure it ain't. Thet's the track of a big man," replied Bostil. + +The other riders, circling round with bent heads, all said one way or another +that Slone could not have made the trail. + +"An' whoever he was grabbed Lucy up--made off with her?" asked Bostil. + +"Plain as if we seen it done!" exclaimed Holley. There was fire in the clear, +hawk eyes. + +"Cordts!" cried Bostil, hoarsely. + +"Mebbe--mebbe. But thet ain't my idee. . . . Come on." + +Holley went so fast he almost ran, and he got ahead of Bostil. Finally several +hundred yards out in the sage he halted, and again dropped to his knees. +Bostil and the riders hurried on. + +"Keep back; don't stamp round so close," ordered Holley. Then like a man +searching for lost gold in sand and grass he searched the ground. To Bostil it +seemed a long time before he got through. When he arose there was a dark and +deadly certainty in his face, by which Bostil knew the worst had befallen +Lucy. + +"Four mustangs an' two men last night," said Holley, rapidly. "Here's where +Lucy was set down on her feet. Here's where she mounted. . . . An' here's the +tracks of a third man--tracks made this mornin'." + +Bostil straightened up and faced Holley as if ready to take a death-blow. "I'm +reckonin' them last is Slone's tracks." + +"Yes, I know them," replied Holley. + +"An'--them--other tracks? Who made them?" + +"CREECH AN' HIS SON!" + +Bostil felt swept away by a dark, whirling flame. And when it passed he lay in +his barn, in the shade of the loft, prostrate on the fragrant hay. His +strength with his passion was spent. A dull ache remained. The fight was gone +from him. His spirit was broken. And he looked down into that dark abyss which +was his own soul. + +By and by the riders came for him, got him up, and led him out. He shook them +off and stood breathing slowly. The air felt refreshing; it cooled his hot, +tired brain. It did not surprise him to see Joel Creech there, cringing behind +Holley. + +Bostil lifted a hand for some one to speak. And Holley came a step forward. +His face was haggard, but its white tenseness was gone. He seemed as if he +were reluctant to speak, to inflict more pain. + +"Bostil," he began, huskily, "you're to send the King--an' Sarch--an' Ben an' +Two Face an' Plume to ransom Lucy! . . . If you won't--then Creech'll sell her +to Cordts!" + +What a strange look came into the faces of the riders! Did, they think he +cared more for horseflesh than for his own flesh and blood? + +"Send the King--an' all he wants. . . . An' send word fer Creech to come back +to the Ford. . . . Tell him I said--my sin found me out!" + +Bostil watched Joel Creech ride the King out upon the slope, driving the +others ahead. Sage King wanted to run. Sarchedon was wild and unruly. They +passed out of sight. Then Bostil turned to his silent riders. + +"Boys, seein' the King go thet way wasn't nothin'. . . . But what crucifies me +is--WILL THET FETCH HER BACK?" + +"God only knows!" replied Holley. "Mebbe not--I reckon not! . . . But, Bostil, +you forget Slone is out there on Lucy's trail. Out there ahead of Joel! Slone +he's a wild-hoss hunter--the keenest I ever seen. Do you think Creech can +shake him on a trail? He'll kill Creech, an' he'll lay fer Joel goin' +back--an' he'll kill him. . . . An' I'll bet my all he'll ride in here with +Lucy an' the King!" + +"Holley, you ain't figurin' on thet red hoss of Slone's ridin' down the King?" + +Holley laughed as if Bostil's query was the strangest thing of all that +poignant day. "Naw. Slone'll lay fer Joel an' rope him like he roped Dick +Sears." + +"Holley, I reckon you see--clearer 'n me," said Bostil, plaintively. "'Pears +as if I never had a hard knock before. Fer my nerve's broke. I can't hope. . . +. Lucy's gone! . . . Ain't there anythin' to do but wait?" + +"Thet's all. Jest wait. If we went out on Joel's trail we'd queer the chance +of Creech's bein' honest. An' we'd queer Slone's game. I'd hate to have him +trailin' me." + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +On the day that old Creech repudiated his son, Slone with immeasurable relief +left Brackton's without even a word to the rejoicing Holley, and plodded up +the path to his cabin. + +After the first flush of elation had passed he found a peculiar mood settling +down upon him. It was as if all was not so well as he had impulsively +conceived. He began to ponder over this strange depression, to think back. +What had happened to dash the cup from his lips? Did he regret being freed +from guilt in the simple minds of the villagers--regret it because suspicion +would fall upon Lucy's father? No; he was sorry for the girl, but not for +Bostil. It was not this new aspect of the situation at the Ford that oppressed +him. + +He trailed his vague feelings back to a subtle shock he had sustained in a +last look at Creech's dark, somber face. It had been the face of a Nemesis. +All about Creech breathed silent, revengeful force. Slone worked out in his +plodding thought why that fact should oppress him; and it was because in +striking Bostil old Creech must strike through Bostil's horses and his +daughter. + +Slone divined it--divined it by the subtle, intuitive power of his love for +Lucy. He did not reconsider what had been his supposition before Creech's +return--that Creech would kill Bostil. Death would be no revenge. Creech had +it in him to steal the King and starve him or to do the same and worse with +Lucy. So Slone imagined, remembering Creech's face. + +Before twilight set in Slone saw the Creeches riding out of the lane into the +sage, evidently leaving the Ford. This occasioned Slone great relief, but only +for a moment. What the Creeches appeared to be doing might not be significant. +And he knew if they had stayed in the village that he would have watched them +as closely as if he thought they were trying to steal Wildfire. + +He got his evening meal, cared for his horses, and just as darkness came on he +slipped down into the grove for his rendezvous with Lucy. Always this made his +heart beat and his nerves thrill, but to-night he was excited. The grove +seemed full of moving shadows, all of which he fancied were Lucy. Reaching the +big cottonwood, he tried to compose himself on the bench to wait. But +composure seemed unattainable. The night was still, only the crickets and the +soft rustle of leaves breaking a dead silence. Slone had the ears of a wild +horse in that he imagined sounds he did not really hear. Many a lonely night +while he lay watching and waiting in the dark, ambushing a water-hole where +wild horses drank, he had heard soft treads that were only the substance of +dreams. That was why, on this night when he was overstrained, he fancied he +saw Lucy coming, a silent, moving shadow, when in reality she did not come. +That was why he thought he heard very stealthy steps. + +He waited. Lucy did not come. She had never failed before and he knew she +would come. Waiting became hard. He wanted to go back toward the house--to +intercept her on the way. Still he kept to his post, watchful, listening, his +heart full. And he tried to reason away his strange dread, his sense of a need +of hurry. For a time he succeeded by dreaming of Lucy's sweetness, of her +courage, of what a wonderful girl she was. Hours and hours he had passed in +such dreams. One dream in particular always fascinated him, and it was one in +which he saw the girl riding Wildfire, winning a great race for her life. +Another, just as fascinating, but so haunting that he always dispelled it, was +a dream where Lucy, alone and in peril, fought with Cordts or Joel Creech for +more than her life. These vague dreams were Slone's acceptance of the blood +and spirit in Lucy. She was Bostil's daughter. She had no sense of fear. She +would fight. And though Slone always thrilled with pride, he also trembled +with dread. + +At length even wilder dreams of Lucy's rare moments, when she let herself go, +like a desert whirlwind, to envelop him in all her sweetness, could not avail +to keep Slone patient. He began to pace to and fro under the big tree. He +waited and waited. What could have detained her? Slone inwardly laughed at the +idea that either Holley or Aunt Jane could keep his girl indoors when she +wanted to come out to meet him. Yet Lucy had always said something might +prevent. There was no reason for Slone to be concerned. He was mistaking his +thrills and excitement and love and disappointment for something in which +there was no reality. Yet he could not help it. The longer he waited the more +shadows glided beneath the cottonwoods, the more faint, nameless sounds he +heard. + +He waited long after he became convinced she would not come. Upon his return +through the grove he reached a point where the unreal and imaginative +perceptions were suddenly and stunningly broken. He did hear a step. He kept +on, as before, and in the deep shadow he turned. He saw a man just faintly +outlined. One of the riders had been watching him--had followed him! Slone had +always expected this. So had Lucy. And now it had happened. But Lucy had been +too clever. She had not come. She had found out or suspected the spy and she +had outwitted him. Slone had reason to be prouder of Lucy, and he went back to +his cabin free from further anxiety. + +Before he went to sleep, however, he heard the clatter of a number of horses +in the lane. He could tell they were tired horses. Riders returning, he +thought, and instantly corrected that, for riders seldom came in at night. And +then it occurred to him that it might be Bostil's return. But then it might be +the Creeches. Slone had an uneasy return of puzzling thoughts. These, however, +did not hinder drowsiness, and, deciding that the first thing in the morning +he would trail the Creeches, just to see where they had gone, he fell asleep. + +In the morning the bright, broad day, with its dispelling reality, made Slone +regard himself differently. Things that oppressed him in the dark of night +vanished in the light of the sun. Still, he was curious about the Creeches, +and after he had done his morning's work he strolled out to take up their +trail. It was not hard to follow in the lane, for no other horses had gone in +that direction since the Creeches had left. + +Once up on the wide, windy slope the reach and color and fragrance seemed to +call to Slone irresistibly, and he fell to trailing these tracks just for the +love of a skill long unused. Half a mile out the road turned toward Durango. +But the Creeches did not continue on that road. They entered the sage. +Instantly Slone became curious. + +He followed the tracks to a pile of rocks where the Creeches had made a +greasewood fire and had cooked a meal. This was strange--within a mile of the +Ford, where Brackton and others would have housed them. What was stranger was +the fact that the trail started south from there and swung round toward the +village. + +Slone's heart began to thump. But he forced himself to think only of these +tracks and not any significance they might have. He trailed the men down to a +bench on the slope, a few hundred yards from Bostil's grove, and here a +trampled space marked where a halt had been made and a wait. + +And here Slone could no longer restrain conjecture and dread. He searched and +searched. He got on his knees. He crawled through the sage all around the +trampled space. Suddenly his heart seemed to receive a stab. He had found +prints of Lucy's boots in the soft earth! And he leaped up, wild and fierce, +needing to know no more. + +He ran back to his cabin. He never thought of Bostil, of Holley, of anything +except the story revealed in those little boot-tracks. He packed a saddle-bag +with meat and biscuits, filled a canvas water-bottle, and, taking them and his +rifle, he hurried out to the corral. First he took Nagger down to Brackton's +pasture and let him in. Then returning, he went at the fiery stallion as he +had not gone in many a day, roped him, saddled him, mounted him, and rode off +with a hard, grim certainty that in Wildfire was Lucy's salvation. + +Four hours later Slone halted on the crest of a ridge, in the cover of sparse +cedars, and surveyed a vast, gray, barren basin yawning and reaching out to a +rugged, broken plateau. + +He expected to find Joel Creech returning on the back-trail, and he had taken +the precaution to ride on one side of the tracks he was following. He did not +want Joel to cross his trail. Slone had long ago solved the meaning of the +Creeches' flight. They would use Lucy to ransom Bostil's horses, and more than +likely they would not let her go back. That they had her was enough for Slone. +He was grim and implacable. + +The eyes of the wild-horse hunter had not searched that basin long before they +picked out a dot which was not a rock or a cedar, but a horse. Slone watched +it grow, and, hidden himself, he held his post until he knew the rider was +Joel Creech. Slone drew his own horse back and tied him to a sage-bush amidst +some scant grass. Then he returned to watch. It appeared Creech was climbing +the ridge below Slone, and some distance away. It was a desperate chance Joel +ran then, for Slone had set out to kill him. It was certain that if Joel had +happened to ride near instead of far, Slone could not have helped but kill +him. As it was, he desisted because he realized that Joel would acquaint +Bostil with the abducting of Lucy, and it might be that this would be well. + +Slone was shaking when young Creech passed up and out of sight over the +ridge--shaking with the deadly grip of passion such as he had never known. He +waited, slowly gaining control, and at length went back for Wildfire. + +Then he rode boldly forth on the trail. He calculated that old Creech would +take Lucy to some wild retreat in the canyons and there wait for Joel and the +horses. Creech had almost certainly gone on and would be unaware of a pursuer +so closely on his trail. Slone took the direction of the trail, and he saw a +low, dark notch in the rocky wall in the distance. After that he paid no more +attention to choosing good ground for Wildfire than he did to the trail. The +stallion was more tractable than Slone had ever found him. He loved the open. +He smelled the sage and the wild. He settled down into his long, easy, +swinging lope which seemed to eat up the miles. Slone was obsessed with +thoughts centering round Lucy, and time and distance were scarcely +significant. + +The sun had dipped full red in a golden west when Slone reached the wall of +rocks and the cleft where Creech's tracks and Lucy's, too, marked the camp. +Slone did not even dismount. Riding on into the cleft, he wound at length into +a canyon and out of that into a larger one, where he found that Lucy had +remembered to leave a trail, and down this to a break in a high wall, and +through it to another winding, canyon. The sun set, but Slone kept on as long +as he could see the trail, and after that, until an intersecting canyon made +it wise for him to halt. + +There were rich grass and sweet water for his horse. He himself was not +hungry, but he ate; he was not sleepy, but he slept. And daylight found him +urging Wildfire in pursuit. On the rocky places Slone found the cedar berries +Lucy had dropped. He welcomed sight of them, but he did not need them. This +man Creech could never hide a trail from him, Slone thought grimly, and it +suited him to follow that trail at a rapid trot. If he lost the tracks for a +distance he went right on, and he knew where to look for them ahead. There was +a vast difference between the cunning of Creech and the cunning of a wild +horse. And there was an equal difference between the going and staying powers +of Creech's mustangs and Wildfire. Yes, Slone divined that Lucy's salvation +would be Wildfire, her horse. The trail grew rougher, steeper, harder, but the +stallion kept his eagerness and his pace. On many an open length of canyon or +height of wild upland Slone gazed ahead hoping to see Creech's mustangs. He +hoped for that even when he knew he was still too far behind. And then, +suddenly, in the open, sandy flat of an intersecting canyon he came abruptly +on a fresh trail of three horses, one of them shod. + +The surprise stunned him. For a moment he gazed stupidly at these strange +tracks. Who had made them? Had Creech met allies? Was that likely when the man +had no friends? Pondering the thing, Slone went slowly on, realizing that a +new and disturbing feature confronted him. Then when these new tracks met the +trail that Creech had left Slone found that these strangers were as interested +in Creech's tracks as he was. Slone found their boot-marks in the sand--the +hand-prints where some one had knelt to scrutinize Creech's trail. + +Slone led his horse and walked on, more and more disturbed in mind. When he +came to a larger, bare, flat canyon bottom, where the rock had been washed +clear of sand, he found no more cedar berries. They had been picked up. At the +other extreme edge of this stony ground he found crumpled bits of cedar and +cedar berries scattered in one spot, as if thrown there by some one who read +their meaning. + +This discovery unnerved Slone. It meant so much. And if Slone had any hope or +reason to doubt that these strangers had taken up the trail for good, the next +few miles dispelled it. They were trailing Creech. + +Suddenly Slone gave a wild start, which made Wildfire plunge. + +"CORDTS!" whispered Slone and the cold sweat oozed out of every pore. + +These canyons were the hiding-places of the horse-thief. He and two of his men +had chanced upon Creech's trail; and perhaps their guess at its meaning was +like Slone's. If they had not guessed they would soon learn. It magnified +Slone's task a thousandfold. He had a moment of bitter, almost hopeless +realization before a more desperate spirit awoke in him. He had only more men +to kill--that was all. These upland riders did not pack rifles, of that Slone +was sure. And the sooner he came up with Cordts the better. It was then he let +Wildfire choose his gait and the trail. Sunset, twilight, dusk, and darkness +came with Slone keeping on and on. As long as there were no intersecting +canyons or clefts or slopes by which Creech might have swerved from his +course, just so long Slone would travel. And it was late in the night when he +had to halt. + +Early next day the trail led up out of the red and broken gulches to the +cedared uplands. Slone saw a black-rimmed, looming plateau in the distance. +All these winding canyons, and the necks of the high ridges between, must run +up to that great table-land. + +That day he lost two of the horse tracks. He did not mark the change for a +long time after there had been a split in the party that had been trailing +Creech. Then it was too late for him to go back to investigate, even if that +had been wise. He kept on, pondering, trying to decide whether or not he had +been discovered and was now in danger of ambush ahead and pursuit from behind. +He thought that possibly Cordts had split his party, one to trail along after +Creech, the others to work around to head him off. Undoubtedly Cordts knew +this broken canyon country and could tell where Creech was going, and knew how +to intercept him. + +The uncertainty wore heavily upon Slone. He grew desperate. He had no time to +steal along cautiously. He must be the first to get to Creech. So he held to +the trail and went as rapidly as the nature of the ground would permit, +expecting to be shot at from any clump of cedars. The trail led down again +into a narrow canyon with low walls. Slone put all his keenness on what lay +before him. + +Wildfire's sudden break and upflinging of head and his snort preceded the +crack of a rifle. Slone knew he had been shot at, although he neither felt nor +heard the bullet. He had no chance to see where the shot came from, for +Wildfire bolted, and needed as much holding and guiding as Slone could give. +He ran a mile. Then Slone was able to look about him. Had he been shot at from +above or behind? He could not tell. It did not matter, so long as the danger +was not in front. He kept a sharp lookout, and presently along the right +canyon rim, five hundred feet above him, he saw a bay horse, and a rider with +a rifle. He had been wrong, then, about these riders and their weapons. Slone +did not see any wisdom in halting to shoot up at this pursuer, and he spurred +Wildfire just as a sharp crack sounded above. The bullet thudded into the +earth a few feet behind him. And then over bad ground, with the stallion +almost unmanageable, Slone ran a gantlet of shots. Evidently the man on the +rim had smooth ground to ride over, for he easily kept abreast of Slone. But +he could not get the range. Fortunately for Slone, broken ramparts above +checked the tricks of that pursuer, and Slone saw no more of him. + +It afforded him great relief to find that Creech's trail turned into a canyon +on the left; and here, with the sun already low, Slone began to watch the +clumps of cedars and the jumbles of rock. But he was not ambushed. Darkness +set in, and, being tired out, he was about to halt for the night when he +caught the flicker of a campfire. The stallion saw it, too, but did not snort. +Slone dismounted and, leading him, went cautiously forward on foot, rifle in +hand. + +The canyon widened at a point where two breaks occurred, and the +less-restricted space was thick with cedar and pinyon. Slone could tell by the +presence of these trees and also by a keener atmosphere that he was slowly +getting to a higher attitude. This camp-fire must belong to Cordts or the one +man who had gone on ahead. And Slone advanced boldly. He did not have to make +up his mind what to do. + +But he was amazed to see several dark forms moving to and fro before the +bright camp-fire, and he checked himself abruptly. Considering a moment, Slone +thought he had better have a look at these fellows. So he tied Wildfire and, +taking to the darker side of the canyon, he stole cautiously forward. + +The distance was considerable, as he had calculated. Soon, however, he made +out the shadowy outlines of horses feeding in the open. He hugged the canyon +wall for fear they might see him. As luck would have it the night breeze was +in his favor. Stealthily he stole on, in the deep shadow of the wall, and +under the cedars, until he came to a point opposite the camp-fire, and then he +turned toward it. He went slowly, carefully, noiselessly, and at last he +crawled through the narrow aisles between thick sage-brush. Another clump of +cedars loomed up, and he saw the flickering of firelight upon the pale-green +foliage. + +He heard gruff voices before he raised himself to look, and by this he gauged +his distance. He was close enough--almost too close. But as he crouched in +dark shade and there were no horses near, he did not fear discovery. + +When he peered out from his covert the first thing to strike and hold his +rapid glance was the slight figure of a girl. Slone stifled a gasp in his +throat. He thought he recognized Lucy. Stunned, he crouched down again with +his hands clenched round his rifle. And there he remained for a long moment of +agony before reason asserted itself over emotion. Had he really seen Lucy? He +had heard of a girl now and then in the camps of these men, especially Cordts. +Maybe Creech had fallen in with comrades. No, he could not have had any +comrades there but horse-thieves, and Creech was above that. If Creech was +there he had been held up by Cordts; if Lucy only was with the gang, Creech +had been killed. + +Slone had to force himself to look again. The girl had changed her position. +But the light shone upon the men. Creech was not one of the three, nor Cordts, +nor any man Slone had seen before. They were not honest men, judging from +their hard, evil looks. Slone was nonplussed and he was losing self-control. +Again he lowered himself and waited. He caught the word "Durango" and "hosses" +and "fer enough in," the meaning of which was, vague. Then the girl laughed. +And Slone found himself trembling with joy. Beyond any doubt that laugh could +not have been Lucy's. + +Slone stole back as he had come, reached the shadow of the wall, and drew away +until he felt it safe to walk quickly. When he reached the place where he +expected to find Wildfire he did not see him. Slone looked and looked. Perhaps +he had misjudged distance and place in the gloom. Still, he never made +mistakes of that nature. He searched around till he found the cedar stump to +which he had tied the lasso. In the gloom he could not see it, and when he +reached out he did not feel it. Wildfire was gone! Slone sank down, overcome. +He cursed what must have been carelessness, though he knew he never was +careless with a horse. What had happened? He did not know. But Wildfire was +gone--and that meant Lucy's doom and his! Slone shook with cold. + +Then, as he leaned against the stump, wet and shaking, familiar sound met his +ears. It was made by the teeth of a grazing horse--a slight, keen, tearing +cut. Wildfire was close at hand! With a sweep Slone circled the stump and he +found the knot of the lasso. He had missed it. He began to gather in the long +rope, and soon felt the horse. In the black gloom against the wall Slone could +not distinguish Wildfire. + +"Whew!" he muttered, wiping the sweat off his face. "Good Lord! . . . All for +nothin'." + +It did not take Slone long to decide to lead the horse and work up the canyon +past the campers. He must get ahead of them, and once there he had no fear of +them, either by night or day. He really had no hopes of getting by +undiscovered, and all he wished for was to get far enough so that he could not +be intercepted. The grazing horses would scent Wildfire or he would scent +them. + +For a wonder Wildfire allowed himself to be led as well as if he had been old, +faithful Nagger. Slone could not keep close in to the wall for very long, on +account of the cedars, but he managed to stay in the outer edge of shadow cast +by the wall. Wildfire winded the horses, halted, threw up his head. But for +some reason beyond Slone the horse did not snort or whistle. As he knew +Wildfire he could have believed him intelligent enough and hateful enough to +betray his master. + +It was one of the other horses that whistled an alarm. This came at a point +almost even with the camp-fire. Slone, holding Wildfire down, had no time to +get into a stirrup, but leaped to the saddle and let the horse go. There were +hoarse yells and then streaks of fire and shots. Slone heard the whizz of +heavy bullets, and he feared for Wildfire. But the horse drew swiftly away +into the darkness. Slone could not see whether the ground was smooth or +broken, and he left that to Wildfire. Luck favored them, and presently Slone +pulled him in to a safe gait, and regretted only that he had not had a chance +to take a shot at that camp. + +Slone walked the horse for an hour, and then decided that he could well risk a +halt for the night. + +Before dawn he was up, warming his chilled body by violent movements, and +forcing himself to eat. + +The rim of the west wall changed from gray to pink. A mocking-bird burst into +song. A coyote sneaked away from the light of day. Out in the open Slone found +the trail made by Creech's mustangs and by the horse of Cordts's man. The +latter could not be very far ahead. In less than an hour Slone came to a clump +of cedars where this man had camped. An hour behind him! + +This canyon was open, with a level and narrow floor divided by a deep wash. +Slone put Wildfire to a gallop. The narrow wash was no obstacle to Wildfire; +he did not have to be urged or checked. It was not long before Slone saw a +horseman a quarter of a mile ahead, and he was discovered almost at the same +time. This fellow showed both surprise and fear. He ran his horse. But in +comparison with Wildfire that horse seemed sluggish. Slone would have caught +up with him very soon but for a change in the lay of the land. The canyon +split up and all of its gorges and ravines and washes headed upon the +pine-fringed plateau, now only a few miles distant. The gait of the horses had +to be reduced to a trot, and then a walk. The man Slone was after left +Creech's trail and took to a side cleft. Slone, convinced he would soon +overhaul him, and then return to take up Creech's trail, kept on in pursuit. +Then Slone was compelled to climb. Wildfire was so superior to the other's +horse, and Slone was so keen at choosing ground and short cuts, that he would +have been right upon him but for a split in the rock which suddenly yawned +across his path. It was impassable. After a quick glance Slone abandoned the +direct pursuit, and, turning along this gulch, he gained a point where the +horse-thief would pass under the base of the rim-wall, and here Slone would +have him within easy rifle shot. + +And the man, intent on getting out of the canyon, rode into the trap, +approaching to within a hundred yards of Slone, who suddenly showed himself on +foot, rifle in hand. The deep gulch was a barrier to Slone's further progress, +but his rifle dominated the situation. + +"Hold on!" he called, warningly. + +"Hold on yerself!" yelled the other, aghast, as he halted his horse. He gazed +down and evidently was quick to take in the facts. + +Slone had meant to kill this man without even a word, yet now when the moment +had come a feeling almost of sickness clouded his resolve. But he leveled the +rifle. + +"I got it on you," he called. + +"Reckon you hev. But see hyar--" + +"I can hit you anywhere." + +"Wal, I'll take yer word fer thet." + +"All right. Now talk fast. . . . Are you one of Cordts's gang?" + +"Sure." + +"Why are you alone?" + +"We split down hyar." + +"Did you know I was on this trail?" + +"Nope. I didn't sure, or you'd never ketched me, red hoss or no." + +"Who were you trailin'?" + +"Ole Creech an' the girl he kidnapped." + +Slone felt the leap of his blood and the jerk it gave the rifle as his tense +finger trembled on the trigger. + +"Girl. . . . What girl?" he called, hoarsely. + +"Bostil's girl." + +"Why did Cordts split on the trail?" + +"He an' Hutch went round fer some more of the gang, an' to head off Joel +Creech when he comes in with Bostil's hosses." + +Slone was amazed to find how the horse thieves had calculated; yet, on second +thought, the situation, once the Creeches had been recognized, appeared simple +enough. + +"What was your game?" he demanded. + +"I was follerin' Creech jest to find out where he'd hole up with the girl." + +"What's Cordts's game--AFTER he heads Joel Creech?" + +"Then he's goin' fer the girl." + +Slone scarcely needed to be told all this, but the deliberate words from the +lips of one of Cordts's gang bore a raw, brutal proof of Lucy's peril. And yet +Slone could not bring himself to kill this man in cold blood. He tried, but in +vain. + +"Have you got a gun?" called Slone, hoarsely. + +"Sure." + +"Ride back the other way! . . . If you don't lose me I'll kill you!" + +The man stared. Slone saw the color return to his pale face. Then he turned +his horse and rode back out of sight. Slone heard him rolling the stones down +the long, rough slope; and when he felt sure the horse-thief had gotten a fair +start he went back to mount Wildfire in pursuit. + +This trailer of Lucy never got back to Lucy's trail--never got away. + +But Slone, when that day's hard, deadly pursuit ended, found himself lost in +the canyons. How bitterly he cursed both his weakness in not shooting the man +at sight, and his strength in following him with implacable purpose! For to be +fair, to give the horse-thief a chance for his life, Slone had lost Lucy's +trail. The fact nearly distracted him. He spent a sleepless night of torture. + +All next day, like a wild man, he rode and climbed and descended, spurred by +one purpose, pursued by suspense and dread. That night he tied Wildfire near +water and grass and fell into the sleep of exhaustion. + +Morning came. But with it no hope. He had been desperate. And now he was in a +frightful state. It seemed that days and days had passed, and nights that were +hideous with futile nightmares. + +He rode down into a canyon with sloping walls, and broken, like all of these +canyons under the great plateau. Every canyon resembled another. The upland +was one vast network. The world seemed a labyrinth of canyons among which he +was hopelessly lost. What would--what had become of Lucy? Every thought in his +whirling brain led back to that--and it was terrible. + +Then--he was gazing transfixed down upon the familiar tracks left by Creech's +mustangs. Days old, but still unfollowed! + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +That track led up the narrowing canyon to its head at the base of the plateau. + +Slone, mindful of his horse, climbed on foot, halting at the zigzag turns to +rest. A long, gradually ascending trail mounted the last slope, which when +close at hand was not so precipitous as it appeared from below. Up there the +wind, sucked out of the canyons, swooped and twisted hard. + +At last Slone led Wildfire over the rim and halted for another +breathing-spell. Before him was a beautiful, gently sloping stretch of waving +grass leading up to the dark pine forest from which came a roar of wind. +Beneath Slone the wild and whorled canyon breaks extended, wonderful in +thousands of denuded surfaces, gold and red and yellow, with the smoky depths +between. + +Wildfire sniffed the wind and snorted. Slone turned, instantly alert. The wild +horse had given an alarm. Like a flash Slone leaped into the saddle. A faint +cry, away from the wind, startled Slone. It was like a cry he had heard in +dreams. How overstrained his perceptions! He was not really sure of anything, +yet on the instant he was tense. + +Straggling cedars on his left almost wholly obstructed Slone's view. +Wildfire's ears and nose were pointed that way. Slone trotted him down toward +the edge of this cedar clump so that he could see beyond. Before he reached +it, however, he saw something blue, moving, waving, lifting. + +"Smoke!" muttered Slone. And he thought more of the danger of fire on that +windy height than he did of another peril to himself. + +Wildfire was hard to hold as he rounded the edge of the cedars. + +Slone saw a line of leaping flame, a line of sweeping smoke, the grass on fire +. . . horses!--a man! + +Wildfire whistled his ringing blast of hate and menace, his desert challenge +to another stallion. + +The man whirled to look. + +Slone saw Joel Creech--and Sage King--and Lucy, half naked, bound on his back! + +Joy, agony, terror in lightning-swift turns, paralyzed Slone. But Wildfire +lunged out on the run. + +Sage King reared in fright, came down to plunge away, and with a magnificent +leap cleared the line of fire. + +Slone, more from habit than thought, sat close in the saddle. A few of +Wildfire's lengthening strides, quickened Slone's blood. Then Creech moved, +also awaking from a stupefying surprise, and he snatched up a gun and fired. +Slone saw the spurts of red, the puffs of white. But he heard nothing. The +torrent of his changed blood, burning and terrible, filled his ears with hate +and death. + +He guided the running stallion. In a few tremendous strides Wildfire struck +Creech, and Slone had one glimpse of an awful face. The impact was terrific. +Creech went hurtling through the air, limp and broken, to go down upon a rock, +his skull cracking like a melon. + +The horse leaped over the body and the stone, and beyond he leaped the line of +burning grass. + +Slone saw the King running into the forest. He saw poor Lucy's white body +swinging with the horse's motion. One glance showed the great gray to be +running wild. Then the hate and passion cleared away, leaving suspense and +terror. + +Wildfire reached the pines. There down the open aisles between the black trees +ran the fleet gray racer. Wildfire saw him and snorted. The King was a hundred +yards to the fore. + +"Wildfire--it's come--the race--the race!" called Slone. But he could not hear +his own call. There was a roar overhead, heavy, almost deafening. The wind! +the wind! Yet that roar did not deaden a strange, shrieking crack somewhere +behind. Wildfire leaped in fright. Slone turned. Fire had run up a pine-tree, +which exploded as if the trunk were powder! + +"MY GOD! A RACE WITH FIRE! . . . LUCY! LUCY!" + +In that poignant cry Slone uttered his realization of the strange fate that +had waited for the inevitable race between Wildfire and the King; he uttered +his despairing love for Lucy, and his acceptance of death for her and himself. +No horse could outrun wind-driven fire in a dry pine forest. Slone had no hope +of that. How perfectly fate and time and place and horses, himself and his +sweetheart, had met! Slone damned Joel Creech's insane soul to everlasting +torment. To think--to think his idiotic and wild threat had come true--and +come true with a gale in the pine-tops! Slone grew old at the thought, and the +fact seemed to be a dream. But the dry, pine-scented air made breathing hard; +the gray racer, carrying that slender, half-naked form, white in the forest +shade, lengthened into his fleet and beautiful stride; the motion of Wildfire, +so easy, so smooth, so swift, and the fierce reach of his head shooting +forward--all these proved that it was no dream. + +Tense questions pierced the dark chaos of Slone's mind--what could he do? Run +the King down! Make 'him kill Lucy! Save her from horrible death by fire! + +The red horse had not gained a yard on the gray. Slone, keen to judge +distance, saw this, and for the first time he doubted Wildfire's power to ran +down the King. Not with such a lead! It was hopeless--so hopeless-- + +He turned to look back. He saw no fire, no smoke--only the dark trunks, and +the massed green foliage in violent agitation against the blue sky. That +revived a faint hope. If he could get a few miles ahead, before the fire began +to leap across the pine-crests, then it might be possible to run out of the +forest if it were not wide. + +Then a stronger hope grew. It seemed that foot by foot Wildfire was gaining on +the King. Slone studied the level forest floor sliding toward him. He lost his +hope--then regained it again, and then he spurred the horse. Wildfire hated +that as he hated Slone. But apparently he did not quicken his strides. And +Slone could not tell if he lengthened them. He was not running near his limit +but, after the nature of such a horse, left to choose his gait, running +slowly, but rising toward his swiftest and fiercest. + +Slone's rider's blood never thrilled to that race, for his blood had curdled. +The sickness within rose to his mind. And that flashed up whenever he dared to +look forward at Lucy's white form. Slone could not bear this sight; it almost +made him reel, yet he was driven to look. He saw that the King carried no +saddle, so with Lucy on him he was light. He ought to run all day with only +that weight. Wildfire carried a heavy saddle, a pack, a water bag, and a +rifle. Slone untied the pack and let it drop. He almost threw aside the +water-bag, but something withheld his hand, and also he kept his rifle. What +were a few more pounds to this desert stallion in his last run? Slone knew it +was Wildfire's greatest and last race. + +Suddenly Slone's ears rang with a terrible on-coming roar. For an instant the +unknown sound stiffened him, robbed him of strength. Only the horn of the +saddle, hooking into him, held him on. Then the years of his desert life +answered to a call more than human. + +He had to race against fire. He must beat the flame to the girl he loved. +There were miles of dry forest, like powder. Fire backed by a heavy gale could +rage through dry pine faster than any horse could run. He might fail to save +Lucy. Fate had given him a bitter ride. But he swore a grim oath that he would +beat the flame. The intense and abnormal rider's passion in him, like +Bostil's, dammed up, but never fully controlled, burst within him, and +suddenly he awoke to a wild and terrible violence of heart and soul. He had +accepted death; he had no fear. All that he wanted to do, the last thing he +wanted to do, was to ride down the King and kill Lucy mercifully. How he would +have gloried to burn there in the forest, and for a million years in the dark +beyond, to save the girl! + +He goaded the horse. Then he looked back. + +Through the aisles of the forest he saw a strange, streaky, murky something +moving, alive, shifting up and down, never an instant the same. It must have +been the wind--the heat before the fire. He seemed to see through it, but +there was nothing beyond, only opaque, dim, mustering clouds. Hot puffs shot +forward into his face. His eyes smarted and stung. His ears hurt and were +growing deaf. The tumult was the rear of avalanches, of maelstroms, of rushing +seas, of the wreck of the uplands and the ruin of the earth. It grew to be so +great a roar that he no longer heard. There was only silence. + +And he turned to face ahead. The stallion stretched low on a dead run; the +tips of the pines were bending before the wind; and Wildfire, the terrible +thing for which his horse was named, was leaping through the forest. But there +was no sound. + +Ahead of Slone, down the aisles, low under the trees spreading over the +running King, floated swiftly some medium, like a transparent veil. It was +neither smoke nor air. It carried faint pin points of light, sparks, that +resembled atoms of dust floating in sunlight. It was a wave of heat driven +before the storm of fire. Slone did not feel pain, but he seemed to be drying +up, parching. And Lucy must be suffering now. He goaded the stallion, raking +his flanks. Wildfire answered with a scream and a greater speed. All except +Lucy and Sage King and Wildfire seemed so strange and unreal--the swift rush +between the pines, now growing ghostly in the dimming light, the sense of a +pursuing, overpowering force, and yet absolute silence. + +Slone fought the desire to look back. But he could not resist it. Some +horrible fascination compelled him. All behind had changed. A hot wind, like a +blast from a furnace, blew light, stinging particles into his face. The fire +was racing in the tree-tops, while below all was yet clear. A lashing, leaping +flame engulfed the canopy of pines. It was white, seething, inconceivably +swift, with a thousand flashing tongues. It traveled ahead of smoke. It was so +thin he could see the branches through it, and the fiery clouds behind. It +swept onward, a sublime and an appalling spectacle. Slone could not think of +what it looked like. It was fire, liberated, freed from the bowels of the +earth, tremendous, devouring. This, then, was the meaning of fire. This, then, +was the horrible fate to befall Lucy. + +But no! He thought he must be insane not to be overcome in spirit. Yet he was +not. He would beat the flame to Lucy. He felt the loss of something, some kind +of a sensation which he ought to have had. Still he rode that race to kill his +sweetheart better than any race he had ever before ridden. He kept his seat; +he dodged the snags; he pulled the maddened horse the shortest way, he kept +the King running straight. + +No horse had ever run so magnificent a race! Wildfire was outracing wind and +fire, and he was overhauling the most noted racer of the uplands against a +tremendous handicap. But now he was no longer racing to kill the King; he was +running in terror. For miles he held that long, swift, wonderful stride +without a break. He was running to his death, whether or not he distanced the +fire. Nothing could stop him now but a bursting heart. + +Slone untied his lasso and coiled the noose. Almost within reach of the King! +One throw--one sudden swerve--and the King would go down. Lucy would know only +a stunning shock. Slone's heart broke. Could he kill her--crush that dear +golden head? He could not, yet he must! He saw a long, curved, red welt on +Lucy's white shoulders. What was that? Had a branch lashed her? Slone could +not see her face. She could not have been dead or in a faint, for she was +riding the King, bound as she was! + +Closer and closer drew Wildfire. He seemed to go faster and faster as that +wind of flame gained upon them. The air was too thick to breathe. It had an +irresistible weight. It pushed horses and riders onward in their +flight--straws on the crest of a cyclone. + +Again Slone looked back and again the spectacle was different. There was a +white and golden fury of flame above, beautiful and blinding; and below, +farther back, an inferno of glowing fire, black-streaked, with trembling, +exploding puffs and streams of yellow smoke. The aisles between the burning +pines were smoky, murky caverns, moving and weird. Slone saw fire shoot from +the tree-tops down the trunks, and he saw fire shoot up the trunks, like +trains of powder. They exploded like huge rockets. And along the forest floor +leaped the little flames. His eyes burned and blurred till all merged into a +wide, pursuing storm too awful for the gaze of man. + +Wildfire was running down the King. The great gray had not lessened his speed, +but he was breaking. Slone felt a ghastly triumph when he began to whirl the +noose of the lasso round his head. Already he was within range. But he held +back his throw which meant the end of all. And as he hesitated Wildfire +suddenly whistled one shrieking blast. + +Slone looked. Ahead there was light through the forest! Slone saw a white, +open space of grass. A park? No--the end of the forest! Wildfire, like a +demon, hurtled onward, with his smoothness of action gone, beginning to break, +within a length of the King. + +A cry escaped Slone--a cry as silent as if there had been no deafening +roar--as wild as the race, and as terrible as the ruthless fire. It was the +cry of life--instead of death. Both Sage King and Wildfire would beat the +flame. + +Then, with the open just ahead, Slone felt a wave of hot wind rolling over +him. He saw the lashing tongues of flame above him in the pines. The storm had +caught him. It forged ahead. He was riding under a canopy of fire. Burning +pine cones, like torches, dropped all around him. He had a terrible blank +sense of weight, of suffocation, of the air turning to fire. + +Then Wildfire, with his nose at Sage King's flank, flashed out of the pines +into the open. Slone saw a grassy wide reach inclining gently toward a dark +break in the ground with crags rising sheer above it, and to the right a great +open space. + +Slone felt that clear air as the breath of deliverance. His reeling sense +righted. There--the King ran, blindly going to his death. Wildfire was +breaking fast. His momentum carried him. He was almost done. + +Slone roped the King, and holding hard, waited for the end. They ran on, +breaking, breaking. Slone thought he would have to throw the King, for they +were perilously near the deep cleft in the rim. But Sage King went to his +knees. + +Slone leaped off just as Wildfire fell. How the blade flashed that released +Lucy! She was wet from the horse's sweat and foam. She slid off into Slone's +arms, and he called her name. Could she hear above that roar back there in the +forest? The pieces of rope hung to her wrists and Slone saw dark bruises, raw +and bloody. She fell against him. Was she dead? His heart contracted. How +white the face! No; he saw her breast heave against his! And he cried aloud, +incoherently in his joy. She was alive. She was not badly hurt. She stirred. +She plucked at him with nerveless hands. She pressed close to him. He heard a +smothered voice, yet so full, so wonderful! + +"Put--your--coat--on me!" came somehow to his ears. + +Slone started violently. Abashed, shamed to realize he had forgotten she was +half nude, he blindly tore off his coat, blindly folded it around her. + +"Lin! Lin!" she cried. + +"Lucy--Oh! are y-you--" he replied, huskily. + +"I'm not hurt. I'm all right." + +"But that wretch, Joel. He--" + +"He'd killed his father--just a--minute--before you came. I fought him! Oh! +. . . But I'm all right. . . . Did you--" + +"Wildfire ran him down--smashed him. . . . Lucy! this can't be true. . . . Yet +I feel you! Thank God!" + +With her free hand Lucy returned his clasp. She seemed to be strong. It was a +precious moment for Slone, in which he was uplifted beyond all dreams. + +"Let me loose--a second," she said. "I want to--get in your coat." + +She laughed as he released her. She laughed! And Slone thrilled with +unutterable sweetness at that laugh. + +As he turned away he felt a swift wind, then a strange impact from an +invisible force that staggered him, then the rend of flesh. After that came +the heavy report of a gun. + +Slone fell. He knew he had been shot. Following the rending of his flesh came +a hot agony. It was in his shoulder, high up, and the dark, swift fear for his +life was checked. + +Lucy stood staring down at him, unable to comprehend, slowly paling. Her hands +clasped the coat round her. Slone saw her, saw the edge of streaming clouds of +smoke above her, saw on the cliff beyond the gorge two men, one with a smoking +gun half leveled. + +If Slone had been inattentive to his surroundings before, the sight of Cordts +electrified him. + +"Lucy! drop down! quick!" + +"Oh, what's happened? You--you--" + +"I've been shot. Drop down, I tell you. Get behind the horse an' pull my +rifle." + +"Shot!" exclaimed Lucy, blankly. + +"Yes--Yes. . . . My God! Lucy, he's goin' to shoot again!" + +It was then Lucy Bostil saw Cordts across the gulch. He was not fifty yards +distant, plainly recognizable, tall, gaunt, sardonic. He held the half-leveled +gun ready as if waiting. He had waited there in ambush. The clouds of smoke +rolled up above him, hiding the crags. + +"CORDTS!" Bostil's blood spoke in the girl's thrilling cry. + +"Hunch down, Lucy!" cried Slone. "Pull my rifle. . . . I'm only winged--not +hurt. Hurry! He's goin'--" + +Another heavy report interrupted Slone. The bullet missed, but Slone made a +pretense, a convulsive flop, as if struck. + +"Get the rifle! Quick!" he called. + +But Lucy misunderstood his ruse to deceive Cordts. She thought he had been hit +again. She ran to the fallen Wildfire and jerked the rifle from its sheath. + +Cordts had begun to climb round a ledge, evidently a short cut to get down and +across. Hutchinson saw the rifle and yelled to Cordts. The horse-thief halted, +his dark face gleaming toward Lucy. + +When Lucy rose the coat fell from her nude shoulders. And Slone, watching, +suddenly lost his agony of terror for her and uttered a pealing cry of +defiance and of rapture. + +She swept up the rifle. It wavered. Hutchinson was above, and Cordts, reaching +up, yelled for help. Hutchinson was reluctant. But the stronger force +dominated. He leaned down--clasped Cordts's outstretched hands, and pulled. +Hutchinson bawled out hoarsely. Cordts turned what seemed a paler face. He had +difficulty on the slight footing. He was slow. + +Slone tried to call to Lucy to shoot low, but his lips had drawn tight after +his one yell. Slone saw her white, rounded shoulders bent, with cold, white +face pressed against the rifle, with slim arms quivering and growing tense, +with the tangled golden hair blowing out. + +Then she shot. + +Slone's glance shifted. He did not see the bullet strike up dust. The figures +of the men remained the same--Hutchinson straining, Cordts. . . . No, Cordts +was not the same! A strange change seemed manifest in his long form. It did +not seem instinct with effort. Yet it moved. + +Hutchinson also was acting strangely, yelling, heaving, wrestling. But he +could not help Cordts. He lifted violently, raised Cordts a little, and then +appeared to be in peril of losing his balance. + +Cordts leaned against the cliff. Then it dawned upon Slone that Lucy had hit +the horse-thief. Hard hit! He would not--he could not let go of Hutchinson. +His was a death clutch. The burly Hutchinson slipped from his knee-hold, and +as he moved Cordts swayed, his feet left the ledge, he hung, upheld only by +the tottering comrade. + +What a harsh and terrible cry from Hutchinson! He made one last convulsive +effort and it doomed him. Slowly he lost his balance. Cordts's dark, evil, +haunting face swung round. Both men became lax and plunged, and separated. The +dust rose from the rough steps. Then the dark forms shot down--Cordts falling +sheer and straight, Hutchinson headlong, with waving arms--down and down, +vanishing in the depths. No sound came up. A little column of yellow dust +curled from the fatal ledge and, catching the wind above, streamed away into +the drifting clouds of smoke. + + + +CHAPTER XX + +A darkness, like the streaming clouds overhead, seemed to blot out Slone's +sight, and then passed away, leaving it clearer. + +Lucy was bending over him, binding a scarf round his shoulder and under his +arm. "Lin! It's nothing!" she was saying, earnestly. "Never touched a bone!" + +Slone sat up. The smoke was clearing away. Little curves of burning grass were +working down along the rim. He put out a hand to grasp Lucy, remembering in a +flash. He pointed to the ledge across the chasm. + +"They're--gone!" cried Lucy, with a strange and deep note in her voice. She +shook violently. But she did not look away from Slone. + +"Wildfire! The King!" he added, hoarsely. + +"Both where they dropped. Oh, I'm afraid to--to look. . . . And, Lin, I saw +Sarch, Two Face, and Ben and Plume go down there." + +She had her back to the chasm where the trail led down, and she pointed +without looking. + +Slone got up, a little unsteady on his feet and conscious of a dull pain. + +"Sarch will go straight home, and the others will follow him," said Lucy. +"They got away here where Joel came up the trail. The fire chased them out of +the woods. Sarch will go home. And that'll fetch the riders." + +"We won't need them if only Wildfire and the King--" Slone broke off and +grimly, with a catch in his breath, turned to the horses. + +How strange that Slone should run toward the King while Lucy ran to Wildfire! + +Sage King was a beaten, broken horse, but he would live to run another race. + +Lucy was kneeling beside Wildfire, sobbing and crying: "Wildfire! Wildfire!" + +All of Wildfire was white except where he was red, and that red was not now +his glossy, flaming skin. A terrible muscular convulsion as of internal +collapse grew slower and slower. Yet choked, blinded, dying, killed on his +feet, Wildfire heard Lucy's voice. + +"Oh, Lin! Oh, Lin!" moaned Lucy. + +While they knelt there the violent convulsions changed to slow heaves. + +"He run the King down--carryin' weight--with a long lead to overcome!" Slone +muttered, and he put a shaking hand on the horse's wet neck. + +"Oh, he beat the King!" cried Lucy. "But you mustn't--you CAN'T tell Dad!" + +"What CAN we tell him?" + +"Oh, I know. Old Creech told me what to say!" + +A change, both of body and spirit, seemed to pass over the great stallion. + +"WILDFIRE! WILDFIRE!" + +Again the rider called to his horse, with a low and piercing cry. But Wildfire +did not hear. + + +The morning sun glanced brightly over the rippling sage which rolled away from +the Ford like a gray sea. + +Bostil sat on his porch, a stricken man. He faced the blue haze of the north, +where days before all that he had loved had vanished. Every day, from sunrise +till sunset, he had been there, waiting and watching. His riders were grouped +near him, silent, awed by his agony, awaiting orders that never came. + +From behind a ridge puffed up a thin cloud of dust. Bostil saw it and gave a +start. Above the sage appeared a bobbing, black object--the head of a horse. +Then the big black body followed. + +"Sarch!" exclaimed Bostil. + +With spurs clinking the riders ran and trooped behind him. + +"More hosses back," said Holley, quietly. + +"Thar's Plume!" exclaimed Farlane. + +"An' Two Face!" added Van. + +"Dusty Ben!" said another. + +"RIDERLESS!" finished Bostil. + +Then all were intensely quiet, watching the racers come trotting in single +file down the ridge. Sarchedon's shrill neigh, like a whistle-blast, pealed in +from the sage. From, fields and corrals clamored the answer attended by the +clattering of hundreds of hoofs. + +Sarchedon and his followers broke from trot to canter--canter to gallop--and +soon were cracking their hard hoofs on the stony court. Like a swarm of bees +the riders swooped down upon the racers, caught them, and led them up to +Bostil. + +On Sarchedon's neck showed a dry, dust-caked stain of reddish tinge. Holley, +the old hawk-eyed rider, had precedence in the examination. + +"Wal, thet's a bullet-mark, plain as day," said Holley. + +"Who shot him?" demanded Bostil. + +Holley shook his gray head. + +"He smells of smoke," put in Farlane, who had knelt at the black's legs. "He's +been runnin' fire. See thet! Fetlocks all singed!" + +All the riders looked, and then with grave, questioning eyes at one another. + +"Reckon thar's been hell!" muttered Holley, darkly. + +Some of the riders led the horses away toward the corrals. Bostil wheeled to +face the north again. His brow was lowering; his cheek was pale and sunken; +his jaw was set. + +The riders came and went, but Bostil kept his vigil. The hours passed. +Afternoon came and wore on. The sun lost its brightness and burned red. + +Again dust-clouds, now like reddened smoke, puffed over the ridge. A horse +carrying a dark, thick figure appeared above the sage. + +Bostil leaped up. "Is thet a gray hoss--or am--I blind?" he called, +unsteadily. + +The riders dared not answer. They must be sure. They gazed through narrow +slits of eyelids; and the silence grew intense. + +Holley shaded the hawk eyes with his hand. "Gray he is--Bostil--gray as the +sage. . . . AN' SO HELP ME GOD IF HE AIN'T THE KING!" + +"Yes, it's the King!" cried the riders, excitedly. "Sure! I reckon! No mistake +about thet! It's the King!" + +Bostil shook his huge frame, and he rubbed his eyes as if they had become dim, +and he stared again. + +"Who's thet up on him?" + +"Slone. I never seen his like on a hoss," replied Holley. + +"An' what's--he packin'?" queried Bostil, huskily. + +Plain to all keen eyes was the glint of Lucy Bostil's golden hair. But only +Holley had courage to speak. + +"It's Lucy! I seen thet long ago." + +A strange, fleeting light of joy died out of Bostil's face. The change once +more silenced his riders. They watched the King trotting in from the sage. His +head drooped. He seemed grayer than ever and he limped. But he was Sage King, +splendid as of old, all the more gladdening to the riders' eyes because he had +been lost. He came on, quickening a little to the clamoring welcome from the +corrals. + +Holley put out a swift hand. "Bostil--the girl's alive--she's smilin'!" he +called, and the cool voice was strangely different. + +The riders waited for Bostil. Slone rode into the courtyard. He was white and +weary, reeling in the saddle. A bloody scarf was bound round his shoulder. He +held Lucy in his arms. She had on his coat. A wan smile lighted her haggard +face. + +Bostil, cursing deep, like muttering thunder, strode out. "Lucy! You ain't bad +hurt?" he implored, in a voice no one had ever heard before. + +"I'm--all right--Dad," she said, and slipped down into his arms. + +He kissed the pale face and held her up like a child, and then, carrying her +to the door of the house, he roared for Aunt Jane. + +When he reappeared the crowd of riders scattered from around Slone. But it +seemed that Bostil saw only the King. The horse was caked with dusty lather, +scratched and disheveled, weary and broken, yet he was still beautiful. He +raised his drooping head and reached for his master with a look as soft and +dark and eloquent as a woman's. + +No rider there but felt Bostil's passion of doubt and hope. Had the King been +beaten? Bostil's glory and pride were battling with love. Mighty as that was, +it did not at once overcome his fear of defeat. + +Slowly the gaze of Bostil moved away from Sage King and roved out to the sage +and back, as if he expected to see another horse. But no other horse was in +sight. At last his hard eyes rested upon the white-faced Slone. + +"Been some--hard ridin'?" he queried, haltingly. All there knew that had not +been the question upon his lips. + +"Pretty hard--yes," replied Slone. He was weary, yet tight-lipped, intense. + +"Now--them Creeches?" slowly continued Bostil. + +"Dead." + +A murmur ran through the listening riders, and they drew closer. + +"Both of them?" + +"Yes. Joel killed his father, fightin' to get Lucy. . . . An' I ran--Wildfire +over Joel--smashed him!" + +"Wal, I'm sorry for the old man," replied Bostil, gruffly. "I meant to make up +to him. . . . But thet fool boy! . . . An' Slone--you're all bloody." + +He stepped forward and pulled the scarf aside. He was curious and kindly, as +if it was beyond him to be otherwise. Yet that dark cold something, almost +sullen clung round him. + +"Been bored, eh? Wal, it ain't low, an' thet's good. Who shot you?" + +"Cordts." + +"CORDTS!" Bostil leaned forward in sudden, fierce eagerness. + +"Yes, Cordts. . . . His outfit run across Creech's trail an' we bunched. I +can't tell now. . . . But we had--hell! An' Cordts is dead--so's Hutch--an' +that other pard of his. . . . Bostil, they'll never haunt your sleep again!" + +Slone finished with a strange sternness that seemed almost bitter. + +Bostil raised both his huge fists. The blood was bulging his thick neck. It +was another kind of passion that obsessed him. Only some violent check to his +emotion prevented him from embracing Slone. The huge fists unclenched and the +big fingers worked. + +"You mean to tell me you did fer Cordts an' Hutch what you did fer Sears?" he +boomed out. + +"They're dead--gone, Bostil--honest to God!" replied Slone. + +Holley thrust a quivering, brown hand into Bostil's face. "What did I tell +you?" he shouted. "Didn't I say wait?" + +Bostil threw away all that deep fury of passion, and there seemed only a +resistless and speechless admiration left. Then ensued a moment of silence. +The riders watched Slone's weary face as it drooped, and Bostil, as he loomed +over him. + +"Where's the red stallion?" queried Bostil. That was the question hard to get +out. + +Slone raised eyes dark with pain, yet they flashed as he looked straight up +into Bostil's face. "Wildfire's dead!" + +"DEAD!" ejaculated Bostil. + +Another moment of strained exciting suspense. + +"Shot?" he went on. + +"No." + +"What killed him?" + +"The King, sir! . . . Killed him on his feet!" + +Bostil's heavy jaw bulged and quivered. His hand shook as he laid it on Sage +King's mane--the first touch since the return of his favorite. + +"Slone--what--is it?" he said, brokenly, with voice strangely softened. His +face became transfigured. + +"Sage King killed Wildfire on his feet. . . . A grand race, Bostil! . . . But +Wildfire's dead--an' here's the King! Ask me no more. I want to forget." + +Bostil put his arm around the young man's shoulder. "Slone, if I don't know +what you feel fer the loss of thet grand hoss, no rider on earth knows! . . . +Go in the house. Boys, take him in--all of you--an' look after him." + +Bostil wanted to be alone, to welcome the King, to lead him back to the home +corral, perhaps to hide from all eyes the change and the uplift that would +forever keep him from wronging another man. + +The late rains came and like magic, in a few days, the sage grew green and +lustrous and fresh, the gray turning to purple. + +Every morning the sun rose white and hot in a blue and cloudless sky. And then +soon the horizon line showed creamy clouds that rose and spread and darkened. +Every afternoon storms hung along the ramparts and rainbows curved down +beautiful and ethereal. The dim blackness of the storm-clouds was split to the +blinding zigzag of lightning, and the thunder rolled and boomed, like the +Colorado in flood. + +The wind was fragrant, sage-laden, no longer dry and hot, but cool in the +shade. + +Slone and Lucy never rode down so far as the stately monuments, though these +held memories as hauntingly sweet as others were poignantly bitter. Lucy never +rode the King again. But Slone rode him, learned to love him. And Lucy did not +race any more. When Slone tried to stir in her the old spirit all the response +he got was a wistful shake of head or a laugh that hid the truth or an excuse +that the strain on her ankles from Joel Creech's lasso had never mended. The +girl was unutterably happy, but it was possible that she would never race a +horse again. + +She rode Sarchedon, and she liked to trot or lope along beside Slone while +they linked hands and watched the distance. But her glance shunned the north, +that distance which held the wild canyons and the broken battlements and the +long, black, pine-fringed plateau. + +"Won't you ever ride with me, out to the old camp, where I used to wait for +you?" asked Slone. + +"Some day," she said, softly. + +"When?" + +"When--when we come back from Durango," she replied, with averted eyes and +scarlet cheek. And Slone was silent, for that planned trip to Durango, with +its wonderful gift to be, made his heart swell. + +And so on this rainbow day, with storms all around them, and blue sky above, +they rode only as far as the valley. But from there, before they turned to go +back, the monuments appeared close, and they loomed grandly with the +background of purple bank and creamy cloud and shafts of golden lightning. +They seemed like sentinels--guardians of a great and beautiful love born +under their lofty heights, in the lonely silence of day, in the star-thrown +shadow of night. They were like that love. And they held Lucy and Slone, +calling every day, giving a nameless and tranquil content, binding them true +to love, true to the sage and the open, true to that wild upland home. + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Wildfire, by Zane Grey + diff --git a/old/wldfr10.zip b/old/wldfr10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0bca85f --- /dev/null +++ b/old/wldfr10.zip |