WILDFIRE

by

ZANE GREY

CHAPTER I

For some reason the desert scene before Lucy Bostil awoke varyingemotions--a sweet gratitude for the fullness of her life there at theFord, yet a haunting remorse that she could not be wholly content--avague loneliness of soul--a thrill and a fear for the strangely callingfuture, glorious, unknown. 

She longed for something to happen. It might be terrible, so long as itwas wonderful. This day, when Lucy had stolen away on a forbiddenhorse, she was eighteen years old. The thought of her mother, who haddied long ago on their way into this wilderness, was the one drop ofsadness in her joy. Lucy loved everybody at Bostil's Ford and everybodyloved 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 loftyperch: the green-and-pink blossoming hamlet beneath her, set betweenthe beauty of the gray sage expanse and the ghastliness of the barrenheights; the swift Colorado sullenly thundering below in the abyss; theIndians in their bright colors, riding up the river trail; the eaglepoised like a feather on the air, and a beneath him the grazing cattlemaking black dots on the sage; the deep velvet azure of the sky; thegolden 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 sweepof the wind; the fragrance of cedar, the flowers of the spear-pointedmescal; the brooding silence, the beckoning range, the purple distance. 

Whatever it was Lucy longed for, whatever was whispered by the wind andwritten in the mystery of the waste of sage and stone, she wanted it tohappen there at Bostil's Ford. She had no desire for civilization, sheflouted the idea of marrying the rich rancher of Durango. Bostil'ssister, that stern but lovable woman who had brought her up and taughther, would never persuade her to marry against her will. Lucy imaginedherself like a wild horse--free, proud, untamed, meant for the desert;and here she would live her life. The desert and her life seemed asone, yet in what did they resemble each other--in what of this scenecould she read the nature of her future?

Shudderingly she rejected the red, sullen, thundering river, with itsswift, changeful, endless, contending strife--for that was tragic. Andshe rejected the frowning mass of red rock, upreared, riven and splitand canyoned, so grim and aloof--for that was barren. But she acceptedthe vast sloping valley of sage, rolling gray and soft and beautiful, down to the dim mountains and purple ramparts of the horizon. Lucy didnot know what she yearned for, she did not know why the desert calledto her, she did not know in what it resembled her spirit, but she didknow that these three feelings were as one, deep in her heart. For tenyears, every day of her life, she had watched this desert scene, andnever 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'sthousand moods she assimilated its nature, loved her bonds, and couldnever have been happy away from the open, the color, the freedom, thewildness. On this birthday, when those who loved her said she hadbecome her own mistress, she acknowledged the claim of the desertforever. And she experienced a deep, rich, strange happiness. 

Hers always then the mutable and immutable desert, the leagues andleagues of slope and sage and rolling ridge, the great canyons and thegiant cliffs, the dark river with its mystic thunder of waters, thepine-fringed plateaus, the endless stretch of horizon, with its lofty, isolated, noble monuments, and the bold ramparts with their beckoningbeyond! Hers always the desert seasons: the shrill, icy blast, theintense cold, the steely skies, the fading snows; the gray old sage andthe bleached grass under the pall of the spring sand-storms; the hotfurnace breath of summer, with its magnificent cloud pageants in thesky, with the black tempests hanging here and there over the peaks, dark veils floating down and rainbows everywhere, and the lacywaterfalls upon the glistening cliffs and the thunder of the redfloods; and the glorious golden autumn when it was always afternoon andtime stood still! Hers always the rides in the open, with the sun ather back and the wind in her face! And hers surely, sooner or later, the nameless adventure which had its inception in the strange yearningof her heart and presaged its fulfilment somewhere down that traillesssage-slope she loved so well!

Bostil's house was a crude but picturesque structure of red stone andwhite clay and bleached cottonwoods, and it stood at the outskirts ofthe cluster of green-inclosed cabins which composed the hamlet. Bostilwas wont to say that in all the world there could hardly be a granderview than the outlook down that gray sea of rolling sage, down to theblack-fringed plateaus and the wild, blue-rimmed and gold-spiredhorizon. 

One morning in early spring, as was Bostil's custom, he ordered theracers to be brought from the corrals and turned loose on the slope. Heloved to sit there and watch his horses graze, but ever he saw that theriders were close at hand, and that the horses did not get out on theslope of sage. He sat back and gloried in the sight. He owned bands ofmustangs; near by was a field of them, fine and mettlesome and racy;yet Bostil had eyes only for the blooded favorites. Strange it was thatnot one of these was a mustang or a broken wild horse, for many of theriders' best mounts had been captured by them or the Indians. And itwas Bostil's supreme ambition to own a great wild stallion. There wasPlume, a superb mare that got her name from the way her mane swept inthe wind when she was on the ran; and there was Two Face, like acoquette, sleek and glossy and running and the huge, rangy bay, DustyBen; and the black stallion Sarchedon; and lastly Sage King, the colorof the upland sage, a racer in build, a horse splendid and proud andbeautiful. 

"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 thewind. 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 allBuckles. 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. "Lucypulled 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 forher 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, youused to have eyes better 'n me. Use them, will you?"

A gray-haired, hawk-eyed rider, lean and worn, approached with clinkingspurs. 

"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 onthe sage thet could outrun Buckles. "

Farlane knew how to mollify his master and long habit had made himproficient. Bostil's eyes flashed. He was proud of Lucy's power over ahorse. The story Bostil first told to any stranger happening by theFord 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 ridersswore she was a worthy daughter of such a mother. Then, as Farlane wellknew, a quick road to Bostil's good will was to praise one of hisfavorites. 

"Reckon you spoke sense for once, Farlane, " replied Bostil, withrelief. "I wasn't thinkin' so much of danger for Lucy. .. . But she letsthet 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 aman out of Joel. But she doesn't care fer him, an' thet settlesthet. .. . 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 ofrolling 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 yardsdistant, and their heads were aloft and ears straight forward. SageKing 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' upbehind 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 theupland rider's joy shone in his keen gaze. The slope before him wasopen, and almost level, down to the ridge that had hidden the missinggirl and horse. Buckles was running for the love of running, as thegirl low down over his neck was riding for the love of riding. The SageKing 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 grayand 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 andfaster. Sarchedon was left behind. Then the gray King began to run asif before he had been loping. He was beautiful in action. This wasplay--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 onhis back--scarcely astride him at all. Yet her motion was one with thehorse. Again that wild, gay scream pealed out--call or laugh orchallenge. Sage King, with a fleetness that made the eyes of Bostil andhis riders glisten, took the lead, and then sheered off to slow down, while Buckles thundered past. Lucy was pulling him hard, and had himplunging 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 groundand 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 theyflashed like his. She had a hand twisted in the horse's long mane, andas, lithe and supple, she slipped a knee across his broad back sheshook a little gantleted fist at Bostil's gray racer. 

"Sage King, I hate you!" she called, as if the horse were human. "AndI'll beat you some day!"

Bostil swore by the gods his Sage King was the swiftest horse in allthat wild upland country of wonderful horses. He swore the great graycould look back over his shoulder and run away from any broken horseknown to the riders. 

Bostil himself was half horse, and the half of him that was human hedivided between love of his fleet racers and his daughter Lucy. He hadseen years of hard riding on that wild Utah border where, in thosedays, a horse meant all the world to a man. A lucky strike of grassyupland and good water south of the Rio Colorado made him rich in allthat he cared to own. The Indians, yet unspoiled by white men, werefriendly. Bostil built a boat at the Indian crossing of the Coloradoand the place became known as Bostil's Ford. From time to time hispersonality and his reputation and his need brought horse-hunters, riders, sheep-herders, and men of pioneer spirit, as well as wanderingdesert travelers, to the Ford, and the lonely, isolated hamlet slowlygrew. North of the river it was more than two hundred miles to thenearest little settlement, with only a few lonely ranches on the road;to the west were several villages, equally distant, but cut off for twomonths at a time by the raging Colorado, flooded by melting snow up inthe mountains. Eastward from the Ford stretched a ghastly, broken, unknown desert of canyons. Southward rolled the beautiful uplands, withvalleys of sage and grass, and plateaus of pine and cedar, until thisrich rolling gray and green range broke sharply on a purple horizonline of upflung rocky ramparts and walls and monuments, wild, dim, andmysterious. 

Bostil's cattle and horses were numberless, and many as were hisriders, he always could use more. But most riders did not abide longwith Bostil, first because some of them were of a wandering breed, wild-horse hunters themselves; and secondly, Bostil had two greatfaults: he seldom paid a rider in money, and he never permitted one toown a fleet horse. He wanted to own all the fast horses himself. And inthose days every rider, especially a wild-horse hunter, loved his steedas part of himself. If there was a difference between Bostil and anyrider of the sage, it was that, as he had more horses, so he had morelove. 

Whenever Bostil could not get possession of a horse he coveted, eitherby purchase or trade, he invariably acquired a grievance toward theowner. This happened often, for riders were loath to part with theirfavorites. And he had made more than one enemy by his persistentnagging. It could not be said, however, that he sought to drive hardbargains. Bostil would pay any price asked for a horse. 

Across the Colorado, in a high, red-walled canyon opening upon theriver, lived a poor sheep-herder and horse-trader named Creech. Thisman owned a number of thoroughbreds, two of which he would not partwith 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 toracing. They were still young and getting faster every year. Bostilwanted them because he coveted them and because he feared them. Itwould 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 thatin another summer he would see a horse out in front of the King. 

To complicate matters and lead rivalry into hatred young Joel Creech, agreat horseman, but worthless in the eyes of all save his father, hadbeen heard to say that some day he would force a race between the Kingand Blue Roan. And that threat had been taken in various ways. Italienated Bostil beyond all hope of reconciliation. It made Lucy Bostillaugh and look sweetly mysterious. She had no enemies and she likedeverybody. It was even gossiped by the women of Bostil's Ford that shehad more than liking for the idle Joel. But the husbands of thesegossips said Lucy was only tender-hearted. Among the riders, when theysat around their lonely camp-fires, or lounged at the corrals of theFord, there was speculation in regard to this race hinted by JoelCreech. There never had been a race between the King and Blue Roan, andthere never would be, unless Joel were to ride off with Lucy. In thatcase there would be the grandest race ever run on the uplands, with theodds against Blue Roan only if he carried double. If Joel put Lucy upon the Roan and he rode Peg there would be another story. Lucy Bostilwas a slip of a girl, born on a horse, as strong and supple as anIndian, and she could ride like a burr sticking in a horse's mane. WithBlue Roan carrying her light weight she might run away from any one upon the King--which for Bostil would be a double tragedy, equally in theloss of his daughter and the beating of his best-beloved racer. Butwith Joel on Peg, such a race would end in heartbreak for allconcerned, for the King would outrun Peg, and that would bring riderswithin gunshot. 

It had always been a fascinating subject, this long-looked-for race. Itgrew more so when Joel's infatuation for Lucy became known. There werefewer riders who believed Lucy might elope with Joel than there werewho believed Joel might steal his father's horses. But all the riderswho loved horses and all the women who loved gossip were united in atleast one thing, and that was that something like a race or a romancewould soon disrupt the peaceful, sleepy tenor of Bostil's Ford. 

In addition to Bostil's growing hatred for the Creeches, he had a greatfear of Cordts, the horse-thief. A fear ever restless, ever watchful. Cordts hid back in the untrodden ways. He had secret friends among theriders of the ranges, faithful followers back in the canyon camps, goldfor the digging, cattle by the thousand, and fast horses. He had alwaysgotten what he wanted--except one thing. That was a certain horse. Andthe horse was Sage King. 

Cordts was a bad man, a product of the early gold-fields of Californiaand Idaho, an outcast from that evil wave of wanderers retreating backover the trails so madly traveled westward. He became a lord over thefree ranges. But more than all else he was a rider. He knew a horse. Hewas as much horse as Bostil. Cordts rode into this wild free-rangecountry, where he had been heard to say that a horse-thief was meanerthan a poisoned coyote. Nevertheless, he became a horse-thief. Thepassion he had conceived for the Sage King was the passion of a man foran unattainable woman. Cordts swore that he would never rest, that hewould not die, till he owned the King. So there was reason for Bostil'sgreat fear. 

CHAPTER II

Bostil went toward the house with his daughter, turning at the door tocall a last word to his riders about the care of his horses. 

The house was a low, flat, wide structure, with a corridor runningthrough the middle, from which doors led into the adobe-walled rooms. The windows were small openings high up, evidently intended for defenseas well as light, and they had rude wooden shutters. The floor wasclay, covered everywhere by Indian blankets. A pioneer's home it was, simple and crude, yet comfortable, and having the rare quality peculiarto desert homes it was cool in summer and warm in winter. 

As Bostil entered with his arm round Lucy a big hound rose from thehearth. This room was immense, running the length of the house, and itcontained a huge stone fireplace, where a kettle smoked fragrantly, andrude home-made chairs with blanket coverings, and tables to match, andwalls covered with bridles, guns, pistols, Indian weapons andornaments, and trophies of the chase. In a far corner stood awork-bench, with tools upon it and horse trappings under it. In theopposite corner a door led into the kitchen. This room was Bostil'sfamous living-room, in which many things had happened, some of whichhad helped make desert history and were never mentioned by Bostil. 

Bostil's sister came in from the kitchen. She was a huge person with asevere yet motherly face. She had her hands on her hips, and she cast arather 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 aman in such a stew. .. . No wonder, playing fast and loose with him theway you do. "

"I told him No!" flashed Lucy. 

"But Wetherby's not the kind to take no. And I'm not satisfied to letyou mean it. Lucy Bostil, you don't know your mind an hour straightrunning. You've fooled enough with these riders of your Dad's. Ifyou're not careful you'll marry one of them. .. . One of these wildriders! As bad as a Ute Indian! . .. Wetherby is young and he idolizesyou. 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? Youapproved of Wetherby. I heard you tell him Lucy was like an unbrokencolt and that you'd--"

"Sure, I like Jim, " interrupted Bostil; and he avoided Lucy's swiftlook. 

"Well?" demanded his sister. 

Evidently Bostil found himself in a corner between two fires. He lookedsheepish, then disgusted. 

"Dad!" exclaimed Lucy, reproachfully. 

"See here, Jane, " said Bostil, with an air of finality, "the girl is ofage to-day--an' she can do what she damn pleases!"

"That's a fine thing for you to say, " retorted Aunt Jane. "Like as notshe'll be fetching that hang-dog Joel Creech up here for you tosupport. "

"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 ofeighteen who comes of a family! And you riding around and going aroundas 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 Bostilwoman in leather pants. We Bostils were somebody once, back inMissouri. "

Bostil laughed. "Yes, an' if I hadn't hit the trail west we'd bestarvin' yet. Jane, you're a sentimental old fool. Let the girl alonean' reconcile yourself to this wilderness. "

Aunt Jane's eyes were wet with tears. Lucy, seeing them, ran to her andhugged and kissed her. 

"Auntie, I will promise--from to-day--to have some dignity. I've beenfree as a boy in these rider clothes. As I am now the men never seem toregard me as a girl. Somehow that's better. I can't explain, but I likeit. My dresses are what have caused all the trouble. I know that. Butif I'm grown up--if it's so tremendous--then I'll wear a dress all thetime, except just WHEN I ride. Will that do, Auntie?"

"Maybe you will grow up, after all, " replied Aunt Jane, evidentlysurprised 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 everasked 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'dnever sleep at night if she lied. "

Aunt Jane returned to her housewifely tasks, leaving Bostilthoughtfully stroking the hound and watching the fire. Presently Lucyreturned--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 sherode. 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 deephaze of distance, and lips the sweet red of the upland rose. And allabout 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 withsad memories. 

"Lucy, I want to ask you somethin', " said Bostil, presently. "Whatabout 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 tilllately. I liked him. But that wasn't why. I felt sorry for him--pitiedhim. "

"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 aslow, gradual change has come over Joel since he was kicked in the headby 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 havebeen watching. Anyway, to my surprise he showed up on Peg. He doesn'toften get Peg across the river. He said the feed was getting scarceover there. I was dying to race Buckles against Peg, but I rememberedyou 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 worseto-day. We quarreled. I said I'd bet he'd never follow me again and hesaid 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 myway home I saw Peg grazing on the rim of the creek, near that bigspring-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 Ihad told him to go wash his dirty face. He was doing it. I had tolaugh. When he saw me--he--then--then he--" Lucy faltered, blushingwith 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. Thatwas 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 pileon the bank. At first I thought I'd throw them in the water, but when Igot 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--butPeg is fond of me, and he followed me, straddling his bridle all theway in. I dropped Joel's clothes down the ridge a ways, right in thetrail, so he can't miss them. And that's all. .. . Dad, was it--was itvery bad?"

"Bad! Why, you ought to have thrown your gun on him. At least bounced arock 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 sayhe'll not have sense enough to stay in the water or shade till thesun's gone down. An' if he tackles that ten miles before he'll sunburnhimself within an inch of his life. "

"Sunburn? Oh, Dad! I'm sorry, " burst out Lucy, contritely. "I neverthought 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 hislesson. He deserves it. .. . An' now, Lucy, I've two more questions toask. "

"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 cancare only for the desert and a horse. "

"All right. That is straight talk, like an Indian's. An' now the lastquestion--what do you want for a birthday present?"

"Oh, of course, " she cried, gleefully clapping her hands. "I'dforgotten 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 theirsockets. "

"He has got an iron jaw, " agreed Lucy. "Well, then--how about DustyBen?" 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 befair to part with him, even to you. Old associations . .. A rider'sloyalty . .. Now, Lucy, you know--"

"Dad, you're afraid I'd train and love Ben into beating the King. Someday 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 herTwo Face. "

"Buckles, then, dear generous Daddy who longs to give his grown-up girlANYTHING!"

"Lucy, can't you be satisfied an' happy with your mustangs? You've gota dozen. You can have any others on the range. Buckles ain't safe foryou to ride. "

Bostil was notably the most generous of men, the kindest of fathers. Itwas an indication of his strange obsession, in regard to horses, thathe never would see that Lucy was teasing him. As far as horses wereconcerned he lacked a sense of humor. Anything connected with hishorses 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. Themonstrous selfishness of a rider who had been supreme in his day couldnot 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 thoseracers 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 theKing--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'sdaughter. I can love a horse, too. Oh, if I ever get the one I want tolove! A wild horse--a desert stallion--pure Arabian--broken right by anIndian! If I ever get him, Dad, you look out! For I'll run away fromSarch 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 notexceptional. It lay under the protecting red bluff that only LucyBostil cared to climb. A hard-trodden road wound down through roughbreaks in the canyon wall to the river. Bostil's house, at the head ofthe village, looked in the opposite direction, down the sage slope thatwidened like a colossal fan. There was one wide street bordered bycottonwoods and cabins, and a number of gardens and orchards, beginningto burst into green and pink and white. A brook ran out of a ravine inthe huge bluff, and from this led irrigation ditches. The red earthseemed to blossom at the touch of water. 

The place resembled an Indian encampment--quiet, sleepy, colorful, withthe tiny-streams of water running everywhere, and lazy columns of bluewood-smoke rising. Bostil's Ford was the opposite of a busy village, yet its few inhabitants, as a whole, were prosperous. The wants ofpioneers were few. Perhaps once a month the big, clumsy flatboat wasrowed across the river with horses or cattle or sheep. And the seasonwas now close at hand when for weeks, sometimes months, the river wasunfordable. There were a score of permanent families, a host of merry, sturdy children, a number of idle young men, and only one girl--LucyBostil. But the village always had transient inhabitants--friendly Utesand Navajos in to trade, and sheep-herders with a scraggy, woollyflock, and travelers of the strange religious sect identified with Utahgoing on into the wilderness. Then there were always riders passing toand fro, and sometimes unknown ones regarded with caution. Horse-thieves sometimes boldly rode in, and sometimes were able to sellor trade. In the matter of horse-dealing Bostil's Ford was as bold asthe thieves. 

Old Brackton, a man of varied Western experience, kept the one store, which was tavern, trading-post, freighter's headquarters, blacksmith'sshop, 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 didnot arrive on time--occasionally not at all. News from the outsideworld, except that elicited from the taciturn travelers marching intoUtah, drifted in at intervals. But it was not missed. These wildernessspirits were the forerunners of a great, movement, and as such werebig, strong, stern, sufficient unto themselves. Life there was madepossible by horses. The distant future, that looked bright tofar-seeing men, must be and could only be fulfilled through theendurance and faithfulness of horses. And then, from these men, horsesreceived the meed due them, and the love they were truly worth. TheNavajo was a nomad horseman, an Arab of the Painted Desert, and the UteIndian was close to him. It was they who developed the white riders ofthe uplands as well as the wild-horse wrangler or hunter. 

Brackton's ramshackle establishment stood down at the end of thevillage street. There was not a sawed board in all that structure, andsome 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 thoseof a bird, came briskly out to meet an incoming freighter. The wagonwas minus a hind wheel, but the teamster had come in on three wheelsand a pole. The sweaty, dust-caked, weary, thin-ribbed mustangs, andthe 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 oldBrackton. 

Red Wilson had red eyes from fighting the flying sand, and red dustpasted in his scraggy beard, and as he gave his belt an upward hitchlittle 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 loungingin the shade greeted Wilson and inquired for news. The teamster repliedthat travel was dry, the water-holes were dry, and he was dry. And hisreply gave both concern and amusement. 

"One more trip out an' back--thet's all, till it rains, " concludedWilson. 

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 withoutfreighters. There's grass an' water enough here, even if it doesn'train. "

"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-eyedfellow, 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 ashe 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'sBlue Roan was comin' fast this year. "

"Bill, your mind ain't operatin', " replied Van, scornfully. "Didn't Ibeat 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 thatCreech's horse had a chance, depending upon condition and luck. 

The argument shifted upon the arrival of two new-comers, leadingmustangs and apparently talking trade. It was manifest that thesearrivals 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. Thestrange thing was that Macomber, the rancher, had already traded hismustang and money to boot for the sorrel. The deal, whether wise ornot, had been consummated. Brackton came out with Red Wilson, and theyhad 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'thave hoss sense. " Then, looking up to see Lucy Bostil coming along theroad, 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 abright smile, and when she saw Brackton she burst out:

"Oh, Mr. Brackton, the wagon's in, and did my box come? . .. To-day's mybirthday. "

"'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 itup--or mebbe one of the boys--"

Five riders in unison eagerly offered their services and looked as ifeach 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, politelyindicating the riders. "Now, Miss Lucy, we-all know you're a judge of ahoss. And as good as thet you tell the truth. Thet ain't in somehoss-traders I know. .. . What do you think of this mustang?"

Macomber had eyes of enthusiasm for his latest acquisition, but some ofthe 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 bagof bones for a perfectly good pony--one I liked to ride?"

The riders shouted with laughter while the rancher struggled withconfusion. 

"'Pon my word, Miss Lucy, I'm surprised you could think thet of such anold friend of yours--an' your Dad's, too. I'm hopin' he doesn't sidealtogether 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'mthe first feller to take him in. .. . An' now, Miss Lucy, look over mysorrel. "

Lucy Bostil did indeed have an eye for a horse. She walked straight upto the wild, shaggy mustang with a confidence born of intuition andexperience, and reached a hand for his head, not slowly, nor yetswiftly. 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 inbreaking him. "

Then she carefully studied the mustang point by point. 

"He's deceiving at first because he's good to look at, " said Lucy. "ButI wouldn't own him. A saddle will turn on him. He's not vicious, buthe'll never get over his scare. He's narrow between the eyes--a badsign. His ears are stiff--and too close. I don't see anything morewrong 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 hisestimation. 

"Macomber, I often tell Dad all you horse-traders get your deserts nowand then. It's vanity and desire to beat the other man that's yourdownfall. "

Lucy went away, with Van shouldering her box, leaving Macomber tryingto return the banter of the riders. The good-natured raillery wasinterrupted 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, almoston a run. 

"Take a shot at thet, Bill, " said another rider. "Miss Lucy mightsee--No, she's out of sight. But, mebbe some other woman is around. "

"Hold on, Bill, " called Macomber. "You never saw an Indian run likethet. "

Some of the riders swore, others laughed, and all suddenly became keenwith interest. 

"Sure his face is white, if his body's red!"

The strange figure neared them. It was indeed red up to the face, whichseemed white in contrast. Yet only in general shape and action did itresemble 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 hehad to go to reach home. He saw the curious group, slowed his pace, andhalted. His face seemed convulsed with rage and pain and fatigue. Hisbody, even to his hands, was incased in a thick, heavy coating of redadobe that had caked hard. 

"God's sake--fellers--" he panted, with eyes rolling, "take this--'dobemud off me! . .. I'm dyin'!"

Then he staggered into Brackton's place. A howl went up from the ridersand they surged after him. 

That evening after supper Bostil stamped in the big room, roaring withlaughter, red in the face; and he astonished Lucy and her aunt to thepoint 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 eyedLucy in mock solemnity. 

"Joel!" whispered Lucy, who had a guilty conscience. 

"Lucy, I never heard the beat of it. .. . Joel's smarter in some waysthan we thought, an' crazier in others. He had the sun figgered, butwhat'd he want to run through town for? Why, never in my life have Iseen 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 startshome. But he hadn't figgered on the 'dobe gettin' hard, which itdid--harder 'n rock. An' thet must have hurt more 'n sunburn. Late thisafternoon he came runnin' down the road, yellin' thet he was dyin'. Theboys had conniption fits. Joel ain't over-liked, you know, an' herethey had one on him. Mebbe they didn't try hard to clean him off. Butthe fact is not for hours did they get thet 'dobe off him. They washedan' scrubbed an' curried him, while he yelled an' cussed. Finally theypeeled it off, with his skin I guess. He was raw, an' they say, themaddest 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 wordabout 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 herpremonition. 

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 wasnot over-keen about riding with Van--first, because he was in love withher; and secondly, in spite of that, she could not beat him when herode the King. They were training Bostil's horses for themuch-anticipated races. 

At last word arrived from the Utes and Navajos that they acceptedBostil's invitation and would come in force, which meant, according toHolley and other old riders, that the Indians would attend about eighthundred strong. 

"Thet old chief, Hawk, is comin', " Holley informed Bostil. "He hasn'tbeen 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 towarn Bostil. Some of it was in fun, but most of it was earnest. Thenature 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 hairsmight 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. Thesemen, with Bostil, had for years formed in a way a club, which gave theFord distinction. Creech was no longer a friend of Bostil's, but Bostilhad always been fair-minded, and now he did not allow his animositiesto influence him. Holley, the veteran rider, made the sixth member ofthe club. 

Bostil had a cedar log blazing cheerily in the wide fireplace, forthese early spring nights in the desert were cold. 

Brackton was the last guest to arrive. He shuffled in without answeringthe laconic greetings accorded him, and his usually mild eyes seemedkeen 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 hishumor did not harmonize with the sudden gravity of his look. "What'sup?"

"Who do you suppose I jest sold whisky to?"

"I've no idea, " replied Bostil. Yet he looked as if he was perfectlysure. 

"Cordts! . .. Cordts, an' four of his outfit. Two of them I didn't know. Bad men, judgin' from appearances, let alone company. The others wasHutchinson 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. "Buthe's alive again. He told me he'd been in Idaho fer two years, in thegold-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' ofthet wagon-train of mine he stole. "

Bostil gazed at his chief rider. 

"Wal, I reckon we didn't kill Sears, after all, " replied Holley. "Iwasn't never sure. "

"Lord! Cordts an' Sears in camp, " ejaculated Bostil, and he began topace 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 thetlog-an'-wire corral if he an' his gang chopped all night! They hatework. Besides, Farlane is there, an' the boys. "

This reassured Bostil, and he resumed his chair. But his hand shook alittle. 

"Did Cordts have anythin' to say?" he asked. 

"Sure. He was friendly an' talkative, " replied Brackton. "He came injust after dark. Left a man I didn't see out with the hosses. He boughttwo big packs of supplies, an' some leather stuff, an', of course, ammunition. Then some whisky. Had plenty of gold an' wouldn't take nochange. 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 wildtalk back there of a railroad goin' to be built some day, joinin' eastan' west. It's interestin', but no sense to it. How could they build arailroad 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 thetrailroad 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 friendBostil?' I told him you was well. He looked kind of thoughtful then, an' I knew what was comin'. .. . 'How's the King?' 'Grand' I toldhim--'grand. ' 'When is them races comin' off?' I said we hadn't plannedthe 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 meat sight?' 'Reckon he is, ' I told him. 'Wal, I'm not powerful glad toknow 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'sword for thet. ' Cordts put his hand on my shoulder. You ought to 'veseen his eyes!. .. 'I want to see thet race. .. . I'm goin' to. ' 'Wal, ' Isaid, '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. Hesaid thet was a race he jest couldn't miss. He swore he wouldn't turn atrick or let a man of his gang stir a hand till after thet race, ifyou'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'vemeant to draw on Cordts when you meet. We all know thet. "

"Yes, I'll kill him!" The light left Bostil's face. His voice soundeddifferently. His mouth opened, drooped strangely at the corners, thenshut in a grim, tense line. Bostil had killed more than one man. Thememory, no doubt, was haunting and ghastly. 

"Cordts seemed to think his word was guarantee of his good faith. Hesaid he'd send an Indian in here to find out if he can come to theraces. 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. Queerdeal, 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 honestyfrom Cordts. An' refusin' might rile him bad. When all's said Cordtsain't as bad as he could be. "

"I'll let him come, " replied Bostil, breathing deep. "But it'll be hardto 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 theKing--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. Hewas 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. Theother men laughed, and Brackton interposed:

"Hold on, you boy riders!" he yelled. "We ain't a-goin' to have anyarguments like thet. .. . Now, Bostil, it's settled, then? You'll letCordts come?"

"Glad to have him, " replied Bostil. 

"Good. An' now mebbe we'd better get down to the bizness of this heremeetin'. "

They seated themselves around the table, upon which Bostil laid an oldand much-soiled ledger and a stub of a lead-pencil. 

"First well set the time, " he said, with animation, "an' then pitchinto details. .. . What's the date?"

No one answered, and presently they all looked blankly from one to theother. 

"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 forthat?"

"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 itdown. "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 ahorse!"

"Aw, so it was, " rejoined Bostil, confused at her reproach. "An' thetdate was--let's see--April sixth. .. . Then this is April thirteenth. Much obliged, Lucy. Run back to your aunt now. This hoss talk won'tinterest you. "

Lucy tossed her head. "I'll bet I'll have to straighten out the wholething. " 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 theyplanned the details. Purses and prizes, largely donated by Bostil andMuncie, the rich members of the community, were recorded. The old ruleswere adhered to. Any rider or any Indian could enter any horse in anyrace, or as many horses as he liked in as many races. But by winningone race he excluded himself from the others. Bostil argued for acertain 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 toarranging 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 byvote. Muncie and Williams both had fleet horses to enter in this race;Holley had one; Creech had two; there were sure to be several Indiansenter fast mustangs; and Bostil had the King and four others to choosefrom. Bostil held out stubbornly for a long race. It was well knownthat Sage King was unbeatable in a long race. If there were any chanceto 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'sdistance. 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 finallyacquiesced, but he was not happy. The plain fact was that he wasfrightened. 

When the men were departing Bostil called Creech back into thesitting-room. Creech appeared surprised, yet it was evident that hewould have been glad to make friends with Bostil. 

"What'll you take for the roan?" Bostil asked, tersely, ' as if he hadnever 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. Hehad 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 anunheard-of price to pay for any horse. Creech saw that Bostil wasdesperate. It was an almost overpowering temptation. Evidently Creechresisted it only by applying all his mind to the thought of hisclean-limbed, soft-eyed, noble horse. 

Bostil did not give Creech time to speak. "Twenty-five hundred an' TwoFace 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, tolend me a few hundred? To meet thet debt? An' you wouldn't, unless I'dsell the hosses. An' I had to lose my sheep. Now I'm a poorman--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 thestrength. His eyes glinted at the hard, paling face of his rival. Heraised 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 someof them were disquieting. 

Some rider had not only found Joel's clothes on the trail, but he hadrecognized the track of the horse Lucy rode, and at once connected herwith the singular discovery. Coupling that with Joel's appearance inthe village incased in a heaving armor of adobe, the riders guessedpretty close to the truth. For them the joke was tremendous. And JoelCreech was exceedingly sensitive to ridicule. The riders made lifeunbearable for him. They had fun out of it as long as Joel showed signsof taking the joke manfully, which was not long, and then hisresentment won their contempt. That led to sarcasm on their part andbitter anger on his. It came to Lucy's ears that Joel began to act andtalk strangely. She found out that the rider Van had knocked Joel downin Brackton's store and had kicked a gun out of his hand. Van laughedoff the rumor and Brackton gave her no satisfaction. Moreover, sheheard no other rumors. The channels of gossip had suddenly closed toher. Bostil, when questioned by Lucy, swore in a way that amazed her, and all he told her was to leave Creech alone. Finally, when Munciedischarged Joel, who worked now and then, Lucy realized that somethingwas wrong with Joel and that she was to blame for it. 

She grew worried and anxious and sorry, but she held her peace, anddetermined to find out for herself what was wrong. Every day when sherode out into the sage she expected to meet him, or at least see himsomewhere; nevertheless days went by and there was no sign of him. 

One afternoon she saw some Indians driving sheep down the river roadtoward the ford, and, acting upon impulse, she turned her horse afterthem. 

Lucy seldom went down the river road. Riding down and up was merelywork, and a horse has as little liking for it as she had. Usually itwas a hot, dusty trip, and the great, dark, overhanging walls had adepressing effect, upon her. She always felt awe at the gloomy canyonand fear at the strange, murmuring red river. But she started down thisafternoon in the hope of meeting Joel. She had a hazy idea of tellinghim she was sorry for what she had done, and of asking him to forget itand pay no more heed to the riders. 

The sheep raised a dust-cloud in the sandy wash where the road wounddown, and Lucy hung back to let them get farther ahead. Gradually thetiny roar of pattering hoofs and the blended bleating and baaing diedaway. The dust-cloud, however, hung over the head of the ravine, andLucy had to force Sarchedon through it. Sarchedon did not mind sand anddust, but he surely hated the smell of sheep. Lucy seldom put a spur toSarchedon; still, she gave him a lash with her quirt, and then he wenton obediently, if disgustedly. He carried his head like a horse thatwondered why his mistress preferred to drive him down into anunpleasant hole when she might have been cutting the sweet, cool sagewind up on the slope. 

The wash, with its sand and clay walls, dropped into a gulch, and therewas an end of green growths. The road led down over solid rock. Gradually the rims of the gorge rose, shutting out the light and thecliffs. It was a winding road and one not safe to tarry on in a stormyseason. Lucy had seen boulders weighing a ton go booming down thatgorge during one of the sudden fierce desert storms, when a torrent ofwater and mud and stone went plunging on to the river. The ride throughhere was short, though slow. Lucy always had time to adjust herfaculties for the overpowering contrast these lower regions presented. Long before she reached the end of the gorge she heard the sullenthunder of the river. The river was low, too, for otherwise there wouldhave been a deafening roar. 

Presently she came out upon a lower branch of the canyon, into a greatred-walled space, with the river still a thousand feet below, and thecliffs towering as high above her. The road led down along this rimwhere to the left all was open, across to the split and peaked wallopposite. The river appeared to sweep round a bold, bulging corner amile above. It was a wide, swift, muddy, turbulent stream. A great barof sand stretched out from the shore. Beyond it, through the mouth ofan intersecting canyon, could be seen a clump of cottonwoods andwillows that marked the home of the Creeches. Lucy could not see theshore nearest her, as it was almost directly under her. Besides, inthis narrow road, on a spirited horse, she was not inclined to watchthe scenery. She hurried Sarchedon down and down, under the overhangingbrows of rock, to where the rim sloped out and failed. Here was ahalf-acre of sand, with a few scant willows, set down seemingly in adent at the base of the giant, beetling cliffs. The place was light, though the light seemed a kind of veiled red, and to Lucy alwaysghastly. She could not have been joyous with that river moaning beforeher, even if it had been up on a level, in the clear and open day. As alittle girl eight years old she had conceived a terror and hatred ofthis huge, jagged rent so full of red haze and purple smoke and thethunder of rushing waters. And she had never wholly outgrown it. Thejoy of the sun and wind, the rapture in the boundless open, thesweetness in the sage--these were not possible here. Something mightyand ponderous, heavy as those colossal cliffs, weighted down herspirit. The voice of the river drove out any dream. Here was theincessant frowning presence of destructive forces of nature. And theford was associated with catastrophe--to sheep, to horses and to men. 

Lucy rode across the bar to the shore where the Indians were loadingthe sheep into an immense rude flatboat. As the sheep were frightened, the loading was no easy task. Their bleating could be heard above theroar of the river. Bostil's boatmen, Shugrue and Somers, stoodknee-deep in the quicksand of the bar, and their efforts to keepfree-footed were as strenuous as their handling of the sheep. Presentlythe flock was all crowded on board, the Indians followed, and then theboatmen slid the unwieldy craft off the sand-bar. Then, each manning aclumsy oar, they pulled up-stream. Along shore were whirling, sloweddies, and there rowing was possible. Out in that swift current itwould have been folly to try to contend with it, let alone makeprogress. The method of crossing was to row up along the shore as faras 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 ofa successful crossing. 

Lucy watched the slow, laborious struggle of the boatmen with the heavyoars until she suddenly remembered the object of her visit down to theford. She appeared to be alone on her side of the river. At the landingopposite, however, were two men; and presently Lucy recognized JoelCreech and his father. A second glance showed Indians with burros, evidently waiting for the boat. Joel Creech jumped into a skiff andshoved off. The elder man, judging by his motions, seemed to be tryingto prevent his son from leaving the shore. But Joel began to rowup-stream, keeping close to the shore. Lucy watched him. No doubt hehad seen her and was coming across. Either the prospect of meeting himor the idea of meeting him there in the place where she was neverherself made her want to turn at once and ride back home. But herstubborn sense of fairness overruled that. She would hold her groundsolely in the hope of persuading Joel to be reasonable. She saw the bigflatboat sweep into line of sight at the same time Joel turned into thecurrent. But while the larger craft drifted slowly the other way, thesmaller one came swiftly down and across. Joel swept out of the currentinto the eddy, rowed across that, and slid the skiff up on thesand-bar. Then he stepped out. He was bareheaded and barefooted, but itwas 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 andbow-legged from much riding, with sallow, freckled face, a thin fuzz ofbeard, weak mouth and chin, and eyes remarkable for their small sizeand piercing quality and different color. For one was gray and theother was hazel. There was no scar on his face, but the irregularity ofhis features reminded one who knew that he had once been kicked in theface by a horse. 

Creech came up hurriedly, in an eager, wild way that made Lucy suddenlypity him. He did not seem to remember that the stallion had anantipathy for him. But Lucy, if she had forgotten, would have beenreminded 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. Quickas 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 neverforgotten, " replied Lucy. 

The eye of the horse and the man met and clashed, and there was ahostile tension in their attitudes. Then Lucy dropped the bridle anddrew Joel over to a huge drift-log, half buried in the sand. Here shesat down, but Joel remained standing. His gaze was now all the strangerfor its wistfulness. Lucy was quick to catch a subtle difference inhim, 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 ofjust what she wanted to say. 

"Reckon you have, " said Joel, dejectedly, and then he sat down on thelog and dug holes in the sand with his bare feet. 

Lucy had never before seen him look tired, and it seemed that some ofthe 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 takenit so hard they'd have let up on you. "

"Mebbe I might have stood that. But they taunted me with bein'--loonyabout 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 onhis and tell him how sorry she was. But she desisted. She did not feelat her ease with Joel. 

"What'd you and Van fight about?" she asked, presently. Joel hung hishead. "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 Vanwouldn'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 youdeserved 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 runhome 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 everher fault. "I'm sorry, Joel. I'm much to blame. I shouldn't have lostmy temper and played that trick with your clothes. .. . If you'd only hadsense enough to stay out till after dark! But no use crying over spiltmilk. Now, if you'll do your share I'll do mine. I'll tell the boys Iwas 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 itappear--"

"You'll not say one word about me to any one, " he went on, with theblood beginning to darken his face. And now he faced her. How strangethe blaze in his differently colored eyes! "Lucy Bostil, there's beenthet done an' said to me which I'll never forgive. I'm no good inBostil's Ford. Mebbe I never was much. But I could get a job when Iwanted it an' credit when I needed it. Now I can't get nothin'. I'm nogood! . .. 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, suddenlygrowing pale. But his eyes were like flint. He certainly looked to bein possession of all his wits. 

"How?" queried Lucy, sharply. 

"You can marry me. Thet'll show thet gang! An' it'll square me. ThenI'll go back to work an' I'll stick. Thet's all, Lucy Bostil. "

Manifestly he was laboring under strong suppressed agitation. Thatmoment was the last of real strength and dignity ever shown by JoelCreech. 

"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 oneelse. "

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 ofhis 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 Iam. .. . But I'm a-goin' to kill Van!"

"No! No! Joel, what are you saying? I don't love Van. I don't care anymore 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 backon 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 outof voice and look, and she did not care. That was the first time shehad ever shown anything, approaching ridicule for Joel. The effect wasremarkable. Like a lash upon a raw wound it made him writhe; but moresignificant to Lucy was the sudden convulsive working of his featuresand the wildness of his eyes. Then she turned her back, not fromcontempt, 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 clutchof his fingers roused a fierce, hot anger. 

Joel did not heed her command. He was forcing her back. He talkedincoherently. 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 andwrithe out of his grasp. Then ensued a short, sharp struggle. Joelcould not hold Lucy, but he tore her blouse into shreds. It seemed toLucy that he did that savagely. She broke free from him, and he lungedat her again. With all her strength she lashed his face with the heavyleather quirt. That staggered him. He almost fell. 

Lucy bounded to Sarchedon. In a rush she was up in the saddle. Joel wasrunning toward her. Blood on his face! Blood on his hands! He was notthe 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, readyto bolt. 

Creech swerved to one side. His face was lividly white except where thebloody welts crossed it. His jaw seemed to hang loosely, making speechdifficult. 

"Jest fer--thet--" he panted, hoarsely, "I'll lay fer you--an' I'llstrip you---an' I'll tie you on a hoss--an' I'll drive you nakedthrough Bostil's Ford!"

Lucy saw the utter futility of all her good intentions. Something hadsnapped in Joel Creech's mind. And in hers kindness had givenprecedence to a fury she did not know was in her. For the second timeshe 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 gaitat the first steep rise. 

CHAPTER IV

Three wild-horse hunters made camp one night beside a little stream inthe Sevier Valley, five hundred miles, as a crow flies, from Bostil'sFord. 

These hunters had a poor outfit, excepting, of course, their horses. They were young men, rangy in build, lean and hard from life in thesaddle, bronzed like Indians, still-faced, and keen-eyed. Two of themappeared to be tired out, and lagged at the camp-fire duties. When themeager meal was prepared they sat, cross-legged, before a raggedtarpaulin, eating and drinking in silence. 

The sky in the west was rosy, slowly darkening. The valley floorbillowed away, ridged and cut, growing gray and purple and dark. Wallsof stone, pink with the last rays of the setting sun, inclosed thevalley, stretching away toward a long, low, black mountain range. 

The place was wild, beautiful, open, with something nameless that madethe desert different from any other country. It was, perhaps, aloneliness of vast stretches of valley and stone, clear to the eye, even after sunset. That black mountain range, which looked close enoughto ride to before dark, was a hundred miles distant. 

The shades of night fell swiftly, and it was dark by the time thehunters finished the meal. Then the campfire had burned low. One of thethree dragged branches of dead cedars and replenished the fire. Quicklyit flared up, with the white flame and crackle characteristic of drycedar. The night wind had risen, moaning through the gnarled, stuntedcedars near by, and it blew the fragrant wood-smoke into the faces ofthe 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'dnot 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 thebright 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 downbeside the fire, he composed himself to the enjoyment which hiscompanions evidently considered worthy of a decision they had reached. 

"So this smokin' means you both want to turn back?" queried Lin, hissharp 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 topart with it. "Let's go on, " he said, quietly. 

"No. I've had all I want of chasin' thet damn wild stallion, " returnedBill, shortly. 

The other spread wide his hands and bent an expostulating look upon theone called Lin. "We're two hundred miles out, " he said. "There's only alittle flour left in the bag. No coffee! Only a little salt! All thehosses except your big Nagger are played out. We're already in strangecountry. 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 noneof our people ever seen. But we've heerd of it. An awful cut-upcountry. "

He finished with a conviction that no one could say a word against thecommon sense of his argument. Lin was silent, as if impressed. 

Bill raised a strong, lean, brown hand in a forcible gesture. "We can'tketch Wildfire!"

That seemed to him, evidently, a more convincing argument than hiscomrade'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 thelongest chase he ever had. He's left his old range. He's cut out hisband, an' left them, one by one. We've tried every trick we know onhim. An' he's too smart for us. There's a hoss! Why, Lin, we're all butgone to the dogs chasin' Wildfire. An' now I'm done, an' I'm glad ofit. "

There was another short silence, which presently Bill opened his lipsto break. 

"Lin, it makes me sick to quit. I ain't denyin' thet for a long timeI've had hopes of ketchin' Wildfire. He's the grandest hoss I ever laideyes on. I reckon no man, onless he was an Arab, ever seen as good aone. But now, thet's neither here nor there. .. . We've got to hit theback trail. "

"Boys, I reckon I'll stick to Wildfire's tracks, " said Lin, in the samequiet 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 swallowedcould be plainly seen by his companions. 

Bill looked at his ally as if to confirm some sudden understandingbetween them. They took Slone's attitude gravely and they wagged theirheads doubtfully, as they might have done had Slone just acquaintedthem with a hopeless and deathless passion for a woman. It wassignificant of the nature of riders that they accepted his attitude andhad consideration for his feelings. For them the situation subtlychanged. For weeks they had been three wild-horse wranglers on a hardchase after a valuable stallion. They had failed to get even close tohim. 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 andrare longing for a horse--a passion understood, if not shared, by allriders. And they knew that he would catch Wildfire or die in theattempt. From that moment their attitude toward Slone changed as subtlyas had come the knowledge of his feeling. The gravity and gloom lefttheir faces. It seemed they might have regretted what they had saidabout the futility of catching Wildfire. They did not want Slone to seeor feel the hopelessness of his task. 

"I tell you, Lin, " said Bill, "your hoss Nagger's as good as when westarted. "

"Aw, he's better, " vouchsafed the other rider. "Nagger needed to losesome 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 redstallion 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 strikesandstone sooner or later. Then, by gosh! mebbe he'll wear off themhoofs. "

"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 chasedoff the Sevier range. An' I know. It's a stallion thet makes for newcountry, when you push him hard. "

"Yep, Lin, he's sure leavin', " added the other comrade. "Why, he'straveled 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 wasborn wild, an' there you have it. The wildest of all wild creatures--awild stallion, with the intelligence of a man! A grand hoss, Lin, butone thet'll be hell, if you ever ketch him. He has killed stallions allover the Sevier range. A wild stallion thet's a killer! I never likedhim for thet. Could he be broke?"

"I'll break him, " said Lin Slone, grimly. "It's gettin' him thet's thejob. I've got patience to break a hoss. But patience can't catch astreak of lightnin'. "

"Nope; you're right, " replied Bill. "If you have some luck you'll gethim--mebbe. If he wears out his feet, or if you crowd him into a narrowcanyon, or ran him into a bad place where he can't get by you. Thetmight happen. An' then, with Nagger, you stand a chance. Did you evertire thet hoss?"

"Not yet. "

"An' how fur did you ever run him without a break? Why, when we ketchedthet sorrel last year I rode Nagger myself--thirty miles, most at ahard gallop. An' he never turned a hair!"

"I've beat thet, " replied Lin. "He could run hard fifty miles--mebbemore. Honestly, I never seen him tired yet. If only he was fast!"

"Wal, Nagger ain't so durned slow, come to think of thet, " repliedBill, 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--isthet 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 thebest eyes for tracks of any wrangler in Utah. "

Slone accepted the compliment with a fleeting, doubtful smile on hisdark face. He did not reply, and no more was said by his comrades. Theyrolled with backs to the fire. Slone put on more wood, for the keenwind was cold and cutting; and then he lay down, his head in hissaddle, with a goatskin under him and a saddle-blanket over him. 

All three were soon asleep. The wind whipped the sand and ashes andsmoke over the sleepers. Coyotes barked from near in darkness, and fromthe valley ridge came the faint mourn of a hunting wolf. The desertnight grew darker and colder. 

The Stewart brothers were wild-horse hunters for the sake of trades andoccasional sales. But Lin Slone never traded nor sold a horse he hadcaptured. The excitement of the game, and the lure of the desert, andthe love of a horse were what kept him at the profitless work. His typewas rare in the uplands. 

These were the early days of the settlement of Utah, and only a few ofthe hardiest and most adventurous pioneers had penetrated the desert inthe southern part of that vast upland. And with them came some of thatwild breed of riders to which Slone and the Stewarts belonged. Horseswere really more important and necessary than men; and this singularfact gave these lonely riders a calling. 

Before the Spaniards came there were no horses in the West. Thoseexplorers left or lost horses all over the southwest. Many of them wereArabian horses of purest blood. American explorers and travelers, atthe outset of the nineteenth century, encountered countless droves ofwild horses all over the plains. Across the Grand Canyon, however, wildhorses were comparatively few in number in the early days; and thesehad 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 horseor drove was different; and once in many attempts they met with success. 

A favorite method originated by the Stewarts was to find a water-holefrequented by the band of horses or the stallion wanted, and to buildround this hole a corral with an opening for the horses to get in. Thenthe hunters would watch the trap at night, and if the horses went in todrink, a gate was closed across the opening. Another method of theStewarts was to trail a coveted horse up on a mesa or highland, placeswhich seldom had more than one trail of ascent and descent, and thereblock the escape, and cut lines of cedars, into which the quarry wasran till captured. Still another method, discovered by accident, was toshoot a horse lightly in the neck and sting him. This last, calledcreasing, was seldom successful, and for that matter in any method tentimes as many horses were killed as captured. 

Lin Slone helped the Stewarts in their own way, but he had no especialliking for their tricks. Perhaps a few remarkable captures ofremarkable horses had spoiled Slone. He was always trying what thebrothers claimed to be impossible. He was a fearless rider, but he hadthe fault of saving his mount, and to kill a wild horse was a tragedyfor him. He would much rather have hunted alone, and he had been aloneon 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 usualearly 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 morethan his share of the outfit, and perhaps that was why they had slippedoff before dawn. They knew him well enough to know that he would nothave accepted it. Besides, perhaps they felt a little humiliation atabandoning 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 astorm, and in the east, over the steely wall of stone, shone a rednessgrowing 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 morethan comrades. 

"I reckon I won't see Sevier Village soon again--an' maybe never, " hesoliloquized. 

There was no one to regret him, unless it was old Mother Hall, who hadbeen kind to him on those rare occasions when he got out of thewilderness. Still, it was with regret that he gazed away across the redvalley to the west. Slone had no home. His father and mother had beenlost in the massacre of a wagon-train by Indians, and he had been oneof the few saved and brought to Salt Lake. That had happened when hewas ten years old. His life thereafter had been hard, and but for hissturdy Texas training he might not have survived. The last five yearshe had been a horse-hunter in the wild uplands of Nevada and Utah. 

Slone turned his attention to the pack of supplies. The Stewarts haddivided the flour and the parched corn equally, and unless he wasgreatly mistaken they had left him most of the coffee and all of thesalt. 

"Now I hold that decent of Bill an' Abe, " said Slone, regretfully. "ButI could have got along without it better 'n they could. "

Then he swiftly set about kindling a fire and getting a meal. In themidst of his task a sudden ruddy brightness fell around him. Lin Slonepaused 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 wasnow a world of red earth and gold rocks and purple sage, witheverywhere the endless straggling green cedars. A breeze whipped in, making the fire roar softly. The sun felt warm on his cheek. And at themoment he heard the whistle of his horse. 

"Good old Nagger!" he said. "I shore won't have to track you thismornin'. "

Presently he went off into the cedars to find Nagger and the mustangthat he used to carry a pack. Nagger was grazing in a little open patchamong the trees, but the pack-horse was missing. Slone seemed to knowin what direction to go to find the trail, for he came upon it verysoon. The pack-horse wore hobbles, but he belonged to the class thatcould cover a great deal of ground when hobbled. Slone did not expectthe 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, foundthe mustang standing quietly in a clump of cedars, and, removing thehobbles, he mounted and rode back to camp. Nagger caught sight of himand came at his call. 

This horse Nagger appeared as unique in his class as Slone was rareamong riders. Nagger seemed of several colors, though blackpredominated. 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 thehead of a war charger. His build did not suggest speed. There appearedto be something slow and ponderous about him, similar to an elephant, with the same suggestion of power and endurance. Slone discarded thepack-saddle and bags. The latter were almost empty. He roped thetarpaulin on the back of the mustang, and, making a small bundle of hisfew supplies, he tied that to the tarpaulin. His blanket he used for asaddle-blanket on Nagger. Of the utensils left by the Stewarts he chosea couple of small iron pans, with long handles. The rest he left. Inhis saddle-bags he had a few extra horseshoes, some nails, bullets forhis rifle, and a knife with a heavy blade. 

"Not a rich outfit for a far country, " he mused. Slone did not talkvery much, and when he did he addressed Nagger and himselfsimultaneously. Evidently he expected a long chase, one from which hewould 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 andthe black, bold, flat mountain to the southeast. Some few hundred yardsfrom camp he halted Nagger and bent over in the saddle to scrutinizethe ground. 

The clean-cut track of a horse showed in the bare, hard sand. Thehoof-marks were large, almost oval, perfect in shape, and manifestlythey were beautiful to Lin Slone. He gazed at them for a long time, andthen he looked across the dotted red valley up the vast ridgy steps, toward the black plateau and beyond. It was the look that an Indiangives to a strange country. Then Slone slipped off the saddle and kneltto scrutinize the horse tracks. A little sand had blown into thedepressions, and some of it was wet and some of it was dry. He took histime about examining it, and he even tried gently blowing other sandinto the tracks, to compare that with what was already there. Finallyhe stood up and addressed Nagger. 

"Reckon we won't have to argue with Abe an' Bill this mornin', " hesaid, with satisfaction. "Wildfire made that track yesterday, beforesun-up. "

Thereupon Slone remounted and put Nagger to a trot. The pack-horsefollowed 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 floorof the valley. He had not stopped to graze, and he had not looked forwater. Slone had hoped to find a water-hole in one of the deep washesin the red earth, but if there had been any water there Wildfire wouldhave scented it. He had not had a drink for three days that Slone knewof. And Nagger had not drunk for forty hours. Slone had a canvaswater-bag hanging over the pommel, but it was a habit of his to denyhimself, as far as possible, till his horse could drink also. Like anIndian, Slone ate and drank but little. 

It took four hours of steady trotting to reach the middle and bottom ofthat wide, flat valley. A network of washes cut up the whole center ofit, and they were all as dry as bleached bone. To cross these Slone hadonly to keep Wildfire's trail. And it was proof of Nagger's qualitythat he did not have to veer from the stallion's course. 

It was hot down in the lowland. The heat struck up, reflected from thesand. But it was a March sun, and no more than pleasant to Slone. Thewind rose, however, and blew dust and sand in the faces of horse andrider. Except lizards, Slone did not see any living things. 

Miles of low greasewood and sparse yellow sage led to the first almostimperceptible rise of the valley floor on that side. The distant cedarsbeckoned to Slone. He was not patient, because he was on the trail ofWildfire; but, nevertheless, the hours seemed short. 

Slone had no past to think about, and the future held nothing except ahorse, and so his thoughts revolved the possibilities connected withthis chase of Wildfire. The chase was hopeless in such country as hewas traversing, and if Wildfire chose to roam around valleys like thisone Slone would fail utterly. But the stallion had long ago left hisband of horses, and then, one by one his favorite consorts, and now hewas alone, headed with unerring instinct for wild, untrammeled ranges. He had been used to the pure, cold water and the succulent grass of thecold desert uplands. Assuredly he would not tarry in such barren landsas these. 

For Slone an ever-present and growing fascination lay in Wildfire'sclear, sharply defined tracks. It was as if every hoof-mark told himsomething. Once, far up the interminable ascent, he found on aridge-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. .. . Butwe'll keep out of sight--a day behind. "

When Slone reached the cedars the sun was low down in the west. Helooked back across the fifty miles of valley to the colored cliffs andwalls. He seemed to be above them now, and the cool air, with tang ofcedar 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 aline of dark cedars or pinyons on the level rims. He believed thesebreaks to be the mouths of canyons, and so it turned out. Wildfire'strail led into the mouth of a narrow canyon with very steep and highwalls. Nagger snorted his perception of water, and the mustangwhistled. Wildfire's tracks led to a point under the wall where aspring gushed forth. There were mountain-lion and deer tracks also, aswell as those of smaller game. 

Slone made camp here. The mustang was tired. But Nagger, upon taking along drink, rolled in the grass as if he had just begun the trip. Aftereating, Slone took his rifle and went out to look for deer. But thereappeared to be none at hand. He came across many lion tracks and saw, with apprehension, where one had taken Wildfire's trail. Wildfire hadgrazed up the canyon, keeping on and on, and he was likely to go milesin a night. Slone reflected that as small as were his own chances ofgetting Wildfire, they were still better than those of a mountain-lion. Wildfire was the most cunning of all animals--a wild stallion; hisspeed and endurance were incomparable; his scent as keen as thoseanimals that relied wholly upon scent to warn them of danger, and asfor sight, it was Slone's belief that no hoofed creature, except themountain-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 bothhorses 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 awakeningand going to the spring he was somewhat chagrined to see that deer hadcome down to drink early. Evidently they were numerous. A lion countrywas always a deer country, for the lions followed the deer. 

Slone was packed and saddled and on his way before the sun reddened thecanyon wall. He walked the horses. From time to time he saw signs ofWildfire's consistent progress. The canyon narrowed and the walls grewlower and the grass increased. There was a decided ascent all the time. Slone could find no evidence that the canyon had ever been traveled byhunters or Indians. The day was pleasant and warm and still. Every oncein a while a little breath of wind would bring a fragrance of cedar andpinyon, and a sweet hint of pine and sage. At every turn he lookedahead, expecting to see the green of pine and the gray of sage. Towardthe middle of the afternoon, coming to a place where Wildfire had takento a trot, he put Nagger to that gait, and by sundown had worked up towhere the canyon was only a shallow ravine. And finally it turned oncemore, to lose itself in a level where straggling pines stood high abovethe cedars, and great, dark-green silver spruces stood above the pines. And here were patches of sage, fresh and pungent, and long reaches ofbleached 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 remainsof a camp-fire, and some flint arrow-heads. Indians had been in there, probably having come from the opposite direction to Slone's. Thisencouraged him, for where Indians could hunt so could he. Soon he wasentering a forest where cedars and pinyons and pines began to growthickly. Presently he came upon a faintly defined trail, just a dim, dark line even to an experienced eye. But it was a trail, and Wildfirehad taken it. 

Slone halted for the night. The air was cold. And the dampness of itgave him an idea there were snow-banks somewhere not far distant. Thedew was already heavy on the grass. He hobbled the horses and put abell 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 soughof the wind pleased him, like music. There had begun to be prospects ofpleasant experience along with the toil of chasing Wildfire. He wasentering new and strange and beautiful country. How far might the chasetake him? He did not care. He was not sleepy, but even if he had beenit developed that he must wait till the coyotes ceased their barkinground his camp-fire. They came so close that he saw their gray shadowsin the gloom. But presently they wearied of yelping at him and wentaway. After that the silence, broken only by the wind as it roared andlulled, seemed beautiful to Slone. He lost completely that sense ofvague regret which had remained with him, and he forgot the Stewarts. And suddenly he felt absolutely free, alone, with nothing behind toremember, with wild, thrilling, nameless life before him. Just then thelong mourn of a timber wolf wailed in with the wind. Seldom had heheard the cry of one of those night wanderers. There was nothing likeit--no sound like it to fix in the lone camper's heart the greatsolitude and the wild. 

CHAPTER V

In the early morning when all was gray and the big, dark pines wereshadowy specters, Slone was awakened by the cold. His hands were sonumb that he had difficulty starting a fire. He stood over the blaze, warming them. The air was nipping, clear and thin, and sweet withfrosty fragrance. 

Daylight came while he was in the midst of his morning meal. A whitefrost covered the ground and crackled under his feet as he went out tobring in the horses. He saw fresh deer tracks. Then he went back tocamp for his rifle. Keeping a sharp lookout for game, he continued hissearch for the horses. 

The forest was open and park-like. There were no fallen trees orevidences of fire. Presently he came to a wide glade in the midst ofwhich Nagger and the pack-mustang were grazing with a herd of deer. Thesize of the latter amazed Slone. The deer he had hunted back on theSevier range were much smaller than these. Evidently these were muledeer, closely allied to the elk. They were so tame they stood facinghim curiously, with long ears erect. It was sheer murder to kill a deerstanding and watching like that, but Slone was out of meat and hungryand facing a long, hard trip. He shot a buck, which leapedspasmodically away, trying to follow the herd, and fell at the edge ofthe glade. Slone cut out a haunch, and then, catching the horses, hereturned to camp, where he packed and saddled, and at once rode out onthe dim trail. 

The wildness of the country he was entering was evident in the factthat as he passed the glade where he had shot the deer a few minutesbefore, there were coyotes quarreling over the carcass. 

Stone could see ahead and on each side several hundred yards, andpresently he ascertained that the forest floor was not so level as hehad supposed. He had entered a valley or was traversing a wide, gentlysloping pass. He went through thickets of juniper, and had to go aroundclumps of quaking aspen. The pines grew larger and farther apart. Cedars and pinyons had been left behind, and he had met with no silverspruces after leaving camp. Probably that point was the height of adivide. There were banks of snow in some of the hollows on the northside. Evidently the snow had very recently melted, and it was evidentalso 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 theoccasional gray flash of a deer or coyote across a glade. No birds ofany species crossed Stone's sight. He came, presently, upon a liontrack in the trail, made probably a day before. Slone grew curiousabout 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 thestallion, and for a second he felt a cold contraction of his heart. Already he loved Wildfire, and by virtue of all this toil of travelconsidered the wild horse his property. 

"No lion could ever get close to Wildfire, " he soliloquized, with ashort laugh. Of that he was absolutely certain. 

The sun rose, melting the frost, and a breath of warm air, laden withthe scent of pine, moved heavily under the huge, yellow trees. Slonepassed a point where the remains of an old camp-fire and a pile of deerantlers were further proof that Indians visited this plateau to hunt. From this camp broader, more deeply defined trails led away to thesouth and east. Slone kept to the east trail, in which Wildfire'stracks and those of the lion showed clearly. It was about the middle ofthe forenoon when the tracks of the stallion and lion left the trail tolead up a little draw where grass grew thick. Slone followed, readingthe signs of Wildfire's progress, and the action of his pursuer, aswell as if he had seen them. Here the stallion had plowed into asnow-bank, eating a hole two feet deep; then he had grazed around alittle; then on and on; there his splendid tracks were deep in the softearth. Slone knew what to expect when the track of the lion veered fromthose of the horse, and he followed the lion tracks. The ground wassoft from the late melting of snow, and Nagger sunk deep. The lion lefta plain track. Here he stole steadily along; there he left many tracksat a point where he might have halted to make sure of his scent. He wascircling 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 itto be forty feet--but he had missed the stallion. There were Wildfire'stracks again, slow and short, and then deep and sharp where in theimpetus of fright he had sprung out of reach. A second leap of thelion, and then lessening bounds, and finally an abrupt turn fromWildfire's trail told the futility of that stalk. Slone made certainthat Wildfire was so keen that as he grazed along he had kept to openground. 

Wildfire had run for a mile, then slowed down to a trot, and he hadcircled to get back to the trail he had left. Slone believed the horsewas 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 becamefrequent, and larger as Slone went on. At length the patches closed up, and soon extended as far as he could see. It was soft, affordingdifficult travel. Slone crossed hundreds of deer tracks, and the trailhe was on eventually became a deer runway. 

Presently, far down one of the aisles between the great pines Slone sawwhat appeared to be a yellow cliff, far away. It puzzled him. And as hewent on he received the impression that the forest dropped out of sightahead. Then the trees grew thicker, obstructing his view. Presently thetrail became soggy and he had to help his horse. The mustang flounderedin the soft snow and earth. Cedars and pinyons appeared again, makingtravel still more laborious. 

All at once there came to Slone a strange consciousness of light andwind 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 andacross, taking in the tremendous truth, before it staggered hiscomprehension. But a second sweeping glance, slower, becomingintoxicated with what it beheld, saw gigantic cliff-steps and yellowslopes dotted with cedars, leading down to clefts filled with purplesmoke, and these led on and on to a ragged red world of rock, bare, shining, bold, uplifted in mesa, dome, peak, and crag, clear andstrange in the morning light, still and sleeping like death. 

This, then, was the great canyon, which had seemed like a hunter'sfable rather than truth. Slone's sight dimmed, blurring the spectacle, and he found that his eyes had filled with tears. He wiped them awayand looked again and again, until he was confounded by the vastness andthe grandeur and the vague sadness of the scene. Nothing he had everlooked at had affected him like this canyon, although the Stewarts hadtried to prepare him for it. 

It was the horse-hunter's passion that reminded him of his pursuit. Thedeer trail led down through a break in the wall. Only a few rods of itcould be seen. This trail was passable, even though choked with snow. But the depth beyond this wall seemed to fascinate Slone and hold himback, used as he was to desert trails. Then the clean mark ofWildfire'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 tothe wall side of the trail, fearing the horses might slip. The snowheld firmly at first and Slone had no trouble. The gap in the rim-rockwidened to a slope thickly grown over with cedars and pinyons andmanzanita. This growth made the descent more laborious, yet affordedmeans at least for Slone to go down with less danger. There was nostopping. Once started, the horses had to keep on. Slone saw theimpossibility of ever climbing out while that snow was there. The trailzigzagged down and down. Very soon the yellow wall hung tremendouslyover him, straight up. The snow became thinner and softer. The horsesbegan to slip. They slid on their haunches. Fortunately the slope grewless steep, and Slone could see below where it reached out tocomparatively level ground. Still, a mishap might yet occur. Slone keptas close to Nagger as possible, helping him whenever he could do it. The mustang slipped, rolled over, and then slipped past Slone, wentdown the slope to bring up in a cedar. Slone worked down to him andextricated him. Then the huge Nagger began to slide. Snow and looserock slid with him, and so did Slone. The little avalanche stopped ofits own accord, and then Slone dragged Nagger on down and down, presently to come to the end of the steep descent. Slone looked up tosee that he had made short work of a thousand-foot slope. Here cedarsand pinyons grew thickly enough to make a forest. The snow thinned outto patches, and then failed. But the going remained bad for a while asthe horses sank deep in a soft red earth. This eventually grew moresolid and finally dry. Slone worked out of the cedars to what appeareda grassy plateau inclosed by the great green-and-white slope with itsyellow wall over hanging, and distant mesas and cliffs. Here his viewwas restricted. He was down on the first bench of the great canyon. Andthere was the deer trail, a well-worn path keeping to the edge of theslope. 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 acanyon. He could look down to see the bare, worn rock, and a hundredyards from where he stood the earth was washed from its rims and itbegan to show depth and something of that ragged outline which told ofviolence of flood. The trail headed many canyons like this, all runningdown across this bench, disappearing, dropping invisibly. The trailswung to the left under the great slope, and then presently it climbedto 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 horsesdrank long and Slone refreshed himself. The sun had grown hot. Therewas fragrance of flowers he could not see and a low murmur of awaterfall that was likewise invisible. For most of the time his viewwas shut off, but occasionally he reached a point where through somebreak he saw towers gleaming red in the sun. A strange place, a placeof silence, and smoky veils in the distance. Time passed swiftly. Toward the waning of the afternoon he began to climb to what appearedto be a saddle of land, connecting the canyon wall on the left with agreat plateau, gold-rimmed and pine-fringed, rising more and more inhis way as he advanced. At sunset Slone was more shut in than forseveral hours. He could tell the time was sunset by the golden light onthe cliff wall again overhanging him. The slope was gradual up to thispass to the saddle, and upon coming to a spring, and the firstpine-trees, he decided to halt for a camp. The mustang was almostexhausted. 

Thereupon he hobbled the horses in the luxuriant grass round thespring, and then unrolled his pack. Once as dusk came stealing down, while he was eating his meal, Nagger whistled in fright. Slone saw agray, pantherish form gliding away into the shadows. He took a quickshot at it, but missed. 

"It's a lion country, all right, " he said. And then he set aboutbuilding a big fire on the other side of the grassy plot, so to havethe horses between fires. He cut all the venison into thin strips, andspent 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 heheadin' for?"

The night was warm and still. It was black near the huge cliff, andoverhead velvety blue, with stars of white fire. It seemed to him thathe had become more thoughtful and observing of the aspects of his wildenvironment, and he felt a welcome consciousness of loneliness. Thensleep came to him and the night seemed short. In the gray dawn he aroserefreshed. 

The horses were restive. Nagger snorted a welcome. Evidently they hadpassed an uneasy night. Slone found lion tracks at the spring and insandy places. Presently he was on his way up to the notch between thegreat wall and the plateau. A growth of thick scrub-oak made traveldifficult. It had not appeared far up to that saddle, but it was far. There were straggling pine-trees and huge rocks that obstructed hisgaze. 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 andglorious 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 grimbusiness of his pursuit. The trail he saw leading down had been made byIndians. It was used probably once a year by them; and also by wildanimals, and it was exceedingly steep and rough. Wildfire had paced toand fro along the narrow ridge of that saddle, making many tracks, before he had headed down again. Slone imagined that the great stallionhad been daunted by the tremendous chasm, but had finally faced it, meaning to put this obstacle between him and his pursuers. It neveroccurred to Slone to attribute less intelligence to Wildfire than that. So, dismounting, Slone took Nagger's bridle and started down. Themustang with the pack was reluctant. He snorted and whistled and pawedthe earth. But he would not be left alone, so he followed. 

The trail led down under cedars that fringed a precipice. Slone wasaware of this without looking. He attended only to the trail and to hishorse. Only an Indian could have picked out that course, and it wascruel to put a horse to it. But Nagger was powerful, sure-footed, andhe would go anywhere that Slone led him. Gradually Slone worked downand away from the bulging rim-wall. It was hard, rough work, and riskybecause it could not be accomplished slowly. Brush and rocks, looseshale and weathered slope, long, dusty inclines of yellow earth, andjumbles of stone--these made bad going for miles of slow, zigzag traildown out of the cedars. Then the trail entered what appeared to be aravine. 

That ravine became a canyon. At its head it was a dry wash, full ofgravel and rocks. It began to cut deep into the bowels of the earth. Itshut out sight of the surrounding walls and peaks. Water appeared fromunder a cliff and, augmented by other springs, became a brook. Hot, dry, and barren at its beginning, this cleft became cool and shady andluxuriant with grass and flowers and amber moss with silver blossoms. The rocks had changed color from yellow to deep red. Four hours ofturning and twisting, endlessly down and down, over boulders and banksand every conceivable roughness of earth and rock, finished thepack-mustang; and Slone mercifully left him in a long reach of canyonwhere grass and water never failed. In this place Slone halted for thenoon hour, letting Nagger have his fill of the rich grazing. Nagger'sthree days in grassy upland, despite the continuous travel by day, hadimproved him. He looked fat, and Slone had not yet caught the horseresting. Nagger was iron to endure. Here Slone left all the outfitexcept what was on his saddle, and the sack containing the few poundsof meat and supplies, and the two utensils. This sack he tied on theback of his saddle, and resumed his journey. 

Presently he came to a place where Wildfire had doubled on his trailand had turned up a side canyon. The climb out was hard on Slone, ifnot on Nagger. Once up, Slone found himself upon a wide, barren plateauof glaring red rock and clumps of greasewood and cactus. The plateauwas miles wide, shut in by great walls and mesas of colored rock. Theafternoon sun beat down fiercely. A blast of wind, as if from afurnace, swept across the plateau, and it was laden with red dust. Slone walked here, where he could have ridden. And he made severalmiles of up-and-down progress over this rough plateau. The great wallsof the opposite side of the canyon loomed appreciably closer. What, Slone wondered, was at the bottom of this rent in the earth? The greatdesert river was down there, of course, but he knew nothing of it. Would that turn back Wildfire? Slone thought grimly how he had alwaysclaimed Nagger to be part fish and part bird. Wildfire was not going toescape. 

By and by only isolated mescal plants with long, yellow-plumed spearsbroke the bare monotony of the plateau. And Slone passed from red sandand gravel to a red, soft shale, and from that to hard, red rock. HereWildfire's tracks were lost, the first time in seven weeks. But Slonehad his direction down that plateau with the cleavage lines of canyonsto right and left. At times Slone found a vestige of the old Indiantrail, and this made him doubly sure of being right. He did not need tohave Wildfire's tracks. He let Nagger pick the way, and the horse madeno mistake in finding the line of least resistance. But that grewharder and harder. This bare rock, like a file, would soon wearWildfire's hoofs thin. And Slone rejoiced. Perhaps somewhere down inthis awful chasm he and Nagger would have it out with the stallion. Slone began to look far ahead, beginning to believe that he might seeWildfire. Twice he had seen Wildfire, but only at a distance. Then hehad resembled a running streak of fire, whence his name, which Slonehad given him. 

This bare region of rock began to be cut up into gullies. It wasnecessary to head them or to climb in and out. Miles of travel reallymeant little progress straight ahead. But Slone kept on. He was hot andNagger was hot, and that made hard work easier. Sometimes on the windcame a low thunder. Was it a storm or an avalanche slipping or fallingwater? 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. Thestretch 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 putto--where a slip meant a broken leg. But Slone could not turn back. Andsomething besides an indomitable spirit kept him going. Again the soundresembling thunder assailed his ears, louder this time. The plateauappeared to be ending in a series of great capes or promontories. Slonefeared he would soon come out upon a promontory from which he might seethe impossibility of further travel. He felt relieved down in thegullies, where he could not see far. He climbed out of one, presently, from which there extended a narrow ledge with a slant too perilous forany horse. He stepped out upon that with far less confidence thanNagger. To the right was a bulge of low wall, and a few feet to theleft a dark precipice. The trail here was faintly outlined, and it wassix inches wide and slanting as well. It seemed endless to Slone, thatledge. 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. Thatledge extended in a long curve, turning slowly away from the precipice, and ascending a little at the further end. Slone, drew a deep breath ofrelief when he led Nagger up on level rock. 

Suddenly a strange yet familiar sound halted Slone, as if he had beenstruck. The wild, shrill, high-pitched, piercing whistle of a stallion!Nagger neighed a blast in reply and pounded the rock with his iron-shodhoofs. With a thrill Slone looked ahead. 

There, some few hundred yards distant, on a promontory, stood a redhorse. 

"My Lord! . .. It's Wildfire!" breathed Slone, tensely. 

He could not believe his sight. He imagined he was dreaming. But asNagger stamped and snorted defiance Slone looked with fixed and keengaze, and knew that beautiful picture was no lie. 

Wildfire was as red as fire. His long mane, wild in the wind, was likea whipping, black-streaked flame. Silhouetted there against that canyonbackground he seemed gigantic, a demon horse, ready to plunge intofiery depths. He was looking back over his shoulder, his head veryhigh, and every line of him was instinct with wildness. Again he sentout that shrill, air-splitting whistle. Slone understood it to be aclarion call to Nagger. If Nagger had been alone Wildfire would havekilled him. The red stallion was a killer of horses. All over the Utahranges 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 tohold him. Then Wildfire plunged, apparently down, and vanished fromSlone's sight. 

Slone hurried onward, to be blocked by a huge crack in the rockyplateau. This he had to head. And then another and like obstaclechecked his haste to reach that promontory. He was forced to go moreslowly. Wildfire had been close only as to sight. And this was thegreat canyon that dwarfed distance and magnified proximity. Climbingdown and up, toiling on, he at last learned patience. He had seenWildfire at close range. That was enough. So he plodded on, once morereturning to careful regard of Nagger. It took an hour of work to reachthe 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 greencottonwoods following the winding course. Then Slone saw Wildfireslowly crossing the flat toward the stream. He had gone down thatcliff, 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 dawnedupon him he whooped his wild joy and waved his hat. The red stallionmust have heard, for he looked up. Then he went on again and waded intothe stream, where he drank long. When he started to cross, the swiftcurrent drove him back in several places. The water wreathed whitearound him. But evidently it was not deep, and finally he crossed. Fromthe 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 horseshad gone down and come up. That was enough for Slone to know. He wouldhave attempted the descent if he were sure no other horse but Wildfirehad ever gone down there. But Slone's hair began to rise stiff on hishead. A horse like Wildfire, and mountain sheep and Indian ponies, wereall 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 hishorse. A slip there meant death. The way Nagger trembled in everymuscle showed his feelings. But he never flinched. He would followSlone anywhere, providing Slone rode him or led him. And here, asriding was impossible, Slone went before. If the horse slipped therewould be a double tragedy, for Nagger would knock his master off thecliff. Slone set his teeth and stepped down. He did not let Nagger seehis 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 stepto step, and these had bare, slippery slants between. Nagger wassplendid on a bad trail. He had methods peculiar to his huge build andgreat weight. He crashed down over the stone steps, both front hoofs atonce. The slants he slid down on his haunches with his forelegs stiffand the iron shoes scraping. He snorted and heaved and grew wet withsweat. He tossed his head at some of the places. But he never hesitatedand it was impossible for him to go slowly. Whenever Slone came tocorrugated 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 atense, painful knot in his breast, as if it could not beat, holdingback 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 wallbegan to loom above Slone. Then suddenly he seemed brought to a pointwhere it was impossible to descend. It was a round bulge, slantingfearfully, with only a few little rough surfaces to hold a foot. Wildfire had left a broad, clear-swept mark at that place, and redhairs on some of the sharp points. He had slid down. Below was anoffset that fortunately prevented further sliding, Slone started towalk down this place, but when Nagger began to slide Slone had to letgo the bridle and jump. Both he and the horse landed safely. Luck waswith them. And they went on, down and down, to reach the base of thegreat wall, scraped and exhausted, wet with sweat, but unhurt. As Slonegazed upward he felt the impossibility of believing what he knew to betrue. He hugged and petted the horse. Then he led on to the roaringstream. 

It was green water white with foam. Slone waded in and found the watercool and shallow and very swift. He had to hold to Nagger to keep frombeing swept downstream. They crossed in safety. There in the sandshowed 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 valleyoppressively hot. There was no wind and the sand blistered his feetthrough his boots. Wildfire held to the Indian trail that had guidedhim down into this wilderness of worn rock. And that trail crossed thestream at every turn of the twisting, narrow valley. Slone enjoyedgetting into the water. He hung his gun over the pommel and let thewater 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, andhere the trail evidently followed the stream bed. There was no otherway. Slone waded in, and stumbled, rolled, and floated ahead of thesturdy horse. Nagger was wet to his breast, but he did not fall. Thisgulch seemed full of a hollow rushing roar. It opened out into a widevalley. And Wildfire's tracks took to the left side and began to climbthe slope. 

Here the traveling was good, considering what had been passed. Once upout of the valley floor Slone saw Wildfire far ahead, high on theslope. 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 thischase?

Sometimes Wildfire was plain in his sight for a moment, but usually hewas hidden by rocks. The slope was one great talus, a jumble ofweathered rock, fallen from what appeared a mountain of red and yellowwall. Here the heat of the sun fell upon him like fire. The rocks wereso hot Slone could not touch them with bare hand. The close of theafternoon 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 anddown. Then he was gone. Slone plodded upward. Long before he reachedthat summit be heard the dull rumble of the river. It grew to be aroar, yet it seemed distant. Would the great desert river stop Wildfirein his flight? Slone doubted it. He surmounted the ridge, to find thecanyon opening in a tremendous gap, and to see down, far down, aglittering, sun-blasted slope merging into a deep, black gulch where ared river swept and chafed and roared. 

Somehow the river was what he had expected to see. A force that had cutand 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 riverand led up out of the canyon. He wanted to stay there and gazeendlessly and listen. At length he began the descent. As he proceededit seemed that the roar of the river lessened. He could not understandwhy this was so. It took half an hour to reach the last level, aghastly, black, and iron-ribbed canyon bed, with the river splittingit. 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, througha 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 studiedthe 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 theroar of another, heavier and closer. The river appeared tremendous, inways Slone felt rather than realized, yet it was not swift. Studyingthe black, rough wall of rock above him, he saw marks where the riverhad 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 makeit. 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 hadlunged the last few feet. Slone found a better place, and waded in, urging Nagger. The big horse plunged, almost going under, and began toswim. Slone kept up-stream beside him. He found, presently, that thewater was thick and made him tired, so it was necessary to grasp astirrup and be towed. The river appeared only a few hundred feet wide, but probably it was wider than it looked. Nagger labored heavily nearthe opposite shore; still, he landed safely upon a rocky bank. Therewere patches of sand in which Wildfire's tracks showed so fresh thatthe water had not yet dried out of them. 

Slone rested his horse before attempting to climb out of that split inthe rock. However, Wildfire had found an easy ascent. On this side ofthe canyon the bare rock did not predominate. A clear trail led up adusty, gravelly slope, upon which scant greasewood and cactus appeared. Half an hour's climbing brought Slone to where he could see that he wasentering a vast valley, sloping up and narrowing to a notch in the darkcliffs, above which towered the great red wall and about that theslopes of cedar and the yellow rim-rock. 

And scarcely a mile distant, bright in the westering sunlight, shonethe red stallion, moving slowly. 

Slone pressed on steadily. Just before dark he came to an ideal spot tocamp. The valley had closed up, so that the lofty walls cast shadowsthat met. A clump of cottonwoods surrounding a spring, abundance ofrich grass, willows and flowers lining the banks, formed an oasis inthe bare valley. Slone was tired out from the day of ceaseless toildown and up, and he could scarcely keep his eyes open. But he tried tostay awake. The dead silence of the valley, the dry fragrance, thedreaming walls, the advent of night low down, when up on the rampartsthe last red rays of the sun lingered, the strange loneliness--thesewere sweet and comforting to him. 

And that night's sleep was as a moment. He opened his eyes to see thecrags and towers and peaks and domes, and the lofty walls of that vast, broken chaos of canyons across the river. They were now emerging fromthe misty gray of dawn, growing pink and lilac and purple under therising 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 lookedeagerly up the narrowing canyon, but he was not rewarded by a sight ofthe stallion. As he progressed up a gradually ascending trail he becameaware of the fact that the notch he had long looked up to was where thegreat red walls closed in and almost met. And the trail zigzagged upthis narrow vent, so steep that only a few steps could be taken withoutrest. 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 onlyhalf-way up that awful break between the walls. Sometimes he could havetossed 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 thenotch widened. What had been scarcely visible from the valley below wasnow colossal in actual dimensions. The trail was like a twisted mile ofthread between two bulging mountain walls leaning their ledges andfronts over this tilted pass. 

Slone rested often. Nagger appreciated this and heaved gratefully atevery halt. In this monotonous toil Slone forgot the zest of hispursuit. And when Nagger suddenly snorted in fright Slone was notprepared for what he saw. 

Above him ran a low, red wall, around which evidently the trail led. Atthe curve, which was a promontory, scarcely a hundred feet in anairline above him, he saw something red moving, bobbing, coming outinto 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. Onlyhe was bigger. But he was so magnificently proportioned that he did notseem heavy. His coat was shaggy and red. It was not glossy. The colorwas what made him shine. His mane was like a crest, mounting, thenfailing low. Slone had never seen so much muscle on a horse. Yet hisoutline was graceful, beautiful. The head was indeed that of thewildest of all wild creatures--a stallion born wild--and it wasbeautiful, savage, splendid, everything but noble. Whatever Wildfirewas, he was a devil, a murderer--he had no noble attributes. Slonethought 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 werehuman. That was a natural action for a rider of his kind. Wildfireturned away, showed bright against the dark background, and thendisappeared. 

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 aslow march of thirty miles into a scrub cedar and pinyon forest, through which the great red and yellow walls of the canyon could beseen. That night Slone found a water-hole in a rocky pocket and alittle grass for Nagger. The third day's travel consisted of fortymiles or more through level pine forest, dry and odorous, but lackingthe 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 therewas any, ran away from the rim. Slone camped this night at a muddy pondin the woods, where Wildfire's tracks showed plainly. 

On the following day Slone rode out of the forest into a country ofscanty cedars, bleached and stunted, and out of this to the edge of aplateau, from which the shimmering desert flung its vast and desolatedistances, forbidding and menacing. This was not the desert uplandcountry of Utah, but a naked and bony world of colored rock and sand--apainted desert of heat and wind and flying sand and waterless wastesand barren ranges. But it did not daunt Slone. For far down on thebare, billowing ridges moved a red speck, at a snail's pace, a slowlymoving dot of color which was Wildfire. 

On open ground like this, Nagger, carrying two hundred and fiftypounds, showed his wonderful quality. He did not mind the heat nor thesand nor the glare nor the distance nor his burden. He did not tire. Hewas an engine of tremendous power. 

Slone gained upon Wildfire, and toward evening of that day he reachedto within half a mile of the stallion. And he chose to keep that farbehind. That night he camped where there was dry grass, but no water. 

Next day he followed Wildfire down and down, over the endless swell ofrolling red ridges, bare of all but bleached white grass and meagergreasewood, always descending in the face of that painted desert ofbold and ragged steps. Slone made fifty miles that day, and gained thevalley bed, where a slender stream ran thin and spread over a widesandy bottom. It was salty water, but it was welcome to both man andbeast. 

The following day he crossed, and the tracks of Wildfire were still weton the sand-bars. The stallion was slowing down. Slone saw him, limpingalong, not far in advance. There was a ten-mile stretch of levelground, blown hard as rock, from which the sustenance had beenbleached, for not a spear of grass grew there. And following that was atortuous passage through a weird region of clay dunes, blue and violetand heliotrope and lavender, all worn smooth by rain and wind. Wildfirefavored the soft ground now. He had deviated from his straight course. And he was partial to washes and dips in the earth where water mighthave lodged. And he was not now scornful of a green-scummed water-holewith its white margin of alkali. That night Slone made camp withWildfire in plain sight. The stallion stopped when his pursuersstopped. And he began to graze on the same stretch with Nagger. Howstrange this seemed to Slone!

Here at this camp was evidence of Indians. Wildfire had swung round tothe north in his course. Like any pursued wild animal, he had began tocircle. 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 inthe sand. Slone trailed him with Nagger at a trot. Toward the head ofthis sandy flat Slone came upon old corn-fields, and a broken dam wherethe water had been stored, and well-defined trails leading away to theright. Somewhere over there in the desert lived Indians. At this pointWildfire abandoned the trail he had followed for many days and cut outmore to the north. It took all the morning hours to climb three greatsteps 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 weremoving sheets of sand, and in the distance circular yellow dust-devils, rising high like waterspouts, and back down in the sun-scorched valleya sandstorm moved along majestically, burying the desert in its yellowpall. 

Then two more days of sand and another day of a slowly rising groundgrowing from bare to gray and gray to green, and then to the purple ofsage and cedar--these three grinding days were toiled out with only onewater-hole. 

And Wildfire was lame and in distress and Nagger was growing gaunt andshowing strain; and Slone, haggard and black and worn, plodded milesand 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 Wildfireinto some kind of a natural trap. The pursuit seemed endless. Wildfirekept to open country where he could not be surprised. 

There came a morning when Slone climbed to a cedared plateau that rosefor a whole day's travel, and then split into a labyrinthine maze ofcanyons. There were trees, grass, water. It was a high country, cooland wild, like the uplands he had left. For days he camped onWildfire's trail, always relentlessly driving him, always watching forthe trap he hoped to find. And the red stallion spent much of this timeof flight in looking backward. Whenever Slone came in sight of him hehad his head over his shoulder, watching. And on the soft ground ofthese canyons he had begun to recover from his lameness. But this didnot worry Slone. Sooner or later Wildfire would go down into ahigh-walled wash, from which there would be no outlet; or he wouldwander into a box-canyon; or he would climb out on a mesa with no placeto 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. Thenature of the desert had changed. Slone had entered a wonderful region, the like of which he had not seen--a high plateau crisscrossed in everydirection by narrow canyons with red walls a thousand feet high. 

And one of the strange turning canyons opened into a vast valley ofmonuments. 

The plateau had weathered and washed away, leaving huge sections ofstone walls, all standing isolated, different in size and shape, butall clean-cut, bold, with straight lines. They stood up everywhere, monumental, towering, many-colored, lending a singular and beautifulaspect 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 downon the green slope. 

Slone's heart swelled. This was the setting for that grand horse--aperfect wild range. But also it seemed the last place where there mightbe any chance to trap the stallion. Still that did not alter Slone'spurpose, though it lost to him the joy of former hopes. He rode downthe slope, out upon the billowing floor of the valley. Wildfire lookedback to see his pursuers, and then the solemn stillness broke to awild, piercing whistle. 

Day after day, camping where night found him, Slone followed thestallion, never losing sight of him till darkness had fallen. Thevalley was immense and the monuments miles apart. But they alwaysseemed close together and near him. The air magnified everything. Slonelost track of time. The strange, solemn, lonely days and the silent, lonely nights, and the endless pursuit, and the wild, weirdvalley--these completed the work of years on Slone and he becamesatisfied, unthinking, almost savage. 

The toil and privation had worn him down and he was like iron. Hisgarments hung in tatters; his boots were ripped and soleless. Longsince 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 timecame when there were none. Some days he did not eat. Hunger did notmake him suffer. He killed a desert bird now and then, and once awildcat crossing the valley. Eventually he felt his strengthdiminishing, and then he took to digging out the pack-rats and cookingthem. But these, too, were scarce. At length starvation faced Slone. But he knew he would not starve. Many times he had been withinrifle-shot of Wildfire. And the grim, forbidding thought grew upon himthat he must kill the stallion. The thought seemed involuntary, but hismind rejected it. Nevertheless, he knew that if he could not catch thestallion he would kill him. That had been the end of many a desperaterider's pursuit of a coveted horse. 

While Slone kept on his merciless pursuit, never letting Wildfire restby day, time went on just as relentlessly. Spring gave way to earlysummer. The hot sun bleached the grass; water-holes failed out in thevalley, and water could be found only in the canyons; and the dry windsbegan to blow the sand. It was a sandy valley, green and gray only at adistance, and out toward the north there were no monuments, and theslow 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 theygrew closer, till at length some of them were joined by weatheredridges to the walls of the surrounding plateau. For all that Slonecould see, Wildfire was in perfect condition. But Nagger was not thehorse he had been. Slone realized that in one way or another thepursuit 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 fora long time that he had not kept the red stallion in sight. That daywas marked by the good fortune of killing a rabbit, and while eating ithis gloomy, fixed mind admitted that he was starving. He dreaded thenext sunrise. But he could not hold it back. There, behind the darkmonuments, standing sentinel-like, the sky lightened and reddened andburst into gold and pink, till out of the golden glare the sun roseglorious. 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 anarrow pass, rounded over with drifting sand. And Slone gazed down intoa huge amphitheater full of monuments, like all that strange country. Abasin three miles across lay beneath him. Walls and weathered slants ofrock and steep slopes of reddish-yellow sand inclosed this ovaldepression. The floor was white, and it seemed to move gently orradiate with heat-waves. Studying it, Slone made out that the motionwas caused by wind in long bleached grass. He had crossed small areasof this grass in different parts of the region. 

Wildfire's tracks led down into this basin, and presently Slone, bystraining his eyes, made out the red spot that was the stallion. 

"He's lookin' to quit the country, " soliloquized Slone, as he surveyedthe scene. 

With keen, slow gaze Slone studied the lay of wall and slope, and whenhe had circled the huge depression he made sure that Wildfire could notget out except by the narrow pass through which he had gone in. Slonesat 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 onthe other. 

"If this hole was only little, now, " sighed Slone, as he gazed at thesweeping, shimmering oval floor, "I might have a chance. But downthere--we couldn't get near him. "

There was no water in that dry bowl. Slone reflected on the uselessnessof keeping Wildfire down there, because Nagger could not go withoutwater as long as Wildfire. For the first time Slone hesitated. Itseemed 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 theodor of dry, dead grass. 

But that hot wind stirred Slone with an idea, and suddenly he wastense, 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 thehardness 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 windthere would indeed be wildfire to race with the red stallion. It wouldperhaps 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, " mutteredSlone. He saw that if he could fire the grass on the other side thewind of flame would drive Wildfire straight toward him. The slopes andwalls narrowed up to the pass, but high grass grew to within a few rodsof where Slone stood. But it seemed impossible to get behind Wildfire. 

"At night--then--I could get round him, " said Slone, thinking hard andnarrowing his gaze to scan the circle of wall and slope. "Why not? . .. No wind at night. That grass would burn slow till mornin'--till thewind came up--an' it's been west for days. "

Suddenly Slone began to pound the patient Nagger and to cry out to himin wild exultance. 

"Old horse, we've got him! . .. We've got him! . .. We'll put a rope onhim before this time to-morrow!"

Slone yielded to his strange, wild joy, but it did not last long, soonsucceeding to sober, keen thought. He rode down into the bowl a mile, making absolutely certain that Wildfire could not climb out on thatside. The far end, beyond the monuments, was a sheer wall of rock. Thenhe crossed to the left side. Here the sandy slope was almost too steepfor even him to go up. And there was grass that would burn. He returnedto the pass assured that Wildfire had at last fallen into a trap thelike Slone had never dreamed of. The great horse was doomed to run intoliving flame or the whirling noose of a lasso. 

Then Slone reflected. Nagger had that very morning had his fill of goodwater--the first really satisfying drink for days. If he was restedthat day, on the morrow he would be fit for the grueling work possiblyin store for him. Slone unsaddled the horse and turned him loose, andwith a snort he made down the gentle slope for the grass. Then Slonecarried his saddle to a shady spot afforded by a slab of rock and adwarf cedar, and here he composed himself to rest and watch and thinkand wait. 

Wildfire was plainly in sight no more than two miles away. Gradually hewas grazing along toward the monuments and the far end of the greatbasin. Slone believed, because the place was so large, that Wildfirethought there was a way out on the other side or over the slopes orthrough the walls. Never before had the far-sighted stallion made amistake. Slone suddenly felt the keen, stabbing fear of an outletsomewhere. But it left him quickly. He had studied those slopes andwalls. 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 whilegazing down into the shimmering hollow he began to plan. He calculatedthat he must be able to carry fire swiftly across the far end of thebasin, 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 flintand steel. He decided to wait till dark, build a fire with dead cedarsticks, and carry a bundle of them with burning ends. He felt assuredthat the wind caused by riding would keep them burning. After he hadlighted the grass all he had to do was to hurry back to his station andthere 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, andthe sound it made was a soft, silken rustling, very low. The sky was asteely blue above and copper close over the distant walls. 

That afternoon, toward the close, Slone ate the last of the meat. Atsunset the wind died away and the air cooled. There was a strip of redalong the wall of rock and on the tips of the monuments, and itlingered there for long, a strange, bright crown. Nagger was not faraway, but Wildfire had disappeared, probably behind one of themonuments. 

When twilight fell Slone went down after Nagger and, returning withhim, put on bridle and saddle. Then he began to search for suitablesticks of wood. Farther back in the pass he found stunted dead cedars, and from these secured enough for his purpose. He kindled a fire andburnt 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 thenmounted his horse. 

It was just about dark when he faced down into the valley. When hereached level ground he kept to the edge of the left slope and putNagger to a good trot. The grass and brush were scant here, and thecolor of the sand was light, so he had no difficulty in traveling. 

From time to time his horse went through grass, and its dry, cracklingrustle, showing how it would burn, was music to Slone. Gradually themonuments began to loom up, bold and black against the blue sky, withstars seemingly hanging close over them. Slone had calculated that thebasin was smaller than it really was, in both length and breadth. Thisworried him. Wildfire might see or hear or scent him, and make a breakback to the pass and thus escape. Slone was glad when the huge, darkmonuments were indistinguishable from the black, frowning wall. He hadto go slower here, because of the darkness. But at last he reached theslow rise of jumbled rock that evidently marked the extent ofweathering on that side. Here he turned to the right and rode out intothe valley. The floor was level and thickly overgrown with long, deadgrass and dead greasewood, as dry as tinder. It was easy to account forthe dryness; neither snow nor rain had visited that valley for manymonths. Slone whipped one of the sticks in the wind and soon had thesmoldering end red and showering sparks. Then he dropped the stick inthe grass, with curious intent and a strange feeling of regret. 

Instantly the grass blazed with a little sputtering roar. Naggersnorted. "Wildfire!" exclaimed Slone. That word was a favorite one withriders, and now Slone used it both to call out his menace to thestallion and to express his feeling for that blaze, already runningwild. 

Without looking back Slone rode across the valley, dropping a glowingstick every quarter of a mile. When he reached the other side therewere a dozen fires behind him, burning slowly, with white smoke risinglazily. 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 composedhimself 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 andslow, with only an occasional leaping flame. And some of the blackspaces must have been monuments, blotting out the creeping snail-linesof red. Slone watched, strangely fascinated. 

"What do you think of that?" he said, aloud, and he meant his query forWildfire. 

As he watched the lines perceptibly lengthened and brightened and paleshadows of smoke began to appear. Over at the left of the valley thetwo brightest fires, the first he had started, crept closer and closertogether. They seemed long in covering distance. But not a breath ofwind stirred, and besides they really might move swiftly, withoutlooking so to Slone. When the two lines met a sudden and larger blazerose. 

"Ah!" said the rider, and then he watched the other lines creepingtogether. How slowly fire moved, he thought. The red stallion wouldhave every chance to run between those lines, if he dared. But a wildhorse feared nothing like fire. This one would not run the gantlet offlames. Nevertheless, Slone felt more and more relieved as the linesclosed. The hours of the night dragged past until at length one long, continuous line of fire spread level across the valley, its bright, redline broken only where the monuments of stone were silhouetted againstit. 

The darkness of the valley changed. The light of the moon changed. Theradiance of the stars changed. Either the line of fire was findingdenser fuel to consume or it was growing appreciably closer, for theflames 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 afterit had passed; and he could tell how the hours fled by theever-recurring need to replenish the little fire he kept burning in thepass. 

A broad belt of valley grew bright in the light, and behind it loomedthe monuments, weird and dark, with columns of yellow and white smokewreathing them. 

Suddenly Slone's sensitive ear vibrated to a thrilling sound. He leaneddown to place his ear to the sand. Rapid, rhythmic beat of hoofs madehim leap to his feet, reaching for his lasso with right hand and a gunwith his left. 

Nagger lifted his head, sniffed the air, and snorted. Slone peered intothe black belt of gloom that lay below him. It would be hard to see ahorse there, unless he got high enough to be silhouetted against thatline of fire now flaring to the sky. But he heard the beat of hoofs, swift, sharp, louder--louder. The night shadows were deceptive. Thatwonderful light confused him, made the place unreal. Was he dreaming?Or had the long chase and his privations unhinged his mind? He reachedfor Nagger. No! The big black was real, alive, quivering, pounding thesand. He scented an enemy. 

Once more Slone peered down into the void or what seemed a void. Butit, too, had changed, lightened. The whole valley was brightening. Great palls of curling smoke rose white and yellow, to turn back as themonuments met their crests, and then to roll upward, blotting out thestars. It was such a light as he had never seen, except in dreams. Palemoonlight and dimmed starlight and wan dawn all vague and strange andshadowy under the wild and vivid light of burning grass. 

In the pale path before Slone, that fanlike slope of sand which openeddown into the valley, appeared a swiftly moving black object, like afleeting phantom. It was a phantom horse. Slone felt that his eyes, deceived by his mind, saw racing images. Many a wild chase he had livedin dreams on some far desert. But what was that beating in hisears--sharp, swift, even, rhythmic? Never had his ears played himfalse. Never had he heard things in his dreams. That running object wasa horse and he was coming like the wind. Slone felt something grip hisheart. All the time and endurance and pain and thirst and suspense andlonging and hopelessness--the agony of the whole endless chase--closedtight on his heart in that instant. 

The running horse halted just in the belt of light cast by the burninggrass. There he stood sharply defined, clear as a cameo, not a hundredpaces 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, successiveflashes. And then again the ruling passion of a rider held him--thesheer glory of a grand and unattainable horse. For Slone gave upWildfire in that splendid moment. How had he ever dared to believe hecould capture that wild stallion? Slone looked and looked, filling hismind, regretting nothing, sure that the moment was reward for all hehad endured. 

The weird lights magnified Wildfire and showed him clearly. He seemedgigantic. He shone black against the fire. His head was high, his maneflying. Behind him the fire flared and the valley-wide column of smokerolled majestically upward, and the great monuments seemed to retreatdarkly and mysteriously as the flames advanced beyond them. It was abeautiful, unearthly spectacle, with its silence the strangest feature. 

But suddenly Wildfire broke that silence with a whistle which toSlone's overstrained faculties seemed a blast as piercing as thesplitting sound of lightning. And with the whistle Wildfire plunged uptoward the pass. Slone yelled at the top of his lungs and fired his gunbefore he could terrorize the stallion and drive him back down theslope. Soon Wildfire became again a running black object, and then hedisappeared. 

The great line of fire had gotten beyond the monuments and nowstretched unbroken across the valley from wall to slope. Wildfire couldnever pierce that line of flames. And now Slone saw, in the paling skyto the east, that dawn was at hand. 

CHAPTER VII

Slone looked grimly glad when simultaneously with the first red flashof sunrise a breeze fanned his cheek. All that was needed now was awest wind. And here came the assurance of it. 

The valley appeared hazy and smoky, with slow, rolling clouds low downwhere the line of fire moved. The coming of daylight paled the blaze ofthe grass, though here and there Slone caught flickering glimpses ofdull red flame. The wild stallion kept to the center of the valley, restlessly facing this way and that, but never toward the smoke. Slonemade sure that Wildfire gradually gave ground as the line of smokeslowly worked toward him. 

Every moment the breeze freshened, grew steadier and stronger, untilSlone 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 fromslope to slope. 

Wildfire was cornered, trapped. Many times Slone nervously uncoiled andrecoiled his lasso. Presently the great chance of his life wouldcome--the hardest and most important throw he would ever have with arope. He did not miss often, but then he missed sometimes, and here hemust be swift and sure. It annoyed him that his hands perspired andtrembled and that something weighty seemed to obstruct his breathing. He muttered that he was pretty much worn out, not in the best ofcondition for a hard fight with a wild horse. Still he would captureWildfire; his mind was unalterably set there. He anticipated that thestallion would make a final and desperate rush past him; and he had hisplan of action all outlined. What worried him was the possibility ofWildfire doing some unforeseen feat at the very last. Slone wasprepared for hours of strained watching, and then a desperate effort, and then a shock that might kill Wildfire and cripple Nagger, or a longrace 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 anhour, 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 thepass. 

Wildfire showed evidence of terror, but he did not attempt to make thepass. Instead he went at the right-hand slope of the valley and beganto climb. The slope was steep and soft, yet the stallion climbed up andup. The dust flew in clouds; the gravel rolled down, and the sandfollowed in long streams. Wildfire showed his keenness by zigzagging upthe slope. 

"Go ahead, you red devil!" yelled Slone. He was much elated. In thatsoft 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 muchas 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 itat either end or surmount it in the middle. Finally he literally pawedand cut a path, much as if he were digging in the sand for water. Whenhe got over that he was not much better off. The slope above wasendless and grew steeper, more difficult toward the top. Slone knewabsolutely that no horse could climb over it. He grew apprehensive, however, for Wildfire might stick up there on the slope until the lineof fire passed. The horse apparently shunned any near proximity to thefire, 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 lowbank. Wildfire, now sinking to his knees, worked steadily upward tillhe 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 lowbulge, which he might have surmounted had his feet been free. But hestood deep in the sand. For the first time he looked down at thesweeping fire, and then at Slone. 

Suddenly the bank of sand began to slide with him. He snorted infright. The avalanche started slowly and was evidently no mere surfaceslide. It was deep. It stopped--then started again--and again stopped. Wildfire appeared to be sinking deeper and deeper. His struggles onlyembedded him more firmly. Then the bank of sand, with an ominous, lowroar, began to move once more. This time it slipped swiftly. The dustrose in a cloud, almost obscuring the horse. Long streams of gravelrattled down, and waterfalls of sand waved over the steps of the slope. 

Just as suddenly the avalanche stopped again. Slone saw, from the greatoval hole it had left above, that it was indeed deep. That was thereason it did not slide readily. When the dust cleared away Slone sawthe 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 miledistant, and, since the grass was thinning out, it was not coming sofast as it had been. The position of the stallion was half-way betweenthe fire and Slone, and a hundred yards up the slope. 

Like a madman Slone climbed up through the dragging, loose sand. He wasbeside himself with a fury of excitement. He fancied his eyes werefailing him, that it was not possible the great horse really was upthere, helpless in the sand. Yet every huge stride Slone took broughthim closer to a fact he could not deny. In his eagerness he slipped, and fell, and crawled, and leaped, until he reached the slide whichheld Wildfire prisoner. 

The stallion might have been fast in quicksand, up to his body, for allthe movement he could make. He could move only his head. He held thatup, his eyes wild, showing the whites, his foaming mouth wide open, histeeth gleaming. A sound like a scream rent the air. Terrible fear andhate were expressed in that piercing neigh. And shaggy, wet, dusty red, with all of brute savageness in the look and action of his head, heappeared hideous. 

As Slone leaped within roping distance the avalanche slipped a foot ortwo, halted, slipped once more, and slowly started again with that lowroar. He did not care whether it slipped or stopped. Like a wolf heleaped closer, whirling his rope. The loop hissed round his head andwhistled 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 theslow, grinding movement of the avalanche under him. Wildfire's headseemed a demon head of hate. It reached out, mouth agape, to bite, torend. That horrible scream could not be the scream of a horse. 

Slone was a wild-horse hunter, a rider, and when that second ofincredulity flashed by, then came the moment of triumph. No momentcould ever equal that one, when he realized he stood there with a ropearound that grand stallion's neck. All the days and the miles and thetoil and the endurance and the hopelessness and the hunger were paidfor in that moment. His heart seemed too large for his breast. 

"I tracked--you!" he cried, savagely. "I stayed--with you! . .. An' Igot a rope--on you! An'--I'll ride you--you red devil!"

The passion of the man was intense. That endless, racking pursuit hadbrought out all the hardness the desert had engendered in him. Almosthate, 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 ofcapture as well as the rider's instinctive motive to make the horsefear him. Life was unquenchably wild and strong in that stallion; itshowed in the terror which made him hideous. And man and beast somehowresembled each other in that moment which was inimical to noble life. 

The avalanche slipped with little jerks, as if treacherously loosingits hold for a long plunge. The line of fire below ate at the bleachedgrass and the long column of smoke curled away on the wind. 

Slone held the taut lasso with his left hand, and with the right heswung the other rope, catching the noose round Wildfire's nose. Thenletting go of the first rope he hauled on the other, pulling the headof 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 onthe sand with his knees, with swift fingers he tied the noose in ahackamore--an improvised halter. Then, just as swiftly, he bound hisscarf tight round Wildfire's head, blindfolding him. 

"All so easy!" exclaimed Slone, under his breath. "Lord! who wouldbelieve 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, " saidSlone. "An' if I had a bridle I'd put that on you. .. . Who'd everbelieve you'd catch yourself, draggin' in the sand?"

Slone, finding himself failing on the sand, grew alive to the augmentedmovement of the avalanche. It had begun to slide, to heave and bulgeand crack. Dust rose in clouds from all around. The sand appeared toopen and let him sink to his knees. The rattle of gravel was drowned ina soft roar. Then he shot down swiftly, holding the lassoes, keepinghimself erect, and riding as if in a boat. He felt the successive stepsof the slope, and then the long incline below, and then the checkingand rising and spreading of the avalanche as it slowed down on thelevel. All movement then was checked violently. He appeared to be halfburied in sand. While he struggled to extricate himself the thick dustblew away and settled so that he could see. Wildfire lay before him, atthe edge of the slide, and now he was not so deeply embedded as he hadbeen up on the slope. He was struggling and probably soon would havebeen able to get out. The line of fire was close now, but Slone did notfear that. 

At his shrill whistle Nagger bounded toward him, obedient, butsnorting, with ears laid back. He halted. A second whistle started himagain. Slone finally dug himself out of the sand, pulled the lassoesout, and ran the length of them toward Nagger. The black showed bothfear 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 theblack. 

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 seehis enemies. The blowing smoke, right in his nose, made scentimpossible. But in the taut lassoes he sensed the direction of hiscaptors. He plunged, rearing at the end of the plunge, and struck outviciously with his hoofs. Slone, quick with spur and bridle, swervedNagger aside and Wildfire, off his balance, went down with a crash. Slone dragged him, stretched him out, pulled him over twice before hegot forefeet planted. Once up, he reared again, screeching his rage, striking wildly with his hoofs. Slone wheeled aside and toppled himover again. 

"Wildfire, it's no fair fight, " he called, grimly. "But you led me achase. .. . 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 wouldnever break him. But Wildfire was nimble. He got to his feet and thistime he lunged out. Nagger, powerful as he was, could not sustain thetremendous shock, and went down. Slone saved himself with a rider'ssupple skill, falling clear of the horse, and he leaped again into thesaddle as Nagger pounded up. Nagger braced his huge frame and held theplunging stallion. But the saddle slipped a little, the cinchescracked. Slone eased the strain by wheeling after Wildfire. 

The horses had worked away from the fire, and Wildfire, free of thestifling smoke, began to break and lunge and pitch, plunging roundNagger in a circle, running blindly, but with unerring scent. Slone, bymasterly horsemanship, easily avoided the rushes, and made a pivot ofNagger, round which the wild horse dashed in his frenzy. It seemed thathe no longer tried to free himself. He lunged to kill. 

"Steady, Nagger, old boy!" Slone kept calling. "He'll never get atyou. .. . If he slips that blinder I'll kill him!"

The stallion was a fiend in his fury, quicker than a panther, wonderfulon his feet, and powerful as an ox. But he was at a disadvantage. Hecould not see. And Slone, in his spoken intention to kill Wildfireshould the scarf slip, acknowledged that he never would have a chanceto master the stallion. Wildfire was bigger, faster, stronger thanSlone had believed, and as for spirit, that was a grand and fearfulthing to see. 

The soft sand in the pass was plowed deep before Wildfire paused in hismad plunges. He was wet and heaving. His red coat seemed to blaze. Hismane 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 triedto wheel Nagger in close behind the stallion. Both horse and mannarrowly escaped the vicious hoofs. But Slone had closed in. He took adesperate chance and spurred Nagger in a single leap as Wildfire rearedagain. The horses collided. Slone hauled the lassoes tight. The impactthrew Wildfire off his balance, just as Slone had calculated, and asthe stallion plunged down on four feet Slone spurred Nagger closeagainst him. Wildfire was a little in the lead. He could only half rearnow, for the heaving, moving Nagger, always against him, jostled himdown, and Slone's iron arm hauled on the short ropes. When Wildfireturned to bite, Slone knocked the vicious nose back with a long swingof his fist. 

Up the pass the horses plunged. With a rider's wild joy Slone saw thelong green-and-gray valley, and the isolated monuments in the distance. There, on that wide stretch, he would break Wildfire. How marvelouslyluck had favored him at the last!

"Run, you red devil!" Slone called. "Drag us around now till you'redone!"

They left the pass and swept out upon the waste of sage. Slonerealized, from the stinging of the sweet wind in his face, that Naggerwas being pulled along at a tremendous pace. The faithful black couldnever have made the wind cut so. Lower the wild stallion stretched andswifter he ran, till it seemed to Slone that death must end thatthunderbolt race. 

CHAPTER VIII

Lucy Bostil had called twice to her father and he had not answered. Hewas out at the hitching-rail, with Holley, the rider, and two othermen. If he heard Lucy he gave no sign of it. She had on her chaps anddid not care to go any farther than the door where she stood. 

"Somers has gone to Durango an' Shugrue is out huntin' hosses, " Lucyheard Bostil say, gruffly. 

"Wal now, I reckon I could handle the boat an' fetch Creech's hossesover, " said Holley. 

Bostil raised an impatient hand, as if to wave aside Holley'sassumption. 

Then one of the other two men spoke up. Lucy had seen him before, butdid not know his name. 

"Sure there ain't any need to rustle the job. The river hain't showedany signs of risin' yet. But Creech is worryin'. He allus is worryin'over them hosses. No wonder! Thet Blue Roan is sure a hoss. Yesterdayat two miles he showed Creech he was a sight faster than last year. Thegrass is gone over there. Creech is grainin' his stock these last fewdays. An' thet's expensive. "

"How about the flat up the canyon?" queried Bostil. "Ain't there anygrass 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 blockedthe only trail up. "

"Bostil, them hosses, the racers special, ought to be brought acrostthe river, " said Holley, earnestly. He loved horses and was thinking ofthem. 

"The boat's got to be patched up, " replied Bostil, shortly. 

It occurred to Lucy that her father was also thinking of Creech'sthoroughbreds, but not like Holley. She grew grave and listenedintently. 

There was an awkward pause. Creech's rider, whoever he was, evidentlytried to conceal his anxiety. He flicked his boots with a quirt. Theboots were covered with wet mud. Probably he had crossed the river veryrecently. 

"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 Shugrueon 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 companiontrotted down the lane. 

The lean, gray Holley bent a keen gaze upon Bostil. But Bostil did notnotice that; he appeared preoccupied in thought. 

"Bostil, the dry winter an' spring here ain't any guarantee thet therewasn't a lot of snow up in the mountains. " Holley's remark startledBostil. 

"No--it ain't--sure, " he replied. 

"An' any mornin' along now we might wake up to hear the Coloradoboomin', " went on Holley, significantly. 

Bostil did not reply to that. 

"Creech hain't lived over there so many years. What's he know about theriver? An' fer that matter, who knows anythin' sure about thethell-bent river?"

"It ain't my business thet Creech lives over there riskin' his stockevery 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 Lucystood. He looked somber. At her greeting he seemed startled. 

"What?" he said. 

"I just said, 'Hello, Dad, '" she replied, demurely. Yet shethoughtfully 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 rangethet can be trusted, " he said, disgustedly. "They're all the same. Theylike to get in a bunch an' jeer each other an' bet. They want MEANhosses. They make good hosses buck. They haven't any use for a hossthet won't buck. They all want to give a hoss a rakin' over. .. . Thinkof thet fool Van gettin' throwed by a two-dollar Ute mustang. An' hurtso he can't ride for days! With them races comin' soon! It makes mesick. "

"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 couldhandle 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 beenwronged. 

"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, " rejoinedher 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 Sarchnever will beat him. "

Bostil grunted. "See here. I don't want any weight up on the King. Youtake 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, ridehim for all your worth. .. . Now, Lucy, keep your eye open. Don't let anyone 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 DickSears get within a mile of you. "

"A mile!" exclaimed Lucy, lightly, though a fleeting shade crossed herface. "Why, I'd run away from him, if I was on the King, even if he gotwithin ten yards of me. "

"A mile is close enough, my daughter, " replied Bostil. "Don't everforget to keep your eye open. Cordts has sworn thet if he can't stealthe King he'll get you. "

"Oh! he prefers the horse to me. "

"Wal, Lucy, I've a sneakin' idea thet Cordts will never leave theuplands 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 worsefor them. Cordts gave his word not to turn a trick till after theraces. "

"Do you trust him?"

"Yes. But his men might break loose, away from his sight. Especiallythet 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 couldalways tell, woman-like, when her father was excited or agitated. Sheremembered the conversation between him and Creech's rider. Sheremembered the keen glance old Holley had bent upon him. And mostly sheremembered 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 thething that it was associated with--something tragical which hadhappened in the big room. There had been loud, angry voices of men--andshots--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. Andsomehow related to that side was his hardness toward Creech and hisintolerance of any rider owning a fast horse and his obsession inregard to his own racers. Lucy had often tantalized her father with thejoke that if it ever came to a choice between her and his favoritesthey would come first. But was it any longer a joke? Lucy felt that shehad left childhood behind with its fun and fancies, and she had begunto look at life thoughtfully. 

Sight of the corrals, however, and of the King prancing around, droveserious thoughts away. There were riders there, among them Farlane, andthey 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 atonce. "I reckon, Miss Lucy, you--you wouldn't fool me?"

"Why, Farlane!" returned Lucy, reproachfully. "Did I ever do a singlething around horses that you didn't want me to?"

Farlane rubbed his chin beard somewhat dubiously. "Wal, Miss Lucy, notexactly while you was around the hosses. But I reckon when you onct gotup, 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 thecare of a great horse and loved him, they curried and combed and rubbedhim before saddling him. 

"Reckon you'd better ride Van's saddle, " suggested Farlane. "Them racesis 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 himwithout all a rider's glory in a horse. He was sleek, so graceful, soracy, so near the soft gray of the sage, so beautiful in build andaction. Then he was the kind of a horse that did not have to beeternally watched. He was spirited and full of life, eager to run, butwhen Farlane called for him to stand still he obeyed. He was the kindof a horse that a child could have played around in safety. He neverkicked. He never bit. He never bolted. It was splendid to see him withFarlane or with Bostil. He did not like Lucy very well, a fact thatperhaps accounted for Lucy's antipathy. For that matter, he did notlike 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 forthat. 

"Thar, I reckon them stirrups is right, " declared Farlane. "Now, MissLucy, 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 toohigh for her to mount from the ground, so she mounted from a rock. Shetook to the road, and then the first trail into the sage, intending totrot him ten or fifteen miles down into the valley, and give him somefast, warm work on the return. 

The day was early in May and promised to grow hot. There was not acloud in the blue sky. The wind, laden with the breath of sage, blewbriskly from the west. All before Lucy lay the vast valley, gray anddusky gray, then blue, then purple where the monuments stood, and, farther still, dark ramparts of rock. Lucy had a habit of dreamingwhile on horseback, a habit all the riders had tried to break, but shedid not give it rein while she rode Sarchedon, and assuredly now, up onthe King, she never forgot him for an instant. He shied at mockingbirdsand pack-rats and blowing blossoms and even at butterflies; and he didit, Lucy thought, just because he was full of mischief. Sage King hadbeen known to go steady when there had been reason to shy. He did notlike Lucy and he chose to torment her. Finally he earned a good digfrom a spur, and then, with swift pounding of hoofs, he plunged andveered and danced in the sage. Lucy kept her temper, which was whatmost riders did not do, and by patience and firmness pulled Sage Kingout of his prancing back into the trail. He was not the leastcross-grained, and, having had his little spurt, he settled down intoeasy going. 

In an hour Lucy was ten miles or more from home, and farther down inthe valley than she had ever been. In fact, she had never before beendown the long slope to the valley floor. How changed the horizonbecame! The monuments loomed up now, dark, sentinel-like, and strange. The first one, a great red rock, seemed to her some five miles away. Itwas lofty, straight-sided, with a green slope at its base. And beyondthat the other monuments stretched out down the valley. Lucy decided toride as far as the first one before turning back. Always thesemonuments had fascinated her, and this was her opportunity to ride nearone. How lofty they were, how wonderfully colored, and how comely!

Presently, over the left, where the monuments were thicker, andgradually 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 horizonin that direction was unusual, though out toward Durango the grassybenches would often burn over. And these low clouds of smoke resembledthose 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 tothe first monument she was surprised, then amazed, at its height andsurpassing size. It was mountain-high--a grand tower--smooth, worn, glistening, yellow and red. The trail she had followed petered out in adeep wash, and beyond that she crossed no more trails. The sage hadgrown meager and the greasewoods stunted and dead; and cacti appearedon barren places. The grass had not failed, but it was not rich grasssuch as the horses and cattle grazed upon miles back on the slope. Theair was hot down here. The breeze was heavy and smelled of fire, andthe sand was blowing here and there. She had a sense of the bigness, the openness of this valley, and then she realized its wildness andstrangeness. These lonely, isolated monuments made the place differentfrom any she had visited. They did not seem mere standing rocks. Theyseemed to retreat all the time as she approached, and they watched her. They interested her, made her curious. What had formed all thesestrange monuments? Here the ground was level for miles and miles, toslope gently up to the bases of these huge rocks. In an old book shehad 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. Lucywas startled. That from the King meant something. Hastily, with keenglance she swept the foreground. A mile on, near the monument, was asmall black spot. It seemed motionless. But the King's whistle hadproved it to be a horse. When Lucy had covered a quarter of theintervening distance she could distinguish the horse and that thereappeared some thing strange about his position. Lucy urged Sage Kinginto 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. Hestood just outside a clump of greasewood and cactus. 

Suddenly a sound pierced the stillness. The King jumped and snorted infright. For an instant Lucy's blood ran cold, for it was a horriblecry. Then she recognized it as the neigh of a horse in agony. She hadheard crippled and dying horses utter that long-drawn andblood-curdling neigh. The black horse had not moved, so the sound couldnot have come from him. Lucy thought Sage King acted more excited thanthe occasion called for. Then remembering her father's warning, shereined in on top of a little knoll, perhaps a hundred yards from wherethe black horse stood, and she bent her keen gaze forward. 

It was a huge, gaunt, shaggy black horse she saw, with the saddlefarther up on his shoulders than it should have been. He stoodmotionless, as if utterly exhausted. His forelegs were braced, so thathe leaned slightly back. Then Lucy saw a rope. It was fast to thesaddle and stretched down into the cactus. There was no other horse insight, 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 theother end of that lasso. Probably a rider had been thrown, perhapskilled. Certainly a horse had been hurt. Then on the moment rang outthe same neigh of agony, only weaker and shorter. Lucy no longer fearedan ambush. That was a cry which could not be imitated by a man orforced 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 toclimb--and then she rode up to the black horse. Sage King needed hardertreatment than Lucy had ever given him. 

"What's wrong with you?" she demanded, pulling him down. Suddenly, asshe felt him tremble, she realized that he was frightened. "That'sfunny!" Then when she got him quiet she looked around. 

The black horse was indeed huge. His mane, his shaggy flanks, werelathered as if he had been smeared with heavy soap-suds. He raised hishead to look at her. Lucy, accustomed to horses all her life, saw thatthis one welcomed her arrival. But he was almost ready to drop. 

Two taut lassoes stretched from the pommel of his saddle down a littleinto a depression full of brush and cactus and rocks. Then Lucy saw ared horse. He was down in a bad position. She heard his low, chokingheaves. Probably he had broken legs or back. She could not bear to seea horse in pain. She would do what was possible, even to the extent ofputting him out of his misery, if nothing else could be done. Yet shescanned the surroundings closely, and peered into the bushes and behindthe rocks before she tried to urge Sage King closer. He refused to gonearer, and Lucy dismounted. 

The red horse was partly hidden by overbending brush. He had plungedinto a hole full of cactus. There was a hackamore round his nose and atight noose round his neck. The one round his neck was also round hisforelegs. And both lassoes were held taut by the black horse. A tornand soiled rider's scarf hung limp round the red horse's nose, keptfrom falling off by the hackamore. 

"A wild horse, a stallion, being broken!" exclaimed Lucy, instantlygrasping the situation. "Oh! where's the rider?"

She gazed around, ran to and fro, glanced down the little slope, andbeyond, but she did not see anything resembling the form of a man. Thenshe ran back. 

Lucy took another quick look at the red stallion. She did not believeeither his legs or back were hurt. He was just played out and tangledand tied in the ropes, and could not get up. The shaggy black horsestood there braced and indomitable. But he, likewise, was almost readyto drop. Looking at the condition of both horses and the saddle andropes, Lucy saw what a fight there had been, and a race! Where was therider? Thrown, surely, and back on the trail, perhaps dead or maimed. 

Lucy went closer to the stallion so that she could almost touch him. Hesaw her. He was nearly choked. Foam and blood wheezed out with hisheaves. She must do something quickly. And in her haste she pricked herarms and shoulders on the cactus. 

She led the black horse closer in, letting the ropes go, slack. Theblack seemed as glad of that release as she was. What a faithful brutehe looked! Lucy liked his eyes. 

Then she edged down in among the cactus and brush. The red horse nolonger lay in a strained position. He could lift his head. Lucy sawthat the noose still held tight round his neck. Fearlessly she jerkedit loose. Then she backed away, but not quite out of his reach. Hecoughed and breathed slowly, with great heaves. Then he snorted. 

"You're all right now, " said Lucy, soothingly. Slowly she reached ahand toward his head. He drew it back as far as he could. She steppedaround, 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 onelasso from the pommel, she returned to the horse and pulled it fromround his legs. He was free now, except the hackamore, and that ropewas slack. Lucy stood near him, watching him, talking to him, waitingfor him to get up. She could not be sure he was not badly hurt till hestood up. At first he made no efforts to rise. He watched Lucy, lessfearfully, she imagined. And she never made a move. She wanted him tosee, to understand that she had not hurt him and would not hurt him. Itbegan to dawn upon her that he was magnificent. 

Finally, with a long, slow heave he got to his feet. Lucy led him outof the hole to open ground. She seemed somehow confident. Thereoccurred 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 theKing. Oh, if Dad could see him!"

The red stallion did not appear to be hurt. The twitching of hismuscles must have been caused by the cactus spikes embedded in him. There were drops of blood all over one side. Lucy thought she dared totry to pull these thorns out. She had never in her life been afraid ofany horse. Farlane, Holley, all the riders, and her father, too, hadtried to make her realize the danger in a horse, sooner or later. ButLucy could not help it; she was not afraid; she believed that themeanest horse was actuated by natural fear of a man; she was not a manand she had never handled a horse like a man. This red stallion showedhate of the black horse and the rope that connected them; he showedsome spirit at the repeated blasts of Sage King. But he showed lessfear of her. 

"He has been a proud, wild stallion, " mused Lucy. "And he's nowbroken--terribly broken--all but ruined. "

Then she walked up to him naturally and spoke softly, and reached ahand for his shoulder. 

"Whoa, Reddy. Whoa now. .. . There. That's a good fellow. Why, I wouldn'trope you or hit you. I'm only a girl. "

He drew up, made a single effort to jump, which she prevented, and thenhe stood quivering, eying her, while she talked soothingly, and pattedhim and looked at him in the way she had found infallible with mosthorses. Lucy believed horses were like people, or easier to get alongwith. Presently she gently pulled out one of the cactus spikes. Thehorse flinched, but he stood. Lucy was slow, careful, patient, anddexterous. The cactus needles were loose and easily removed or brushedoff. At length she got him free of them, and was almost as proud as shewas glad. The horse had gradually dropped his head; he was tired andhis spirit was broken. 

"Now, what shall I do?" she queried. "I'll take the back trail of thesehorses. They certainly hadn't been here long before I saw them. And therider 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 theblack's saddle. Then she took up his bridle. 

"Come on, " she called. 

The black followed her, and the stallion, still fast to him by thelasso Lucy had left tied, trooped behind with bowed head. Lucy waselated. But Sage King did not like the matter at all. Lucy had to dropthe black's bridle and catch the King, and then ride back to lead theother again. 

A broad trail marked the way the two horses had come, and it led off tothe left, toward where the monuments were thickest, and where the greatsections of wall stood, broken and battlemented. Lucy was hard put toit to hold Sage King, but the horses behind plodded along. The blackhorse struck Lucy as being an ugly, but a faithful and wonderfulanimal. He understood everything. Presently she tied the bridle she wasleading him by to the end of her own lasso, and thus let him drop backa few yards, which lessened the King's fretting. 

Intent on the trail, Lucy failed to note time or distance till thelooming and frowning monuments stood aloft before her. What weirdeffect they had! Each might have been a colossal statue left there tomark the work of the ages. Lucy realized that the whole vast valley hadonce been solid rock, just like the monuments, and through the millionsof years the softer parts had eroded and weathered and blown away--gonewith the great sea that had once been there. But the beauty, thesolemnity, the majesty of these monuments fascinated her most. Shepassed the first one, a huge square butte, and then the second, aragged, thin, double shaft, and then went between two much alike, reaching skyward in the shape of monstrous mittens. She watched andwatched them, sparing a moment now and then to attend to the trail. Shenoticed that she was coming into a region of grass, and faint signs ofwater in the draws. She was getting high again, not many miles now fromthe wall of rock. 

All at once Sage King shied, and Lucy looked down to see a man lying onthe 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 prostrateman--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 bentupon 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 thewondering, faint voice. "Boy--oh--boy!"

He lifted a long, ragged arm and pulled Lucy down. The action amazedher equally as his passion of gratitude. He might have been injured, but he had an arm of iron. Lucy was powerless. She felt her faceagainst his--and her breast against his. The pounding of his heart waslike 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 onher. Consciousness of this brought shame and anger. She struggled soviolently that she freed herself. And he lay back. 

"See here--that's no way to act--to hug--a person, " she cried, withflaming 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 thisrevealed her face fully, and her hair came tumbling down. The ridergazed, 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, sohaggard and weak, that Lucy immediately recovered her equanimity. 

"Sure I'm a girl. But that's no matter. .. . You've been thrown. Are youhurt?"

He smiled a weak assent. 

"Badly?" she queried. She did not like the way he lay--so limp, somotionless. 

"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. Butthat had been left on her saddle, and she had ridden Van's. Then shegazed around. The wash she had crossed several times ran near where therider lay. Green grass and willows bordered it. She ran down and, hurrying along, searched for water. There was water in places, yet shehad to go a long way before she found water that was drinkable. Fillingher sombrero, she hurried back to the side of the rider. It wasdifficult to give him a drink. 

"Thanks, miss, " he said, gratefully. His voice was stronger and lesshoarse. 

"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 itsneeds, had not often encountered a situation with which she was unableto 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, darkeyes! His face showed ghastly through the thin, soft beard and the tan. Lucy found his right arm badly bruised, but not broken. She made surehis collar-bones and shoulder-blades were intact. Broken ribs wereharder to locate; still, as he did not feel pain from pressure, sheconcluded there were no fractures there. With her assistance he movedhis 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--wasbroken or injured you couldn't raise your head. "

"So I couldn't. I guess I'm just knocked out. I was--pretty weak beforeWildfire 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. Wecrossed the great canyon--"

"The Grand Canyon?"

"It must be that. "

"The Grand Canyon is down there, " said Lucy, pointing. "I live onit. .. . You've come a long way. "

"Hundreds of miles! . .. Oh, the ground I covered that awful canyoncountry! . .. 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 confusedher. 

"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 hercoat, 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 arider once. Bostil. Did you ever hear of him?"

"Bostil. The name--I've heard. " Then the rider lay thinking, as hemunched a biscuit. "Yes, I remember, but it was long ago. I spent anight with a wagon-train, a camp of many men and women, religiouspeople, working into Utah. Bostil had a boat at the crossing of theFathers. "

"Yes, they called the Ferry that. "

"I remember well now. They said Bostil couldn't count his horses--thathe 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. Youcan'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 beglad to do anything you think best. "

"You're very good. "

Then he turned his face away. Lucy looked closely at him. He was indeeda beggared rider. His clothes and his boots hung in tatters. He had nohat, no coat, no vest. His gaunt face bore traces of what might havebeen 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 hadthe look of a homeless rider. Lucy had seen a few of his wanderingtype, and his story was so plain. But he seemed to have a touch ofpride, 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 pillowfor 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 Lucyfelt she would be haunted. Was he badly hurt, after all? It seemedprobable. 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 beenbetween man and horse. "Yes; when I found him he was broken. Look athim now. "

But the rider did not appear to want to see the stallion. He gazed upat Lucy, and she saw something in his eyes that made her think of achild. She left him, had no trouble in watering the horses, andhaltered Wildfire among the willows on a patch of grass. Then shereturned. 

"I'll go now, " she said to the rider. 

"Where?"

"Home. I'll come back to-morrow, early, and bring some one to helpyou--"

"Girl, if YOU want to help me more--bring me some bread an' meat. Don'ttell any one. Look what a ragamuffin I am. .. . An' there's Wildfire. Idon'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 toleave this young man lying there helpless on the desert. But what elsecould she do? What a strange adventure had befallen her! At thefollowing thought that it was not yet concluded she felt a little stirof excitement at her pulses. She was so strangely preoccupied that sheforgot it was necessary for her to have a step to mount Sage King. Sherealized it quickly enough when she attempted it. Then she led him offin the sage till she found a rock. Mounting, she turned him straightacross country, meaning to cut out miles of travel that would have beennecessary along her back-trail. Once she looked back. The rider was notvisible; 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 underwhich she labored, but she could put her mind on the riding of SageKing. She did not realize, however, that she was riding him under thestress 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 ranacross her trail. That might be easy to miss and time was flying. Sheput 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 flooragain. From time to time she conquered a desire to look back. Presentlyshe was surprised and very glad to ride into a trail where she saw thetracks she had made coming out. With much relief she turned Sage Kinginto this trail, and then any anxiety she had felt left her entirely. But that did not mitigate her excitement. She eased the King into along, 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 milesand miles of this, when she thought best to slow down he nearly pulledher arms off. Still she finally got him in hand. Then followed miles ofsoft and rough going, which seemed long and tedious. Beyond that wasthe home stretch up the valley, whose gradual slope could be seen onlyat a distance. Here was a straight, broad trail, not too soft nor toohard, and for all the years she could remember riders had tried out andtrained their favorites on that course. 

Lucy reached down to assure herself that the cinch was tight, then shepulled her sombrero down hard, slackened the bridle, and let the Kinggo. He simply broke his gait, he was so surprised. Lucy saw him tryingto look back at her, as if he could not realize that this young womanrider had given him a free rein. Perhaps one reason he disliked her hadbeen always and everlastingly that tight rein. Like the wary horse hewas he took to a canter, to try out what his new freedom meant. 

"Say, what's the matter with you?" called Lucy, disdainfully. "Are youlazy? Or don't you believe I can ride you?"

Whereupon she dug him with her spurs. Sage King snorted. His actionshifted marvelously. Thunder rolled from under his hoofs. And he brokeout of that clattering roar into his fleet stride, where his hoof-beatswere 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 wasdangerous, for a fall meant death; but he ran so smoothly that ridinghim was easy and certainly glorious. He went so fast that the windblinded her. The trail was only a white streak in blurred gray. Shecould not get her breath; the wind seemed to whip the air away fromher. And then she felt the lessening of the tremendous pace. Sage Kinghad run himself out and the miles were behind her. Gradually her sightbecame clear, and as the hot and wet horse slowed down, satisfied withhis wild run, Lucy realized that she was up on the slope only a fewmiles from home. Suddenly she thought she saw something dark stirbehind a sage-bush just ahead. Before she could move a hand at thebridle Sage King leaped with a frantic snort. It was a swerving, nimble, tremendous bound. He went high. Lucy was unseated, but somehowclung 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 shootout and close just where Sage King's legs had been. 

She screamed. The horse broke and ran. Lucy, righting herself, lookedback to see Joel Creech holding a limp lasso. He had tried to rope theKing. 

The blood of her father was aroused in Lucy. She thought of thehorse--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 hadbeen so furious. 

Joel shook his fist at her and yelled, "I'd 'a' got you--on any otherhoss!"

She did not reply, though she had to fight herself to keep from pullingher gun and shooting at him. She guided the running horse back into thetrail, 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 hardwhen 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 jumpedoff 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 tocatch 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 thegray--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 besafe. 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 inhim myself. "

Lucy hurried away down the lane and entered the house without meetingany one. In her room she changed her clothes and lay down to rest andthink. 

Strangely enough, Lucy might never have encountered Joel Creech out inthe sage, for all the thought she gave him. Her mind was busy with thecrippled rider. Who was he? Where was he from? What strange passion hehad shown over the recovery of that wonderful red horse! Lucy could notforget the feeling of his iron arm when he held her in a kind offrenzied gratitude. A wild upland rider, living only for a wild horse!How like Indians some of these riders! Yet this fellow had seemeddifferent from most of the uncouth riders she had known. He spokebetter. He appeared to have had some little schooling. Lucy did notrealize that she was interested in him. She thought she was sorry forhim and interested in the stallion. She began to compare Wildfire withSage King, and if she remembered rightly Wildfire, even in hisdisheveled state, had appeared a worthy rival of the King. What wouldBostil say at sight of that flame-colored stallion? Lucy thrilled. 

Later she left her room to see if the hour was opportune for her planto make up a pack of supplies for the rider. Her aunt was busy in thekitchen, and Bostil had not come in. Lucy took advantage of the momentto tie up a pack and carry it to her room. Somehow the task pleasedher. She recalled the lean face of the rider. And that recalled hisragged appearance. Why not pack up an outfit of clothes? Bostil had astock-room full of such accessories for his men. Then Lucy, glowingwith the thought, hurried to Bostil's stock-room, and with deft handsand swift judgment selected an outfit for the rider, even down to acomb and razor. All this she carried quickly to her room, where in herthoughtfulness she added a bit of glass from a broken mirror, and soapand a towel. Then she tied up a second pack. 

Bostil did not come home to supper, a circumstance that made Lucy'saunt cross. They ate alone, and, waiting awhile, were rather late inclearing away the table. After this Lucy had her chance in the dusk ofearly evening, and she carried both packs way out into the sage andleft 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 theKing. How in the world would she ever do it?

She hurried back to the house, stealthily keeping to the shadow of thecottonwoods, for she would have faced an embarrassing situation if shehad met her father, even had he been in a good humor. And she reachedthe sitting-room unobserved. The lamps had been lighted and a logblazed 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 hehad been he never offered to kiss her. The strange, somber shade wasstill on his face, but it brightened somewhat at sight of her. Lucygreeted him as always. 

"Farlane tells me you handled the King great--better 'n Van has workedhim 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' watchout! Joel Creech was in the village to-day. He sure sneaked when heseen me. He's up to some mischief. "

Lucy did not want to lie and she did not know what to say. PresentlyBostil bade her good night. Lucy endeavored to read, but her mindcontinually wandered back to the adventure of the day. 

Next morning she had difficulty in concealing her impatience, but luckfavored her. Bostil was not in evidence, and Farlane, for once, couldspare no more time than it took to saddle Sage King. Lucy rode out intothe sage, pretty sure that no one watched her. 

She had hidden the packs near the tallest bunch of greasewood along thetrail; and when she halted behind it she had no fear of being seen fromthe corrals. She got the packs. The light one was not hard to tie backof the saddle, but the large one was a very different matter. Shedecided to carry it in front. There was a good-sized rock near, uponwhich she stepped, leading Sage King alongside; and after anexceedingly trying moment she got up, holding the pack. For a wonderSage King behaved well. 

Then she started off, holding the pack across her lap, and she triedthe King's several gaits to see which one would lend itself morecomfortably to the task before her. The trouble was that Sage King hadno slow gait, even his walk was fast. And Lucy was compelled to holdhim into that. She wanted to hurry, but that seemed out of thequestion. 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 thatshe might find him dead, and this seemed horrible. But her common sensepersuaded her that she would find him alive and better. The pack washard to hold, and Sage King fretted at the monotonous walk. The hoursdragged. The sun grew hot. And it was noon, almost, when she reachedthe point where she cut off the trail to the left. Thereafter, with themonuments standing ever higher, and the distance perceptibly lessening, the minutes passed less tediously. 

At length she reached the zone of lofty rocks, and found themdifferent, how, she could not tell. She rode down among them, and wasglad when she saw the huge mittens--her landmarks. At last she espiedthe green-bordered wash and the few cedar-trees. Then a horse blazedred against the sage and another shone black. That sight made Lucythrill. She rode on, eager now, but moved by the strangeness of theexperience. 

Before she got quite close to the cedars she saw a man. He took a fewslow steps out of the shade. His back was bent. Lucy recognized therider, 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 sheremembered. "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 alleyes 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 thesecond pack, she laid it down. 

The rider, with slow, painful steps and bent back, approached Sage Kingand put a lean, strong, brown hand on him, and touched him as if hewished to feel if he were real. Then he whistled softly. When he turnedto 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 lastheld a note of a rider's jealousy. 

Lucy laughed. "Run! . .. The King is Bostil's favorite. He can run awayfrom any horse in the uplands. "

"I'll bet you Wildfire can beat him, " replied the rider, with a darkglance. 

"Come on!" cried Lucy, daringly. 

Then the rider and girl looked more earnestly at each other. He smiledin 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 ridein a few days--if you'll come back again. "

His remark brought to Lucy the idea that of course she would hardly seethis rider again after to-day. Even if he went to the Ford, which eventwas unlikely, he would not remain there long. The sensation ofblankness puzzled her, and she felt an unfamiliar confusion. 

"I--I've brought you--some things, " she said, pointing to the largerpack. 

"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--sotorn. .. . And no wonder you were thrown--in those boots! . .. So Ithought I'd--"

"You thought I needed clothes as bad as grub, " he said, bitterly. "Ireckon that's so. "

His look, more than his tone, cut Lucy; and involuntarily she touchedhis 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 Iwill. "

He tried to reach down to lift the pack, but as it was obviouslypainful for him to bend, Lucy intercepted him. 

"But you've had no breakfast, " she protested. "Why not eat before youopen 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 sogood 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 evermet--like this. "

"Well, you're good, " he replied, with emotion. Then he walked away withslow, stiff steps and disappeared behind the willows in the littlehollow. 

Lucy uncoiled the rope on her saddle and haltered Sage King on the bestgrass near at hand. Then she opened the pack of supplies, thinking thewhile 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 anassortment of good things to eat that were of a perishable nature, already much the worse for the long ride. She spread all this out inthe shade of a cedar. The utensils were few--two cups, two pans, and atiny pot. She gathered wood, and arranged it for a fire, so that therider 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 thered stallion, and started off down the wash to take a look at him. Hewas grazing. He had lost some of the dirt and dust and the bedraggledappearance. When he caught sight of her he lifted his head high andwhistled. How wild he looked! And his whistle was shrill, clear, strong. Both the other horses answered it. Lucy went on closer toWildfire. She was fascinated now. 

"If he doesn't know me!" she cried. Never had she been so pleased. Shehad expected every sign of savageness on his part, and certainly hadnot intended to go near him. But Wildfire did not show fear or hate inhis recognition. Lucy went directly to him and got a hand on him. Wildfire reared a little and shook a little, but this disappearedpresently under her touch. He held his head very high and watched herwith wonderful eyes. Gradually she drew his head down. Standing beforehim, she carefully and slowly changed the set of the hackamore, whichhad made a welt on his nose. It seemed to have been her good fortunethat every significant move she had made around this stallion had beento mitigate his pain. Lucy believed he knew this as well as she knewit. Her theory, an often disputed one, was that horses were asintelligent as human beings and had just the same fears, likes, anddislikes. Lucy knew she was safe when she untied the lasso from thestrong root where she had fastened it, and led the stallion down thewash to a pool of water. And she stood beside him with a hand on hisshoulder while he bent his head to sniff at the water. He tasted it, plainly with disgust. It was stagnant water, full of vermin. Butfinally he drank. Lucy led him up the wash to another likely place, andtied him securely. 

When she got back to the camp in the cedars the rider was there, on hisknees, kindling the fire. His clean-shaved face and new apparel madehim vastly different. He was young, and, had he not been so gaunt, hewould have been fine-looking, Lucy thought. 

"Wildfire remembered me, " Lucy burst out. "He wasn't a bit scary. Letme handle him. Followed me to water. "

"He's taken to you, " replied the rider, seriously. "I've heard of thelike, but not so quick. Was he in a bad fix when you got to himyesterday?"

Lucy explained briefly. 

"Aha! . .. If that red devil has any love in him I'll never get it. Iwish I could have done so much for him. But always when he sees mehe'll remember. "

Lucy saw that the rider was in difficulties. He could not bend hisback, 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, " hesaid, relinquishing, his place to Lucy. 

When she looked up from her task, presently, he was sitting in theshade of the cedar, watching her. He had the expression of a man whohardly believed what he saw. 

"Did you have any trouble gettin' away, without tellin'--about me?" heasked. 

"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 hadtouched upon it. 

"Well, Dad and Holley and Farlane argue much about me. Still, I guessthey 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 withouta try. "

"I wonder if he would give me a job?"

Lucy glanced up quickly. The idea surprised her--pleased her. "In aminute, " she replied. "And he'd be grand to you. You see, he'd have aneye 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 speakagain till the simple fare was ready. Then she spread a tarpaulin inthe shade. 

"I'm pretty hungry myself, " she said. "But I don't suppose I know whathunger is. "

"After a while a fellow loses the feelin' of hunger, " he replied. "Ireckon it'll come back quick. .. . This all looks good. "

So they began to eat. Lucy's excitement, her sense of the unreality ofthis adventure, in no wise impaired her appetite. She seemed acutelysensitive to the perceptions of the moment. The shade of the cedars wascool. And out on the desert she could see the dark smoky veils of heatlifting. The breeze carried a dry odor of sand and grass. She heardbees humming by. And all around the great isolated monuments stood up, red tops against the blue sky. It was a silent, dreaming, impressiveplace, 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 into 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 sweetseriousness. 

"There's no one. I'm an orphan. My people were lost in an Indianmassacre--with a wagon-train crossin' Wyomin'. A few escaped, an' I wasone of the youngsters. I had a tough time, like a stray dog, till Igrew up. An' then I took to the desert. "

"Oh, I see. I--I'm sorry, " replied Lucy. "But that's not very differentfrom 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 outagain?"

"Yes, " replied Lucy, without looking at him; and she wondered if itwere really she who was speaking. 

Then he asked her about the Ford, and Bostil, and the ranches andvillages north, and the riders and horses. Lucy told him everything sheknew and could think of, and, lastly, after waxing eloquent on thehorses of the uplands, particularly Bostil's, she gave him a graphicaccount of Cordts and Dick Sears. 

"Horse-thieves!" exclaimed the rider, darkly. There was a grimness aswell as fear in his tone. "I've heard of Sears, but not Cordts. Wheredoes this band hang out?"

"No one knows. Holley says they hide up in the canyon country. None ofthe riders have ever tried to track them far. It would be useless. Holley says there are plateaus of rich grass and great forests. The UteIndians 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 thewild canyon country. I'd like to ride in there sometime and camp. Butour people don't go in for that. They love the open ranges. No one Iknow, except a half-witted boy, ever rode down among these monuments. And how wonderful a place! It can't be more than twenty miles fromhome. .. . I must be going soon. I'm forgetting Sage King. Did I tell youI 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 thelong, time-honored custom of free-for-all races, and the great racesthat had been run in the past; about the Creeches and their swifthorses; about the rivalry and speculation and betting; and lastly aboutthe races to be run in a few weeks--races so wonderful in prospect thateven 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, withred 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 wouldhave that fleet stallion with him. He could not be separated from thehorse that had cost him so dearly. What would Bostil and Holley andFarlane say at sight of Wildfire? Suppose Wildfire was to enter theraces! It was probable that he could run away from the wholefield--even beat the King. Lucy thrilled and thrilled. What a surpriseit would be! She had the rider's true love of seeing the unheraldedhorse win over the favorite. She had for years wanted to see ahorse--and ride a horse--out in front of Sage King. Then suddenly allthese 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 andstrong, and a proffered hand. Impulsively Lucy clasped that hand withboth hers. 

"You don't mean it, " she said. "Oh, it's what Auntie would call one ofmy wild dreams! . .. And I'm growing up--they say. .. . But-- Oh, if Icould ride Wildfire against the field in that race. .. . If I ONLY COULD!"

She was on fire with the hope, flushing, tingling. She was unconsciousof her effect upon the rider, who gazed at her with a new-born light inhis eyes. 

"You can ride him. I reckon I'd like to see that race just as much asBostil or Cordts or any man. .. . An' see here, girl, Wildfire can beatthis gray racer of your father's. "

"Oh!" cried Lucy. 

"Wildfire can beat the King, " repeated the rider, intensely. "The tamehorse doesn't step on this earth that can run with Wildfire. He's astallion. He has been a killer of horses. It's in him to KILL. If heran a race it would be that instinct in him. "

"How can we plan it?" went on Lucy, impulsively. She had forgotten towithdraw her hands from his. "It must be a surprise--a completesurprise. If you came to the Ford we couldn't keep it secret. And Dador 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 inshape. 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 justwhere to have you hide. A pile of rocks near the racecourse. There's aspring and good grass. I could ride out to you just before the bigrace, and we'd come back, with me on Wildfire. The crowd always staysdown 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'lllet 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 Wildfirewill win because he's run wild all his life--an' run to kill otherhorses. .. . The only question is--CAN you ride him?"

"Yes. I never saw the horse I couldn't ride. Bostil says there are someI can't ride. Farlane says not. Only two horses have thrown me, theKing and Sarchedon. But that was before they knew me. And I was sort ofwild. I can make your Wildfire love me. "

"THAT'S the last part of it I'd ever doubt, " replied the rider. "It'ssettled, then. I'll camp here. I'll be well in a few days. Then I'lltake 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 upsetthat 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 hadsomehow 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 dreamI'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 horsebeat. "

"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'slips. 

Slone went close to the King and, putting a hand on the pommel, helooked up at Lucy. "Maybe--it is--a dream--an' you won't come back, " hesaid, 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 amonument Lucy looked back. Slone was watching her. She waved agauntleted hand--and then looked back no more. 

CHAPTER X

Two weeks slipped by on the wings of time and opportunity andachievement, all colored so wonderfully for Lucy, all spelling thatadventure for which she had yearned. 

Lucy was riding down into the sage toward the monuments with a wholeday before her. Bostil kept more and more to himself, a circumstancethat worried her, though she thought little about it. Van had taken upthe training of the King; and Lucy had deliberately quarreled with himso that she would be free to ride where she listed. Farlane nagged heroccasionally about her rides into the sage, insisting that she must notgo so far and stay so long. And after Van's return to work he made herride Sarchedon. 

Things had happened at the Ford which would have concerned Lucy greatlyhad she not been over-excited about her own affairs. Some one hadambushed Bostil in the cottonwoods near his house and had shot at him, narrowly missing him. Bostil had sworn he recognized the shot as havingcome from a rifle, and that he knew to whom it belonged. The riders didnot believe this, and said some boy, shooting at a rabbit or coyote, had been afraid to confess he had nearly hit Bostil. The riders allsaid 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 theother side. 

These things concerned Lucy, yet they only came and went swiftlythrough her mind. She was obsessed by things intimately concerningherself. 

"Oh, I oughtn't to go, " she said, aloud. But she did not even checkSarchedon's long swing, his rocking-chair lope. She had said a hundredtimes that she ought not go again out to the monuments. For Lin Slonehad fallen despairingly, terribly in love with her. 

It was not this, she averred, but the monuments and the beautifulWildfire that had woven a spell round her she could not break. She hadridden Wildfire all through that strange region of monuments and nowthey claimed something of her. Just as wonderful was Wildfire's lovefor her. The great stallion hated Slone and loved Lucy. Of all theremarkable circumstances she had seen or heard about a horse, this factwas the most striking. She could do anything with him. All thatsavageness and wildness disappeared when she approached him. He came ather call. He whistled at sight of her. He sent out a ringing blast ofdisapproval when she rode away. Every day he tried to bite or kickSlone, 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 sheliked Slone as she might a brother. And something within her accusedher own conviction. The conviction was her real self, and theaccusation was some other girl lately born in her. Lucy did not likethis new person. She was afraid of her. She would not think of herunless she had to. 

"I never cared for him--that way, " she said, aloud. "I don't--Icouldn't--ever--I--I--love Lin Slone!"

The spoken thought--the sound of the words played havoc with Lucy'sself-conscious calmness. She burned. She trembled. She was in a ragewith herself. She spurred Sarchedon into a run and tore through thesage, down into the valley, running him harder than she should have runhim. Then she checked him, and, penitent, petted him out of allproportion to her thoughtlessness. The violent exercise only heated herblood and, if anything, increased this sudden and new torment. Why hadshe discarded her boy's rider outfit and chaps for a riding-habit madeby her aunt, and one she had scorned to wear? Some awful, accusingvoice thundered in Lucy's burning ears that she had done this becauseshe was ashamed to face Lin Slone any more in that costume--she wantedto appear different in his eyes, to look like a girl. If that shamefulsuspicion 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--thefinest type of a rider she had ever known--a strong, lithe, magnificenthorseman, whose gentleness showed his love for horses, whose roughnessshowed his power--a strange, intense, lonely man in whom she hadbrought out pride, gratitude, kindness, passion, and despair. She felther heart swell at the realization that she had changed him, made himkinder, made him divide his love as did her father, made him human, hopeful, longing for a future unfettered by the toils of desertallurement. She could not control her pride. She must like him verymuch. She confessed that, honestly, without a qualm. It was onlybewildering moments of strange agitation and uncertainty that botheredher. She had refused to be concerned by them until they had finallyimpinged upon her peace of mind. Then they accused her; now she accusedherself. She ought not go to meet Lin Slone any more. 

"But then--the race!" she murmured. "I couldn't give that up. .. . Andoh! 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 knowshe had been meeting Slone out in the sage, training his horse. Whatwould people say?

"Dad will simply be radiant, IF he can buy Wildfire--and a fiend if hecan't, " she muttered. 

Lucy saw that her own impulsiveness had amounted to daring. She hadgone too far. She excused that--for she had a rider's blood--she wasBostil's girl. But she had, in her wildness and joy and spirit, spentmany hours alone with a rider, to his undoing. She could not excusethat. She was ashamed. What would he say when she told him she couldsee him no more? The thought made her weak. He would accept and go hisway--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 bloodseemed to release a riot of emotions. What had been a torment became atorture. She turned Sarchedon homeward, but scarcely had faced that waywhen she wheeled him again. She rode slowly and she rode swiftly. Theformer was hateful because it held her back--from what she no longerdared 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 thegreat walls had began to break into sections. Here there was intimacywith the sheer cliffs of red and yellow. Wide avenues between the wallsopened on all points of the compass, and that one to the north appearedto be a gateway down into the valley of monuments. The monumentstrooped down into the valley to spread out and grow isolated in thedistance. 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 shehad made upon the first occasion of her visiting Slone. He had found anopening in the wall, and by riding this way into the pass Lucy cut offmiles. 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 shouldstumble on the trail and follow her up into the pass. 

This morning she espied Slone at his outlook on a high rock that hadfallen 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, hehad spent watching for her there. His tasks were not many, and he saidhe had nothing to do but wait for her. Lucy had a persistent andremorseful, yet sweet memory of Slone at his lonely lookout. Here was afine, strong, splendid young man who had nothing to do but watch forher--a waste of precious hours!

She waved her hand from afar, and he waved in reply. Then as shereached the cedared part of the pass Slone was no longer visible. Sheput Sarchedon to a run up the hard, wind-swept sand, and reached thecamp before Slone had climbed down from his perch. 

Lucy dismounted reluctantly. What would he say about the riding-habitthat she wore? She felt very curious to learn, and shyer than everbefore, and altogether different. The skirt made her more of a girl, itseemed. 

"Hello, Lin!" she called. There was nothing in her usual greeting tobetray 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 hehad long been well, and his tall, lithe rider's form, his lean, strongface, 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, afterall, 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 atWildfire to get back my nerve. .. . Lucy, that will be the grandest raceever 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 yourWildfire!"

Lucy unsaddled Sarchedon and turned him loose to graze while Slone wentout after Wildfire. And presently it appeared that Lucy might have somelittle time to wait. Wildfire had lately been trusted to hobbles, whichfact made it likely that he had strayed. 

Lucy gazed about her at the great looming red walls and out through theavenues to the gray desert beyond. This adventure of hers would soonhave an end, for the day of the races was not far distant, and afterthat it was obvious she would not have occasion to meet Slone. To thinkof never coming to the pass again gave Lucy a pang. Unconsciously shemeant that she would never ride up here again, because Slone would notbe here. A wind always blew through the pass, and that was why the sandwas so clean and hard. To-day it was a pleasant wind, not hot, norladen with dust, and somehow musical in the cedars. The blue smoke fromSlone's fire curled away and floated out of sight. It was lonely, withthe haunting presence of the broken walls ever manifest. But theloneliness seemed full of content. She no longer wondered at Slone'sdesert life. That might be well for a young man, during those yearswhen adventure and daring called him, but she doubted that it would bewell for all of a man's life. And only a little of it ought to be knownby a woman. She saw how the wildness and loneliness and brooding ofsuch a life would prevent a woman's development. Yet she loved it alland wanted to live near it, so that when the need pressed her she couldride out into the great open stretches and see the dark monuments grownearer and nearer, till she was under them, in the silent and coloredshadows. 

Slone returned presently with Wildfire. The stallion shone like a flamein the sunlight. His fear and hatred of Slone showed in the way heobeyed. Slone had mastered him, and must always keep the upper hand ofhim. It had from the first been a fight between man and beast, and Lucybelieved it would always be so. 

But Wildfire was a different horse when he saw Lucy. Day by dayevidently Slone loved him more and tried harder to win a little of whatWildfire showed at sight of Lucy. Still Slone was proud of Lucy'scontrol over the stallion. He was just as much heart and soul bent onwinning the great race as Lucy was. She had ridden Wildfire bareback atfirst, and then they had broken him to the saddle. 

It was serious business, that training of Wildfire, and Slone hadpeculiar ideas regarding it. Lucy rode him up and down the pass untilhe was warm. Then Slone got on Sarchedon. Wildfire always snorted andshowed fight at sight of Sage King or Nagger, and the stallionSarchedon infuriated him because Sarchedon showed fight, too. Slonestarted out ahead of Lucy, and then they raced down the long pass. Thecourse was hard-packed sand. Fast as Sarchedon was, and matchless as ahorseman 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, andthe other horse made him fierce. Like a burr Lucy stuck low over hisneck, a part of the horse, and so light he would not have known he wascarrying her but for the repeated calls in his ears. Lucy never spurredhim. She absolutely refused to use spurs on him. This day she ran awayfrom Slone, and, turning at the end of the two-mile course they hadmarked out, she loped Wildfire back. Slone turned with her, and theywere soon in camp. Lucy did not jump off. She was in a transport. Everyrace kindled a mounting fire in her. She was scarlet of face, out ofbreath, her hair flying. And she lay on Wildfire's neck and hugged himand caressed him and talked to him in low tones of love. 

Slone dismounted and got Sarchedon out of the way, then crossed towhere 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 shesat 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--soexcited. I--I make a fool of myself--over him. But to ride him--goinglike that--Lin! it's just glorious!"

"You sure can ride him, " replied Slone. "I can't see a faultanywhere--in him--or in your handling him. He never breaks. He goeshard, but he saves something. He gets mad--fierce--all the time, yet heWANTS 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 horseperfect. 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 crowover Van, " said Lucy. "I'm crazy to ride Wildfire out before all theIndians and ranchers and riders, before the races, just to show himoff, to make them stare. "

"No, Lucy. The best plan is to surprise them all. Enter your horse forthe 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, straightwaygrew thoughtful, too. 

"Sure--only five days more, " repeated Slone, slowly. 

His tone convinced Lucy that he meant to speak again as he had spokenonce 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. Shethought 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 asSlone'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, shecarried on! . .. Bostil would likely shoot you. And if he didn't some ofthe riders would. .. . Oh, Lin, it was perfectly ridiculous the wayAuntie talked. "

"I reckon not, " replied Slone. "I'm afraid I've done wrong to let youcome 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'dbetter let you alone. "

Slone shook his head mournfully. He was getting one of those gloomyspells 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 askhim 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 mymotive isn't. "

"It is. Why, you've known me only a few days. .. . Dad would be mad. Likeas not he'd knock you down. .. . I tell you, Lin, my dad is--is prettyrough. And just at this time of the races. .. . And if Wildfire beats theKing! . .. Whew!"

"WHEN Wildfire beats the King, not IF, " corrected Slone. 

"Dad will be dangerous, " warned Lucy. "Please don't---don't ask himthat. 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 theonly girl. There have been--other fellows who. .. . And oh! I don't wantyou made fun of!"

"Why?" he asked. 

Lucy turned away her head without answering. Something deep within herwas softening her anger. She must fight to keep angry; and that waseasy enough, she thought, if she could only keep in mind Slone'sopposition to her. Strangely, she discovered that it had been sweet tofind him always governed by her desire or will. 

"Maybe you misunderstand, " he began, presently. And his voice was notsteady. "I don't forget I'm only--a beggarly rider. I couldn't havegone 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 anyhope. . .. It's just I want him an' everybody to know that I asked. "

"But Dad--everybody will think that YOU think there'sreason--why--I--why, you OUGHT to ask, " burst out Lucy, with scarletface. 

"Sure, that's it, " he replied. 

"But there's no reason. None! Not a reason under the sun, " retortedLucy, hotly. "I found you out here. I did you a--a little service. Weplanned 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, andwe'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 notcomprehensible to her. Her blood raced. She wanted to be furious withSlone, but somehow she could not wholly be so. There was somethingabout him that made her feel small and thoughtless and selfish. Slonehad hurt her pride. But the thing that she feared and resented andcould not understand was the strange gladness Slone's declarationroused in her. She tried to control her temper so she could think. Twoemotions contended within her--one of intense annoyance at the thoughtof embarrassment surely to follow Slone's action, and the other avague, disturbing element, all sweet and furious and inexplicable. Shemust try to dissuade him from approaching her father. 

"Please don't go to Dad. " She put a hand on Slone's arm as he stoodclose up to Wildfire. 

"I reckon I will, " he said. 

"Lin!" In that word there was the subtle, nameless charm of an intimacyshe had never granted him until that moment. He seemed drawn as if byinvisible wires. He put a shaking hand on hers and crushed hergauntleted fingers. And Lucy, in the current now of her woman's need tobe placated if not obeyed, pressed her small hand to his. How strangeto what lengths a little submission to her feeling had carried her!Every spoken word, every movement, seemed to exact more from her. Shedid 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 eyesof bewilderment, seemed to aid her into piercing the maze of her ownmind. A hundred thoughts whirled together, and all around them waswrapped the warm, strong feeling of his hand on hers. What did she meanthat he would tell her father? There seemed to be a deep, hidden selfin her. Up out of these depths came a whisper, like a ray of light, andit said to her that there was more hope for Lin Slone than he had everhad in one of his wildest dreams. 

"Lin, if you tell Dad--then he'll know--and there WON'T be any hope foryou!" 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 leapedto 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 yousee?"

"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 thatday!"

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 horsein the race!" she declared with sudden passion. She felt herselfshaking all over. 

"Lucy Bostil, I wish I was as sure of Heaven as I am you'll be up onWildfire 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'tbe 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 canbe 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 loveWildfire. An' look--how strange! That wild stallion--that killer ofhorses, 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 rendingher. She dared not look at Wildfire. Yes--all, that was true Slone hadsaid. How desperately hard to think of forfeiting the great race sheknew 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 youride 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? . .. Notfor all your father's lands an' horses an' money!"

Slone's voice rolled out with deep, ringing scorn. And Lucy, her temperquelled, began to feel the rider's strength, his mastery of thesituation, and something vague, yet splendid about him that hurt her. 

Slone strode toward her. Lucy backed against the cedar-tree and couldgo no farther. How white he was now! Lucy's heart gave a great, fearfulleap, for she imagined Slone intended to take her in his arms. But hedid 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 andpassionate sacrifice. 

"Lin Slone! . .. I can't--understand you. "

"You've got to ride Wildfire in that race. You've got to beat theKing. .. . So I give Wildfire to you. An' now you can't help but ridehim. "

"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'treason enough--then . .. Because I love him--as no rider ever loved ahorse. .. . An' I love you as no man ever loved a girl!"

Slone had never before spoken words of love to Lucy. She dropped herhead. She knew of his infatuation. But he had always been shy exceptonce when he had been bold, and that had caused a quarrel. With astrange pain at her breast Lucy wondered why Slone had not spoken thatway before? It made as great a change in her as if she had been bornagain. It released something. A bolt shot back in her heart. She knewshe 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 desertaround had changed and become all mellow gold and blue and white, radiant as the moonlight of dreams--and that the monuments soared abovethem grandly, and were beautiful and noble, like the revelations oflove and joy to her. And suddenly she found herself sitting at the footof the cedar, weeping, with tear-wet hands over her face. 

"There's nothin' to---to cry about, " Slone was saying. "But I'm sorryif I hurt you. "

"Will--you--please--fetch Sarch?" asked Lucy, tremulously. 

While Slone went for the horse and saddled him Lucy composed herselfoutwardly. And she had two very strong desires--one to tell Slonesomething, and the other to run. She decided she would do both together. 

Slone brought Sarchedon. Lucy put on her gauntlets, and, mounting thehorse, she took a moment to arrange her skirts before she looked downat Slone. He was now pale, rather than white, and instead of fire inhis eyes there was sadness. Lucy felt the swelling and pounding of herheart--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 anyprotestations would be in vain. 

"No. I have good old faithful Nagger. "

"Would you go try to hunt another wild stallion--like Wildfire?" askedLucy, curiously. She was playing with the wonderful sweet consciousnessof her power to render happiness when she chose. 

"No more horse-huntin' for me, " declared Slone. "An' as for findin' onelike Wildfire--that'd never be. "

"Suppose I won't accept him?"

"How could you refuse? Not for me but for Wildfire's sake! . .. But ifyou 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 waslabored! An unreal shimmering gleam shone on all about her. Even thered stallion appeared enveloped in a glow. And the looming monumentslooked down upon her, paternal, old, and wise, bright with the color ofhappiness. 

"Wildfire ought to have several more days' training--then a day ofrest--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, friendlyIndians--the eager riders--the spirited horses--the face of herfather--and last the race itself, such a race as had never been ran, soswift, so fierce, so wonderful. 

"Then Lin, " began Lucy, with a slowly heaving breast, "if I acceptWildfire will you keep him for me--until . .. And if I accept him, andtell you why, will you promise to say--"

"Don't ask me again!" interrupted Slone, hastily. "I WILL speak toBostil. "

"Wait, will you . .. Promise not to say a word--a single word toME--till after the race?"

"A word--to you! What about?" he queried, wonderingly. Something in hiseyes 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 gotready 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 himspeak. Then she was tearing through the sage, out past the whistlingWildfire, 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 inBostil's mind. Fiercely at first he had rejected it as utterly unworthyof the man he was. But it returned. It would not be denied. It wasfostered by singular and unforeseen circumstances. The meetings withCreech, the strange, sneaking actions of young Joel Creech, andespecially the gossip of riders about the improvement in Creech's swifthorse--these things appeared to loom larger and larger and to augmentin Bostil's mind the monstrous idea which he could not shake off. So hebecame brooding and gloomy. 

It appeared to be an indication of his intense preoccupation of mindthat he seemed unaware of Lucy's long trips down into the sage. ButBostil had observed them long before Holley and other riders hadapproached him with the information. 

"Let her alone, " he growled to his men. "I gave her orders to train theKing. An' after Van got well mebbe Lucy just had a habit of ridin' downthere. She can take care of herself. "

To himself, when alone, Bostil muttered: "Wonder what the kid haslooked up now? Some mischief, I'll bet!"

Nevertheless, he did not speak to her on the subject. Deep in his hearthe knew he feared his keen-eyed daughter, and during these days he wasglad she was not in evidence at the hours when he could not very wellkeep entirely to himself. Bostil was afraid Lucy might divine what hehad on his mind. There was no one else he cared for. Holley, that oldhawk-eyed rider, might see through him, but Bostil knew Holley would beloyal, 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 thecrossing. Bostil himself went down, and he walked--a fact apt to beconsidered unusual if it had been noticed. 

"Put in new planks, " was his order to the men. "An' pour hot tar in thecracks. Then when the tar dries shove her in . .. But I'll tell youwhen. "

Every morning young Creech rowed over to see if the boat was ready totake the trip across to bring his father's horses back. The thirdmorning of work on the boat Bostil met Joel down there. Joel seemedeager to speak to Bostil. He certainly was a wild-looking youth. 

"Bostil, my ole man is losin' sleep waitin' to git the hosses over, " hesaid, frankly. "Feed's almost gone. "

"That'll be all right, Joel, " replied Bostil. "You see, the river ain'tbegun to raise yet. .. . How're the hosses comin' on?"

"Grand, sir--grand!" exclaimed the simple Joel. "Peg is runnin' fasterthan last year, but Blue Roan is leavin' her a mile. Dad's goin' to betall he has. The roan can't lose this year. "

Bostil felt like a bull bayed at by a hound. Blue Roan was a younghorse, and every season he had grown bigger and faster. The King hadreached the limit of his speed. That was great, Bostil knew, and enoughto win over any horse in the uplands, providing the luck of the racefell 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 hisrationality. He looked queer. His contrasting eyes shot littlemalignant gleams. He muttered incoherently, and moved back toward theskiff, making violent gestures, and his muttering grew to shouting, though still incoherent. He got in the boat and started to row backover the river. 

"Sure he's got a screw loose, " observed Somers. Shugrue tapped hisgrizzled head significantly. 

Bostil made no comment. He strode away from his men down to the rivershore, and, finding a seat on a stone, he studied the slow eddying redcurrent of the river and he listened. If any man knew the strange andremorseless Colorado, that man was Bostil. He never made any mistakesin anticipating what the river was going to do. 

And now he listened, as if indeed the sullen, low roar, the murmuringhollow gurgle, the sudden strange splash, were spoken words meant forhis ears alone. The river was low. It seemed tired out. It was a dirtyred in color, and it swirled and flowed along lingeringly. At times thecurrent was almost imperceptible; and then again it moved at varyingspeed. It seemed a petulant, waiting, yet inevitable stream, with someremorseless end before it. It had a thousand voices, but not the oneBostil listened to hear. 

He plodded gloomily up the trail, resting in the quiet, dark places ofthe canyon, loath to climb out into the clear light of day. And once inthe 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 campedout on the sage, and hourly the number grew as more came in. They werebuilding cedar sunshades. Columns of blue smoke curled up here andthere. Mustangs and ponies grazed everywhere, and a line of Indiansextended along the racecourse, where trials were being held. Thevillage was full of riders, horse-traders and hunters, and ranchers. Work on the ranges had practically stopped for the time being, and inanother day or so every inhabitant of the country would be in Bostil'sFord. 

Bostil walked into the village, grimly conscious that the presence ofthe Indians and riders and horses, the action and color and bustle, thenear approach of the great race-day--these things that in former yearshad brought him keen delight and speculation--had somehow lost theirtang. He had changed. Something was wrong in him. But he must go amongthese visitors and welcome them as of old; he who had always been thelife of these racing-days must be outwardly the same. And the task wasall the harder because of the pleasure shown by old friends among theIndians and the riders at meeting him. Bostil knew he had been acunning horse-trader, but he had likewise been a good friend. Many werethe riders and Indians who owed much to him. So everywhere he washailed and besieged, until finally the old excitement of betting andbantering 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 horsehe had entered, and he had money to wager. Two Navajo chiefs, called bywhite 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 ridersof Durango had arrived; likewise Colson, Sticks, and Burthwait, oldfriends and rivals of Bostil's. 

For a while Brackton's was merry. There was some drinking and muchbetting. It was characteristic of Bostil that he would give any oddsasked on the King in a race; and, furthermore, he would take any end ofwagers on other horses. As far as his own horses were concerned he betshrewdly, but in races where his horses did not figure he seemed tofind fun in the betting, whether or not he won. 

The fact remained, however, that there were only two wagers against theKing, and both were put up by Indians. Macomber was betting on secondor third place for his horse in the big race. No odds of Bostil'stempted him. 

"Say, where's Wetherby?" rolled out Bostil. "He'll back his hoss. "

"Wetherby's ridin' over to-morrow, " replied Macomber. "But you gottabet him two to one. "

"See hyar, Bostil, " spoke up old Cal Blinn, "you jest wait till I gitan 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 hossI'll race. "

Burthwait, an old rider, came forward to Brackton's desk and entered awager 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, Iguess, 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 manyhosses entered now for the big race?"

The lean, gray Brackton bent earnestly over his soiled ledger, whilethe 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, byBlinn; Bay Charley, by Burthwait. Then thar's the two mustangs enteredby 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 hername 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 moreof the boys was here. They joked her a little. You oughter seen thelook Lucy give them. But fer once she seemed mum. She jest walked awaymysterious like. "

"Lucy's got a pony off some Indian, I reckon, " returned Bostil, and helaughed. "Then thet makes ten hosses entered so far?"

"Right. An' there's sure to be one more. I guess the track's wideenough for twelve. "

"Wal, Brack, there'll likely be one hoss out in front an' somestretched out behind, " replied Bostil, dryly. "The track's sure wideenough. "

"Won't thet be a grand race!" exclaimed an enthusiastic rider. "Wisht Ihad about a million to bet!"

"Bostil, I 'most forgot, " went on Brackton, "Cordts sent word by thePiutes who come to-day thet he'd be here sure. "

Bostil's face subtly changed. The light seemed to leave it. He did notreply to Brackton--did not show that he heard the comment on all sides. Public opinion was against Bostil's permission to allow Cordts and hishorse-thieves to attend the races. Bostil appeared grave, regretful. Yet it was known by all that in the strangeness and perversity of hisrider's nature he wanted Cordts to see the King win that race. It washis 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 fearBostil, were sometimes uneasy when near him. Some who were morereckless than discreet liked to irritate him. That, too, was a rider'sweakness. 

"When's Creech's hosses comin' over?" asked Colson, with suddeninterest. 

"Wal, I reckon--soon, " replied Bostil, constrainedly, and he turnedaway. 

By the time he got home all the excitement of the past hour had lefthim and gloom again abided in his mind. He avoided his daughter andforgot the fact of her entering a horse in the race. He ate supperalone, without speaking to his sister. Then in the dusk he went out tothe corrals and called the King to the fence. There was love betweenmaster and horse. Bostil talked low, like a woman, to Sage King. Andthe 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 otherhorses. 

Bostil returned to the house and went to his room, where he satthinking in the dark. By and by all was quiet. Then seemingly with awrench 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 ofthe house; he kept to the flagstone of the walk; he took to the sagetill 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 downthrough that pitch-black canyon to the river and the ford. 

The river seemed absolutely the same as during the day. He peeredthrough the dark opaqueness of gloom. It moved there, the river heknew, shadowy, mysterious, murmuring. Bostil went down to the edge ofthe water, and, sitting there, he listened. Yes--the voices of thestream were the same. But after a long time he imagined there was amongthem an infinitely low voice, as if from a great distance. He imaginedthis; he doubted; he made sure; and then all seemed fancy again. Hismind held only one idea and was riveted round it. He strained hishearing, so long, so intently, that at last he knew he had heard whathe was longing for. Then in the gloom he took to the trail, andreturned 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 hadfinished the boat and were waiting. Other men were there, curious andeager. Joel Creech, barefooted and ragged, with hollow eyes and strangeactions, paced the sands. 

The boat was lying bottom up. Bostil examined the new planking and theseams. 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 toBostil. 

"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 forhim under kinder conditions of life. "Now, Bostil, I'm sorry fer what Isaid, " blurted Joel. 

"Shut up. Go tell your old man. "

Joel ran down to his skiff and, leaping in, began to row vigorouslyacross. Bostil watched while the workmen turned the boat over and slidit off the sand-bar and tied it securely to the mooring. Bostilobserved 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 emergedfrom his house and took to his stealthy stalk down toward the river. 

The moment he got out into the night oppression left him. Howinterminable the hours had been! Suspense, doubt, anxiety, fear nolonger burdened him. The night was dark, with only a few stars, and theair was cool. A soft wind blew across his heated face. A neighbor'sdog, baying dismally, startled Bostil. He halted to listen, then stoleon under the cottonwoods, through the sage, down the trail, into thejet-black canyon. Yet he found his way as if it had been light. In thedarkness of his room he had been a slave to his indecision; now in thedarkness of the looming cliffs he was free, resolved, immutable. 

The distance seemed short. He passed out of the narrow canyon, skirtedthe gorge over the river, and hurried down into the shadowyamphitheater under the looming walls. 

The boat lay at the mooring, one end resting lightly the sand-bar. Withstrong, nervous clutch Bostil felt the knots of the cables. Then hepeered into the opaque gloom of that strange and huge V-shaped splitbetween the great canyon walls. Bostil's mind had begun to relax fromthe single idea. Was he alone? Except for the low murmur of the riverthere was dead silence--a silence like no other--a silence which seemedheld under imprisoning walls. Yet Bostil peered long into the shadows. Then he looked up. The ragged ramparts far above frowned bold and blackat a few cold stars, and the blue of its sky was without the usualvelvety brightness. How far it was up to that corrugated rim! All of asudden Bostil hated this vast ebony pit. 

He strode down to the water and, sitting upon the stone he had occupiedso 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 sameapparently as for days past. It splashed very softly and murmured lowand gurgled faintly. It gave forth fitful little swishes and musicaltinkles and lapping sounds. It was flowing water, yet the proof wasthere of tardiness. Now it was almost still, and then again it movedon. It was a river of mystery telling a lie with its low music. AsBostil listened all those soft, watery sounds merged into what seemed amoaning, and that moaning held a roar so low as to be onlydistinguishable to the ear trained by years. 

No--the river was not the same. For the voice of its soft moaningshowed to Bostil its meaning. It called from the far north--the northof great ice-clad peaks beginning to glisten under the nearing sun; ofvast snow-filled canyons dripping and melting; of the crystal brookssuddenly colored and roiled and filled bank-full along the mountainmeadows; of many brooks plunging down and down, rolling the rocks, topour their volume into the growing turbid streams on the slopes. It wasthe voice of all that widely separated water spilled suddenly withmagical power into the desert river to make it a mighty, thunderingtorrent, red and defiled, terrible in its increasing onslaught into thecanyon, deep, ponderous, but swift--the Colorado in flood. 

And as Bostil heard that voice he trembled. What was the thing he meantto 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 fromhis feet. They were both in the water. He pulled them out and, bendingdown, watched the dim, dark line of water. It moved up and up, inch byinch, swiftly. The river was on the rise!

Bostil leaped up. He seemed possessed of devils. A rippling hot gash ofblood 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 andpertaining to it had changed. The murmur and moan changed to a low, sullen roar. The music was gone. The current chafed at its rock-boundconfines. Here was an uneasy, tormented, driven river! The light fromthe stars shone on dark, glancing, restless waters, uneven and strange. And while Bostil watched, whether it was a short time or long, theremorseless, destructive nature of the river showed itself. 

Bostil began to pace the sands. He thought of those beautifulrace-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 thosehorses, 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 aman. .. . Bostil poison a water-hole where hosses loved to drink, or burnover grass! . .. What would Lucy think of you? . .. No, Bostil, you'velet spite rule bad. Hurry now and save them hosses!"

He strode down to the boat. It swung clear now, and there was waterbetween it and the shore. Bostil laid hold of the cables. As he did sohe thought of Creech and a blackness enfolded him. He forgot Creech'shorses. Something gripped him, burned him--some hard and bitter feelingwhich he thought was hate of Creech. Again the wave of fire ran overhim, and his huge hands strained on the cables. The fiend of thatfiendish river had entered his soul. He meant ruin to a man. He meantmore than ruin. He meant to destroy what his enemy, his rival loved. The darkness all about him, the gloom and sinister shadow of thecanyon, the sullen increasing roar of the' river--these lent theirinfluence to the deed, encouraged him, drove him onward, fought andstrangled the resistance in his heart. As he brooded all the motivesfor the deed grew like that remorseless river. Had not his enemy's sonshot at him from ambush? Was not his very life at stake? A terribleblow must be dealt Creech, one that would crush him or else lend himmanhood enough to come forth with a gun. Bostil, in his torment, divined that Creech would know who had ruined him. They would meetthen, 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 wherethe dark and sullen river raged. He shrank at what he saw, but thefuries of passion held him fast. His hands tore at the cables. Then hefell to pacing to and fro in the gloom. Every moment the river changedits voice. In an hour flood would be down. Too late, then! Bostil againremembered the sleek, slim, racy thoroughbreds--Blue Roan, a wild horsehe 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 ahorse? He began to sweat and the sweat burned him. 

"How soon'll Creech hear the river an' know what's comin'?" mutteredBostil, darkly. And that question showed him how he was lost. All thisstrife of doubt and fear and horror were of no use. He meant to doomCreech's horses. The thing had been unalterable from the inception ofthe 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 boatswung 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 asBostil's Ford--he--to cut the boat adrift! The thing was inconceivable. 

The roar of the river rose weird and mournful and incessant, with fewbreaks, and these were marked by strange ripping and splashing soundsmade as the bulges of water broke on the surface. Twenty feet out theboat floated, turning a little as it drifted. It seemed loath to leave. It held on the shore eddy. Hungrily, spitefully the little, heavy waveslapped it. Bostil watched it with dilating eyes. There! the currentcaught 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 swiftthis cursed river! Was there any way in which Bostil could recover hisboat? The river answered him with hollow, deep mockery. Despair seizedupon him. And the vague shape of the boat, spectral and instinct withmeaning, passed from Bostil's strained gaze. 

"So help me God, I've done it!" he groaned, hoarsely. And he staggeredback and sat down. Mind and heart and soul were suddenly andexquisitely acute to the shame of his act. Remorse seized upon hisvitals. 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, lockedboth mentally and physically into inaction. 

The rising water broke the spell and drove him back. The river wascreeping no longer. It swelled. And the roar likewise swelled. Bostilhurried across the flat to get to the rocky trail before he was cutoff, 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 soundedghastly 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. Fortwenty-three years he had heard the vanguard boom of the Colorado inflood. But never like this, for in the sound he heard the strife andpassion of his blood, and realized himself a human counterpart of thatremorseless river. The moments passed and each one saw a swelling ofthe volume of sound. The sullen roar just below him was gradually lostin a distant roar. A steady wind now blew through the canyon. The greatwalls seemed to gape wider to prepare for the torrent. Bostil backedslowly up the trail as foot by foot the water rose. The floor of theamphitheater was now a lake of choppy, angry waves. The willows bentand seethed in the edge of the current. Beyond ran an uneven, bulgingmass that resembled some gray, heavy moving monster. In the gloomBostil could see how the river turned a corner of wall and slanted awayfrom it toward the center, where it rose higher. Black objects thatmust have been driftwood appeared on this crest. They showed aninstant, then flashed out of sight. The boom grew steadier, closer, louder, and the reverberations, like low detonations of thunder, wereless noticeable because all sounds were being swallowed up. 

A harder breeze puffed into Bostil's face. It brought a tremendousthunder, as if all the colossal walls were falling in avalanche. Bostilknew the crest of the flood had turned the corner above and would soonreach him. He watched. He listened, but sound had ceased. His earsseemed ringing and they hurt. All his body felt cold, and he backed upand up, with dead feet. 

The shadows of the canyon lightened. A river-wide froth, like acurtain, moved down, spreading mushroom-wise before it, a rolling, heaving maelstrom. Bostil ran to escape the great wave that surged intothe amphitheater, up and up the rocky trail. When he turned again heseemed to look down into hell. Murky depths, streaked by pale gleams, and black, sinister, changing forms yawned beneath them. He watchedwith fixed eyes until once more the feeling of filled ears left him andan awful thundering boom assured him of actualities. It was only theColorado 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 adark desert. He was awakened early by a voice at his window. Helistened. 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 apparelexcept his boots. 

"Wal, Hawk, what d'ye mean wakin' a man at this unholy hour?" growledBostil. 

Holley's face appeared above the rude sill. It was pale and grave, withthe 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 manwhile 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, whydidn't you fetch them hosses over?"

Bostil's face darkened. He was a bad man to oppose--to question attimes. "Holley, you're sure powerful anxious about Creech. Are you hisfriend?"

"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 comedown. That's all. "

The old horse-trader and his right-hand rider looked at each other fora moment in silence. They understood each other. Then Bostil returnedto the task of pulling on wet boots and Holley went away. 

Bostil opened his door and stepped outside. The eastern ramparts of thedesert were bright red with the rising sun. With the night behind himand the morning cool and bright and beautiful, Bostil did not suffer apang nor feel a regret. He walked around under the cottonwoods wherethe mocking-birds were singing. The shrill, screeching bray of a burrosplit the morning stillness, and with that the sounds of the awakeningvillage drowned that sullen, dreadful boom of the river. Bostil went into breakfast. 

He encountered Lucy in the kitchen, and he did not avoid her. He couldtell from her smiling greeting that he seemed to her his old selfagain. Lucy wore an apron and she had her sleeves rolled up, showinground, strong, brown arms. Somehow to Bostil she seemed different. Shehad been pretty, but now she was more than that. She was radiant. Herblue eyes danced. She looked excited. She had been telling her auntsomething, and that worthy woman appeared at once shocked anddelighted. But Bostil's entrance had caused a mysterious break ineverything that had been going on, except the preparation of themorning 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 doas I please, go where I like, and anything. .. . Why, Dad, I couldget--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 rideraround 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 onewill ride along--a rider like you used to be--that nobody couldbluff. .. . 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 beamiable with his women-folk. "Lucy, to-morrow'll be the biggest dayBostil'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, butduring his moody spell of days past he had forgotten how to take her orelse 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 Wildfireyou'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 onsome 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 eyesblazed; she was intense. His question had brought out her earnestness, and straightway Bostil became thoughtful. If Lucy had been a boy shewould have been the greatest rider on the uplands; and even girl as shewas, 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, nobettin'. 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 finishone--two--three. "

Bostil threw back his head to laugh heartily. What a chip of the oldblock she was! "Child, there's some fast hosses that'll be back of theKing. 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!" sheflashed. 

"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 hisface to the open door. "Don't I hear a runnin' hoss?"

Aunt Jane stopped the noise she was making, and Lucy darted to thedoor. Then Bostil heard the sharp, rhythmic hoof-beats he recognized. They shortened to clatter and pound--then ceased somewhere out in frontof the house. 

"It's the King with Van up, " said Lucy, from the door. "Dad, Van'sjumped 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 footstepssounded without. 

"Hello, Miss Lucy! Where's Bostil?"

A lean, supple rider appeared before the door. It was Van, greatlyexcited. 

"Come in, boy, " said Bostil. "What're you flustered about?"

Van strode in, spurs jangling, cap in hand. "Boss, there's--asixty-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 bowedit till she stiffened. Outside were, sounds of birds and horses andmen, 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 gulchopens--on the bluff. There was a string of Navajos goin' down. An' somecomin' up. I stayed there watchin' the flood, an' pretty soon Somerscome 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 wasan' 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 laughedaloud 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 thettrail where the slide was. We counted the hosses--nine. An' we saw theroan shine blue in the sunlight. "

"Piutes with Creech!" exclaimed Bostil, the deep gloom in his eyeslighting. "By all thet's lucky! Mebbe them Indians can climb the hossesout of thet hole an' find water an' grass enough. "

"Mebbe, " replied Van, doubtfully. "Sure them Piutes could if there's achance. 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, " declaredBostil. He was sure of his sincerity, but he was not certain that hissincerity was not the birth of a strange, sudden hope. And then he wasable 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. "Whydidn't I? . .. Wal, Lucy, I reckon I wasn't in no hurry to obligeCreech. 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 theone who first knew the flood was on. Some one said he said he slept inthe canyon last night. Anyway, he's ravin' crazy now. An' if he doesn'tdo 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, goingclose to her father. 

Bostil put his arm around her and felt immeasurably relieved to havethe golden head press close to his shoulder. "Child, we can't flyacrost the river. Now don't you cry about Creech's hosses. They ain'tstarved yet. It's hard luck. But mebbe it'll turn out so Creech'll loseonly the race. An', Lucy, it was a dead sure bet he'd have lost thetanyway. "

Bostil fondled his daughter a moment, the first time in many a day, andthen 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 theghost of a show to-morrow. "

Lucy raised her drooping head. "Is THAT so, Van Sickle? . .. Listenhere. If you and Sage King don't get more wild running to-morrow thanyou ever had I'll never ride again!" With this retort Lucy left theroom. 

Van stared at the door and then at Bostil. "What'd I say, Bostil?" heasked, plaintively. "I'm always r'ilin' her. "

"Cheer up, Van. You didn't say much. Lucy is fiery these days. She'sgot a hoss somewhere an' she's goin' to ride him in the race. Sheoffered to bet on him--against the King! It certainly beat me allhollow. But see here, Van. I've a hunch there's a dark hoss goin' toshow up in this race. So don't underrate Lucy an' her mount, whateverhe is. She calls him Wildfire. Ever see him?"

"I sure haven't. Fact is, I haven't seen Lucy for days an' days. As forthe 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 outthere 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'tshow up on Blue Roan, " he replied, with grim gruffness. "Thet's sure asdeath. .. . Come on out now. I want a look at the King. "

Bostil went into the village. All day long he was so busy with athousand 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 aburden of which he was vaguely conscious all the time. He worked lateinto the night and slept late the next morning. 

Never in his life had Bostil been gloomy or retrospective on the day ofa race. In the press of matters he had only a word for Lucy, but thatearned a saucy, dauntless look. He was glad when he was able to jointhe procession of villagers, visitors, and Indians moving out towardthe sage. 

The racecourse lay at the foot of the slope, and now the gray andpurple sage was dotted with more horses and Indians, more moving thingsand colors, than Bostil had ever seen there before. It was a spectaclethat stirred him. Many fires sent up blue columns of smoke from beforethe hastily built brush huts where the Indians cooked and ate. Blanketsshone bright in the sun; burros grazed and brayed; horses whistledpiercingly across the slope; Indians lolled before the huts or talkedin groups, sitting and lounging on their ponies; down in the valley, here and there, were Indians racing, and others were chasing the wirymustangs. Beyond this gay and colorful spectacle stretched the valley, merging into the desert marked so strikingly and beautifully by themonuments. 

Bostil was among the last to ride down to the high bench thatoverlooked the home end of the racecourse. He calculated that therewere a thousand Indians and whites congregated at that point, which wasthe best vantage-ground to see the finish of a race. And the occasionof his arrival, for all the gaiety, was one of dignity and importance. If Bostil reveled in anything it was in an hour like this. Hisliberality made this event a great race-day. The thoroughbreds were allthere, blanketed, in charge of watchful riders. In the center of thebrow of this long bench lay a huge, flat rock which had been Bostil'sseat in the watching of many a race. Here were assembled his neighborsand visitors actively interested in the races, and also the importantIndians of both tribes, all waiting for him. 

As Bostil dismounted, throwing the bridle to a rider, he saw a facethat suddenly froze the thrilling delight of the moment. A tall, gauntman with cavernous black eyes and huge, drooping black mustache frontedhim and seemed waiting. Cordts! Bostil had forgotten. InstinctivelyBostil stood on guard. For years he had prepared himself for the momentwhen he would come face to face with this noted horse-thief. 

"Bostil, how are you?" said Cordts. He appeared pleasant, and certainlygrateful for being permitted to come there. From his left hand hung abelt containing two heavy guns. 

"Hello, Cordts, " replied Bostil, slowly unbending. Then he met theother'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 goodgraces, 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 yourmoney, " replied Bostil. 

Cordts held out the belt and guns to Bostil. "I want to enjoy thisrace, " he said, with a smile that somehow hinted of the years he hadpacked 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 outsideof Brackton's whisky. But now I won't answer for them. "

"Wal, you're square to say thet, " replied Bostil. "An' I'll run thisrace an' answer for everybody. "

Bostil recognized Hutchinson and Dick Sears, but the others of Cordts'sgang he did not know. They were a hard-looking lot. Hutchinson was aspare, stoop-shouldered, red-faced, squinty-eyed rider, branded allover 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 inappearance as cactus. He wore a ragged slouch-hat pulled low down. Hisface and stubby beard were dust-colored, and his eyes seemed sullen, watchful. He made Bostil think of a dusty, scaly, hard, desertrattlesnake. Bostil eyed this right-hand man of Cordts's and certainlyfelt no fear of him, though Sears had the fame of swift and deadlyskill with a gun. Bostil felt that he was neither afraid nor loath toface Sears in gun-play, and he gazed at the little horse-thief in amanner that no one could mistake. Sears was not drunk, neither was hewholly free from the unsteadiness caused by the bottle. Assuredly hehad no fear of Bostil and eyed him insolently. Bostil turned away tothe 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 ared scarf, and a skirt over overalls and boots. She looked pale, butshe was smiling, and there was a dark gleam of excitement in her blueeyes. 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 ata glance. She meant business and she looked dangerous. Bostil knew onceshe slipped out of that skirt she could ride with any rider there. Hesaw that she had become the center toward which all eyes shifted. Itpleased him. She was his, like her mother, and as beautiful andthoroughbred 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 bighand 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 goneback 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 getbeat. But if you ran second I'll give you a present thet'll make thepurse look sick. "

Even the Indian chiefs were smiling. Old Horse, the Navajo, beamedbenignly upon this daughter of the friend of the Indians. Silver, hisbrother chieftain, nodded as if he understood Bostil's pride andregret. Some of the young riders showed their hearts in their eyes. Farlane tried to look mysterious, to pretend he was in Lucy'sconfidence. 

"Lucy, if you are really goin' to race I'll withdraw my hoss so you canwin, " said Wetherby, gallantly. 

Bostil's sonorous laugh rolled down the slope. 

"Miss Lucy, I sure hate to run a hoss against yours, " said old CalBlinn. Then Colson, Sticks, Burthwait, the other principals, paidlaughing compliments to the bright-haired girl. 

Bostil enjoyed this hugely until he caught the strange intensity ofregard in the cavernous eyes of Cordts. That gave him a shock. Cordtshad 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 toattend the races. Sight of Lucy's fair, sweet face might inflame thisCordts--this Kentuckian who had boasted of his love of horses andwomen. Behind Cordts hung the little dust-colored Sears, like a coiledsnake, ready to strike. Bostil felt stir in him a long-dormant fire--astealing along his veins, a passion he hated. 

"Lucy, go back to the women till you're ready to come out on yourhoss, " 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 thatcrowded the racecourse; the betting and yelling and running; the wildand plunging mustangs; the heat and dust and pounding of hoofs; theexcited betting; the surprises and defeats and victories, the trialtests of the principals, jealously keeping off to themselves in thesage; the endless moving, colorful procession, gaudy and swift andthrilling--all these Bostil loved tremendously. 

But they were as nothing to what they gradually worked up to--theclimax--the great race. 

It was afternoon when all was ready for this race, and the sage wasbright gray in the westering sun. Everybody was resting, waiting. Thetense quiet of the riders seemed to settle upon the whole assemblage. Only the thoroughbreds were restless. They quivered and stamped andtossed their small, fine heads. They knew what was going to happen. They wanted to run. Blacks, bays, and whites were the predominatingcolors; and the horses and mustangs were alike in those points of raceand speed and spirit that proclaimed them thoroughbreds. 

Bostil himself took the covering off his favorite. Sage King was onedge. He stood out strikingly in contrast with the other horses. Hissage-gray body was as sleek and shiny as satin. He had been trained tothe hour. He tossed his head as he champed the bit, and every momenthis muscles rippled under his fine skin. Proud, mettlesome, beautiful!

Sage King was the favorite in the betting, the Indians, who were ardentgamblers, 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 foottouched the stirrup Sage King was in the air. He came down, springy-quick, graceful, and then he pranced into line with the otherhorses. 

Bostil waved his hand. Then the troop of riders and racers headed forthe starting-point, two miles up the valley. Macomber and Blinn, with arider 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 mencrowded around Bostil. Sears and Hutchinson hung close to Cordts. AndHolley, keeping near his employer, had keen eyes for other things thanhorses. 

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 aglass?"

Bostil had the only field-glass there and he was using it. Across theround, magnified field of vision moved a giant red horse, his manewaving like a flame. Lucy rode him. They were moving from a jumble ofbroken rocks a mile down the slope. She had kept her horse hiddenthere. Bostil felt an added stir in his pulse-beat. Certainly he hadnever seen a horse like this one. But the distance was long, the glassnot 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, " repliedHolley, as he took the glass. He leveled it, adjusted it to his eyes, and then looked long. Bostil grew impatient. Lucy was rapidlyoverhauling the troop of racers on her way to the post. Nothing everhurried 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 arider. 

Cordts showed intense eagerness, and all the group were excited. Lucy'sadvent, on an unknown horse that even her father could not disparage, was the last and unexpected addition to the suspense. They all knewthat if the horse was fast Lucy would be dangerous. 

Holley at last spoke: "She's up on a wild stallion. He's red, likefire. He's mighty big--strong. Looks as if he didn't want to go nearthe bunch. Lord! what action! . .. Bostil, I'd say--a great hoss!"

There was a moment's intense silence in the group round Bostil. Holleywas never known to mistake a horse or to be extravagant in judgment orpraise. 

"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. Herealized now that his first sight of Lucy on the strange horse had beenclear 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 hissight was clearing. "My God! if I couldn't see this finish!"

Then everybody watched the close, dark mass of horses and riders downthe valley. And all waited for Holley to speak. "They're linin' up, "began the rider. "Havin' some muss, too, it 'pears. .. . Bostil, thet redhoss 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'splungin' at the King--strikin'! There! Lucy's got him down. She'shandlin' him. .. . Now they've got the King on the other side. Thet'sbetter. 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 therest know the race's on. .. . Them Indian mustangs are behavin'scandalous. Guess the red stallion scared 'em. Now they're all lined upback of the post. .. . Ah! gun-smoke! They move. .. . It looks like a go. "

Then Holley was silent, strained, in watching. So were all the watcherssilent. 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 ofthe men round him and was heard even in the din of Indian cries. Thenas 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 therefront--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 Kingover--off the course! See him plunge! Lord! Lucy can't pull him! Shegoes 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, offthe course. The others flash by. .. . Van's out of the race! . .. An', Bostil--an', gentlemen, there ain't anythin' more to this race but ared hoss!"

Bostil's heart gave a great leap and then seemed to stand still. He washalf cold, half hot. 

What a horrible, sickening disappointment. Bostil rolled out a cursingquery. Holley's answer was short and sharp. The King was out! Bostilraved. He could not see. He could not believe. After all the weeks ofpreparation, of excitement, of suspense--only this! There was no race. The King was out! The thing did not seem possible. A thousand thoughtsflitted through Bostil's mind. Rage, impotent rage, possessed him. Hecursed Van, he swore he would kill that red stallion. And some oneshook him hard. Some one's incisive words cut into his thick, throbbingears: "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 torecover. For the King to fall was hard luck. But he had not lost therace! Anguish and pride battled for mastery over him. Even if the Kingwere 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 thetrack by a wild stallion!"

His dimmed sight grew clear and sharp. And with a gasp he saw themoving, 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. Thebright color changed to red. Bostil heard Holley calling and Cordtscalling--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 leanforward, here and there uttering a short, sharp yell. Everything withinBostil grew together in one great, throbbing, tingling mass. Hisrider's eye, keen once more, caught a gleam of gold above the red, andthat 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 hesaw--Lucy low over the neck of that red stallion. He could see plainernow. They were coming closer. How swiftly! What a splendid race! But itwas too swift--it would not last. The Indians began to yell, drowningthe hoarse shouts of the riders. Out of the tail of his eye Bostil sawCordts and Sears and Hutchinson. They were acting like crazy men. Strange that horse-thieves should care! The million thrills withinBostil coalesced into one great shudder of rapture. He grew wet withsweat. His stentorian voice took up the call for Lucy to win. 

"Three-quarters!" bowled Holley into Bostil's ear. "An' Lucy's givethet wild hoss free rein! Look, Bostil! You never in your life seen ahoss ran like thet!"

Bostil never had. His heart swelled. Something shook him. Was that hisgirl--that tight little gray burr half hidden in the huge stallion'sflaming mane? The distance had been close between Lucy and the bunchedriders. 

But it lengthened. How it widened! That flame of a horse was runningaway from the others. And now they were close--coming into the homestretch. 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-streakedmane. And then he could only see that red brute of a horse. Wildfirebefore the wind! Bostil thought of the leaping prairie flame, storm-driven. 

On came the red stallion--on--on! What a tremendous stride! What amarvelous recovery! What ease! What savage action!

He flashed past, low, pointed, long, going faster every magnificentstride--winner by a dozen lengths. 

CHAPTER XIII

Wildfire ran on down the valley far beyond the yelling crowd linedalong the slope. Bostil was deaf to the throng; he watched the stalliontill Lucy forced him to stop and turn. 

Then Bostil whirled to see where Van was with the King. Most of thecrowd surged down to surround the racers, and the yells gave way to thebuzz of many voices. Some of the ranchers and riders remained nearBostil, all apparently talking at once. Bostil gathered that Holley'sWhitefoot had ran second, and the Navajo's mustang third. It was Holleyhimself who verified what Bostil had heard. The old rider's hawk eyeswere 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. ThenBostil's nerves tingled at sight of Van trotting the King up the coursetoward the slope. Bostil watched with searching eyes. Sage King did notappear to be injured. Van rode straight up the slope and leaped off. Hewas white and shaking. 

The King's glossy hide was dirty with dust and bits of cactus andbrush. He was not even hot. There did not appear to be a bruise or markon him. He whinnied and rubbed his face against Bostil, and then, flinching, he swept up his head, ears high. Both fear and fire shone inhis eyes. 

"Wal, Van, get it out of your system, " said Bostil, kindly. He was aharder 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 raceout of him, " replied Van, swiftly. "We had a hunch, you know, but atthet Lucy's hoss was a surprise. I'll say, sir, thet Lucy rode her wildhoss an' handled him. Twice she pulled him off the King. He meant tokill the King! . .. Ask any of the boys. .. . We got started. I took thelead, sir. The King was in the lead. I never looked back till I heardLucy scream. She couldn't pull Wildfire. He was rushin' the King--meantto kill him. An' Sage King wanted to fight. If I could only have kepthim runnin'! Thet would have been a race! . .. But Wildfire got incloser 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' withboth feet at once! Bostil, thet hoss's hell! Then he hit us an' down wewent. I had a bad spill. But the King's not hurt an' thet's a blessedwonder. "

"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 hadappeared on the scene, wild and swift and grand, but Sage King wasstill unbeaten in a fair race. There would come a reckoning, Bostilgrimly muttered. Who owned this Wildfire?

Holley might as well have read his mind. "Reckon this feller ridin' upwill take down the prize money, " remarked Holley, and he pointed to aman 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 hermount. 

Bostil gazed with a strange, irresistible attraction. Never had heexpected to live to see a wild stallion like this one, to say nothingof his daughter mounted on him, with the record of having put Sage Kingout of the race!

A thousand pairs of eyes watched Wildfire. He pranced out there beyondthe crowd of men and horses. He did not want to come closer. Yet he didnot seem to fight his rider. Lucy hung low over his neck, apparentlyexhausted, and she was patting him and caressing him. There were horsesand Indians on each side of the race track, and between these linesLucy appeared reluctant to come. 

Bostil strode down and, waving and yelling for everybody to move backto 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 hadneither quirt nor whip. She turned Wildfire and he came prancing on, head and mane and tail erect. His action was beautiful, springy, andevery few steps, as Lucy touched him, he jumped with marvelous ease andswiftness. 

Bostil became all eyes. He did not see his daughter as she paraded thewinner before the applauding throng. And Bostil recorded in his mindthat which he would never forget--a wild stallion, with unbrokenspirit; a giant of a horse, glistening red, with mane likedark-striped, wind-blown flame, all muscle, all grace, all power; aneck long and slender and arching to the small, savagely beautifulhead; the jaws open, and the thin-skinned, pink-colored nostrils thatproved the Arabian blood; the slanting shoulders and the deep, broadchest, the powerful legs and knees not too high nor too low, thesymmetrical dark hoofs that rang on the little stones--all these marksso significant of speed and endurance. A stallion with a wonderfulphysical perfection that matched the savage, ruthless spirit of thedesert killer of horses!

Lucy waved her hand, and the strange rider to whom Holley had calledattention strode out of the crowd toward Wildfire. 

Bostil's gaze took in the splendid build of this lithe rider, theclean-cut face, the dark eye. This fellow had a shiny, coiled lasso inhand. He advanced toward Wildfire. The stallion snorted and plunged. Ifever Bostil saw hate expressed by a horse he saw it then. But he seemedto be tractable to the control of the girl. Bostil swiftly grasped thestrange situation. Lucy had won the love of the savage stallion. Thatalways had been the secret of her power. And she had hated Sage Kingbecause he alone had somehow taken a dislike to her. Horses were asqueer as people, thought Bostil. 

The rider walked straight up to the trembling Wildfire. When Wildfireplunged and reared up and up the rider leaped for the bridle and withan iron arm pulled the horse down. Wildfire tried again, almost liftingthe 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 aswan-faced as a flower by moonlight. Her eyes were dark with emotions, fear predominating. Then for Bostil the half of his heart that washuman reasserted itself. Lucy was only a girl now, and weakening. Herfear, her pitiful little smile, as if she dared not hope for herfather'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 poorold 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 mesick. .. . 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! yousure 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 andled 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 mountWildfire. It was a swift and hazardous mount, the stallion being in theair. When he came down he tore the turf and sent it flying, and when heshot 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 aswild a scream uttered by a horse. Likewise he had never seen soincomparable a horseman as this stranger. Indians and riders alikethrilled at a sight which was after their own hearts. The rider hadhooked 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 afierce, powerful, fighting stallion. No doubt, thought Bostil, thisfight took place every time the rider mounted his horse. It was thesort of thing riders loved. Most of them would not own a horse thatwould not pitch. Bostil presently decided, however, that in the case ofthis red stallion no rider in his right senses would care for such afight, simply because of the extraordinary strengths, activity, andferocity of the stallion. 

The riders were all betting the horse would throw the stranger. AndBostil, seeing the gathering might of Wildfire's momentum, agreed withthem. No horseman could stick on that horse. Suddenly Wildfire trippedin 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 thestirrup before Wildfire was under way. Then the horse plunged, ranfree, came circling back, and slowly gave way to the rider's control. Those few moments of frenzied activity had brought out the foam and thesweat--Wildfire was wet. The man pulled him in before Bostil anddismounted. 

"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 thefrank face, less hard than that of most riders, and the fine, darkeyes, straight and steady, even if their possessor had not come withthe open sesame to Bostil's regard--a grand, wild horse, and the nerveto ride him. 

"Wal, you rode him longer 'n any of us figgered, " said Bostil, heartilyshaking the man's hand. "I'm Bostil. Glad to meet you. "

"My name's Slone--Lin Slone, " replied the rider, frankly. "I'm awild-horse hunter an' hail from Utah. "

"Utah? How'd you ever get over? Wal, you've got a grand hoss--an' youput a grand rider up on him in the race. .. . My girl Lucy--"

Bostil hesitated. His mind was running swiftly. Back of his thoughtsgathered the desire and the determination to get possession of thishorse Wildfire. He had forgotten what he might have said to thisstranger under different circumstances. He looked keenly into Slone'sface and saw no fear, no subterfuge. The young man was honest. 

"Bostil, I chased this wild horse days an' weeks an' months, hundredsof 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' gotaway. Your girl rode along--saved my horse--an' saved my life, too. Iwas in bad shape for days. But I got well--an'--an' then she wanted meto let her run Wildfire in the big race. I couldn't refuse. .. . An' itwould 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, " repliedBostil. "An' so thet's how Lucy found her hoss. She sure wasmysterious. .. . 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 friendhere--young Slone. .. . An', Cordts, shake hands with a feller thet ownsa grand hoss!"

Bostil laughed as he introduced the horse-thief to Slone. The otherslaughed, too, even Cordts joining in. There was much of the old riderdaredevil spirit left in Bostil, and it interested and amused him tosee Cordts and Slone meet. Assuredly Slone had heard of the notedstealer of horses. The advantage was certainly on Cordts's side, for hewas good-natured and pleasant while Slone stiffened, paling slightly ashe faced about to acknowledge the introduction. 

"Howdy, Slone, " drawled Cordts, with hand outstretched. "I sure am gladto 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 joiningin. 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 youwhen I see you again. "

"Wal, we're all good fellers to-day, " interposed Bostil. "An' now let'sride 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 theirfelicitations to the young rider, and all were evidently prepossessedwith him. 

The sun was low in the west; purple shades were blotting out the goldlights down the valley; the day of the great races was almost done. Indians were still scattered here and there in groups; others wereturning out the mustangs; and the majority were riding and walking withthe crowd toward the village. 

Bostil observed that Cordts had hurried ahead of the group and nowappeared 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 Bostilthought he would do. Cordts and Hutchinson mounted their horses androde off, somewhat to the left of the scattered crowd. But Searsremained behind. Bostil thought this strange and put it down to thesurliness of the fellow, who had lost on the races. Bostil, wishingSears would get out of his sight, resolved never to make anotherblunder 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 Bostilcould not keep his glance from wandering back to gloat over Wildfire'ssavage grace and striking size. 

Suddenly there came a halt in the conversation of the men, a curse inHolley's deep voice, a violent split in the group. Bostil wheeled tosee 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 insight all points before him. A vicious little sand-rattlesnake about tostrike!

"Holley, turn yer back!" ordered Sears. 

The old rider, who stood foremost of the group' instantly obeyed, withhands up. He took no chances here, for he alone packed a gun. Withswift steps Sears moved, pulled Holley's gun, flung it aside into thesage. 

"Sears, it ain't a hold-up!" expostulated Bostil. The act seemed toobold, 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 ferscarin' this hoss. If you yap again I'll KILL YOU, anyhow, an' take achance!"

All the terrible hate and evil and cruelty and deadliness of his kindburned in his eyes and stung in his voice. 

"Sears, if it's my horse you want you needn't kill Bostil, " spoke upSlone. 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 looselycoiled, and the loop dropped in front of him as he backed away. 

Sears sheathed the left-hand gun. Keeping the group covered with theother, he moved backward, reaching for the hanging reins. Wildfiresnorted, appeared about to jump. But Sears got the reins. Bostil, standing like a stone, his companions also motionless, could not helpbut admire the daring of this upland horse-thief. How was he to mountthat wild stallion? Sears was noted for two qualities--his nerve beforemen and his skill with horses. Assuredly he would not risk an ordinarymount. Wildfire began to suspect Sears--to look at him instead of theother horses. Then quick as a cat Sears vaulted into the saddle. Wildfire snorted and lifted his forefeet in a lunge that meant he wouldbolt. 

Sears in vaulting up had swung the gun aloft. He swept it down, butwaveringly, for Wildfire had begun to rear. 

Bostil saw how fatal that single instant would have been for Sears ifhe 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 ropesung taut. Sears was swept bodily clean from the saddle, to hit theground in sodden impact. 

Almost swifter than Bostil's sight was the action of Slone--flashingby--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 throttledin 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 reachedlow for the tripping reins. When he straightened up in the saddleWildfire broke wildly into a run. 

It was characteristic of Holley that at this thrilling, tragic instanthe walked over into the sage to pick up his gun. 

"Throwed a gun on me, got the drop, an' pitched mine away!" mutteredHolley, in disgust. The way he spoke meant that he was disgraced. 

"My Gawd! I was scared thet Sears would get the hoss!" rolled outBostil. 

Holley thought of his gun; Bostil thought of the splendid horse. Thethoughts were characteristic of these riders. The other men, however, recovering from a horror-broken silence, burst out in acclaim ofSlone'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 thinkSears would have bored you. I saw his finger pressing--pressing on thetrigger. 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 astreak of rising dust out behind. They all saw when there ceased to bethat peculiar rising of dust. Wildfire appeared to shoot ahead atgreater speed. Then he slowed up. The rider turned him and faced backtoward the group, coming at a stiff gallop. Soon Wildfire breasted theslope, and halted, snorting, shaking before the men. The lasso wasstill trailing out behind, limp and sagging. There was no weight uponit now. 

Bostil strode slowly ahead. He sympathized with the tension that heldSlone; he knew why the rider's face was gray, why his lips only movedmutely, why there was horror in the dark, strained eyes, why the lean, strong hands, slowly taking up the lasso, now shook like leaves in thewind. 

There was only dust on the lasso. But Bostil knew--they all knew thatnone 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 ahand on the red stallion--patted his shoulder. Then he gripped Sloneclose and hard. He was thinking how he would have gloried in a son likethis 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 haveseen it comin' an' left Sears to his fate. It sure was a fittin' lastride 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 themto leave before the news got to the riders. 

The sun was setting golden and red over the broken battlements of thecanyons to the west. The heat of the day blew away on a breeze thatbent the tips of the sage-brush. A wild song drifted back from theriders to the fore. And the procession of Indians moved along, theirgay trappings and bright colors beautiful in the fading sunset light. 

When Bostil and, his guests arrived at the corrals, Holley, withFarlane and other riders, were waiting. 

"Boss, " said Holley, "Cordts an' his outfit never rid in. They was lastseen by some Navajos headin' for the canyon. "

"Thet's good!" ejaculated Bostil, in relief. "Wal boys, look after thehosses. . .. Slone, just turn Wildfire over to the boys withinstructions, an' feel safe. "

Farlane scratched his head and looked dubious. "I'm wonderin' how safeit'll be fer us. "

"I'll look after him, " said Slone. 

Bostil nodded as if he had expected Slone to refuse to let any riderput the stallion away for the night. Wildfire would not go into thebarn, and Slone led him into one of the high-barred corrals. Bostilwaited, talking with his friends, until Slone returned, and then theywent 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 thewindows shone bright through the darkness under the cottonwoods. Bostilhalted 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 thehearth. Lucy came running in to meet them. It did not escape Bostil'skeen eyes that she was dressed in her best white dress. He had neverseen 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 shewelcomed his guests. Slone, who had hung back, was last in turn. Lucygreeted him as she had the others. Slone met her with awkwardconstraint. The gray had not left his face. Lucy looked up at himagain, 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 thetruth. She flashed a look from Slone to her father. 

"Until to-day we never had a big race that something dreadful didn'thappen, " said Lucy. "This was my day--my race. And, oh! I wanted it topass without--without--"

"Wal, Lucy dear, " replied Bostil, as she faltered. "Nothin' came offthet'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 theKing an' Sarch. Slone needs a drink an' somethin' to eat, same as allof us. "

Lucy's color returned and her smile, but Bostil noted that, while shewas serving them and brightly responsive to compliments, she gave morethan one steady glance at Slone. She was deep, thought Bostil, and itangered him a little that she showed interest in what concerned thisstrange rider. 

Then they had dinner, with twelve at table. The wives of Bostil's threefriends had been helping Aunt Jane prepare the feast, and they added tothe merriment. Bostil was not much given to social intercourse--hewould have preferred to be with his horses and riders--but this nighthe outdid himself as host, amazed his sister Jane, who evidentlythought he drank too much, and delighted Lucy. Bostil's outwardappearance and his speech and action never reflected all the workingsof his mind. No one would ever know the depth of his bitterdisappointment at the outcome of the race. With Creech's Blue Roan outof the way, another horse, swifter and more dangerous, had come alongto spoil the King's chance. Bostil felt a subtly increasingcovetousness in regard to Wildfire, and this colored all his talk andaction. The upland country, vast and rangy, was for Bostil too small tohold Sage King and Wildfire unless they both belonged to him. And whenold Cal Blinn gave a ringing toast to Lucy, hoping to live to see herup on Wildfire in the grand race that must be run with the King, Bostilfelt stir in him the birth of a subtle, bitter fear. At first he mockedit. He--Bostil--afraid to race! It was a lie of the excited mind. Herepudiated it. Insidiously it returned. He drowned it down--smotheredit with passion. Then the ghost of it remained, hauntingly. 

After dinner Bostil with the men went down to Brackton's, where Sloneand the winners of the day received their prizes. 

"Why, it's more money than I ever had in my whole life!" exclaimedSlone, gazing incredulously at the gold. 

Bostil was amused and pleased, and back of both amusement and pleasurewas the old inventive, driving passion to gain his own ends. 

Bostil was abnormally generous in many ways; monstrously selfish in oneway. 

"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 theswitchin' of a hoss's tail. " He drew Slone a little aside from theothers, who were interested in Brackton's delivery of the differentprizes. "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 thedifficulties of the job offered. It was no news to Bostil that he wasat 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 yellowcoin you're jinglin'. A roamin' rider never builds no corral!"

"Thank you, Bostil, " replied Slone, earnestly. "I'll think it over. Itwould seem kind of tame now to go back to wild-horse wranglin', afterI've caught Wildfire. I'll think it over. Maybe I'll do it, if you'resure I'm good enough with rope an' horse. "

"Wal, by Gawd!" blurted out Bostil. "Holley says he'd rather youthrowed 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 hispalm. 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 adoor into a small room, half full of stores and track. The lantern onlydimly 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'sthis? 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 thiscommunity, " replied Brackton. "He's only fallen in a fit. Fust off Ireckoned 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 aminnit, son, " and then he closed the door. "Joel's been on my handssince the flood cut him off from home, " said Brackton. "An' he's beensome trial. But nobody else would have done nothin' for him, so I hadto. I reckon I felt sorry for him. He cried like a baby thet had lostits mother. Then he gets wild-lookin' an' raved around. When I wasn'tbusy I kept an eye on him. But some of the time I couldn't, an' hestole drinks, which made him wuss. An' when I seen he was tryin' tosneak one of my guns, I up an' gets suspicious. Once he said, 'My dad'shosses are goin' to starve, an' I'm goin' to kill somebody!' He was outof his head an' dangerous. Wal, I was worried some, but all I could dowas lock up my guns. Last night I caught him confabin' with some menout in the dark, behind the store. They all skedaddled except Joel, butI 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 NEVERDRIFTED OFF. Fer the night of the flood I went down there myself an'tied the ropes. They never come untied. Somebody cut them--jest beforethe flood--to make sure my dad's hosses couldn't be crossed. Somebodyfiggered the river an' the flood. An' if my dad's hosses starve I'mgoin' to kill somebody!'"

Brackton took up the lantern and placed a hand on the door ready to goout. 

"Then a rider punched Joel--I never seen who--an' Joel had a fit. Idragged 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 Lucycame to his room to say good night. He knew she had come to say morethan that. 

"Hello, daughter!" he said. "Aren't you ashamed to come facin' yourpoor old dad?"

Lucy eyed him dubiously. "No, I'm not ashamed. But I'm still alittle--afraid. "

"I'm harmless, child. I'm a broken man. When you put Sage King out ofthe race you broke me. "

"Dad, that isn't funny. You make me an--angry when you hint I didsomething underhand. "

"Wal, you didn't consult ME. "

"I thought it would be fun to surprise you all. Why, you're alwaysdelighted with a surprise in a race, unless it beats you. .. . Then, itwas my great and only chance to get out in front of the King. Oh, howgrand it'd have been! Dad, I'd have run away from him the same as theothers!"

"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 wasdifferent this time, however, for it ended in Lucy saying Bostil wouldnever risk another race. That stung Bostil, and it cost him an effortto 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 beforeBostil found himself intensely interested. Soon he became absorbed. That was the most thrilling and moving kind of romance to him, like hisrider'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, hethought, a little wistful and wondering, as if a strange and gravething 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'slove, but unaccountably he could not put the question. The girl was astrue as ever--as good as gold. Bostil feared a secret that might hurthim. Just as sure as life was there and death but a step away, somerider, 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 beggarlyrider. Such a man as Wetherby ought to win Lucy's hand. And Bostil didnot want to know too much at present; he did not want hisswift-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 ofteasing. 

"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 waseasy 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'llbeat him up bad. "

"Then you'd be a brute!" retorted Lucy. 

"Wal, mebbe, " returned Bostil, secretly delighted and surprised atLucy's failure to see through him. But she was looking inward. Hewondered what hid there deep in her. "But I can't stand for the nerveof 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 saidhe'd never have let me meet him out there alone--unless--he--he lovedme--and as our neighbors and the riders would learn of it--and talk--hewanted you and them to know he'd asked to--to marry me. "

"Wal, he's a square young man!" ejaculated Bostil, involuntarily. Itwas hard for Bostil to hide his sincerity and impulsiveness; muchharder than to hide unworthy attributes. Then he got back on the othertrack. "That'll make me treat him decent, so when he rides up to askfor you I'll let him off with, 'No!"

Lucy dropped her head. Bostil would have given all he had, except hishorses, 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. ". .. Sohe'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. Bostilinstinctively felt what she then needed was her mother. Her mother wasdead, and he was only a rough, old, hard rider. He did not know what todo--to say. His heart softened and he clasped her close. It hurt himkeenly to realize that he might have been a better, kinder father if itwere not for the fear that she would find him out. But that proved heloved 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 suddenlychanged her mind. Subtly the child vanished--a woman remained. Lucy satup self-possessed once more. Some powerfully impelling thought hadtransformed her. Bostil's keen sense gathered that what she would nottell was not hers to reveal. For herself, she was the soul ofsimplicity and frankness. 

"Days ago I told him I cared for him, " she went on. "But I forbade himto speak of it to me. He promised. I wanted to wait till after therace--till after I had found courage to confess to you. He broke hisword. .. . Today when he put me up on Wildfire he--he suddenly lost hishead. "

The slow scarlet welled into Lucy's face and her eyes grew shamed, butbravely she kept facing her father. 

"He--he pulled me off--he hugged me--he k-kissed me. .. . Oh, it wasdreadful--shameful! . .. Then I gave him back--some--something he hadgiven 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 oldhorseman! "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 rememberI did much the same to your mother. She raised the devil, but I neverseen as she cared any less for me. "

"I'll never forgive him, " Lucy cried, passionately. "I hate him. A manwho breaks his word in one thing will do it in another. "

Bostil sadly realized that his little girl had reached womanhood andlove, and with them the sweet, bitter pangs of life. He realized alsothat here was a crisis when a word--an unjust or lying word from himwould forever ruin any hope that might still exist for Slone. Bostilrealized 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 inlove--wal, your old daddy might be dead!"

She grew as white as her dress. "Oh, Dad! I KNEW something hadhappened, " she cried, reaching for him. 

Then Bostil told her how Dick Sears had menaced him--how Slone hadfoiled the horse-thief. He told the story bluntly, but eloquently, withall a rider's praise. Lucy rose with hands pressed against her breast. When had Bostil seen eyes like those--dark, shining, wonderful? Ah! heremembered 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 bootagainst the wall. "I reckon I'll never let her marry Slone, but I justhad to tell her what I think of him!"

CHAPTER XIV

Slone lay wide awake under an open window, watching the stars glimmerthrough the rustling foliage of the cottonwoods. Somewhere a lonesomehound bayed. Very faintly came the silvery tinkle of running water. 

For five days Slone had been a guest of Bostil's, and the whole fivedays 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 mydad!" she had said. "It was brave. .. . But don't let dad fool you. Don'tbelieve in his kindness. Above all, don't ride for him! He only wantsWildfire, 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 ceasedimportuning him to accept his offers. But for Lucy, Slone would haveaccepted. 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 exceptin what pertained to fast horses; there he was impossible. 

The great stallion that Slone had nearly sacrificed his life to catchwas 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 thestar-studded sky--miserably unhappy all on account of that horse. Almost he hated him. What pride he had felt in Wildfire! How he hadgloried in the gift of the stallion to Lucy! Then, on the morning ofthe race had come that unexpected, incomprehensible and wild act ofwhich he had been guilty. Yet not to save his life, his soul, could heregret it! Was it he who had been responsible, or an unknown savagewithin him? He had kept his word to Lucy, when day after day he hadburned with love until that fatal moment when the touch of her, as helifted her to Wildfire's saddle, had made a madman out of him. He hadswept her into his arms and held her breast to his, her face beforehim, 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 hehad fallen, what he had forfeited. In his amaze at himself, in hishumility and shame, he had not been able to say a word in his owndefense. She did not know yet that his act had been ungovernable andthat he had not known what he was doing till too late. And she hadfinished with: "I'll ride Wildfire in the race--but I won't havehim--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 anddespair. He lived over in mind all the time between the race and thishour when he lay there sleepless and full of remorse. His mind was likea 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 wordswhen, out there under the looming monuments, she had accepted Wildfire!She had been an impulsive child. Her scorn and fury that morning of therace had left nothing for him except footless fancies. She had mistakenlove 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 therewere things Slone could not fathom--the wilful, contradictory, proudand cold and unaccountably sweet looks and actions of the girl. Theyhaunted Slone. They made him conscious he had a mind and tortured himwith his development. But he had no experience with girls to comparewith what was happening now. It seemed that accepted fact andremembered scorn and cold certainty were somehow at variance withhitherto unknown intuitions and instincts. Lucy avoided him, if bychance she encountered him alone. When Bostil or Aunt Jane or any oneelse was present Lucy was kind, pleasant, agreeable. What made herflush red at sight of him and then, pale? Why did she often at table orin the big living-room softly brush against him when it seemed shecould have avoided that? Many times he had felt some inconceivabledrawing power, and looked up to find her eyes upon him, strange eyesfull of mystery, that were suddenly averted. Was there any meaningattachable to the fact that his room was kept so tidy and neat, thatevery day something was added to its comfort or color, that he foundfresh flowers whenever he returned, or a book, or fruit, or a daintymorsel to eat, and once a bunch of Indian paint-brush, wild flowers ofthe desert that Lucy knew he loved? Most of all, it was Lucy's eyeswhich haunted Slone--eyes that had changed, darkened, lost theiraudacious flash, and yet seemed all the sweeter. The glances he caught, which he fancied were stolen--and then derided his fancy--thrilled himto his heart. Thus Slone had spent waking hours by day and night, madwith love and remorse, tormented one hour by imagined grounds for hopeand resigned to despair the next. 

Upon the sixth morning of his stay at Bostil's Slone rose withsomething of his former will reasserting itself. He could not remain inBostil's home any longer unless he accepted Bostil's offer, and thiswas not to be thought of. With a wrench Slone threw off the softeningindecision and hurried out to find Bostil while the determination washot. 

Bostil was in the corral with Wildfire. This was the second time Slonehad found him there. Wildfire appeared to regard Bostil with a muchbetter favor than he did his master. As Slone noted this a little heatstole along his veins. That was gall to a rider. 

"I like your hoss, " said Bostil, with gruff frankness. But a tinge ofred 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'mgrateful. But it's time I was tellin' you. "

"Why can't you?" demanded Bostil, straightening up with a glint in hisbig 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 sayas 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. .. . " Bostilbroke 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 thequick 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. Whenhe faced around again he was another man. Slone felt the powerfuldriving passion of this old horse-trader. 

"Slone, I'll give you pick of a hundred mustangs an' a thousand dollarsfor Wildfire!"

So he unmasked his power in the face of a beggarly rider! Though itstruck Slone like a thunderbolt, he felt amused. But he did not showthat. 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 letme tell you--you CAN'T BUY my horse!"

The great veins swelled and churned in Bostil's bull neck; a thick andugly contortion worked in his face; his eyes reflected a sick rage. 

Slone saw that two passions shook Bostil--one, a bitter, terribledisappointment, and the other, the passion of a man who could not brookbeing crossed. It appeared to Slone that the best thing he could do wasto get away quickly, and to this end he led Wildfire out of the corralto the stable courtyard, and there quickly saddled him. Then he wentinto 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'srage apparently had passed or had been smothered. 

"See here, " he began, in thick voice, "don't be a d--- fool an' ruinyour chance in life. I'll--"

"Bostil, my one chance was ruined--an' you know who did it, " repliedSlone, 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'tride 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 andwere standing open-mouthed. Slone gathered from their manner andexpression 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 framevibrated with a slight start. 

"Wildfire would run off with your favorite--an' you wouldn't likethat, " answered Slone. It was his rider's hot blood that prompted himto launch this taunt. He could not help it. 

"You wild-hoss chaser, " roared Bostil, "your Wildfire may be a bloodykiller, 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 signsthat 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. Yourwild 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 precioustreasure had been broken; and he burst out into a torrent of incoherentspeech, apparently reasons why this and that were so. Slone did notmake out what Bostil meant and he did not care. When Bostil got out ofbreath Slone said:

"We're both wastin' talk. An' I'm not wantin' you to call me a liartwice. . .. 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. Thehawk-eyed old rider may have been square, but he was then thinking onlyof Bostil. 

"What am I up, against here?" demanded Slone. "Am I goin' to be shotbecause I'm takin' my own part? Holley, you an' the rest of your pardsare all afraid of this old devil. But I'm not--an' you stay out ofthis. "

"Wal, son, you needn't git riled, " replied Holley, placatingly. "I wasonly tryin' to stave off talk you might be sorry for. "

"Sorry for nothin'! I'm goin' to make this great horse-trader, thisrich an' mighty rancher, this judge of grand horses, this BOSTIL! . .. I'm goin' to make him race the King or take water!" Then Slone turnedto Bostil. That worthy evidently had been stunned by the rider whodared call him to his face. "Come on! Fetch the King! Let your ownriders judge the race!"

Bostil struggled both to control himself and to speak. "Naw! I ain'tgoin' 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 knowhe can outrun the King an' that's why you want to buy him. "

Slone caught his breath then. He realized suddenly, at Bostil's palingface, that perhaps he had dared too much. Yet, maybe the truth flunginto this hard old rider's teeth was what he needed more than anythingelse. Slone divined, rather than saw, that he had done an unprecedentedthing. 

"I'll go now, Bostil. "

Slone nodded a good-by to the riders, and, turning away, he led the twohorses down the lane toward the house. It scarcely needed sight of Lucyunder the cottonwoods to still his anger and rouse his regret. Lucy sawhim coming, and, as usual, started to avoid meeting him, when sight ofthe 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 evidentlyguessed 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 handupon his arm--a touch that thrilled him. "Lin! there's blood--on yourface. Don't--don't tell me Dad hit you?"

"I should say not, " declared Slone, quickly lifting his hand to hisface. "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 thendrew back quickly, as if suddenly conscious of her actions and words. 

Then Slone began to relate everything that had been said, and before heconcluded his story his heart gave a wild throb at the telltale faceand 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 youhadn'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. "Istarted back to fetch my things out of my room. That's as far as mymuddled thoughts got. "

"Your things? . .. Oh!" Suddenly she grew intensely white. The littlefreckles that had been so indistinct stood out markedly, and it was asif she had never had any tan. One brown hand went to her breast, theother 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 stoodthere transfixed and thrilling. Even Bostil's heavy tread did not breakthe trance, and a meeting would have been unavoidable had not Bostilturned down the path that led to the back of the house. Slone, with astart collecting his thoughts, hurried into the little room that hadbeen his and gathered up his few belongings. He was careful to leavebehind the gifts of guns, blankets, gloves, and other rider'sbelongings which Bostil had presented to him. Thus laden, he wentoutside and, tingling with emotions utterly sweet and bewildering, heled 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 reasonablysure his horses would be safe there, but he meant to keep a mightyclose watch on them. And old Brackton, as if he read Slone's mind, saidthis: "Keep your eye on thet daffy boy, Joel Creech. He hangs round myplace, sleeps out somewheres, an' he's crazy about hosses. "

Slone did not need any warning like that, nor any information to makehim curious regarding young Creech. Lucy had seen to that, and, infact, Slone was anxious to meet this half-witted fellow who had sogrievously offended and threatened Lucy. That morning, however, Creechdid not put in an appearance. The village had nearly returned to itsnormal state now, and the sleepy tenor of its way. The Indians, hadbeen the last to go, but now none remained. The days were hot while thesun 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 thefreighting between the Ford and Durango. "What would I do withWildfire?" was Slone's questioning reply, and Brackton held up hishands. A later incident earned more of Slone's attention. He hadobserved a man in Brackton's store, and it chanced that this man heardSlone's reply to Brackton's offer, and he said: "You'll sure need tocorral thet red stallion. Grandest hoss I ever seen!"

That praise won Slone, and he engaged in conversation with the man, whosaid his name was Vorhees. It developed soon that Vorhees owned alittle house, a corral, and a patch of ground on a likely site up underthe bluff, and he was anxious to sell cheap because he had a fineopportunity at Durango, where his people lived. What interested Slonemost was the man's remark that he had a corral which could not bebroken into. The price he asked was ridiculously low if the propertywas worth anything. An idea flashed across Slone's mind. He went up toVorhees's place and was much pleased with everything, especially thecorral, which had been built by a man who feared horse-thieves as muchas Bostil. The view from the door of the little cabin was magnificentbeyond compare. Slone remembered Lucy's last words. They rang likebells in his ears. "Don't go--don't!" They were enough to chain him toBostil's Ford until the crack of doom. He dared not dream of what theymeant. He only listened to their music as they pealed over and over inhis ears. 

"Vorhees, are you serious?" he asked. "The money you ask is littleenough. "

"It's enough an' to spare, " replied the man. "An' I'd take it as afavor 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 moneythat had been his prize in the race. He felt elated. He was rich. Heowned two horses--one the grandest in all the uplands, the other thefaithfulest--and he owned a neat little cabin where it was a joy to sitand look out, and a corral which would let him sleep at night, and hehad money to put into supplies and furnishings, and a garden. After hedrank out of the spring that bubbled from under the bluff he toldhimself 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 convincedthat good fortune had knocked at his door at last. And when he returnedto Brackton's he was in an exultant mood. The old storekeeper gave hima nudge and pointed underhand to a young man of ragged aspect sittinggloomily on a box. Slone recognized Joel Creech. The fellow surely madea 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 ofthose contrasting eyes. Yet he did not believe that his strange feelingcame from sight of different-colored eyes. There was an instinct orportent 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 topack up all the supplies, and meanwhile Creech had but few words tosay, 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. Slonefound that Vorhees had left the cabin so clean there was littlecleaning to do. An open fireplace of stone required some repair andthere 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 catchWildfire, nor any easier to get him into the new corral; but at lastSlone saw him safely there. And the bars and locks on the gate mighthave defied any effort to open or break them quickly. Creech wasstanding in the doorway, watching the horses, and somehow Slone saw, orimagined he saw, that Creech wore a different aspect. 

"Grand wild hoss! He did what Blue was a-goin' to do--beat thet thered--d Bostil's King!"

Creech wagged his head. He was gloomy and strange. His eyes wereunpleasant to look into. His face changed. And he mumbled. Slone pitiedhim the more, but wished to see the last of him. Creech stayed on, however, and grew stranger and more talkative during the meal. Herepeated things often--talked disconnectedly, and gave otherindications that he was not wholly right in his mind. Yet Slonesuspected that Creech's want of balance consisted only in whatconcerned horses and the Bostils. And Slone, wanting to learn all hecould, encouraged Creech to talk about his father and the racers andthe river and boat, and finally Bostil. 

Slone became convinced that, whether young Creech was half crazy ornot, he knew his father's horses were doomed, and that the boat at theferry had been cut adrift. Slone could not understand why he wasconvinced, but he was. Finally Creech told how he had gone down to theriver only a day before; how he had found the flood still raging, butmuch lower; how he had worked round the cliffs and had pulled up therope 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. Hewas afeared we'd come across an' git the boat thet night. An' he meantto take away them cut cables. But he hadn't no time. "

"Bostil?" queried Slone, as he gazed hard at Creech. The fellow hadtold that rationally enough. Slone wondered if Bostil could have beenso 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 woundup in dark, mysterious threats. Then Slone caught the name of Lucy. Itabruptly killed his sympathy for Creech. 

"What's the girl got to do with it?" he demanded, angrily. "If you wantto 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 toanger. "What's the use of being decent to you?"

Creech crouched low, his hands digging like claws into the table, as ifhe 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 goneon 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' whenI git through with her I'll tie her on a hoss an' fire the grass! ByGawd! I am!" Livid and wild, he breathed hard as he got up, facingSlone 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 kickedhim the rest of the way. "Go on and have a fit!" cried Slone. "I'mliable to kill you if you don't have one!"

Creech got up and ran down the path, turning twice on the way. Then hedisappeared 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 warnLucy. .. . Lord! I wonder if Bostil could have held back repairin' thatboat, 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 consciousnessbefore he wholly admitted it. Then he set to work cutting the longgrass from the wet and shady nooks under the bluff where the springmade the ground rich. He carried an armful down to the corral. Naggerwas roaming around outside, picking grass for himself. Wildfire snortedas 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 hethis time. When he left the bundle of grass on the ground and wentoutside 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'shand. Slone's feelings had undergone some reaction, though he stillloved the horse. But it was love mixed with bitterness. More than everhe made up his mind that Lucy should have Wildfire. Then he walkedaround 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 sleptlike a log. If it had not been for the ever-present worry and suspenseand longing, in regard to Lucy, he would have been happier than ever hecould remember. Almost at once he had become attached to his littlehome, and the more he labored to make it productive and comfortable thestronger grew his attachment. Practical toil was not conducive todaydreaming, so Slone felt a loss of something vague and sweet. Manytimes he caught himself watching with eager eyes for a glimpse of LucyBostil down there among the cottonwoods. Still, he never saw her, and, in fact, he saw so few villagers that the place began to have aloneliness which endeared it to him the more. Then the view down thegray valley to the purple monuments was always thrillingly memorable toSlone. It was out there Lucy had saved his horse and his life. His keendesert gaze could make out even at that distance the great, darkmonument, gold-crowned, in the shadow of which he had heard Lucy speakwords that had transformed life for him. He would ride out there someday. The spell of those looming grand shafts of colored rock was stillstrong upon him. 

One morning Slone had a visitor--old Brackton. Slone's cordiality diedon his lips before it was half uttered. Brackton's former friendlinesswas not in evidence. Indeed, he looked at Slone with curiosity anddisfavor. 

"Howdy, Slone! I jest wanted to see what you was doin' up hyar, " hesaid. 

Slone spread his hands and explained in few words. 

"So you took over the place, hey? We all figgered thet. But Vorhees wasmum. Fact is, he was sure mysterious. " Brackton sat down and eyed Slonewith 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 oftook a shine to you at first, an' thet's why I come up hyar to tell youit'd be wise fer you to vamoose. "

"What!" exclaimed Slone. 

Brackton repeated substantially what he had said, then, pausing aninstant, continued: "I've no call to give you a hunch, but I'll do itjest because I did like you fust off. "

The old man seemed fussy and nervous and patronizing and disparagingall 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 thehead of this strange attitude of Brackton's, roused Slone's temper. 

"Wal, Joel tells some queer things about you--fer instance, how youtook advantage of little Lucy Bostil, grabbin' her an' maulin' her theway 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 youan' he's tellin' it. When Bostil hears it you'd better be acrost thecanyon!"

Slone felt the hot, sick rush of blood to his face, and humiliation andrage overtook him. 

"Joel's down at my house. He had fits after you beat him, an' he 'ain'tgot over them yet. But he could blab to the riders. Van Sickle'slookin' fer you. An' to-day when I was alone with Joel he told me somemore queer things about you. I shut him up quick. But I ain'tguaranteein' I can keep him shut up. "

"I'll bet you I shut him up, " declared Slone. "What more did the foolsay?"

"Slone, hev you been round these hyar parts---down among themonuments--fer any considerable time?" queried Brackton. 

"Yes, I have--several weeks out there, an' about ten days or so aroundthe 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. Iheard that flood comin' down long before it got here, " replied Slone, deliberately. 

Brackton averted his gaze, and abruptly rose as if the occasion wasended. "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 ofcottonwoods. 

"I'll be darned!" muttered Slone. "Funny old man. Maybe Creech's notthe only loony one hereabouts. "

Slone tried to laugh off the effect of the interview, but it persistedand worried him all day. After supper he decided to walk down into thevillage, and would have done so but for the fact that he saw a manclimbing his path. When he recognized the rider Holley he sensedtrouble, and straightway he became gloomy. Bostil's right-hand mancould not call on him for any friendly reason. Holley came up slowly, awkwardly, after the manner of a rider unused to walking. Slone hadbuilt a little porch on the front of his cabin and a bench, which hehad covered with goatskins. It struck him a little strangely that heshould bend over to rearrange these skins just as Holley approached theporch. 

"Howdy, son!" was the rider's drawled remark. "Sure makes--me--puff toclimb--up this mountain. "

Slone turned instantly, surprised at the friendly tone, doubting hisown ears, and wanting to verify them. He was the more surprised to seeHolley 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 onthe porch step. What could Holley want with him? This old rider wasabove curiosity or gossip. 

"Slone, you ain't holdin' it ag'in me--thet I tried to shut you up theother day?" he drawled, with dry frankness. 

"Why, no, Holley, I'm not. I saw your point. You were right. But Bostilmade me mad. "

"Sure! He'd make anybody mad. I've seen riders bite themselves, theywas so mad at Bostil. You called him, an' you sure tickled all theboys. 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 ridersag'in you, an' this here punchin' of Creech has turned the villagefolks ag'in you. What'd pitch into him fer?"

Slone caught the kindly interest and intent of the rider, and it warmedhim as Brackton's disapproval had alienated him. 

"Wal, I reckon I'd better tell you, " drawled Holley, as Slonehesitated, "thet Lucy wants to know IF you beat up Joel an' WHY youdid. "

"Holley! Did she ask you to find out?"

"She sure did. The girl's worried these days, Slone. .. . You see, youhaven'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 inBostil's camp, even if you hadn't made a fool of yourself, which yousure have. "

Slone dropped his head as admission. 

"What Creech swears he seen you do to Miss Lucy, out there among therocks, where you was hid with Wildfire--is there any truth in thet?"asked Holley, earnestly. "Tell me, Slone. Folks believe it. An' it'shurt you at the Ford. Bostil hasn't heard it yet, an' Lucy she doesn'tknow. But I'm figgerin' thet you punched Joel because he throwed it inyour 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 itlook. "

"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 beserious. "

"Wal, I am. I've been sort of a big brother to Lucy Bostil for eighteenyears. I carried her in these here hands when she weighed no more 'n myspurs. I taught her how to ride--what she knows about hosses. An' sheknows more 'n her dad. I taught her to shoot. I know her better 'nanybody. 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 feryou. An' I'm your friend, Slone. You're goin' to buck up ag'in somehell round here sooner or later. An' you'll need a friend. "

"Thanks--Holley, " replied Slone, unsteadily. He thrilled under the irongrasp 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 moretrouble than Bostil when she hears what Joel Creech is tellin'. Fershe'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 toknow 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 wasfrom thoughts of what shame might befall Lucy. The cold sweat oozed outof every pore. What might not Bostil do? "Holley, I love the girl. SoI--I didn't insult her. Bostil will never understand. An' what's hegoin' 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'mwillin--now--the--way I feel. But I've a temper, and Bostil rubs me thewrong way. "

"Wall leave your gun home, an' fight Bostil. You're pretty husky. Surehe'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'llcare more fer you. She's jest like him in some ways. " Holley pulled outa stubby black pipe and, filling and lighting it, he appeared to growmore 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 ittill 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 comealong--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, Iain't paradin' what I think. I'd git in bad myself. Farlane an' theother boys, they're with Bostil. Van he's to blame fer thet. He'stakin' a dislike to you, right off. An' what he tells Bostil an' theboys about thet race don't agree with what Lucy tells me. Lucy saysWildfire 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 whenMacomber dropped the flag. Lucy says the King got into his stride. Sheknows. An' there Wildfire comes from behind an' climbs all over theKing! . .. 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 hehasn'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'tfiggered about Lucy. You've got her to think of. "

Slone turned on Holley passionately. "You keep hintin' there's a hopefor me, when I know there's none!"

"You're only a boy, " replied Holley. "Son, where there's life there'shope. 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 headto 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 Ilost my head an' made her mad. .. . An'--she said she'd ride him in therace, but wouldn't keep him. But he IS hers. "

"Oho! I see. Slone, I was goin' to advise you to sell Wildfire--all onaccount of Lucy. You're young an' you'd have a big start in life if youwould. But Lucy's your girl an' you give her the hoss. .. . Thet settlesthet!"

"If I go away from here an' leave Wildfire for Lucy--do you think shecould keep him? Wouldn't Bostil take him from her?"

"Wal, son, if he tried thet on Lucy she'd jump Wildfire an' hit yourtrail 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 someidee. I'll go back now. An' say, son, I reckon you'd better hang closeto 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 onlyweakness, so far as I can see. You say too much. "

Holley started down then, his long, clinking spurs digging into thesteep path. He left Slone a prey to deep thoughts at once anxious anddreamy. 

Next day Slone worked hard all day, looking forward to nightfall, expecting that Holley would come up. He tried to resist the sweet andtantalizing anticipation of a message from Lucy, but in vain. The riderhad immeasurably uplifted Slone's hope that Lucy, at least, cared forhim. Not for a moment all day could Slone drive away the hope. Attwilight he was too eager to eat--too obsessed to see the magnificentsunset. But Holley did not come, and Slone went to bed late, half sickwith disappointment. 

The next day was worse. Slone found work irksome, yet he held to it. Onthe third day he rested and dreamed, and grew doubtful again, and thenmoody. On the fourth day Slone found he needed supplies that he mustobtain from the store. He did not forget Holley's warning, but hedisregarded it, thinking there would scarcely be a chance of meetingBostil at midday. 

There were horses standing, bridles down, before Brackton's place, andriders lounging at the rail and step. Some of these men had beenpleasant to Slone on earlier occasions. This day they seemed not to seehim. Slone was tingling all over when he went into the store. Somedeviltry was afoot! He had an angry thought that these riders could nothave minds of their own. Just inside the door Slone encounteredWetherby, the young rancher from Durango. Slone spoke, but Wetherbyonly replied with an insolent stare. Slone did not glance at the man towhom Wetherby was talking. Only a few people were inside the store, andBrackton was waiting upon them. Slone stood back a little in theshadow. Brackton had observed his entrance, but did not greet him. ThenSlone absolutely knew that for him the good will of Bostil's Ford was athing of the past. 

Presently Brackton was at leisure, but he showed no disposition toattend to Slone's wants. Then Slone walked up to the counter and askedfor supplies. 

"Have you got the money?" asked Brackton, as if addressing one he wouldnot trust. 

"Yes, " replied Slone, growing red under an insult that he knew Wetherbyhad heard. 

Brackton handed out the supplies and received the money, without aword. He held his head down. It was a singular action for a man used todealing fairly with every one. Slone felt outraged. He hurried out ofthe place, with shame burning him, with his own eyes downcast, and inhis hurry he bumped square into a burly form. Slone recoiled--lookedup. 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 ajerk, 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'splace, 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 theproperty's mine. "

Slone suffered a pang. The little home had grown dearer and dearer tohim. 

"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 makea deal. "

"We can't agree on any deal, Bostil, " replied Slone, steadily. It wasnot what Bostil said, but the way he said it, the subtle meaning andpower behind it, that gave Slone a sense of menace and peril. These hehad been used to for years; he could meet them. But he was handicappedhere 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, theimpotence 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 makea deal with me. "

"Deal? What about?"

"About your red hoss. "

"Wildfire! . .. No deals, Bostil, " returned Slone, and made as if topass him. 

The big hand that forced Slone back was far from gentle, and again hefelt the quick rush of blood. 

"Mebbe I can tell you somethin' thet'll make you sell Wildfire, " saidBostil. 

"Not if you talked yourself dumb!" flashed Slone. There was no use totry to keep cool with this Bostil, if he talked horses. "I'll raceWildfire against the King. But no more. "

"Race! Wal, we don't run races around here without stakes, " repliedBostil, with deep scorn. "An' what can you bet? Thet little dab ofprize money is gone, an' wouldn't be enough to meet me. You're astrange one in these parts. I've pride an' reputation to uphold. Youbrag of racin' with me--an' you a beggarly rider! . .. You wouldn't havethem clothes an' boots if my girl hadn't fetched them to you. "

The riders behind Bostil laughed. Wetherby's face was there in thedoor, not amused, but hard with scorn and something else. Slone felt asickening, terrible gust of passion. It fairly shook him. And as thewave subsided the quick cooling of skin and body pained him like a burnmade with ice. 

"Yes, Bostil, I'm what you say, " responded Slone, and his voice seemedto fill his ears. "But you're dead wrong when you say I've nothin' tobet 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 feltthe nature of that offer. 

"Ag'in what?" he demanded, hoarsely. 

"YOUR DAUGHTER LUCY!"

One instant the surprise held Bostil mute and motionless. Then heseemed to expand. His huge bulk jerked into motion and he bellowed likea mad bull. 

Slone saw the blow coming, made no move to avoid it. The big fist tookhim square on the mouth and chin and laid him flat on the ground. Sightfailed Slone for a little, and likewise ability to move. But he did notlose consciousness. His head seemed to have been burst into rays andred mist that blurred his eyes. Then these cleared away, leavingintense pain. He started to get up, his brain in a whirl. Where was hisgun? 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 allover! He could do it again. But Bostil was Lucy's father!

Slone gathered up the packages of supplies, and without looking at themen he hurried away. He seemed possessed of a fury to turn and runback. Some force, like an invisible hand, withheld him. When he reachedthe cabin he shut himself in, and lay on his bunk, forgetting that theplace 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 hecomposed 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 alight. But he went out to take grass and water to the horses. When hereturned to the cabin a man was standing at the porch. Slone recognizedHolley'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 aminnit. . .. Here--a letter from Lucy. .. . An', son, don't git the ideethet I'll go back on you. "

Slone took the letter with trembling fingers. All the fury and gloominstantly fled. Lucy had written him! He could not speak. 

"Son, I'm double-crossin' the boss, right this minnit!" whisperedHolley, hoarsely. "An' the same time I'm playin' Lucy's game. If Bostilfinds out he'll kill me. I mustn't be ketched up here. But I won't losetrack of you--wherever you go. "

Holley slipped away stealthily in the dusk, leaving Slone with athrobbing 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 awkwardthat he had difficulty in kindling blaze enough to see to read. Theletter 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 tothat--and his haste to learn what Lucy said bewildered him. At firstall the words blurred:

"Come at once to the bench in the cottonwoods. I'll meet you there. Myheart is breaking. It's a lie--a lie--what they say. I'll swear youwere with me the night the boat was cut adrift. I KNOW you didn't dothat. I know who. .. . Oh, come! I will stick to you. I will run off withyou. I love you!"

CHAPTER XV

Slone's heart leaped to his throat, and its beating choked hisutterances of rapture and amaze and dread. But rapture dominated theother emotions. He could scarcely control the impulse to run to meetLucy, without a single cautious thought. 

He put the precious letter inside his blouse, where it seemed to warmhis 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 cabinsand trees lay silver in the moon-light. A lonesome coyote barked in thedistance. All else was still. The air was cool, sweet, fragrant. Thereappeared to be a glamour of light, of silence, of beauty over thedesert. 

Slone kept under the dark lee of the bluff and worked around so that hecould be above the village, where there was little danger of meetingany one. Yet presently he had to go out of the shadow into themoon-blanched lane. Swift and silent as an Indian he went along, keeping in the shade of what trees there were, until he came to thegrove of cottonwoods. The grove was a black mystery lanced by silverrays. 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 andcapture of Wildfire, at one time the desire of his heart, were asnothing to this. Love had called him--and life--and he knew death hungin the balance. If Bostil found him seeking Lucy there would be bloodspilled. Slone quaked at the thought, for the cold and ghastlyoppression following the death he had meted out to Sears came to him attimes. But such thoughts were fleeting; only one thought really heldhis 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 barsof shadow, and stealthily he followed this, keen of eye and ear, stopping at every rustle. He well knew the bench Lucy had mentioned. Itwas 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 onlymoonlight. He slipped on and on, and when beyond the branching pathsthat led toward the house he breathed freer. The grove appeareddeserted. At last he crossed the runway from the spring, smelled thecool, wet moss and watercress, and saw the big cottonwood, looming darkabove the other trees. A patch of moonlight brightened a little gladejust at the edge of dense shade cast by the cottonwood. Here the benchstood. 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. Thedisappointment, the sudden relaxation, was horrible. Then a white, slender shape flashed from beside the black tree-trunk and flew towardhim. It was noiseless, like a specter, and swift as the wind. Was hedreaming? He felt so strange. Then--the white shape reached him and heknew. 

Lucy leaped into his arms. 

"Lin! Lin! Oh, I'm so--so glad to see you!" she whispered. She seemedbreathless, keen, new to him, not in the least afraid nor shy. Slonecould only hold her. He could not have spoken, even if she had givenhim a chance. "I know everything--what they accuse you of--how theriders treated you--how my dad struck you. Oh! . .. He's a brute! I hatehim 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! . .. DearLin, that blow may have hurt you dreadfully--shamed you because youcouldn't strike back at my dad--but it reached me, too. It hurt me. Itwoke my heart. .. . Where--where did he hit you? Oh, I've seen him hitmen! His terrible fists!"

"Lucy, never mind, " whispered Slone. "I'd stood to be shot just forthis. "

He felt her hands softly on his face, feeling around tenderly till theyfound the swollen bruise on mouth and chin. 

"Ah! . .. He struck you. And I--I'll kiss you, " she whispered. "Ifkisses will make it well--it'll be well!"

She seemed strange, wild, passionate in her tenderness. She lifted herface and kissed him softly again and again and again, till the touchthat 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 timessince 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 ofhim. His dread, his resignation, his shame, all sped forever in thedeep, full breath of relief with which he cast off that burden. Hetasted the nectar of happiness, the first time in his life. He liftedhis head--never, he knew, to lower it again. He would be true to whatshe had made him. 

"Come in the shade, " he whispered, and with his arm round her he ledher to the great tree-trunk. "Is it safe for you here? An' how long canyou 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 mywindow. 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, thegleam of her eyes, the white, daring flash of her face in the shadow ofthe moon--these told him she was his. How it had come about was beyondhim, but he realized the truth. What a girl! This was the same nervewhich she showed when she had run Wildfire out in front of the fleetesthorses in the uplands. 

"Tell me, then, " he began, quietly, with keen gaze roving under thetrees 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 bebecause I punched Joel Creech. I felt it before I met Bostil at thestore. He taunted me. We had bitter words. He told before all of themhow the outfit I wore you gave me. An' then I dared him to race theKing. 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. Fordays a race between Wildfire and the King had been in the air. There'llnever be peace in Bostil's Ford again till that race is run. "

"But, Lucy, could Bostil's wantin' Wildfire an' hatin' me because Iwon't sell--could that ruin me here at the Ford?"

"It could. But, Lin, there's more. Oh, I hate to tell you!" shewhispered, passionately. "I thought you'd know. .. . Joel Creech sworeyou cut the ropes on the ferry-boat and sent it adrift. "

"The loon!" ejaculated Slone, and he laughed low in both anger andridicule. "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 onSarch--I'll--I'll. .. . " She ended with a little gasp and leaned a momentagainst Slone. He felt her heart beat--felt the strong clasp of herhands. She was indeed Bostil's flesh and blood, and there was that inher dangerous to arouse. 

"Lin, the folks here are queer, " she resumed, more calmly. "For longyears Dad has ruled them. They see with his eyes and talk with hisvoice. Joel Creech swore you cut those cables. Swore he trailed you. Brackton believed him. Van believed him. They told my father. Andhe--my dad--God forgive him! he jumped at that. The village as oneperson now believes you sent the boat adrift so Creech's horses couldnot 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 ownfather!"

"My God!" gasped Slone, as the full signification burst upon him. Thenhis next thought was for Lucy. "Listen, dear--you mustn't say that, " heentreated. "He's your father. He's a good man every way except whenhe's after horses. Then he's half horse. I understand him. I feel sorryfor him. .. . An' if he's throwed the blame on me, all right. I'll standit. What do I care? I was queered, anyhow, because I wouldn't part withmy horse. It can't matter so much if people think I did that just tohelp win a race. But if they knew your--your father did it, an' ifCreech's horses starve, why it'd be a disgrace for him--an' you. "

"Lin Slone--you'll accept the blame!" she whispered, with wide, darkeyes 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 andtremulous. "Lin, you make me love you so--it--it hurts!" And she seemedabout to fling herself into his arms again. There was a strangenessabout her--a glory. "But you'll not take the shame of that act. For Iwon't let you. I'll tell my father I was with you when the boat was cutloose. He'll believe me. "

"Yes, an' he'll KILL me!" groaned Slone. "Good Lord! Lucy, don't dothat!"

"I will! An' he'll not kill you. Lin, Dad took a great fancy to you. Iknow that. He thinks he hates you. But in his heart he doesn't. If hegot hold of Wildfire--why, he'd never be able to do enough for you. Henever could make it up. What do you think? I told him you hugged andkissed 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 mymother! . .. No, Lin, Dad'd never kill you for anything except a furyabout horses. All the fights he ever had were over horse deals. The twomen--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 thatnight. "

"Lin, if the occasion comes, I will--I couldn't help it, " replied Lucy. 

"Then fight shy of the occasion, " he rejoined, earnestly. "For thatwould be the end of Lin Slone!"

"Then--what on earth can--we do?" Lucy said, with sudden break ofspirit. 

"I think we must wait. You wrote in your letter you'd stick tome--you'd--" He could not get the words out, the thought so overcamehim. 

"If it comes to a finish, I'll go with you, " Lucy returned, withpassion rising again. 

"Oh! to ride off with you, Lucy--to have you all to myself--I daren'tthink of it. But that's only selfish. "

"Maybe it's not so selfish as you believe. If you left theFord--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 stoodsilent, straining toward each other. He held the slight form, sopliant, so responsive, so alive, close to him, and her face lay hiddenon his breast; and he looked out over her head into the quiveringmoonlit shadows. The night was as still as one away on the desert farfrom the abode of men. It was more beautiful than any dream of a nightin which he had wandered far into strange lands where wild horses wereand forests lay black under moon-silvered peaks. 

"We'll run--then--if it comes to a finish, " said Slone, huskily. "ButI'll wait. I'll stick it out here. I'll take what comes. So--maybe I'llnot 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 allegeddisgrace. 

"You torment him, " remonstrated Slone. "You set him against us. Itwould be better to keep still. "

"But my blood is up!" she said, and she pounded his shoulder with herfist. "I'll fight--I'll fight! . .. I couldn't avoid Van. It was Holleywho told me Van was threatening you. And when I met Van he told me howeverybody said you insulted me--had been worse than a drunkenrider--and that he'd beat you half to death. So I told Van Joel Creechmight have seen us--I didn't doubt that--but he didn't see that I likedbeing 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'tit?"

"That was what made me so furious, " she admitted, shyly. "I wassurprised when you grabbed me off Wildfire. And my heartbeat--beat--beat so when you hugged me. And when you kissed me I--I waspetrified. I knew I liked it then--and I was furious with myself. "

Slone drew a long, deep breath of utter enchantment. "You'll take backWildfire?"

"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 towarn 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--bothhave threatened you. "

"I'm afraid of Cordts, " replied Lucy, with a shiver. "You should haveseen 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 torope 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 alwayspack 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 shootas 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 justyet. 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 troublewill lighten. An' I'll wait at night--for you!"

He kissed her good-by and watched the slight form glide away, flit toand fro, white in the dark patches, grow indistinct and vanish. He wasleft alone in the silent grove. 

Slone stole back to the cabin and lay sleepless and tranced, watchingthe stars, till late that night. 

All the next day he did scarcely anything but watch and look after hishorses 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 whiteclouds rolling down from the canyon country. No rain had fallen at theFord, though storms near by had cooled the air. At sunset Slone saw arainbow bending down, ruddy and gold, connecting the purple of cloudwith 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 awild and strange spectacle. Twilight followed, and appeared to rise tomeet 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 thegrove, there to wait for Lucy. She came so quickly he scarcely feltthat he waited at all; and then the time spent with her, sweet, fleeting, precious, left him stronger to wait for her again, to holdhimself in, to cease his brooding, to learn faith in something deeperthan he could fathom. 

The next day he tried to work, but found idle waiting made the time flyswifter because in it he could dream. In the dark of the rustlingcottonwoods he met Lucy, as eager to see him as he was to see her, tender, loving, remorseful--a hundred sweet and bewildering things allso new, so unbelievable to Slone. 

That night he learned that Bostil had started for Durango with some ofhis riders. This trip surprised Slone and relieved him likewise, forDurango was over two hundred miles distant, and a journey there evenfor the hard riders was a matter of days. 

"He left no orders for me, " Lucy said, "except to behave myself. .. . Isthis behaving?" she whispered, and nestled close to Slone, audacious, tormenting as she had been before this dark cloud of trouble. "But heleft orders for Holley to ride with me and look after me. Isn't thatfunny? Poor old Holley! He hates to doublecross Dad, he says. "

"I'm glad Holley's to look after you, " replied Slone. "Yesterday I sawyou 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 whipJoel Creech with my quirt. And if he kept after me I'd let Sarch runhim 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 ifspeaking to himself. "I never failed on a trail. I could track you overbare rock. "

"Lin, I'll leave a trail, so never fear, " she replied. "But don'tborrow 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 wethought. Oh, I hope so! . .. How is my horse, Wildfire? I want to ridehim 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, hearingthe clip-clop of unshod ponies, went outside to look. One part of thelane he could see plainly, and into it stalked Joel Creech, leading theleanest and gauntest ponies Slone had ever seen. A man as lean andgaunt as the ponies stalked behind. 

The sight shocked Slone. Joel Creech and his father! Slone had noproof, because he had never seen the elder Creech, yet strangely hefelt convinced of it. And grim ideas began to flash into his mind. Creech would hear who was accused of cutting the boat adrift. Whatwould he say? If he believed, as all the villagers believed, thenBostil's Ford would become an unhealthy place for Lin Slone. Where werethe 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 neverconsidered 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 strodedown his path, out into the lane toward Brackton's. Whatever beforeboded ill to Slone had been nothing to what menaced him now. He wouldhave a man to face--a man whom repute called just, but stern. 

Before Slone reached the vicinity of the store he saw riders come outto meet the Creech party. It so happened there were more riders thanusually frequented Brackton's at that hour. The old storekeeper camestumbling out and raised his hands. The riders could be heard, loud-voiced and excited. Slone drew nearer, and the nearer he got theswifter he strode. Instinct told him that he was making the right move. He would face this man whom he was accused of ruining. The poormustangs hung their heads dejectedly. 

"Bags of bones, " some rider loudly said. 

And then Slone drew dose to the excited group. Brackton held thecenter; 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 ofhosses?"

There was scarcely a sound. All the riders were still. Slone fastenedhis eyes on Creech. He saw a gaunt, haggard face almost black withdust--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 noshame for. "So help me Gawd--I'm sorry!" was his broken exclamation. 

Slone had forgotten himself and possible revelation concerning him. Butwhen Holley appeared close to him with a significant warning look, Slone grew keen once more on his own account. He felt a hot flameinside him--a deep and burning anger at the man who might have savedCreech's horses. And he, like Brackton, felt sorrow for Creech, and arider's sense of loss, of pain. These horses--these dumbbrutes--faithful and sometimes devoted, had to suffer an agonizingdeath because of the selfishness of men. 

"I reckon we'd all like to hear what come off, Creech, if you don'tfeel 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 onin. All of you! We're glad to see Creech home. "

The riders filed in after Brackton and the Creeches. Holley stayedclose beside Slone, both of them in the background. 

"I heerd the flood comin' thet night, " said Creech to his silent andtense-faced listeners. "I heerd it miles up the canyon. 'Peared abigger roar than any flood before. As it happened, I was alone, an' ittook time to git the hosses up. If there'd been an Indian with me--oreven Joel--mebbe--" His voice quavered slightly, broke, and then heresumed. "Even when I got the hosses over to the landin' it wasn't toolate--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 tomake 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 therocks. All the feed on my place was gone. There wasn't nothin' to dobut try to git out. The Piutes said there wasn't no chance north--nowater--no grass--an' so I decided to go south, if we could climb overthet 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 thePiutes. 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 agame hoss. Then the Piutes took to workin' in an' out an' around, notto git out, but to find a little grazin'. I never knowed the earth wasso barren. One by one them hosses went down. .. . An' at last, Icouldn't--I couldn't see Blue Roan starvin'--dyin' right before myeyes--an' I shot him, too. .. . An' what hurts me most now is thet Ididn'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 myselfbut for them. .. . We circled an' crossed them red cliffs an' then thestrip of red sand, an' worked down into the canyon. Under the wall wasa long stretch of beach--sandy--an' at the head of this we foundBostil'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. "Whatabout it?"

"It was cut loose jest before the flood. "

Manifestly Brackton expected this to be staggering to Creech. But hedid not even show surprise. 

"There's a rider here named Slone--a wild-hoss wrangler, " went onBrackton, "an' Joel swears this Slone cut the boat loose so's he'd havea better chance to win the race. Joel swears he tracked this fellerSlone. "

For Slone the moment was fraught with many emotions, but not one ofthem was fear. He did not need the sudden force of Holley's stronghand, 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 wereterrible eyes to look into, yet they held no menace for him. "An' Joelaccused 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, blackhand closed on the boy's shoulder. Joel cringed under it. "Son, you'velied. What for?"

Joel showed abject fear of his father. "He's gone on Lucy--an' I seenhim with her, " muttered the boy. 

"An' you lied to hurt Slone?"

Joel would not reply to this in speech, though that was scarcely neededto show he had lied. He seemed to have no sense of guilt. Creech eyedhim 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 thinkcuttin' 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 hossescould have been crossed. "

Slone stepped back, forgotten, it seemed to him. Both joy and sorrowswayed him. He had been exonerated. But this hard and gloomy Creech--heknew 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 boatfast 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 thiswas a long stretch with good landin' way below on the other side. Wegot 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 theway 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 seenme comin' out a ways. "

"Creech, was there anythin' left in thet boat?" began Brackton, withintense but pondering curiosity. "Anythin' on the ropes--or so--thetmight give an idee who cut her loose?"

Creech made no reply to that. The gloom burned darker in his eyes. Heseemed a man with a secret. He trusted no one there. These men were allfriends of his, but friends under strange conditions. His silence wastragic, and all about the man breathed vengeance. 

CHAPTER XVI

No moon showed that night, and few stars twinkled between theslow-moving clouds. The air was thick and oppressive, full of the day'sheat that had not blown away. A dry storm moved in dry majesty acrossthe horizon, and the sheets and ropes of lightning, blazing whitebehind the black monuments, gave weird and beautiful grandeur to thedesert. 

Lucy Bostil had to evade her aunt to get out of the house, and thewindow, that had not been the means of exit since Bostil left, oncemore 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. Forsome reason unknown to Lucy, Holley had also been hard to manage, particularly to-day. Lucy certainly did not want Holley to accompanyher on her nightly rendezvous with Slone. She changed her light gown tothe darker and thicker riding-habit. 

There was a longed-for, all-satisfying flavor in this nightadventure--something that had not all to do with love. The stealth, theoutwitting of guardians, the darkness, the silence, the risk--all thesecalled to some deep, undeveloped instinct in her, and thrilled alongher veins, cool, keen, exciting. She had the blood in her of thegreatest adventurer of his day. 

Lucy feared she was a little late. Allaying the suspicions of Aunt Janeand changing her dress had taken time. Lucy burned with less cautioussteps. Still she had only used caution in the grove because she hadpromised Slone to do so. This night she forgot or disregarded it. Andthe shadows were thick--darker than at any other time when she hadundertaken this venture. She had always been a little afraid of thedark--a fact that made her contemptuous of herself. Nevertheless, shedid not peer into the deeper pits of gloom. She knew her way and couldslip swiftly along with only a rustle of leaves she touched. 

Suddenly she imagined she heard a step and she halted, still as atree-trunk. There was no reason to be afraid of a step. It had been asurprise to her that she had never encountered a rider walking andsmoking under the trees. Listening, she assured herself she had beenmistaken, and then went on. But she looked back. Did she see ashadow--darker than others--moving? It was only her imagination. Yetshe sustained a slight chill. The air seemed more oppressive, or elsethere was some intangible and strange thing hovering in it. She wenton--reached the lane that divided the grove. But she did not cross atonce. It was lighter in this lane; she could see quite far. 

As she stood there, listening, keenly responsive to all the influencesof the night, she received an impression that did not have its originin sight nor sound. And only the leaves touched her--and only their dryfragrance came to her. But she felt a presence--a strange, indefinablepresence. 

But Lucy was brave, and this feeling, whatever it might be, angeredher. She entered the lane and stole swiftly along toward the end of thegrove. Paths crossed the lane at right angles, and at these points shewent swifter. It would be something to tell Slone--she had beenfrightened. But thought of him drove away her fear and nervousness, andher 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 herheart leaped--violent arms swept her off the ground. A hard hand wasclapped over her mouth. She was being carried swiftly through the gloom. 

Lucy tried to struggle. She could scarcely move a muscle. Iron armswrapped her in coils that crushed her. She tried to scream, but herlips were tight-pressed. Her nostrils were almost closed between twohard fingers that smelled of horse. 

Whoever had her, she was helpless. Lucy's fury admitted of reason. Thenboth 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. Thesickening paralysis of her faculties lingered. But she felt her bodyreleased--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 atall, dark form over her, and horses, and the gloomy gray open of thesage 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 revivedher old faculties. The horrible sick weakness, the dimness, the shakinginternal collapse all left her. 

"I'll--be--quiet!" she faltered. She knew what her father had alwaysfeared had come to pass. And though she had been told to put no valueon her life, in that event, she could not run. All in an instant--whenlife had been so sweet--she could not face pain or death. 

The man moved back a step. He was tall, gaunt, ragged. But not likeCordts! Never would she forget Cordts. She peered up at him. In the dimlight of the few stars she recognized Joel Creech's father. 

"Oh, thank God!" she whispered, in the shock of blessed relief. "Ithought--you were--Cordts!"

"Keep quiet, " he whispered back, sternly, and with rough hand he shookher. 

Lucy awoke to realities. Something evil menaced her, even though thisman was not Cordts. Her mind could not grasp it. She wasamazed--stunned. She struggled to speak, yet to keep within thatwarning command. 

"What--on earth--does this--mean?" she gasped, very low. She had nosense 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 riddenhis knee many times. Between Creech and Cordts there was immeasurabledistance. Yet she had been violently seized and carried out into thesage and menaced. 

Creech leaned down. His gaunt face, lighted by terrible eyes, made herrecoil. "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 herquery had presented a new aspect of the case. "Lucy Bostil, I'm abroken man an' wild an' full of hate. But God knows I never thought ofthet--of harm to you. .. . No, child, I won't harm you. But you must obeyan' 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 behard goin' fer you, child, an' hard fare. .. . But I'm strikin' atBostil's heart as he has broken mine. I'll send him word. An' I'll tellhim 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 hisbrawny arm. 

"Lucy, in thet case I'd make as poor a blackguard as anythin' else I'vebeen, " he said, forlornly. "But I'm figgerin' Bostil will give up hishosses 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 dadis. .. . But, oh, don't make ME suffer! You used to--to care for me, whenI was little. "

"Thet ain't no use, " he replied. "Don't talk no more. .. . Git up hyarnow an' ride in front of me. "

He led her to a lean mustang. Lucy swung into the saddle. She thoughthow singular a coincidence it was that she had worn a riding-habit. Itwas dark and thick, and comfortable for riding. Suppose she had wornthe 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. Hewould 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 fathercould control the son!

"Ride on, " said Creech, hitting her horse from behind. 

And Lucy found herself riding single file, with two men and apack-horse, out upon the windy, dark sage slope. They faced thedirection of the monuments, looming now and then so weirdly black andgrand against the broad flare of lightning-blazed sky. 

Ever since Lucy had reached her teens there had been predictions thatshe would be kidnapped, and now the thing had come to pass. She was indanger, she knew, but in infinitely less than had any other wildcharacter of the uplands been her captor. She believed, if she wentquietly and obediently with Creech, that she would be, at least, safefrom harm. It was hard luck for Bostil, she thought, but no worse thanhe deserved. Retribution had overtaken him. How terribly hard he wouldtake the loss of his horses! Lucy wondered if he really ever would partwith the King, even to save her from privation and peril. Bostil wasmore likely to trail her with his riders and to kill the Creeches thanto concede their demands. Perhaps, though, that threat to sell her toCordts 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 wastoward the monuments. Before her stretched the bleak, barren, darkdesert, and through the opaque gloom she could see nothing. Lucy knewshe was headed for the north, toward the wild canyons, unknown to theriders. Cordts and his gang hid in there. What might not happen if theCreeches fell in with Cordts? Lucy's confidence sustained a check. Still, she remembered the Creeches were like Indians. And what wouldSlone do? He would ride out on her trail. Lucy shivered for theCreeches if Slone ever caught up with them, and remembering hiswild-horse-hunter's skill at tracking, and the fleet and tirelessWildfire, she grew convinced that Creech could not long hold hercaptive. 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 inthe motion of a horse there was something in harmony with her blood. Even now, with worry and dread and plotting strong upon her, habit hadsuch power over her that riding made the hours fleet. She was surprisedto 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. " Hespread a blanket, laid her saddle at the head of it, and droppedanother 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 toughesttrip 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 watchfuleyes on her every moment. Lucy did not like to promise not to try toescape, if opportunity presented. Still, she reasoned, that once deepin the canyons, where she would be in another day, she would be worseoff if she did get away. The memory of Cordts's cavernous, hungry eyesupon her was not a small factor in Lucy's decision. 

"Creech, if I give my word not to try to get away, would you believeme?" 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 placewas gloomy and still. She heard the sound of mustangs' teeth on grass, and the soft footfalls of the men. Presently these sounds ceased. Acold 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 shethought it was all a dream. Then the feeling of the hard saddle as apillow under her head told her she was indeed far from her comfortablelittle room. What would poor Aunt Jane do in the morning when shediscovered who was missing? What would Holley do? When would Bostilreturn? It might be soon and it might be days. And Slone--Lucy feltsorriest for him. For he loved her best. She thrilled at thought ofSlone on that grand horse--on her Wildfire. And with her mind runningon and on, seemingly making sleep impossible, the thoughts at lastbecame dreams. Lucy awakened at dawn. One hand ached with cold, for ithad been outside the blanket. Her hard bed had cramped her muscles. Sheheard the crackling of fire and smelled cedar smoke. In the gray ofmorning 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. Shehad ridden nearly all night without a hat. She had absolutely nothingof her own except what was on her body. But Lucy thanked her luckystars that she had worn the thick riding-suit and her boots, forotherwise, in a summer dress, her condition would soon have beenmiserable. 

"Come an' eat, " said Creech. "You have sense--an' eat if it sticks inyour throat. "

Bostil had always contended in his arguments with riders that a manshould eat heartily on the start of a trip so that the finish mightfind 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 sullenthan ever before. 

The Creeches did not loiter over the camp tasks. Lucy was left toherself. The place appeared to be a kind of depression from which thedesert rolled away to a bulge against the rosy east, and the rocksbehind rose broken and yellow, fringed with cedars. 

"Git the hosses in, if you want to, " Creech called to her, and then asLucy started off to where the mustangs grazed she heard him curse hisson. "Come back hyar! Leave the girl alone or I'll rap you one!"

Lucy drove three of the mustangs into camp, where Creech began tosaddle them. The remaining one, the pack animal, Lucy found among thescrub cedars at the base of the low cliffs. When she drove him inCreech was talking hard to Joel, who had mounted. 

"When you come back, work up this canyon till you git up. It heads onthe pine plateau. I can't miss seein' you, or any one, long before yougit up on top. An' you needn't come without Bostil's hosses. You knowwhat 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 closelyin his tracks. He entered a narrow cleft in the low cliffs which woundin and out, and was thick with sage and cedars. Lucy, riding close tothe cedars, conceived the idea of plucking the little green berries anddropping 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 wherethe horses stepped. The time had not yet come, Lucy concluded, when hewas ready to hide his trail. Presently the narrow cleft opened into alow-walled canyon, full of debris from the rotting cliffs, and this inturn opened into a main canyon with mounting yellow crags. It appearedto 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 inthe wall. This one was full of splintered rock and weathered shale--thehardest kind of travel for both man and beast. Lucy was nothing if notconsiderate of a horse, and here she began to help her animal in allthe ways a good rider knows. Much as this taxed her attention, sheremembered 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'sexperience in the open. At sunset, when Creech halted in a niche in agorge between lowering cliffs, Lucy fell off her horse and lay stilland spent on the grass. 

Creech had a glance of sympathy and admiration for her, but he did notsay anything about the long day's ride. Lucy never in her life beforeappreciated rest nor the softness of grass nor the relief at the end ofa 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 ofcold 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 weain't half thet far from where we camped last night. "

Then he set to work at camp tasks. Lucy shook her head when he broughther food, but he insisted, and she had to force it down. Creechappeared rough but kind. After she had become used to the hard, gaunt, black face she saw sadness and thought in it. One thing Lucy hadnoticed was that Creech never failed to spare a horse, if it waspossible. He would climb on foot over bad places. 

Night soon mantled the gorge in blackness thick as pitch. Lucy couldnot tell whether her eyes were open or shut, so far as what she saw wasconcerned. Her eyes seemed filled, however, with a thousand pictures ofthe wild and tortuous canyons and gorges through which she had riddenthat day. The ache in her limbs and the fever in her blood would notlet 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 thenature of the wild country, yet once she lay down to rest her mind wasan endless hurrying procession of pictures--narrow red clefts chokedwith green growths--yellow gorges and weathered slides--dusty, treacherous divides connecting canyons--jumbles of ruined cliffs andpiles 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 awild, rocky country cut by gorges, green and bare, or yellow andcedared. The long, black-fringed line she had noticed the day beforeloomed closer; overhanging this crisscrossed region of canyons. Everyhalf-hour Creech would lead them downward and presently climb outagain. There were sand and hard ground and thick turf and acres andacres 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 forLucy--and she finished that day in better condition than the first one. 

Next day Creech proceeded with care and caution. Many times he left thedirect route, bidding Lucy wait for him, and he would ride to the rimsof canyons or the tops of ridges of cedar forests, and from thesevantage-points he would survey the country. Lucy gathered after a whilethat he was apprehensive of what might be encountered, and particularlyso 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 onCreech'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 whenCreech halted on a high crest that gave a sweeping vision of the brokentable-land they had traversed Lucy made out for herself faint movingspecks 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 thetremor out of her voice. 

"Wal, I should smile! Fer two days--an' it sure beats me. They've neverhad 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 hisgang. "

"Oh--don't tell me so!" cried Lucy, suddenly terrified. Mention ofCordts had not always had power to frighten her, but this time she hada return of that shaking fear which had overcome her in the grove thenight 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 Ithought 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 atracker in Cordts's outfit. An' I always could hide my tracks. .. . Beatsme!"

"Creech, I've been leaving a trail, " confessed Lucy. 

"What!"

Then she told him how she had been dropping cedar berries and bits ofcedar leaves along the bare and stony course they had traversed. 

"Wal, I'm--" Creech stifled an oath. Then he laughed, but gruffly. "Youair 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 wereplainly 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'ssake, 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. Anothersunrise found Creech leading on, sparing neither Lucy nor the horses. He kept on a steady walk or trot, and he picked out ground less likelyto leave any tracks. Like an old deer he doubled on his trail. Hetraveled down stream-beds where the water left no trail. That day themustangs began to fail. The others were wearing out. 

The canyons ran like the ribs of a wash-board. And they grew deep andverdant, with looming, towered walls. That night Lucy felt lost in anabyss. The dreaming silence kept her awake many moments while sleep hadalready seized upon her eyelids. And then she dreamed of Cordtscapturing her, of carrying her miles deeper into these wild and purplecliffs, of Slone in pursuit on the stallion Wildfire, and of a savagefight. 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 tothe left of the direction taken before. And Lucy, in spite of her utterweariness, and the necessity of caring for herself and her horse, couldnot but wonder at the wild and frowning canyon. It was only a tributaryof the great canyon, she supposed, but it was different, strange, impressive, yet intimate, because all about it was overpowering, nearat hand, even the beetling crags. And at every turn it seemedimpossible to go farther over that narrow and rock-bestrewn floor. YetCreech found a way on. 

Then came hours of climbing such slopes and benches and ledges as Lucyhad not yet encountered. The grasping spikes of dead cedar tore herdress to shreds, and many a scratch burned her flesh. About the middleof the afternoon Creech led up over the last declivity, a yellow slopeof 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 agame kid, an', by Gawd! if I had this job to do over I'd never tackleit 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' wewon'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, withtrees standing far apart, yet not so far but that their foliageintermingled. A dry fragrance, thick as a heavy perfume, blew into herface. She could not help but think of fire--how it would race throughhere, and that recalled Joel Creech's horrible threat. Lucy shudderedand put away the memory. "I can't go--any farther--to-day, " she said. 

Creech looked at her compassionately. Then Lucy became conscious thatof late he had softened. 

"You'll have to come, " he said. "There's no water on this side, shortof 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 shecould go on. The horses walked and on the soft, springy ground did notjar her. Deer and wild turkey abounded there and showed little alarm atsight of the travelers. And before long Lucy felt that she would becomeintoxicated by the dry odor. It was so strong, so thick, sopenetrating. Yet, though she felt she would reel under its influence, it revived her. 

The afternoon passed; the sun set off through the pines, ablack-streaked, golden flare; twilight shortly changed to night. Thetrees looked spectral in the gloom, and the forest appeared to growthicker. 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 stretchedout on the soft mat of pine needles and knew no more. 

She did not awaken until the afternoon of the next day. The site whereCreech had made his final camp overlooked the wildest of all that wildupland country. The pines had scattered and trooped around a beautifulpark of grass that ended abruptly upon bare rock. Yellow crags toweredabove the rim, and under them a yawning narrow gorge, overshadowed fromabove, blue in its depths, split the end of the great plateau andopened out sheer into the head of the canyon, which, according toCreech, stretched away through that wilderness of red stone and greenclefts. When Lucy's fascinated gaze looked afar she was stunned at thevast, billowy, bare surfaces. Every green cleft was a short canyonrunning parallel with this central and longer one. The dips and breaksshowed how all these canyons were connected. They led the gaze away, descending gradually to the dim purple of distance--the bare, rollingdesert 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 notput 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 themain canyon. Would you believe you could ride offer this rim, straightdown 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 waybecause 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 awfulrocks! . .. 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 totake rides on your knee. "

"Lucy, I never thought of thet when I ketched you. You was only a meansto an end. Bostil hated me. He ruined me. I give up to revenge. An' Icould only git thet through you. "

"Creech, I'm not defending Dad. He's--he's no good where horses areconcerned. I know he wronged you. Then why didn't you wait and meet himlike a man instead of dragging me to this misery?"

"Wal, I never thought of thet, either. I wished I had. " He grewgloomier then and relapsed into silent watching. 

Lucy felt better next day, and offered to help Creech at the few campduties. He would not let her. There was nothing to do but rest andwait, and the idleness appeared to be harder on Creech than on Lucy. Hehad always been exceedingly active. Lucy divined that every hour hisremorse 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 themtightly and cutting the ends square. And Lucy, after the manner of anIndian, got the tangles out of her hair. That day Creech seemed to wantto hear Lucy's voice, and so they often fell into conversation. Once hesaid, thoughtfully:

"I'm tryin' to remember somethin' I heerd at the Ford. I meant to askyou--" Suddenly he turned to her with animation. He who had been sogloomy and lusterless and dead showed a bright eagerness. "I heerd youbeat the King on a red hoss--a wild hoss! . .. Thet must have been ajoke--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 hedid. His own girl! Lucy, come to remember, you always said you'd beatthet gray racer. .. . Fer the Lord's sake tell me all about it. "

Lucy warmed to him because, broken as he was, he could be genuinelyglad some horse but his own had won a race. Bostil could never havebeen like that. So Lucy told him about the race--and then she had totell about Wildfire, and then about Slone. But at first all of Creech'sinterest centered round Wildfire and the race that had not really beenrun. He asked a hundred questions. He was as pleased as a boy listeningto a good story. He praised Lucy again and again. He crowed overBostil's discomfiture. And when Lucy told him that Slone had dared herfather to race, had offered to bet Wildfire and his own life againsther 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. "Lovehim! Ah!"

"An' your Dad's ag'in him! Sure Bostil'll hate any rider with a fasthoss. 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 ownWildfire, and he'll never let me marry Slone. And when you take theKing away from him to ransom me--then my life will be hell, for if Dadsacrifices 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 hepondered. 

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 ploddingthought 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 Kingback, 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'twant to lose Dad. I--I--love him--mean as he is. And it'll kill me tolose Lin. Because Wildfire can beat Sage King, and that means Dad willbe 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, hewas so deeply in earnest. 

"Wal, mebbe you don't love each other so much, after all. .. . Fasthosses mean much to a man in this hyar country. I know, fer I lostmine! . .. But they ain't all. .. . I reckon you young folks don't love somuch, after all. "

"But--we--do!" cried Lucy, with a passionate sob. All this talk hadunnerved 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' thenlie an' say the King run Wildfire off his legs. "

Suddenly it occurred to Lucy that one significance of this idea ofCreech's had not dawned upon him. "You forget that soon my father willno longer own Sage King or Sarchedon or Dusty Ben--or any racer. Heloses 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 hebent over and put his big hand on her head. It seemed gentle and tendercompared with former contacts, and it made Lucy thrill. She could notsee his face. What did he mean? She divined something startling, andsat there trembling in suspense. 

"Bostil won't lose his only girl--or his favorite hoss! . .. Lucy, Inever had no girl. But it seems I'm rememberin' them rides you used tohave on my knee when you was little!"

Then he strode away toward the forest. Lucy watched him with a fullheart, and as she thought of his overcoming the evil in him when herfather had yielded to it, she suffered poignant shame. This Creech wasnot a bad man. He was going to let her go, and he was going to returnBostil's horses when they came. Lucy resolved with a passionatedetermination that her father must make ample restitution for the lossCreech had endured. She meant to tell Creech so. 

Upon his return, however, he seemed so strange and forbidding againthat her heart failed her. Had he reconsidered his generous thought?Lucy almost believed so. These old horse-traders were incomprehensiblein any relation concerning horses. Recalling Creech's intense interestin Wildfire and in the inevitable race to be run between him and SageKing, Lucy almost believed that Creech would sacrifice his vengeancejust to see the red stallion beat the gray. If Creech kept the King inransom for Lucy he would have to stay deeply hidden in the wild breaksof the canyon country or leave the uplands. For Bostil would never letthat deed go unreckoned with. Like Bostil, old Creech was half horseand half human. The human side had warmed to remorse. He had regrettedLucy's plight; he wanted her to be safe at home again and to findhappiness; he remembered what she had been to him when she was a littlegirl. Creech's other side was more complex. 

Before the evening meal ended Lucy divined that Creech was dark andtroubled because he had resigned himself to a sacrifice harder than ithad seemed in the first flush of noble feeling. But she doubted him nomore. She was safe. The King would be returned. She would compel herfather to pay Creech horse for horse. And perhaps the lesson to Bostilwould be worth all the pain of effort and distress of mind that it hadcost her. 

That night as she lay awake listening to the roar of the wind in thepines a strange premonition--like a mysterious voice---came to her withthe assurance that Slone was on her trail. 

On the following day Creech appeared to have cast off the broodingmood. Still, he was not talkative. He applied himself to constantwatching from the rim. 

Lucy began to feel rested. That long trip with Creech had made her thinand hard and strong. She spent the hours under the shade of a cedar onthe 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 roundhis camp-fire, to keep it from blowing away. And there was a constantdanger 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, " repliedCreech. "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 thetmy 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 wasawakened from a doze. Creech was standing near her. When he turned hislong gaze away from the canyon he was smiling. It was a smile at oncetriumphant 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 Lucyeither could not get the direction or see far enough. 

"Right down along the base of thet red wall. A line of hosses. Jestlike 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 hyarbefore long. I reckon we'd jest as well let him come. Fer there's wateran' grass hyar. An' down below grass is scarce. "

It seemed an age to Lucy, waiting there, until she did see horseszigzagging the ridges below. They disappeared, and then it was anotherage before they reappeared close under the bulge of wall. She thrilledat 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 along draw that reached level ground back in the forest. But they werenear, and Lucy tried to wait. Creech showed eagerness at first, andthen went on with his camp-fire duties. While in camp he always cookeda 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 ata gallop. The other horses were following. 

"What's his hurry?" demanded Lucy. "After climbing out of that canyonJoel ought not to push the horses. "

"He'll git it from me if there's no reason, " growled Creech. "Themhosses 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!" mutteredCreech, 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. Foronce the King showed he was glad to see Lucy. He had been having roughtreatment. But he was not winded--only hot and wet. She assured herselfof 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, hotneck. He was quivering all over. Lucy heard the other horses poundingup; she recognized Two Face's high whinny, like a squeal; and in herdelight she was about to run to them when Creech's harsh voice arrestedher. 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!" snappedJoel. 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. Theyseen 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. Butshe tried to help, and presently action made her stronger. 

The Creeches made short work of that breaking of camp. But when it cameto getting the horses there appeared danger of delay. Sarchedon had ledDusty Ben and Two Face off in the grass. When Joel went for them theygalloped 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 andwary 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 ferus, " he said. 

Soon they were riding into the forest, Creech leading, Lucy in thecenter, and Joel coming behind on the King. Two unsaddled mustangscarrying the packs were driven in front. Creech limited the gait to thebest that the pack-horses could do. They made fast time. The levelforest floor, hard and springy, afforded the best kind of going. 

A cold dread had once more clutched Lucy's heart. What would be the endof this flight? The way Creech looked back increased her dread. Howhorrible it would be if Cordts accomplished what he had alwaysthreatened--to run off with both her and the King! Lucy lost herconfidence in Creech. She did not glance again at Joel. Once had beenenough. She rode on with heavy heart. Anxiety and dread and conjectureand a gradual sinking of spirit weighed her down. Yet she never had aclearer perception of outside things. The forest loomed thicker anddarker. The sky was seen only through a green, crisscross of foliagewaving in the roaring gale. This strong wind was like a blast in Lucy'sface, and its keen dryness cracked her lips. 

When they rode out of the forest, down a gentle slope of wind-sweptgrass, to an opening into a canyon Lucy was surprised to recognize theplace. How quickly the ride through the forest had been made!

Creech dismounted. "Git off, Lucy. You, Joel, hurry an' hand me thelittle pack. .. . Now I'll take Lucy an' the King down in hyar. You gothet way with the hosses an' make as if you was hidin' your trail, butdon't. Do you savvy?"

Joel shook his head. He looked sullen, somber, strange. His fatherrepeated 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 ifhe 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 beheadin' 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' Lucyan' the King back to Bostil. "

Joel echoed those words, slowly divining them. "Takin' them BOTH! Thegirl. .. . 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 wassuddenly seized by a horrible madness. It was then, perhaps, that thefinal thread which linked his mind to rationality stretched andsnapped. His face turned green. His strange eyes protruded. His jawworked. He frothed at the mouth. He leaped, apparently to get near hisfather, but he missed his direction. Then, as if sight had come back, he wheeled and made strange gestures, all the while cursingincoherently. The father's shocked face began to show disgust. Thenpart 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. "Theyallus said so. But I never believed thet. "

"An' if I'm crazy, thet girl made me. .. . You know what I'm a-goin' todo? . .. I'll strip her naked--an' I'll--"

Lucy saw old Creech lunge and strike. She heard the sodden blow. Joelwent down. But he scrambled up with his eyes and mouth resembling thoseof a mad hound Lucy once had seen. The fact that he reached twice forhis gun and could not find it proved the breaking connection of nerveand sense. Creech jumped and grappled with Joel. There was a wrestling, strained struggle. Creech's hair stood up and his face had a kind ofsick fury, and he continued to curse and command. They fought for thepossession of the gun. But Joel seemed to have superhuman strength. Hishold on the gun could not be broken. Moreover, he kept straining topoint the gun at his father. Lucy screamed. Creech yelled hoarsely. Butthe 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 andfire the gun. Creech's hoarse entreaties ceased as his hold on Joelbroke. He staggered. His arms went up with a tragic, terrible gesture. He fell. Joel stood over him, shaking and livid, but he showed only thevaguest realization of the deed. His actions were instinctive. He wasthe animal that had clawed himself free. Further proof of hisaberration stood out in the action of sheathing his gun; he made themotion to do so, but he only dropped it in the grass. 

Sight of that dropped gun broke Lucy's spell of horror, which had kepther silent but for one scream. Suddenly her blood leaped like fire inher veins. She measured the distance to Sage King. Joel was turning. Then Lucy darted at the King, reached him, and, leaping, was half up onhim when he snorted and jumped, not breaking her hold, but keeping herfrom getting up. Then iron hands clutched her and threw her, like anempty sack, to the grass. 

Joel Creech did not say a word. His distorted face had the deridingscorn of a superior being. Lucy lay flat on her back, watching him. Hermind 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 thisdemented 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 thespot where the gun lay. If she got her hands on that gun she would killJoel. It would be the action of an instant. She watched Joel while hewatched her. And she saw that he had his foot on the rope round SageKing's neck. The King never liked a rope. He was nervous. He tossed hishead to get rid of it. Creech, watching Lucy all the while, reached forthe rope, pulled the King closer and closer, and untied the knot. TheKing stood then, bridle down and quiet. Instead of a saddle he wore ablanket strapped round him. 

It seemed that Lucy located the gun without turning her eyes away fromJoel's. She gathered all her force--rolled over swiftly--again--got herhands on the gun just as Creech leaped like a panther upon her. Hisweight crushed her flat--his strength made her hand-hold like that of achild. He threw the gun aside. Lucy lay face down, unable to move herbody 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 ownway. Under that blow Lucy's spirit rose to a height of terriblepassion. Still she did not lose her cunning; the blow increased it. That blow showed Joel to be crazy. She might outwit a crazy man, wherea man merely wicked might master her. 

Creech tried to turn her. Lucy resisted. And she was strong. Resistanceinfuriated Creech. He cuffed her sharply. This action only made himworse. Then with hands like steel claws he tore away her blouse. 

The shock of his hands on her bare flesh momentarily weakened Lucy, andCreech dragged at her until she lay seemingly helpless before him. 

And Lucy saw that at the sight of her like this something had comebetween Joel Creech's mad motives and their execution. Once he hadloved her--desired her. He looked vague. He stroked her shoulder. Hisstrange eyes softened, then blazed with a different light. Lucy divinedthat she was lost unless she could recall his insane fury. She mustbegin that terrible fight in which now the best she could hope for wasto make him kill her quickly. 

Swift and vicious as a cat she fastened her teeth in his arm. She bitdeep and held on. Creech howled like a dog. He beat her. He jerked andwrestled. Then he lifted her, and the swing of her body tore the fleshloose from his arm and broke her hold. Lucy half rose, crawled, plungedfor the gun. She got it, too, only to have Creech kick it out of herhand. The pain of that brutal kick was severe, but when he cut heracross 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 eventhat did not shake her desperate nerve. All the ferocity of adesert-bred savage culminated in her, fighting for death. 

Creech leaned down, swinging the coiled rope. He meant to do more thanlash her with it. Lucy's hands flashed up, closed tight in his longhair. Then with a bellow he jerked up and lifted her sheer off theground. 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 wristsat which Creech was clawing. When he broke her hold there were handfulsof 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 sharpknee pressing her down. He cut the rope. Nimbly, like a rider inmoments of needful swiftness, he noosed one end of the rope round herankle, then the end of the other piece round her wrist. He might havebeen tying up an unbroken mustang. Rising, he retained hold on bothropes. He moved back, sliding them through his hands. Then with a quickmove he caught up Sage King's bridle. 

Creech paused a moment, darkly triumphant. A hideous success showed inhis strange eyes. A long-cherished mad vengeance had reached itsfruition. Then he led the horse near to Lucy. 

Warily he reached down. He did not know Lucy's strength was spent. Hefeared 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 thetrack of his old threat. She resisted all she could. He pulled her armsdown round the King's neck and tied them close. Then he pulled hard onthe rope on her ankle and tied that to her other ankle. 

Lucy realized that she was bound fast. Creech had made good most of histhreat. And now in her mind the hope of the death she had soughtchanged to the hope of life that was possible. Whatever power she hadever had over the King was in her voice. If only Creech would slip thebridle 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 wasreveling 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 thelong grass had not been trampled or pressed down. The wind, whipping upout of the canyon, was still blowing hard. Creech put the gun down inthe grass and fired. 

Sage King plunged. But he was not gun-shy. He steadied down with apounding of heavy hoofs. Then Lucy could see again. A thin streak ofyellow smoke rose--a little snaky flame--a slight crackling hiss! Thenas the wind caught the blaze there came a rushing, low roar. Fire, likemagic, raced and spread before the wind toward the forest. 

Lucy had forgotten that Creech had meant to drive her into fire. Thesudden horror of it almost caused collapse. Commotion within--cold andquake and nausea and agony--deadened her hearing and darkened hersight. But Creech's hard hands quickened her. She could see him then, though not clearly. His face seemed inhuman, misshapen, gray. His handspulled at her arms--a last precaution to see that she was tightlybound. Then with the deft fingers of a rider he slipped Sage King'sbridle. 

Lucy could not trust her sight. What made the King stand so still? Hisears went up--stiff--pointed!

Creech stepped back and laid a violent hand on Lucy's garments. Shebent--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 astrong, ripping pull. His yellow teeth showed deep in his lip. Hiscontrasting eyes were alight with insane joy. 

But he never pulled. Something attracted his attention. He looked. Hesaw something. The beast in him became human--the madness changed torationality--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 tocall to him, but her lips were weak. Creech seemed paralyzed. The Kingshifted his position, and Lucy's last glimpse of Creech was one shewould never forget. It was as if Creech faced burning hell!

Then the King whistled and reared. Lucy heard swift, dull, throbbingbeats. Beats of a fast horse's hoofs on the run! She felt a surgingthrill of joy. She could not think. All of her blood and bone andmuscle 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 thatwhistle. And in that one great bound he launched out into a run. Straight across the line of burning grass! Lucy felt the sting offlame. Smoke blinded and choked her. Then clear, dry, keen wind sung inher ears and whipped her hair. The light about her darkened. The Kinghad headed into the pines. The heavy roar of the gale overhead struckLucy with new and torturing dread. Sage King once in his life wasrunning away, bridleless, and behind him there was fire on the wings ofthe wind. 

CHAPTER XVII

For the first time in his experience Bostil found that horse-tradingpalled upon him. This trip to Durango was a failure. Something waswrong. There was a voice constantly calling into his inner ear--a voiceto which he refused to listen. And during the five days of the returntrip the strange mood grew upon him. 

The last day he and his riders covered over fifty miles and reached theFord late at night. No one expected them, and only the men on duty atthe corrals knew of the return. Bostil, much relieved to get home, wentto bed and at once fell asleep. 

He awakened at a late hour for him. When he dressed and went out to thekitchen he found that his sister had learned of his return and hadbreakfast 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 forgetthat. "

Bostil laughed. "Wal, call her an' tell her I'm home. "

Aunt Jane did as she was bidden. Bostil finished his breakfast. ButLucy did not come. 

Bostil began to feel something strange, and, going to Lucy's door, heknocked. There was no reply. Bostil pushed open the door. Lucy was notin evidence, and her room was not as tidy as usual. He saw her whitedress thrown upon the bed she had not slept in. Bostil gazed aroundwith a queer contraction of the heart. That sense of something amissgrew stronger. Then he saw a chair before the open window. That windowwas rather high, and Lucy had placed a chair before it so that shecould look out or get out. Bostil stretched his neck, looked out, andin the red earth beneath the window he saw fresh tracks of Lucy'sboots. Then he roared for Jane. 

She came running, and between Bostil's furious questions and her ownexcited answers there was nothing arrived at. But presently she spiedthe white dress, and then she ran to Lucy's closet. From there sheturned 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 aknife-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 youare. .. . 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 groveand directly up the path to Slone's cabin. It was empty, just as Bostilexpected 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 strangedoin's lately. " Brackton seemed at a loss for words. "Mebbe Slone gotout because of somethin' thet come off last night. .. . Now, Joel Creechan'--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 riderswere there, leisurely as usual. Then Holley appeared, coming out of thebarn. He, too, was easy, cool, natural, lazy. None of these riders knewwhat was amiss. But instantly a change passed over them. It camebecause 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. "Whatfer?" 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 echoedBostil's last word. Bostil lowered the gun. 

"I reckon what saves you is you're the only tracker thet'd have a showto find this cussed Slone. "

Holley now showed no sign of surprise, but the other riders wereastounded. 

"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-hosswrangler! 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 fearthat Lucy would not soon be found. But the opposition to his will madehim furious. 

Van left the group of riders and came close to Bostil. "It ain't anhour 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 inlove, 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 soonI seen him. He sneaked along the upper end an' I follered. He went tothet bench up by the biggest cottonwood. An' he waited a long time. ButLucy didn't come. He must have waited till midnight. Then he left. Iwatched 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. Whatwas the matter with this old rider? Bostil had never seen Holley seemso strange. The whole affair began to loom strangely, darkly. Someportent quickened Bostil's lumbering pulse. It seemed that Holley'smind must have found an obstacle to thought. Suddenly the old rider'sface changed--the bronze was blotted out--a grayness came, and then adead white. 

"Bostil, mebbe you 'ain't been told yet thet--thet Creech rode inyesterday. .. . 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. Andhe heard the riders coming behind. A dark and gloomy thought settledupon Bostil. He could not check that, but he held back impatience andpassion. 

Holley went straight to Lucy's window. He got down on his knees toscrutinize the tracks. 

"Made more 'n twelve hours ago, " he said, swiftly. "She had on herboots, but no spurs. .. . Now let's see where she went. "

Holley began to trail Lucy's progress through the grove, silentlypointing now and then to a track. He went swifter, till Bostil had tohurry. 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 wantedto 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 oldself, facing the truth of danger to one he loved. He saw beside the bigtrack a faint imprint of Lucy's small foot. That was the last sign ofher 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 oranother 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 theclear, 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. Finallyseveral hundred yards out in the sage he halted, and again dropped tohis knees. Bostil and the riders hurried on. 

"Keep back; don't stamp round so close, " ordered Holley. Then like aman 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 arosethere was a dark and deadly certainty in his face, by which Bostil knewthe worst had befallen Lucy. 

"Four mustangs an' two men last night, " said Holley, rapidly. "Here'swhere 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 adeath-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 helay in his barn, in the shade of the loft, prostrate on the fragranthay. His strength with his passion was spent. A dull ache remained. Thefight was gone from him. His spirit was broken. And he looked down intothat dark abyss which was his own soul. 

By and by the riders came for him, got him up, and led him out. Heshook them off and stood breathing slowly. The air felt refreshing; itcooled his hot, tired brain. It did not surprise him to see Joel Creechthere, cringing behind Holley. 

Bostil lifted a hand for some one to speak. And Holley came a stepforward. His face was haggard, but its white tenseness was gone. Heseemed 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--thenCreech'll sell her to Cordts!"

What a strange look came into the faces of the riders! Did, they thinkhe cared more for horseflesh than for his own flesh and blood?

"Send the King--an' all he wants. .. . An' send word fer Creech to comeback to the Ford. .. . Tell him I said--my sin found me out!"

Bostil watched Joel Creech ride the King out upon the slope, drivingthe others ahead. Sage King wanted to run. Sarchedon was wild andunruly. They passed out of sight. Then Bostil turned to his silentriders. 

"Boys, seein' the King go thet way wasn't nothin'. .. . But whatcrucifies 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 aheadof Joel! Slone he's a wild-hoss hunter--the keenest I ever seen. Do youthink Creech can shake him on a trail? He'll kill Creech, an' he'll layfer Joel goin' back--an' he'll kill him. .. . An' I'll bet my all he'llride in here with Lucy an' the King!"

"Holley, you ain't figurin' on thet red hoss of Slone's ridin' down theKing?"

Holley laughed as if Bostil's query was the strangest thing of all thatpoignant day. "Naw. Slone'll lay fer Joel an' rope him like he ropedDick 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. Ican'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 thechance of Creech's bein' honest. An' we'd queer Slone's game. I'd hateto have him trailin' me. "

CHAPTER XVIII

On the day that old Creech repudiated his son, Slone with immeasurablerelief left Brackton's without even a word to the rejoicing Holley, andplodded up the path to his cabin. 

After the first flush of elation had passed he found a peculiar moodsettling down upon him. It was as if all was not so well as he hadimpulsively conceived. He began to ponder over this strange depression, to think back. What had happened to dash the cup from his lips? Did heregret being freed from guilt in the simple minds of thevillagers--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 newaspect of the situation at the Ford that oppressed him. 

He trailed his vague feelings back to a subtle shock he had sustainedin a last look at Creech's dark, somber face. It had been the face of aNemesis. All about Creech breathed silent, revengeful force. Sloneworked out in his plodding thought why that fact should oppress him;and it was because in striking Bostil old Creech must strike throughBostil's horses and his daughter. 

Slone divined it--divined it by the subtle, intuitive power of his lovefor Lucy. He did not reconsider what had been his supposition beforeCreech's return--that Creech would kill Bostil. Death would be norevenge. Creech had it in him to steal the King and starve him or to dothe same and worse with Lucy. So Slone imagined, remembering Creech'sface. 

Before twilight set in Slone saw the Creeches riding out of the laneinto the sage, evidently leaving the Ford. This occasioned Slone greatrelief, but only for a moment. What the Creeches appeared to be doingmight not be significant. And he knew if they had stayed in the villagethat he would have watched them as closely as if he thought they weretrying to steal Wildfire. 

He got his evening meal, cared for his horses, and just as darknesscame 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 hewas excited. The grove seemed full of moving shadows, all of which hefancied were Lucy. Reaching the big cottonwood, he tried to composehimself on the bench to wait. But composure seemed unattainable. Thenight was still, only the crickets and the soft rustle of leavesbreaking a dead silence. Slone had the ears of a wild horse in that heimagined sounds he did not really hear. Many a lonely night while helay watching and waiting in the dark, ambushing a water-hole where wildhorses drank, he had heard soft treads that were only the substance ofdreams. That was why, on this night when he was overstrained, hefancied he saw Lucy coming, a silent, moving shadow, when in realityshe 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 knewshe would come. Waiting became hard. He wanted to go back toward thehouse--to intercept her on the way. Still he kept to his post, watchful, listening, his heart full. And he tried to reason away hisstrange dread, his sense of a need of hurry. For a time he succeeded bydreaming of Lucy's sweetness, of her courage, of what a wonderful girlshe was. Hours and hours he had passed in such dreams. One dream inparticular always fascinated him, and it was one in which he saw thegirl riding Wildfire, winning a great race for her life. Another, justas fascinating, but so haunting that he always dispelled it, was adream where Lucy, alone and in peril, fought with Cordts or Joel Creechfor more than her life. These vague dreams were Slone's acceptance ofthe blood and spirit in Lucy. She was Bostil's daughter. She had nosense of fear. She would fight. And though Slone always thrilled withpride, he also trembled with dread. 

At length even wilder dreams of Lucy's rare moments, when she letherself go, like a desert whirlwind, to envelop him in all hersweetness, could not avail to keep Slone patient. He began to pace toand fro under the big tree. He waited and waited. What could havedetained her? Slone inwardly laughed at the idea that either Holley orAunt Jane could keep his girl indoors when she wanted to come out tomeet him. Yet Lucy had always said something might prevent. There wasno reason for Slone to be concerned. He was mistaking his thrills andexcitement and love and disappointment for something in which there wasno reality. Yet he could not help it. The longer he waited the moreshadows glided beneath the cottonwoods, the more faint, nameless soundshe heard. 

He waited long after he became convinced she would not come. Upon hisreturn through the grove he reached a point where the unreal andimaginative perceptions were suddenly and stunningly broken. He didhear 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 watchinghim--had followed him! Slone had always expected this. So had Lucy. Andnow 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. Slonehad reason to be prouder of Lucy, and he went back to his cabin freefrom further anxiety. 

Before he went to sleep, however, he heard the clatter of a number ofhorses in the lane. He could tell they were tired horses. Ridersreturning, he thought, and instantly corrected that, for riders seldomcame in at night. And then it occurred to him that it might be Bostil'sreturn. But then it might be the Creeches. Slone had an uneasy returnof puzzling thoughts. These, however, did not hinder drowsiness, and, deciding that the first thing in the morning he would trail theCreeches, just to see where they had gone, he fell asleep. 

In the morning the bright, broad day, with its dispelling reality, madeSlone regard himself differently. Things that oppressed him in the darkof night vanished in the light of the sun. Still, he was curious aboutthe Creeches, and after he had done his morning's work he strolled outto take up their trail. It was not hard to follow in the lane, for noother horses had gone in that direction since the Creeches had left. 

Once up on the wide, windy slope the reach and color and fragranceseemed to call to Slone irresistibly, and he fell to trailing thesetracks just for the love of a skill long unused. Half a mile out theroad turned toward Durango. But the Creeches did not continue on thatroad. They entered the sage. Instantly Slone became curious. 

He followed the tracks to a pile of rocks where the Creeches had made agreasewood fire and had cooked a meal. This was strange--within a mileof the Ford, where Brackton and others would have housed them. What wasstranger was the fact that the trail started south from there and swunground toward the village. 

Slone's heart began to thump. But he forced himself to think only ofthese tracks and not any significance they might have. He trailed themen down to a bench on the slope, a few hundred yards from Bostil'sgrove, and here a trampled space marked where a halt had been made anda wait. 

And here Slone could no longer restrain conjecture and dread. Hesearched and searched. He got on his knees. He crawled through the sageall around the trampled space. Suddenly his heart seemed to receive astab. He had found prints of Lucy's boots in the soft earth! And heleaped up, wild and fierce, needing to know no more. 

He ran back to his cabin. He never thought of Bostil, of Holley, ofanything except the story revealed in those little boot-tracks. Hepacked a saddle-bag with meat and biscuits, filled a canvaswater-bottle, and, taking them and his rifle, he hurried out to thecorral. 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 inmany a day, roped him, saddled him, mounted him, and rode off with ahard, grim certainty that in Wildfire was Lucy's salvation. 

Four hours later Slone halted on the crest of a ridge, in the cover ofsparse cedars, and surveyed a vast, gray, barren basin yawning andreaching out to a rugged, broken plateau. 

He expected to find Joel Creech returning on the back-trail, and he hadtaken the precaution to ride on one side of the tracks he wasfollowing. He did not want Joel to cross his trail. Slone had long agosolved the meaning of the Creeches' flight. They would use Lucy toransom Bostil's horses, and more than likely they would not let her goback. That they had her was enough for Slone. He was grim andimplacable. 

The eyes of the wild-horse hunter had not searched that basin longbefore they picked out a dot which was not a rock or a cedar, but ahorse. Slone watched it grow, and, hidden himself, he held his postuntil he knew the rider was Joel Creech. Slone drew his own horse backand tied him to a sage-bush amidst some scant grass. Then he returnedto watch. It appeared Creech was climbing the ridge below Slone, andsome distance away. It was a desperate chance Joel ran then, for Slonehad set out to kill him. It was certain that if Joel had happened toride near instead of far, Slone could not have helped but kill him. Asit was, he desisted because he realized that Joel would acquaint Bostilwith 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 theridge--shaking with the deadly grip of passion such as he had neverknown. He waited, slowly gaining control, and at length went back forWildfire. 

Then he rode boldly forth on the trail. He calculated that old Creechwould take Lucy to some wild retreat in the canyons and there wait forJoel and the horses. Creech had almost certainly gone on and would beunaware of a pursuer so closely on his trail. Slone took the directionof the trail, and he saw a low, dark notch in the rocky wall in thedistance. After that he paid no more attention to choosing good groundfor Wildfire than he did to the trail. The stallion was more tractablethan Slone had ever found him. He loved the open. He smelled the sageand the wild. He settled down into his long, easy, swinging lope whichseemed to eat up the miles. Slone was obsessed with thoughts centeringround Lucy, and time and distance were scarcely significant. 

The sun had dipped full red in a golden west when Slone reached thewall 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 thisto 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, andafter 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 nothungry, but he ate; he was not sleepy, but he slept. And daylight foundhim urging Wildfire in pursuit. On the rocky places Slone found thecedar berries Lucy had dropped. He welcomed sight of them, but he didnot need them. This man Creech could never hide a trail from him, Slonethought 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 knewwhere to look for them ahead. There was a vast difference between thecunning of Creech and the cunning of a wild horse. And there was anequal difference between the going and staying powers of Creech'smustangs and Wildfire. Yes, Slone divined that Lucy's salvation wouldbe Wildfire, her horse. The trail grew rougher, steeper, harder, butthe stallion kept his eagerness and his pace. On many an open length ofcanyon or height of wild upland Slone gazed ahead hoping to seeCreech's mustangs. He hoped for that even when he knew he was still toofar behind. And then, suddenly, in the open, sandy flat of anintersecting 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 thesestrange tracks. Who had made them? Had Creech met allies? Was thatlikely when the man had no friends? Pondering the thing, Slone wentslowly on, realizing that a new and disturbing feature confronted him. Then when these new tracks met the trail that Creech had left Slonefound that these strangers were as interested in Creech's tracks as hewas. Slone found their boot-marks in the sand--the hand-prints wheresome 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 hadbeen washed clear of sand, he found no more cedar berries. They hadbeen picked up. At the other extreme edge of this stony ground he foundcrumpled bits of cedar and cedar berries scattered in one spot, as ifthrown there by some one who read their meaning. 

This discovery unnerved Slone. It meant so much. And if Slone had anyhope or reason to doubt that these strangers had taken up the trail forgood, 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 ofhis men had chanced upon Creech's trail; and perhaps their guess at itsmeaning was like Slone's. If they had not guessed they would soonlearn. It magnified Slone's task a thousandfold. He had a moment ofbitter, almost hopeless realization before a more desperate spiritawoke in him. He had only more men to kill--that was all. These uplandriders did not pack rifles, of that Slone was sure. And the sooner hecame up with Cordts the better. It was then he let Wildfire choose hisgait and the trail. Sunset, twilight, dusk, and darkness came withSlone keeping on and on. As long as there were no intersecting canyonsor 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 hehad to halt. 

Early next day the trail led up out of the red and broken gulches tothe cedared uplands. Slone saw a black-rimmed, looming plateau in thedistance. All these winding canyons, and the necks of the high ridgesbetween, must run up to that great table-land. 

That day he lost two of the horse tracks. He did not mark the changefor a long time after there had been a split in the party that had beentrailing Creech. Then it was too late for him to go back toinvestigate, even if that had been wise. He kept on, pondering, tryingto decide whether or not he had been discovered and was now in dangerof ambush ahead and pursuit from behind. He thought that possiblyCordts had split his party, one to trail along after Creech, the othersto work around to head him off. Undoubtedly Cordts knew this brokencanyon country and could tell where Creech was going, and knew how tointercept him. 

The uncertainty wore heavily upon Slone. He grew desperate. He had notime 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 groundwould permit, expecting to be shot at from any clump of cedars. Thetrail led down again into a narrow canyon with low walls. Slone put allhis keenness on what lay before him. 

Wildfire's sudden break and upflinging of head and his snort precededthe crack of a rifle. Slone knew he had been shot at, although heneither felt nor heard the bullet. He had no chance to see where theshot came from, for Wildfire bolted, and needed as much holding andguiding as Slone could give. He ran a mile. Then Slone was able to lookabout 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 asharp lookout, and presently along the right canyon rim, five hundredfeet above him, he saw a bay horse, and a rider with a rifle. He hadbeen wrong, then, about these riders and their weapons. Slone did notsee any wisdom in halting to shoot up at this pursuer, and he spurredWildfire just as a sharp crack sounded above. The bullet thudded intothe earth a few feet behind him. And then over bad ground, with thestallion almost unmanageable, Slone ran a gantlet of shots. Evidentlythe man on the rim had smooth ground to ride over, for he easily keptabreast of Slone. But he could not get the range. Fortunately forSlone, broken ramparts above checked the tricks of that pursuer, andSlone saw no more of him. 

It afforded him great relief to find that Creech's trail turned into acanyon on the left; and here, with the sun already low, Slone began towatch the clumps of cedars and the jumbles of rock. But he was notambushed. Darkness set in, and, being tired out, he was about to haltfor the night when he caught the flicker of a campfire. The stallionsaw it, too, but did not snort. Slone dismounted and, leading him, wentcautiously forward on foot, rifle in hand. 

The canyon widened at a point where two breaks occurred, and theless-restricted space was thick with cedar and pinyon. Slone could tellby the presence of these trees and also by a keener atmosphere that hewas slowly getting to a higher attitude. This camp-fire must belong toCordts 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 beforethe bright camp-fire, and he checked himself abruptly. Considering amoment, Slone thought he had better have a look at these fellows. So hetied Wildfire and, taking to the darker side of the canyon, he stolecautiously forward. 

The distance was considerable, as he had calculated. Soon, however, hemade out the shadowy outlines of horses feeding in the open. He huggedthe canyon wall for fear they might see him. As luck would have it thenight breeze was in his favor. Stealthily he stole on, in the deepshadow of the wall, and under the cedars, until he came to a pointopposite the camp-fire, and then he turned toward it. He went slowly, carefully, noiselessly, and at last he crawled through the narrowaisles between thick sage-brush. Another clump of cedars loomed up, andhe saw the flickering of firelight upon the pale-green foliage. 

He heard gruff voices before he raised himself to look, and by this hegauged his distance. He was close enough--almost too close. But as hecrouched in dark shade and there were no horses near, he did not feardiscovery. 

When he peered out from his covert the first thing to strike and holdhis rapid glance was the slight figure of a girl. Slone stifled a gaspin his throat. He thought he recognized Lucy. Stunned, he crouched downagain with his hands clenched round his rifle. And there he remainedfor 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 thecamps of these men, especially Cordts. Maybe Creech had fallen in withcomrades. No, he could not have had any comrades there buthorse-thieves, and Creech was above that. If Creech was there he hadbeen held up by Cordts; if Lucy only was with the gang, Creech had beenkilled. 

Slone had to force himself to look again. The girl had changed herposition. But the light shone upon the men. Creech was not one of thethree, nor Cordts, nor any man Slone had seen before. They were nothonest men, judging from their hard, evil looks. Slone was nonplussedand he was losing self-control. Again he lowered himself and waited. Hecaught the word "Durango" and "hosses" and "fer enough in, " the meaningof which was, vague. Then the girl laughed. And Slone found himselftrembling with joy. Beyond any doubt that laugh could not have beenLucy's. 

Slone stole back as he had come, reached the shadow of the wall, anddrew away until he felt it safe to walk quickly. When he reached theplace where he expected to find Wildfire he did not see him. Slonelooked and looked. Perhaps he had misjudged distance and place in thegloom. Still, he never made mistakes of that nature. He searched aroundtill he found the cedar stump to which he had tied the lasso. In thegloom 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 havebeen carelessness, though he knew he never was careless with a horse. What had happened? He did not know. But Wildfire was gone--and thatmeant Lucy's doom and his! Slone shook with cold. 

Then, as he leaned against the stump, wet and shaking, familiar soundmet 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 Slonecircled 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 theblack gloom against the wall Slone could not distinguish Wildfire. 

"Whew!" he muttered, wiping the sweat off his face. "Good Lord! . .. Allfor nothin'. "

It did not take Slone long to decide to lead the horse and work up thecanyon past the campers. He must get ahead of them, and once there hehad no fear of them, either by night or day. He really had no hopes ofgetting by undiscovered, and all he wished for was to get far enough sothat he could not be intercepted. The grazing horses would scentWildfire or he would scent them. 

For a wonder Wildfire allowed himself to be led as well as if he hadbeen old, faithful Nagger. Slone could not keep close in to the wallfor very long, on account of the cedars, but he managed to stay in theouter edge of shadow cast by the wall. Wildfire winded the horses, halted, threw up his head. But for some reason beyond Slone the horsedid not snort or whistle. As he knew Wildfire he could have believedhim intelligent enough and hateful enough to betray his master. 

It was one of the other horses that whistled an alarm. This came at apoint almost even with the camp-fire. Slone, holding Wildfire down, hadno time to get into a stirrup, but leaped to the saddle and let thehorse go. There were hoarse yells and then streaks of fire and shots. Slone heard the whizz of heavy bullets, and he feared for Wildfire. Butthe horse drew swiftly away into the darkness. Slone could not seewhether 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 thatcamp. 

Slone walked the horse for an hour, and then decided that he could wellrisk 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-birdburst into song. A coyote sneaked away from the light of day. Out inthe open Slone found the trail made by Creech's mustangs and by thehorse of Cordts's man. The latter could not be very far ahead. In lessthan 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 deepwash. Slone put Wildfire to a gallop. The narrow wash was no obstacleto Wildfire; he did not have to be urged or checked. It was not longbefore Slone saw a horseman a quarter of a mile ahead, and he wasdiscovered almost at the same time. This fellow showed both surpriseand fear. He ran his horse. But in comparison with Wildfire that horseseemed sluggish. Slone would have caught up with him very soon but fora change in the lay of the land. The canyon split up and all of itsgorges and ravines and washes headed upon the pine-fringed plateau, nowonly a few miles distant. The gait of the horses had to be reduced to atrot, and then a walk. The man Slone was after left Creech's trail andtook to a side cleft. Slone, convinced he would soon overhaul him, andthen return to take up Creech's trail, kept on in pursuit. Then Slonewas 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 wouldhave been right upon him but for a split in the rock which suddenlyyawned across his path. It was impassable. After a quick glance Sloneabandoned the direct pursuit, and, turning along this gulch, he gaineda point where the horse-thief would pass under the base of therim-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 showedhimself on foot, rifle in hand. The deep gulch was a barrier to Slone'sfurther progress, but his rifle dominated the situation. 

"Hold on!" he called, warningly. 

"Hold on yerself!" yelled the other, aghast, as he halted his horse. Hegazed down and evidently was quick to take in the facts. 

Slone had meant to kill this man without even a word, yet now when themoment had come a feeling almost of sickness clouded his resolve. Buthe 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 histense 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 offJoel Creech when he comes in with Bostil's hosses. "

Slone was amazed to find how the horse thieves had calculated; yet, onsecond 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 thegirl. "

"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 wordsfrom the lips of one of Cordts's gang bore a raw, brutal proof ofLucy's peril. And yet Slone could not bring himself to kill this man incold 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 heturned his horse and rode back out of sight. Slone heard him rollingthe stones down the long, rough slope; and when he felt sure thehorse-thief had gotten a fair start he went back to mount Wildfire inpursuit. 

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 himselflost in the canyons. How bitterly he cursed both his weakness in notshooting the man at sight, and his strength in following him withimplacable purpose! For to be fair, to give the horse-thief a chancefor his life, Slone had lost Lucy's trail. The fact nearly distractedhim. 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 hetied Wildfire near water and grass and fell into the sleep ofexhaustion. 

Morning came. But with it no hope. He had been desperate. And now hewas in a frightful state. It seemed that days and days had passed, andnights that were hideous with futile nightmares. 

He rode down into a canyon with sloping walls, and broken, like all ofthese canyons under the great plateau. Every canyon resembled another. The upland was one vast network. The world seemed a labyrinth ofcanyons among which he was hopelessly lost. What would--what had becomeof Lucy? Every thought in his whirling brain led back to that--and itwas terrible. 

Then--he was gazing transfixed down upon the familiar tracks left byCreech's mustangs. Days old, but still unfollowed!

CHAPTER XIX

That track led up the narrowing canyon to its head at the base of theplateau. 

Slone, mindful of his horse, climbed on foot, halting at the zigzagturns to rest. A long, gradually ascending trail mounted the lastslope, which when close at hand was not so precipitous as it appearedfrom below. Up there the wind, sucked out of the canyons, swooped andtwisted hard. 

At last Slone led Wildfire over the rim and halted for anotherbreathing-spell. Before him was a beautiful, gently sloping stretch ofwaving grass leading up to the dark pine forest from which came a roarof 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 thesaddle. A faint cry, away from the wind, startled Slone. It was like acry he had heard in dreams. How overstrained his perceptions! He wasnot 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 downtoward the edge of this cedar clump so that he could see beyond. Beforehe reached it, however, he saw something blue, moving, waving, lifting. 

"Smoke!" muttered Slone. And he thought more of the danger of fire onthat 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 grasson fire . .. Horses!--a man!

Wildfire whistled his ringing blast of hate and menace, his desertchallenge to another stallion. 

The man whirled to look. 

Slone saw Joel Creech--and Sage King--and Lucy, half naked, bound onhis back!

Joy, agony, terror in lightning-swift turns, paralyzed Slone. ButWildfire lunged out on the run. 

Sage King reared in fright, came down to plunge away, and with amagnificent leap cleared the line of fire. 

Slone, more from habit than thought, sat close in the saddle. A few ofWildfire's lengthening strides, quickened Slone's blood. Then Creechmoved, also awaking from a stupefying surprise, and he snatched up agun and fired. Slone saw the spurts of red, the puffs of white. But heheard 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 Wildfirestruck Creech, and Slone had one glimpse of an awful face. The impactwas terrific. Creech went hurtling through the air, limp and broken, togo down upon a rock, his skull cracking like a melon. 

The horse leaped over the body and the stone, and beyond he leaped theline of burning grass. 

Slone saw the King running into the forest. He saw poor Lucy's whitebody swinging with the horse's motion. One glance showed the great grayto be running wild. Then the hate and passion cleared away, leavingsuspense and terror. 

Wildfire reached the pines. There down the open aisles between theblack trees ran the fleet gray racer. Wildfire saw him and snorted. TheKing was a hundred yards to the fore. 

"Wildfire--it's come--the race--the race!" called Slone. But he couldnot hear his own call. There was a roar overhead, heavy, almostdeafening. The wind! the wind! Yet that roar did not deaden a strange, shrieking crack somewhere behind. Wildfire leaped in fright. Sloneturned. Fire had run up a pine-tree, which exploded as if the trunkwere powder!

"MY GOD! A RACE WITH FIRE! . .. LUCY! LUCY!"

In that poignant cry Slone uttered his realization of the strange fatethat had waited for the inevitable race between Wildfire and the King;he uttered his despairing love for Lucy, and his acceptance of deathfor her and himself. No horse could outrun wind-driven fire in a drypine forest. Slone had no hope of that. How perfectly fate and time andplace and horses, himself and his sweetheart, had met! Slone damnedJoel Creech's insane soul to everlasting torment. To think--to thinkhis idiotic and wild threat had come true--and come true with a gale inthe pine-tops! Slone grew old at the thought, and the fact seemed to bea dream. But the dry, pine-scented air made breathing hard; the grayracer, carrying that slender, half-naked form, white in the forestshade, lengthened into his fleet and beautiful stride; the motion ofWildfire, so easy, so smooth, so swift, and the fierce reach of hishead shooting forward--all these proved that it was no dream. 

Tense questions pierced the dark chaos of Slone's mind--what could hedo? Run the King down! Make 'him kill Lucy! Save her from horribledeath by fire!

The red horse had not gained a yard on the gray. Slone, keen to judgedistance, saw this, and for the first time he doubted Wildfire's powerto ran down the King. Not with such a lead! It was hopeless--sohopeless--

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, beforethe fire began to leap across the pine-crests, then it might bepossible to run out of the forest if it were not wide. 

Then a stronger hope grew. It seemed that foot by foot Wildfire wasgaining on the King. Slone studied the level forest floor slidingtoward him. He lost his hope--then regained it again, and then hespurred the horse. Wildfire hated that as he hated Slone. Butapparently he did not quicken his strides. And Slone could not tell ifhe lengthened them. He was not running near his limit but, after thenature of such a horse, left to choose his gait, running slowly, butrising toward his swiftest and fiercest. 

Slone's rider's blood never thrilled to that race, for his blood hadcurdled. The sickness within rose to his mind. And that flashed upwhenever he dared to look forward at Lucy's white form. Slone could notbear this sight; it almost made him reel, yet he was driven to look. Hesaw 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 heavysaddle, a pack, a water bag, and a rifle. Slone untied the pack and letit drop. He almost threw aside the water-bag, but something withheldhis hand, and also he kept his rifle. What were a few more pounds tothis desert stallion in his last run? Slone knew it was Wildfire'sgreatest and last race. 

Suddenly Slone's ears rang with a terrible on-coming roar. For aninstant the unknown sound stiffened him, robbed him of strength. Onlythe horn of the saddle, hooking into him, held him on. Then the yearsof his desert life answered to a call more than human. 

He had to race against fire. He must beat the flame to the girl heloved. There were miles of dry forest, like powder. Fire backed by aheavy 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 heswore a grim oath that he would beat the flame. The intense andabnormal rider's passion in him, like Bostil's, dammed up, but neverfully controlled, burst within him, and suddenly he awoke to a wild andterrible violence of heart and soul. He had accepted death; he had nofear. All that he wanted to do, the last thing he wanted to do, was toride down the King and kill Lucy mercifully. How he would have gloriedto burn there in the forest, and for a million years in the darkbeyond, to save the girl!

He goaded the horse. Then he looked back. 

Through the aisles of the forest he saw a strange, streaky, murkysomething moving, alive, shifting up and down, never an instant thesame. It must have been the wind--the heat before the fire. He seemedto see through it, but there was nothing beyond, only opaque, dim, mustering clouds. Hot puffs shot forward into his face. His eyessmarted and stung. His ears hurt and were growing deaf. The tumult wasthe rear of avalanches, of maelstroms, of rushing seas, of the wreck ofthe uplands and the ruin of the earth. It grew to be so great a roarthat 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, theterrible thing for which his horse was named, was leaping through theforest. But there was no sound. 

Ahead of Slone, down the aisles, low under the trees spreading over therunning King, floated swiftly some medium, like a transparent veil. Itwas neither smoke nor air. It carried faint pin points of light, sparks, that resembled atoms of dust floating in sunlight. It was awave 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 sufferingnow. He goaded the stallion, raking his flanks. Wildfire answered witha scream and a greater speed. All except Lucy and Sage King andWildfire seemed so strange and unreal--the swift rush between thepines, now growing ghostly in the dimming light, the sense of apursuing, overpowering force, and yet absolute silence. 

Slone fought the desire to look back. But he could not resist it. Somehorrible fascination compelled him. All behind had changed. A hot wind, like a blast from a furnace, blew light, stinging particles into hisface. The fire was racing in the tree-tops, while below all was yetclear. A lashing, leaping flame engulfed the canopy of pines. It waswhite, seething, inconceivably swift, with a thousand flashing tongues. It traveled ahead of smoke. It was so thin he could see the branchesthrough it, and the fiery clouds behind. It swept onward, a sublime andan 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 thehorrible fate to befall Lucy. 

But no! He thought he must be insane not to be overcome in spirit. Yethe was not. He would beat the flame to Lucy. He felt the loss ofsomething, some kind of a sensation which he ought to have had. Stillhe rode that race to kill his sweetheart better than any race he hadever before ridden. He kept his seat; he dodged the snags; he pulledthe maddened horse the shortest way, he kept the King running straight. 

No horse had ever run so magnificent a race! Wildfire was outracingwind and fire, and he was overhauling the most noted racer of theuplands against a tremendous handicap. But now he was no longer racingto kill the King; he was running in terror. For miles he held thatlong, swift, wonderful stride without a break. He was running to hisdeath, whether or not he distanced the fire. Nothing could stop him nowbut a bursting heart. 

Slone untied his lasso and coiled the noose. Almost within reach of theKing! One throw--one sudden swerve--and the King would go down. Lucywould know only a stunning shock. Slone's heart broke. Could he killher--crush that dear golden head? He could not, yet he must! He saw along, curved, red welt on Lucy's white shoulders. What was that? Had abranch lashed her? Slone could not see her face. She could not havebeen 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 asthat wind of flame gained upon them. The air was too thick to breathe. It had an irresistible weight. It pushed horses and riders onward intheir flight--straws on the crest of a cyclone. 

Again Slone looked back and again the spectacle was different. Therewas a white and golden fury of flame above, beautiful and blinding; andbelow, farther back, an inferno of glowing fire, black-streaked, withtrembling, exploding puffs and streams of yellow smoke. The aislesbetween the burning pines were smoky, murky caverns, moving and weird. Slone saw fire shoot from the tree-tops down the trunks, and he sawfire shoot up the trunks, like trains of powder. They exploded likehuge rockets. And along the forest floor leaped the little flames. Hiseyes burned and blurred till all merged into a wide, pursuing storm tooawful for the gaze of man. 

Wildfire was running down the King. The great gray had not lessened hisspeed, but he was breaking. Slone felt a ghastly triumph when he beganto whirl the noose of the lasso round his head. Already he was withinrange. But he held back his throw which meant the end of all. And as hehesitated Wildfire suddenly whistled one shrieking blast. 

Slone looked. Ahead there was light through the forest! Slone saw awhite, open space of grass. A park? No--the end of the forest!Wildfire, like a demon, hurtled onward, with his smoothness of actiongone, beginning to break, within a length of the King. 

A cry escaped Slone--a cry as silent as if there had been no deafeningroar--as wild as the race, and as terrible as the ruthless fire. It wasthe cry of life--instead of death. Both Sage King and Wildfire wouldbeat the flame. 

Then, with the open just ahead, Slone felt a wave of hot wind rollingover 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 canopyof fire. Burning pine cones, like torches, dropped all around him. Hehad a terrible blank sense of weight, of suffocation, of the airturning to fire. 

Then Wildfire, with his nose at Sage King's flank, flashed out of thepines into the open. Slone saw a grassy wide reach inclining gentlytoward a dark break in the ground with crags rising sheer above it, andto the right a great open space. 

Slone felt that clear air as the breath of deliverance. His reelingsense righted. There--the King ran, blindly going to his death. Wildfire was breaking fast. His momentum carried him. He was almostdone. 

Slone roped the King, and holding hard, waited for the end. They ranon, breaking, breaking. Slone thought he would have to throw the King, for they were perilously near the deep cleft in the rim. But Sage Kingwent to his knees. 

Slone leaped off just as Wildfire fell. How the blade flashed thatreleased Lucy! She was wet from the horse's sweat and foam. She slidoff into Slone's arms, and he called her name. Could she hear abovethat roar back there in the forest? The pieces of rope hung to herwrists and Slone saw dark bruises, raw and bloody. She fell againsthim. Was she dead? His heart contracted. How white the face! No; he sawher breast heave against his! And he cried aloud, incoherently in hisjoy. She was alive. She was not badly hurt. She stirred. She plucked athim with nerveless hands. She pressed close to him. He heard asmothered 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 forgottenshe was half nude, he blindly tore off his coat, blindly folded itaround 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. Itwas a precious moment for Slone, in which he was uplifted beyond alldreams. 

"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 withunutterable sweetness at that laugh. 

As he turned away he felt a swift wind, then a strange impact from aninvisible force that staggered him, then the rend of flesh. After thatcame the heavy report of a gun. 

Slone fell. He knew he had been shot. Following the rending of hisflesh 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 ofstreaming clouds of smoke above her, saw on the cliff beyond the gorgetwo men, one with a smoking gun half leveled. 

If Slone had been inattentive to his surroundings before, the sight ofCordts 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' pullmy 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 fiftyyards distant, plainly recognizable, tall, gaunt, sardonic. He held thehalf-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 onlywinged--not hurt. Hurry! He's goin'--"

Another heavy report interrupted Slone. The bullet missed, but Slonemade 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 hadbeen hit again. She ran to the fallen Wildfire and jerked the riflefrom its sheath. 

Cordts had begun to climb round a ledge, evidently a short cut to getdown and across. Hutchinson saw the rifle and yelled to Cordts. Thehorse-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 apealing 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 thestronger force dominated. He leaned down--clasped Cordts's outstretchedhands, and pulled. Hutchinson bawled out hoarsely. Cordts turned whatseemed a paler face. He had difficulty on the slight footing. He wasslow. 

Slone tried to call to Lucy to shoot low, but his lips had drawn tightafter his one yell. Slone saw her white, rounded shoulders bent, withcold, white face pressed against the rifle, with slim arms quiveringand 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. Thefigures of the men remained the same--Hutchinson straining, Cordts. .. . No, Cordts was not the same! A strange change seemed manifest in hislong form. It did not seem instinct with effort. Yet it moved. 

Hutchinson also was acting strangely, yelling, heaving, wrestling. Buthe 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 Lucyhad hit the horse-thief. Hard hit! He would not--he could not let go ofHutchinson. His was a death clutch. The burly Hutchinson slipped fromhis 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 lastconvulsive effort and it doomed him. Slowly he lost his balance. Cordts's dark, evil, haunting face swung round. Both men became lax andplunged, and separated. The dust rose from the rough steps. Then thedark forms shot down--Cordts falling sheer and straight, Hutchinsonheadlong, with waving arms--down and down, vanishing in the depths. Nosound came up. A little column of yellow dust curled from the fatalledge and, catching the wind above, streamed away into the driftingclouds of smoke. 

CHAPTER XX

A darkness, like the streaming clouds overhead, seemed to blot outSlone's sight, and then passed away, leaving it clearer. 

Lucy was bending over him, binding a scarf round his shoulder and underhis arm. "Lin! It's nothing!" she was saying, earnestly. "Never toucheda bone!"

Slone sat up. The smoke was clearing away. Little curves of burninggrass 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, Isaw Sarch, Two Face, and Ben and Plume go down there. "

She had her back to the chasm where the trail led down, and she pointedwithout looking. 

Slone got up, a little unsteady on his feet and conscious of a dullpain. 

"Sarch will go straight home, and the others will follow him, " saidLucy. "They got away here where Joel came up the trail. The fire chasedthem out of the woods. Sarch will go home. And that'll fetch theriders. "

"We won't need them if only Wildfire and the King--" Slone broke offand grimly, with a catch in his breath, turned to the horses. 

How strange that Slone should run toward the King while Lucy ran toWildfire!

Sage King was a beaten, broken horse, but he would live to run anotherrace. 

Lucy was kneeling beside Wildfire, sobbing and crying: "Wildfire!Wildfire!"

All of Wildfire was white except where he was red, and that red was notnow his glossy, flaming skin. A terrible muscular convulsion as ofinternal 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 tellDad!"

"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 greatstallion. 

"WILDFIRE! WILDFIRE!"

Again the rider called to his horse, with a low and piercing cry. ButWildfire did not hear. 

The morning sun glanced brightly over the rippling sage which rolledaway from the Ford like a gray sea. 

Bostil sat on his porch, a stricken man. He faced the blue haze of thenorth, where days before all that he had loved had vanished. Every day, from sunrise till sunset, he had been there, waiting and watching. Hisriders were grouped near him, silent, awed by his agony, awaitingorders that never came. 

From behind a ridge puffed up a thin cloud of dust. Bostil saw it andgave a start. Above the sage appeared a bobbing, black object--the headof 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 insingle file down the ridge. Sarchedon's shrill neigh, like awhistle-blast, pealed in from the sage. From, fields and corralsclamored the answer attended by the clattering of hundreds of hoofs. 

Sarchedon and his followers broke from trot to canter--canter togallop--and soon were cracking their hard hoofs on the stony court. Like a swarm of bees the riders swooped down upon the racers, caughtthem, 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'slegs. "He's been runnin' fire. See thet! Fetlocks all singed!"

All the riders looked, and then with grave, questioning eyes at oneanother. 

"Reckon thar's been hell!" muttered Holley, darkly. 

Some of the riders led the horses away toward the corrals. Bostilwheeled to face the north again. His brow was lowering; his cheek waspale 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. Ahorse 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 throughnarrow slits of eyelids; and the silence grew intense. 

Holley shaded the hawk eyes with his hand. "Gray he is--Bostil--gray asthe sage. .. . AN' SO HELP ME GOD IF HE AIN'T THE KING!"

"Yes, it's the King!" cried the riders, excitedly. "Sure! I reckon! Nomistake about thet! It's the King!"

Bostil shook his huge frame, and he rubbed his eyes as if they hadbecome 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. Butonly 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 changeonce more silenced his riders. They watched the King trotting in fromthe 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 tothe riders' eyes because he had been lost. He came on, quickening alittle 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 waswhite and weary, reeling in the saddle. A bloody scarf was bound roundhis shoulder. He held Lucy in his arms. She had on his coat. A wansmile lighted her haggard face. 

Bostil, cursing deep, like muttering thunder, strode out. "Lucy! Youain'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. Butit seemed that Bostil saw only the King. The horse was caked with dustylather, scratched and disheveled, weary and broken, yet he was stillbeautiful. He raised his drooping head and reached for his master witha look as soft and dark and eloquent as a woman's. 

No rider there but felt Bostil's passion of doubt and hope. Had theKing 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 tothe sage and back, as if he expected to see another horse. But no otherhorse was in sight. At last his hard eyes rested upon the white-facedSlone. 

"Been some--hard ridin'?" he queried, haltingly. All there knew thathad 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' Iran--Wildfire over Joel--smashed him!"

"Wal, I'm sorry for the old man, " replied Bostil, gruffly. "I meant tomake up to him. .. . But thet fool boy! . .. An' Slone--you're all bloody. "

He stepped forward and pulled the scarf aside. He was curious andkindly, as if it was beyond him to be otherwise. Yet that dark coldsomething, 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. Ican't tell now. .. . But we had--hell! An' Cordts is dead--so'sHutch--an' that other pard of his. .. . Bostil, they'll never haunt yoursleep again!"

Slone finished with a strange sternness that seemed almost bitter. 

Bostil raised both his huge fists. The blood was bulging his thickneck. It was another kind of passion that obsessed him. Only someviolent check to his emotion prevented him from embracing Slone. Thehuge fists unclenched and the big fingers worked. 

"You mean to tell me you did fer Cordts an' Hutch what you did ferSears?" 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 Itell you?" he shouted. "Didn't I say wait?"

Bostil threw away all that deep fury of passion, and there seemed onlya resistless and speechless admiration left. Then ensued a moment ofsilence. The riders watched Slone's weary face as it drooped, andBostil, as he loomed over him. 

"Where's the red stallion?" queried Bostil. That was the question hardto get out. 

Slone raised eyes dark with pain, yet they flashed as he lookedstraight 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 onSage 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 toforget. "

Bostil put his arm around the young man's shoulder. "Slone, if I don'tknow what you feel fer the loss of thet grand hoss, no rider on earthknows! . .. Go in the house. Boys, take him in--all of you--an' lookafter him. "

Bostil wanted to be alone, to welcome the King, to lead him back to thehome corral, perhaps to hide from all eyes the change and the upliftthat would forever keep him from wronging another man. 

The late rains came and like magic, in a few days, the sage grew greenand 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 andspread and darkened. Every afternoon storms hung along the ramparts andrainbows curved down beautiful and ethereal. The dim blackness of thestorm-clouds was split to the blinding zigzag of lightning, and thethunder rolled and boomed, like the Colorado in flood. 

The wind was fragrant, sage-laden, no longer dry and hot, but cool inthe shade. 

Slone and Lucy never rode down so far as the stately monuments, thoughthese held memories as hauntingly sweet as others were poignantlybitter. Lucy never rode the King again. But Slone rode him, learned tolove him. And Lucy did not race any more. When Slone tried to stir inher the old spirit all the response he got was a wistful shake of heador a laugh that hid the truth or an excuse that the strain on herankles from Joel Creech's lasso had never mended. The girl wasunutterably happy, but it was possible that she would never race ahorse again. 

She rode Sarchedon, and she liked to trot or lope along beside Slonewhile they linked hands and watched the distance. But her glanceshunned the north, that distance which held the wild canyons and thebroken battlements and the long, black, pine-fringed plateau. 

"Won't you ever ride with me, out to the old camp, where I used to waitfor you?" asked Slone. 

"Some day, " she said, softly. 

"When?"

"When--when we come back from Durango, " she replied, with averted eyesand scarlet cheek. And Slone was silent, for that planned trip toDurango, with its wonderful gift to be, made his heart swell. 

And so on this rainbow day, with storms all around them, and blue skyabove, they rode only as far as the valley. But from there, before theyturned to go back, the monuments appeared close, and they loomedgrandly with the background of purple bank and creamy cloud and shaftsof golden lightning. They seemed like sentinels--guardians of a greatand beautiful love born under their lofty heights, in the lonelysilence of day, in the star-thrown shadow of night. They were like thatlove. And they held Lucy and Slone, calling every day, giving anameless and tranquil content, binding them true to love, true to thesage and the open, true to that wild upland home.