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But the distance was long, the glass not perfect; he could not trust his sight. Suddenly that sight dimmed. "Holley, I can't make out nothin'," he complained. "Take the glass. Give me a line on Lucy's mount." "Boss, I don't need the glass to see that she's up on a HOSS," replied Holley, as he took the glass. He leveled it, adjusted it to his eyes, and then looked long. Bostil grew impatient.
"Come in, boy," said Bostil. "What're you flustered about?" Van strode in, spurs jangling, cap in hand. "Boss, there's a sixty-foot raise in the river!" Van panted. "Oh!" cried Lucy, wheeling toward her father. "Wal, Van, I reckon I knowed thet," replied Bostil. "Mebbe I'm gettin' old, but I can still hear.... Listen."
"Lucy, is there anythin' between you an' Joel?" he asked, gravely. "No," she replied, with her clear eyes up to his. Bostil thought of a bluebell. "I'm beggin' your pardon," he said, hastily. "Dad, you know how Joel runs after me. I've told you. I let him till lately. I liked him. But that wasn't why. I felt sorry for him pitied him." "You did? Seems an awful waste," replied Bostil.
Yet, maybe the truth flung into this hard old rider's teeth was what he needed more than anything else. Slone divined, rather than saw, that he had done an unprecedented thing. "I'll go now, Bostil." Slone nodded a good-by to the riders, and, turning away, he led the two horses down the lane toward the house.
If he had a bad trait, it came out when Van rode him, but all the riders, and Bostil, too, claimed that Van was to blame for that. "Thar, I reckon them stirrups is right," declared Farlane. "Now, Miss Lucy, hold him tight till he wears off thet edge. He needs work."
Creech was no longer a friend of Bostil's, but Bostil had always been fair-minded, and now he did not allow his animosities to influence him. Holley, the veteran rider, made the sixth member of the club. Bostil had a cedar log blazing cheerily in the wide fireplace, for these early spring nights in the desert were cold. Brackton was the last guest to arrive.
The Indian races run in twos and threes, and on up to a number that crowded the racecourse; the betting and yelling and running; the wild and plunging mustangs; the heat and dust and pounding of hoofs; the excited betting; the surprises and defeats and victories, the trial tests of the principals, jealously keeping off to themselves in the sage; the endless moving, colorful procession, gaudy and swift and thrilling all these Bostil loved tremendously.
Bostil went toward the house with his daughter, turning at the door to call a last word to his riders about the care of his horses. The house was a low, flat, wide structure, with a corridor running through the middle, from which doors led into the adobe-walled rooms. The windows were small openings high up, evidently intended for defense as well as light, and they had rude wooden shutters.
Bostil saw Lucy's golden hair whipping out from the flame-streaked mane. And then he could only see that red brute of a horse. Wildfire before the wind! Bostil thought of the leaping prairie flame, storm-driven. On came the red stallion on on! What a tremendous stride! What a marvelous recovery! What ease! What savage action!
If you and Sage King don't get more wild running to-morrow than you ever had I'll never ride again!" With this retort Lucy left the room. Van stared at the door and then at Bostil. "What'd I say, Bostil?" he asked, plaintively. "I'm always r'ilin' her." "Cheer up, Van. You didn't say much. Lucy is fiery these days. She's got a hoss somewhere an' she's goin' to ride him in the race.
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