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Then, as Farlane well knew, a quick road to Bostil's good will was to praise one of his favorites. "Reckon you spoke sense for once, Farlane," replied Bostil, with relief. "I wasn't thinkin' so much of danger for Lucy.... But she lets thet half-witted Creech go with her." "No, boss, you're wrong," put in Holley, earnestly. "I know the girl. She has no use fer Joel. But he jest runs after her."
Despite her antipathy toward Sage King, Lucy could not gaze at him without all a rider's glory in a horse. He was sleek, so graceful, so racy, so near the soft gray of the sage, so beautiful in build and action. Then he was the kind of a horse that did not have to be eternally watched. He was spirited and full of life, eager to run, but when Farlane called for him to stand still he obeyed.
"Boss," said Holley, "Cordts an' his outfit never rid in. They was last seen by some Navajos headin' for the canyon." "Thet's good!" ejaculated Bostil, in relief. "Wal boys, look after the hosses. ... Slone, just turn Wildfire over to the boys with instructions, an' feel safe." Farlane scratched his head and looked dubious. "I'm wonderin' how safe it'll be fer us."
And Dad or Farlane would prevent me, somehow." "It's easy. Ride out here as often as you can. Bring a light saddle an' let me put you up on Wildfire. You'll run him, train him, get him in shape. Then the day of the races or the night before I'll go in an' hide out in the sage till you come or send for Wildfire." "Oh, it'll be glorious," she cried, with eyes like stars.
The great Amherstia tree had been nearly killed by injudicious treatment, and the baking of the soil above its roots. This defect was remedied by sinking bamboo pipes four feet and a half in the earth, and watering through them a plan first recommended by Major M`Farlane of Tavoy.
They brought out the gray, and after the manner of riders who had the care of a great horse and loved him, they curried and combed and rubbed him before saddling him. "Reckon you'd better ride Van's saddle," suggested Farlane. "Them races is close now, an' a strange saddle " "Of course. Don't change anything he's used to, except the stirrups," replied Lucy.
"But it will be a grand race." "I reckon so. It's likely to be the grandest ever seen. But Wildfire will win because he's run wild all his life an' run to kill other horses.... The only question is CAN you ride him?" "Yes. I never saw the horse I couldn't ride. Bostil says there are some I can't ride. Farlane says not. Only two horses have thrown me, the King and Sarchedon.
"Jones, do you know Mc Farlane of Barney's River, a Presbyterian clergyman? He told me he was once in a remote district there where no minister had ever been, and visiting the house of a settler of Scotch descent, he began to examine the children. "'Well, my man, said he, patting on the shoulder a stout junk of a boy of about sixteen years of age, 'can you tell me what is the chief end of man?
The nearest accessible shelter was the cottage, and Gibbie knew it would need all Ginevra's strength to reach it. Again he took her by the hand. "But where's Mistress Mac Farlane?" she said. "Oh, Gibbie! we mustn't leave her." He replied by pointing down to the bed of the stream: there were she and Angus crossing.
She guided the running horse back into the trail, rapidly leaving Creech out of sight. "He's gone crazy, that's sure," said Lucy. "And he means me harm!" She ran the King clear up to the corrals, and he was still going hard when she turned down the lane to the barns. Then she pulled him in. Farlane was there to meet her. She saw no other riders and was glad.
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