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Updated: May 9, 2025
"Creech'll be fetchin' his hosses across soon, I reckon." "You bet he will. He's trainin' for the races next month." "An' when air they comin' off?" "You got me. Mebbe Van knows." Some one prodded a sleepy rider who lay all his splendid lithe length, hat over his eyes. Then he sat up and blinked, a lean-faced, gray-eyed fellow, half good-natured and half resentful. "Did somebody punch me?"
Bostil put his arm around her and felt immeasurably relieved to have the golden head press close to his shoulder. "Child, we can't fly acrost the river. Now don't you cry about Creech's hosses. They ain't starved yet. It's hard luck. But mebbe it'll turn out so Creech'll lose only the race. An', Lucy, it was a dead sure bet he'd have lost thet anyway."
"Wal, when will you have the hosses fetched over?" he asked, deliberately. "Creech'll want to know." "Just as soon as the boat's mended," replied Bostil. "I'll put Shugrue on the job to-morrow." "Thanks, Bostil. Sure, thet'll be all right. Creech'll be satisfied," said the rider, as if relieved. Then he mounted, and with his companion trotted down the lane.
"Bostil," he began, huskily, "you're to send the King an' Sarch an' Ben an' Two Face an' Plume to ransom Lucy! ... If you won't then Creech'll sell her to Cordts!" What a strange look came into the faces of the riders! Did, they think he cared more for horseflesh than for his own flesh and blood?
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