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"Where's Lucy?" presently asked Bostil. As he divided his love, so he divided his anxiety. Some rider had seen Lucy riding off, with her golden hair flying in the wind. This was an old story. "She's up on Buckles?" Bostil queried, turning sharply to the speaker. "Reckon so," was the calm reply. Bostil swore. He did not have a rider who could equal him in profanity. "Farlane, you'd orders.
Mistress Mac Farlane made herself so disagreeable that she kept away from her as much as she could, spending most of her time in her own room, with her needlework and some books of poetry she had found in the library.
Still, I guess they all agree I can ride." "Holley an' Farlane are riders?" he questioned. "Yes, Dad's right-hand men." "Your dad hires many riders, I supposed?" "Sure I never heard of him turning any rider down, at least not without a try." "I wonder if he would give me a job?" Lucy glanced up quickly. The idea surprised her pleased her. "In a minute," she replied. "And he'd be grand to you.
Why, Cordts couldn't chop into thet log-an'-wire corral if he an' his gang chopped all night! They hate work. Besides, Farlane is there, an' the boys." This reassured Bostil, and he resumed his chair. But his hand shook a little. "Did Cordts have anythin' to say?" he asked. "Sure. He was friendly an' talkative," replied Brackton. "He came in just after dark.
Above the sage appeared a bobbing, black object the head of a horse. Then the big black body followed. "Sarch!" exclaimed Bostil. With spurs clinking the riders ran and trooped behind him. "More hosses back," said Holley, quietly. "Thar's Plume!" exclaimed Farlane. "An' Two Face!" added Van. "Dusty Ben!" said another. "RIDERLESS!" finished Bostil.
Farlane, Holley, all the riders, and her father, too, had tried to make her realize the danger in a horse, sooner or later. But Lucy could not help it; she was not afraid; she believed that the meanest horse was actuated by natural fear of a man; she was not a man and she had never handled a horse like a man.
Bostil was not in evidence, and Farlane, for once, could spare no more time than it took to saddle Sage King. Lucy rode out into the sage, pretty sure that no one watched her. She had hidden the packs near the tallest bunch of greasewood along the trail; and when she halted behind it she had no fear of being seen from the corrals. She got the packs.
Frequent showers of snow fell during the day, and the atmosphere was thick and gloomy. We started at an early hour the following morning, and reached the Hudson's Bay Company's post to breakfast, and were received very kindly by Mr. Mac Farlane, the gentleman in charge. The other establishment, situated on the opposite side of the river, was under the direction of Mr.
The heat of the day blew away on a breeze that bent the tips of the sage-brush. A wild song drifted back from the riders to the fore. And the procession of Indians moved along, their gay trappings and bright colors beautiful in the fading sunset light. When Bostil and, his guests arrived at the corrals, Holley, with Farlane and other riders, were waiting.
But they saw only a little girl, who told them her father had gone to find the laird, that her mother was ill in bed, and Mistress Mac Farlane on her way to her own people.
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