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Slone started out ahead of Lucy, and then they raced down the long pass. The course was hard-packed sand. Fast as Sarchedon was, and matchless as a horseman 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, and the other horse made him fierce.
She spurred Sarchedon into a run and tore through the sage, down into the valley, running him harder than she should have run him. Then she checked him, and, penitent, petted him out of all proportion to her thoughtlessness. The violent exercise only heated her blood and, if anything, increased this sudden and new torment.
Sage King would not kneel for Lucy as Sarchedon did, and he was too high for her to mount from the ground, so she mounted from a rock. She took to the road, and then the first trail into the sage, intending to trot him ten or fifteen miles down into the valley, and give him some fast, warm work on the return. The day was early in May and promised to grow hot. There was not a cloud in the blue sky.
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 an unheard-of price to pay for any horse.
Suddenly it occurred to Lucy that one significance of this idea of Creech's had not dawned upon him. "You forget that soon my father will no longer own Sage King or Sarchedon or Dusty Ben or any racer. He loses 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.
Sage King 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' up behind 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.
Joel Creech, mounted on Sage King, and leading Sarchedon, was coming at a gallop. The other horses were following. "What's his hurry?" demanded Lucy. "After climbing out of that canyon Joel ought not to push the horses." "He'll git it from me if there's no reason," growled Creech. "Them hosses is wet." "Look at Sarch! He's wild. He always hated Joel."
There was Plume, a superb mare that got her name from the way her mane swept in the wind when she was on the ran; and there was Two Face, like a coquette, sleek and glossy and running and the huge, rangy bay, Dusty Ben; and the black stallion Sarchedon; and lastly Sage King, the color of the upland sage, a racer in build, a horse splendid and proud and beautiful.
He was never happier than in depicting his favourite pastime, which figures in most of his novels and inspired him with some capital verse. But in Holmby House, Sarchedon, the Gladiators, etc., he tried the historical style also.
"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. Quick as 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 never forgotten," replied Lucy.
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