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He'll kill Creech, an' he'll lay fer Joel goin' back an' he'll kill him.... An' I'll bet my all he'll ride in here with Lucy an' the King!" "Holley, you ain't figurin' on thet red hoss of Slone's ridin' down the King?" Holley laughed as if Bostil's query was the strangest thing of all that poignant day. "Naw. Slone'll lay fer Joel an' rope him like he roped Dick Sears."
"Wal, we're all good fellers to-day," interposed Bostil. "An' now let's ride home an' eat. Slone, you come with me." The group slowly mounted the slope where the horses waited. Macomber, Wetherby, Burthwait, Blinn all Bostil's friends proffered their felicitations to the young rider, and all were evidently prepossessed with him.
Slone had reason to be prouder of Lucy, and he went back to his cabin free from further anxiety. Before he went to sleep, however, he heard the clatter of a number of horses in the lane. He could tell they were tired horses. Riders returning, he thought, and instantly corrected that, for riders seldom came in at night. And then it occurred to him that it might be Bostil's return.
His face was lividly white except where the bloody welts crossed it. His jaw seemed to hang loosely, making speech difficult. "Jest fer thet " he panted, hoarsely, "I'll lay fer you an' I'll strip you -an' I'll tie you on a hoss an' I'll drive you naked through Bostil's Ford!" Lucy saw the utter futility of all her good intentions. Something had snapped in Joel Creech's mind.
But Bostil's entrance had caused a mysterious break in everything that had been going on, except the preparation of the morning meal. "Now I rode in on some confab or other, that's sure," said Bostil, good-naturedly. "You sure did, Dad," replied Lucy, with a bright smile. "Wal, let me sit in the game," he rejoined. "Dad, you can't even ante," said Lucy.
That day was the swiftest and the most strenuous in all Lucy Bostil's experience in the open. At sunset, when Creech halted in a niche in a gorge between lowering cliffs, Lucy fell off her horse and lay still and spent on the grass. Creech had a glance of sympathy and admiration for her, but he did not say anything about the long day's ride.
Most of Bostil's gray hairs might have been traced to his years of worry about horses. The day he received word from the Indians he sent for Brackton, Williams, Muncie, and Creech to come to his house that night. These men, with Bostil, had for years formed in a way a club, which gave the Ford distinction.
Creech would hear who was accused of cutting the boat adrift. What would he say? If he believed, as all the villagers believed, then Bostil's Ford would become an unhealthy place for Lin Slone. Where were the great race-horses Blue Roan and Peg and the other thoroughbreds? A pang shot through Slone. "Oh, not lost not starved?" he muttered. "That would be hell!"
Bostil tried to look astounded. "Hell! ... It's the Colorado! She's boomin'!" "Reckon it's hell all right for Creech," replied Holley. "Boss, why didn't you fetch them hosses over?" Bostil's face darkened. He was a bad man to oppose to question at times. "Holley, you're sure powerful anxious about Creech. Are you his friend?" "Naw! I've little use fer Creech," replied Holley. "An' you know thet.
But it seemed that Bostil saw only the King. The horse was caked with dusty lather, scratched and disheveled, weary and broken, yet he was still beautiful. He raised his drooping head and reached for his master with a look as soft and dark and eloquent as a woman's. No rider there but felt Bostil's passion of doubt and hope. Had the King been beaten?
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