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Updated: June 25, 2025
"Ole Creech an' the girl he kidnapped." Slone felt the leap of his blood and the jerk it gave the rifle as his tense finger trembled on the trigger. "Girl.... What girl?" he called, hoarsely. "Bostil's girl." "Why did Cordts split on the trail?" "He an' Hutch went round fer some more of the gang, an' to head off Joel Creech when he comes in with Bostil's hosses."
But he forced himself to think only of these tracks and not any significance they might have. He trailed the men down to a bench on the slope, a few hundred yards from Bostil's grove, and here a trampled space marked where a halt had been made and a wait. And here Slone could no longer restrain conjecture and dread. He searched and searched. He got on his knees.
"Boss, he run second!" Holley kept repeating. Bostil had the heart to shake hands with Holley and say he was glad, when it was on his lips to blurt out there had been no race. Then Bostil's nerves tingled at sight of Van trotting the King up the course toward the slope. Bostil watched with searching eyes. Sage King did not appear to be injured. Van rode straight up the slope and leaped off.
The fact remained, however, that there were only two wagers against the King, and both were put up by Indians. Macomber was betting on second or third place for his horse in the big race. No odds of Bostil's tempted him. "Say, where's Wetherby?" rolled out Bostil. "He'll back his hoss." "Wetherby's ridin' over to-morrow," replied Macomber. "But you gotta bet him two to one."
Old Horse, the Navajo, beamed benignly upon this daughter of the friend of the Indians. Silver, his brother chieftain, nodded as if he understood Bostil's pride and regret. Some of the young riders showed their hearts in their eyes. Farlane tried to look mysterious, to pretend he was in Lucy's confidence.
Bostil again remembered the sleek, slim, racy thoroughbreds Blue Roan, a wild horse he had longed to own, and Peg, a mare that had no equal in the uplands. Where did Bostil's hate of a man stand in comparison with love of a horse? He began to sweat and the sweat burned him. "How soon'll Creech hear the river an' know what's comin'?" muttered Bostil, darkly.
It brought his head up with a jerk, his glance steady and keen on Bostil's. "Bostil, you know I don't drink," he said. "A-huh! I know a lot about you, Slone.... I heard you bought Vorhees's place, up on the bench." "Yes." "Did he tell you it was mortgaged to me for more'n it's worth?" "No, he didn't." "Did he make over any papers to you?" "No."
Farlane knew how to mollify his master and long habit had made him proficient. Bostil's eyes flashed. He was proud of Lucy's power over a horse. The story Bostil first told to any stranger happening by the Ford was how Lucy had been born during a wild ride almost, as it were, on the back of a horse. That, at least, was her fame, and the riders swore she was a worthy daughter of such a mother.
"I'll double it," returned Bostil, just as briefly. "No!" "I'll " "Save your breath, Bostil," flashed Slone. "You don't know me. But let me tell you you CAN'T BUY my horse!" The great veins swelled and churned in Bostil's bull neck; a thick and ugly contortion worked in his face; his eyes reflected a sick rage.
"That's for you to say, Bostil's daughter." "My name's Lucy," replied the girl, blushing painfully, "I mean I'll be glad to do anything you think best." "You're very good." Then he turned his face away. Lucy looked closely at him. He was indeed a beggared rider. His clothes and his boots hung in tatters. He had no hat, no coat, no vest.
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