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"Bostil, I 'most forgot," went on Brackton, "Cordts sent word by the Piutes who come to-day thet he'd be here sure." Bostil's face subtly changed. The light seemed to leave it. He did not reply to Brackton did not show that he heard the comment on all sides. Public opinion was against Bostil's permission to allow Cordts and his horse-thieves to attend the races. Bostil appeared grave, regretful.
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.
Holley says they hide up in the canyon country. None of the riders have ever tried to track them far. It would be useless. Holley says there are plateaus of rich grass and great forests. The Ute Indians say that much, too. But we know little about the wild country." "Aren't there any hunters at Bostil's Ford?" "Wild-horse hunters, you mean?" "No. Bear an' deer hunters." "There's none.
There'll never be peace in Bostil's Ford again till that race is run." "But, Lucy, could Bostil's wantin' Wildfire an' hatin' me because I won't sell could that ruin me here at the Ford?" "It could. But, Lin, there's more. Oh, I hate to tell you!" she whispered, passionately. "I thought you'd know.... Joel Creech swore you cut the ropes on the ferry-boat and sent it adrift."
Bostil was wont to say that in all the world there could hardly be a grander view than the outlook down that gray sea of rolling sage, down to the black-fringed plateaus and the wild, blue-rimmed and gold-spired horizon. One morning in early spring, as was Bostil's custom, he ordered the racers to be brought from the corrals and turned loose on the slope.
Despair seized upon him. And the vague shape of the boat, spectral and instinct with meaning, passed from Bostil's strained gaze. "So help me God, I've done it!" he groaned, hoarsely. And he staggered back and sat down. Mind and heart and soul were suddenly and exquisitely acute to the shame of his act. Remorse seized upon his vitals. He suffered physical agony, as if a wolf gnawed him internally.
She was not over-keen about riding with Van first, because he was in love with her; and secondly, in spite of that, she could not beat him when he rode the King. They were training Bostil's horses for the much-anticipated races.
After supper he decided to walk down into the village, and would have done so but for the fact that he saw a man climbing his path. When he recognized the rider Holley he sensed trouble, and straightway he became gloomy. Bostil's right-hand man could not call on him for any friendly reason. Holley came up slowly, awkwardly, after the manner of a rider unused to walking.
This day, when Lucy had stolen away on a forbidden horse, she was eighteen years old. The thought of her mother, who had died long ago on their way into this wilderness, was the one drop of sadness in her joy. Lucy loved everybody at Bostil's Ford and everybody loved her. She loved all the horses except her father's favorite racer, that perverse devil of a horse, the great Sage King.
The red earth seemed to blossom at the touch of water. The place resembled an Indian encampment quiet, sleepy, colorful, with the tiny-streams of water running everywhere, and lazy columns of blue wood-smoke rising. Bostil's Ford was the opposite of a busy village, yet its few inhabitants, as a whole, were prosperous. The wants of pioneers were few.
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