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"What'd you beat up thet poor Joel Creech fer?" demanded Brackton. "He got what he deserved," replied Slone, and the memory, coming on the head of this strange attitude of Brackton's, roused Slone's temper. "Wal, Joel tells some queer things about you fer instance, how you took advantage of little Lucy Bostil, grabbin' her an' maulin' her the way Joel seen you."
He saw an unkempt, ragged form that had been wet and muddy, and was now dust-caked. Creech stood silent in a dignity of despair that wrung Slone's heart. His silence was an answer. It was Joel Creech who broke the suspense. "Didn't I tell you-all what'd happen?" he shrilled. "Aw no!" chorused the riders. Brackton shook all over. Tears dimmed his eyes tears that he had no shame for.
The trail swung to the left under the great slope, and then presently it climbed to a higher bench. Here were brush and grass and huge patches of sage, so pungent that it stung Slone's nostrils. Then he went down again, this time to come to a clear brook lined by willows. Here the horses drank long and Slone refreshed himself. The sun had grown hot.
But suddenly Wildfire broke that silence with a whistle which to Slone's overstrained faculties seemed a blast as piercing as the splitting sound of lightning. And with the whistle Wildfire plunged up toward the pass. Slone yelled at the top of his lungs and fired his gun before he could terrorize the stallion and drive him back down the slope.
The thoughts were characteristic of these riders. The other men, however, recovering from a horror-broken silence, burst out in acclaim of Slone's feat. "Dick Sears's finish! Roped by a boy rider!" exclaimed Cal Blinn, fervidly. "Bostil, that rider is worthy of his horse," said Wetherby. "I think Sears would have bored you. I saw his finger pressing pressing on the trigger.
Slone's voice rolled out with deep, ringing scorn. And Lucy, her temper quelled, began to feel the rider's strength, his mastery of the situation, and something vague, yet splendid about him that hurt her. Slone strode toward her. Lucy backed against the cedar-tree and could go no farther. How white he was now!
It was his rider's hot blood that prompted him to launch this taunt. He could not help it. "You wild-hoss chaser," roared Bostil, "your Wildfire may be a bloody killer, but he can't beat the King in a race!" "Excuse ME, Bostil, but Wildfire did beat the King!" This was only adding fuel to the fire. Slone saw Holley making signs that must have meant silence would be best. But Slone's blood was up.
And here were patches of sage, fresh and pungent, and long reaches of bleached grass. It was the edge of a forest. Wildfire's trail went on. Slone came at length to a group of pines, and here he found the remains of a camp fire, and some flint arrow-heads. Indians had been in there, probably having come from the opposite direction to Slone's.
Slone saw her white, rounded shoulders bent, with cold, white face pressed against the rifle, with slim arms quivering and growing tense, with the tangled golden hair blowing out. Then she shot. Slone's glance shifted. He did not see the bullet strike up dust. The figures of the men remained the same Hutchinson straining, Cordts.... No, Cordts was not the same!
Bostil saw the leap of Slone's lasso the curling, snaky dart of the noose which flew up to snap around Sears. The rope sung taut. Sears was swept bodily clean from the saddle, to hit the ground in sodden impact. Almost swifter than Bostil's sight was the action of Slone flashing by in the air himself on the plunging horse. Sears shot once, twice.
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