Wildfire................................................................................................................................................................1

Zane Grey .................................................................................................................................................1

For some reason the desert scene before Lucy Bostil awoke varying emotionsa sweet gratitude for the

fullness of her life there at the Ford, yet a haunting remorse that she could not be wholly contenta vague

loneliness of soula thrill and a fear for the strangely calling future, glorious, unknown.

She longed for something to happen. It might be terrible, so long as it was wonderful. 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

Lucy was glowing and rapt with love for all she beheld from her lofty perch: the greenandpink blossoming

hamlet beneath her, set between the beauty of the gray sage expanse and the ghastliness of the barren heights;

the swift Colorado sullenly thundering below in the abyss; the Indians in their bright colors, riding up the

river trail; the eagle poised like a feather on the air, and a beneath him the grazing cattle making black dots on

the sage; the deep velvet azure of the sky; the golden lights on the bare peaks and the lilac veils in the far

ravines; the silky rustle of a canyon swallow as he shot downward in the sweep of the wind; the fragrance of

cedar, the flowers of the spearpointed mescal; the brooding silence, the beckoning range, the purple

Whatever it was Lucy longed for, whatever was whispered by the wind and written in the mystery of the

waste of sage and stone, she wanted it to happen there at Bostil's Ford. She had no desire for civilization, she

flouted the idea of marrying the rich rancher of Durango. Bostil's sister, that stern but lovable woman who

had brought her up and taught her, would never persuade her to marry against her will. Lucy imagined herself

like a wild horsefree, proud, untamed, meant for the desert; and here she would live her life. The desert

and her life seemed as one, yet in what did they resemble each otherin what of this scene could she read

Shudderingly she rejected the red, sullen, thundering river, with its swift, changeful, endless, contending

strifefor that was tragic. And she rejected the frowning mass of red rock, upreared, riven and split and

canyoned, so grim and alooffor that was barren. But she accepted the vast sloping valley of sage, rolling

gray and soft and beautiful, down to the dim mountains and purple ramparts of the horizon. Lucy did not

know what she yearned for, she did not know why the desert called to her, she did not know in what it

resembled her spirit, but she did know that these three feelings were as one, deep in her heart. For ten years,

every day of her life, she had watched this desert scene, and never had there been an hour that it was not

different, yet the same. Ten yearsand she grew up watching, feelingtill from the desert's thousand

moods she assimilated its nature, loved her bonds, and could never have been happy away from the open, the

color, the freedom, the wildness. On this birthday, when those who loved her said she had become her own

mistress, she acknowledged the claim of the desert forever. And she experienced a deep, rich, strange

Hers always then the mutable and immutable desert, the leagues and leagues of slope and sage and rolling

ridge, the great canyons and the giant cliffs, the dark river with its mystic thunder of waters, the pinefringed

plateaus, the endless stretch of horizon, with its lofty, isolated, noble monuments, and the bold ramparts with

their beckoning beyond! Hers always the desert seasons: the shrill, icy blast, the intense cold, the steely skies,

the fading snows; the gray old sage and the bleached grass under the pall of the spring sandstorms; the hot

furnace breath of summer, with its magnificent cloud pageants in the sky, with the black tempests hanging

here and there over the peaks, dark veils floating down and rainbows everywhere, and the lacy waterfalls

upon the glistening cliffs and the thunder of the red floods; and the glorious golden autumn when it was

always afternoon and time stood still! Hers always the rides in the open, with the sun at her back and the

wind in her face! And hers surely, sooner or later, the nameless adventure which had its inception in the

strange yearning of her heart and presaged its fulfilment somewhere down that trailless sageslope she loved

Bostil's house was a crude but picturesque structure of red stone and white clay and bleached cottonwoods,

and it stood at the outskirts of the cluster of greeninclosed cabins which composed the hamlet. 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 blackfringed plateaus and the wild, bluerimmed and goldspired 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. He loved to sit there and watch his horses graze, but ever he saw that the riders

were close at hand, and that the horses did not get out on the slope of sage. He sat back and gloried in the

sight. He owned bands of mustangs; near by was a field of them, fine and mettlesome and racy; yet Bostil had

eyes only for the blooded favorites. Strange it was that not one of these was a mustang or a broken wild

horse, for many of the riders' best mounts had been captured by them or the Indians. And it was Bostil's

supreme ambition to own a great wild stallion. 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.

Some rider had seen Lucy riding off, with her golden hair flying in the wind. This was an old story.

"Farlane, you'd orders. Lucy's not to ride them hosses, least of all Buckles. He ain't safe even for a man."

"Boss, it's likely you did, fer you talk a lot," replied Farlane. "Lucy pulled my hat down over my eyestold

me to go to thunder an' then, zip! she an' Buckles were dustin' it fer the sage."

"She's got to keep out of the sage," growled Bostil. "It ain't safe for her out there. . . . Where's my glass? I

"What's makin' them dustclouds on the sage? Antelope? . . . Holley, you used to have eyes better 'n me. Use

"Wal, boss, who could catch her up on Buckles? Lucy can ride. An' there's the King an' Sarch right under

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 ridealmost, 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. Then, as Farlane well knew, a quick

"Reckon you spoke sense for once, Farlane," replied Bostil, with relief. "I wasn't thinkin' so much of danger

"No, boss, you're wrong," put in Holley, earnestly. "I know the girl. She has no use fer Joel. But he jest runs

"Wal, Yes an' no," he answered, finally. "I reckon Lucy could make a man out of Joel. But she doesn't care

Another cleareyed rider drew Bostil's attention from the gray waste of rolling sage.

"Bostil, look! Look at the King! He's watchin' fer somethin'. . . . An' so's Sarch."

The two horses named were facing a ridge some few hundred yards distant, and their heads were aloft and

ears straight forward. 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. . . .

No more 'n Buckles with Lucy makin' him run some," replied Holley, with a dry laugh.

Bostil's anger and anxiety might never have been. The light of the upland rider's joy shone in his keen gaze.

The slope before him was open, and almost level, down to the ridge that had hidden the missing girl and

horse. Buckles was running for the love of running, as the girl low down over his neck was riding for the love

of riding. The Sage King whistled again, and shot off with graceful sweep to meet them; Sarchedon plunged

after him; Two Face and Plume jealously trooped down, too, but Dusty Ben, after a toss of his head, went on

grazing. The gray and the black met Buckles and could not turn in time to stay with him. A girl's gay scream

pealed up the slope, and Buckles went lower and faster. Sarchedon was left behind. Then the gray King began

to run as if before he had been loping. He was beautiful in action. This was playa gamea raceplainly

dominated by the spirit of the girl. Lucy's hair was a bright stream of gold in the wind. She rode bareback. It

seemed that she was hunched low over Buckles with her knees high on his back scarcely astride him at all.

Yet her motion was one with the horse. Again that wild, gay scream pealed outcall or laugh or challenge.

Sage King, with a fleetness that made the eyes of Bostil and his riders glisten, took the lead, and then sheered

off to slow down, while Buckles thundered past. Lucy was pulling him hard, and had him plunging to a halt,

when the rider Holley ran out to grasp his bridle. Buckles was snorting and his ears were laid back. He

"No use, Lucy," said Bostil. "You can't beat the King at your own game, even with a runnin' start."

Lucy Bostil's eyes were blue, as keen as her father's, and now they flashed like his. She had a hand twisted in

the horse's long mane, and as, lithe and supple, she slipped a knee across his broad back she shook a little

"Sage King, I hate you!" she called, as if the horse were human. "And I'll beat you some day!"

Bostil swore by the gods his Sage King was the swiftest horse in all that wild upland country of wonderful

horses. He swore the great gray could look back over his shoulder and run away from any broken horse

Bostil himself was half horse, and the half of him that was human he divided between love of his fleet racers

and his daughter Lucy. He had seen years of hard riding on that wild Utah border where, in those days, a

horse meant all the world to a man. A lucky strike of grassy upland and good water south of the Rio Colorado

made him rich in all that he cared to own. The Indians, yet unspoiled by white men, were friendly. Bostil

built a boat at the Indian crossing of the Colorado and the place became known as Bostil's Ford. From time to

time his personality and his reputation and his need brought horsehunters, riders, sheepherders, and men of

pioneer spirit, as well as wandering desert travelers, to the Ford, and the lonely, isolated hamlet slowly grew.

North of the river it was more than two hundred miles to the nearest little settlement, with only a few lonely

ranches on the road; to the west were several villages, equally distant, but cut off for two months at a time by

the raging Colorado, flooded by melting snow up in the mountains. Eastward from the Ford stretched a

ghastly, broken, unknown desert of canyons. Southward rolled the beautiful uplands, with valleys of sage and

grass, and plateaus of pine and cedar, until this rich rolling gray and green range broke sharply on a purple

horizon line of upflung rocky ramparts and walls and monuments, wild, dim, and mysterious.

Bostil's cattle and horses were numberless, and many as were his riders, he always could use more. But most

riders did not abide long with Bostil, first because some of them were of a wandering breed, wildhorse

hunters themselves; and secondly, Bostil had two great faults: he seldom paid a rider in money, and he never

permitted one to own a fleet horse. He wanted to own all the fast horses himself. And in those days every

rider, especially a wildhorse hunter, loved his steed as part of himself. If there was a difference between

Bostil and any rider of the sage, it was that, as he had more horses, so he had more love.

Whenever Bostil could not get possession of a horse he coveted, either by purchase or trade, he invariably

acquired a grievance toward the owner. This happened often, for riders were loath to part with their favorites.

And he had made more than one enemy by his persistent nagging. It could not be said, however, that he

Across the Colorado, in a high, redwalled canyon opening upon the river, lived a poor sheepherder and

horsetrader named Creech. This man owned a number of thoroughbreds, two of which he would not part

with for all the gold in the uplands. These racers, Blue Roan and Peg, had been captured wild on the ranges

by Ute Indians and broken to racing. They were still young and getting faster every year. Bostil wanted them

because he coveted them and because he feared them. It would have been a terrible blow to him if any horse

ever beat the gray. But Creech laughed at all offers and taunted Bostil with a boast that in another summer he

To complicate matters and lead rivalry into hatred young Joel Creech, a great horseman, but worthless in the

eyes of all save his father, had been heard to say that some day he would force a race between the King and

Blue Roan. And that threat had been taken in various ways. It alienated Bostil beyond all hope of

reconciliation. It made Lucy Bostil laugh and look sweetly mysterious. She had no enemies and she liked

everybody. It was even gossiped by the women of Bostil's Ford that she had more than liking for the idle Joel.

But the husbands of these gossips said Lucy was only tenderhearted. Among the riders, when they sat

around their lonely campfires, or lounged at the corrals of the Ford, there was speculation in regard to this

race hinted by Joel Creech. There never had been a race between the King and Blue Roan, and there never

would be, unless Joel were to ride off with Lucy. In that case there would be the grandest race ever run on the

uplands, with the odds against Blue Roan only if he carried double. If Joel put Lucy up on the Roan and he

rode Peg there would be another story. Lucy Bostil was a slip of a girl, born on a horse, as strong and supple

as an Indian, and she could ride like a burr sticking in a horse's mane. With Blue Roan carrying her light

weight she might run away from any one up on the Kingwhich for Bostil would be a double tragedy,

equally in the loss of his daughter and the beating of his bestbeloved racer. But with Joel on Peg, such a race

would end in heartbreak for all concerned, for the King would outrun Peg, and that would bring riders within

It had always been a fascinating subject, this longlookedfor race. It grew more so when Joel's infatuation

for Lucy became known. There were fewer riders who believed Lucy might elope with Joel than there were

who believed Joel might steal his father's horses. But all the riders who loved horses and all the women who

loved gossip were united in at least one thing, and that was that something like a race or a romance would

In addition to Bostil's growing hatred for the Creeches, he had a great fear of Cordts, the horsethief. A fear

ever restless, ever watchful. Cordts hid back in the untrodden ways. He had secret friends among the riders of

the ranges, faithful followers back in the canyon camps, gold for the digging, cattle by the thousand, and fast

horses. He had always gotten what he wanted except one thing. That was a certain horse. And the horse

Cordts was a bad man, a product of the early goldfields of California and Idaho, an outcast from that evil

wave of wanderers retreating back over the trails so madly traveled westward. He became a lord over the free

ranges. But more than all else he was a rider. He knew a horse. He was as much horse as Bostil. Cordts rode

into this wild freerange country, where he had been, heard to say that a horsethief was meaner than a

poisoned coyote. Nevertheless, he became a horsethief. The passion he had conceived for the Sage King

was the passion of a man for an unattainable woman. Cordts swore that he would never rest, that he would

Bostil went toward the house with his daughter, turning at the door to call a last word to his riders about the

The house was a low, flat, wide structure, with a corridor running through the middle, from which doors led

into the adobewalled rooms. The windows were small openings high up, evidently intended for defense as

well as light, and they had rude wooden shutters. The floor was clay, covered everywhere by Indian blankets.

A pioneer's home it was, simple and crude, yet comfortable, and having the rare quality peculiar to desert

As Bostil entered with his arm round Lucy a big hound rose from the hearth. This room was immense,

running the length of the house, and it contained a huge stone fireplace, where a kettle smoked fragrantly, and

rude homemade chairs with blanket coverings, and tables to match, and walls covered with bridles, guns,

pistols, Indian weapons and ornaments, and trophies of the chase. In a far corner stood a workbench, with

tools upon it and horse trappings under it. In the opposite comer a door led into the kitchen. This room was

Bostil's famous livingroom, in which many things had happened, some of which had helped make desert

Bostil's sister came in from the kitchen. She was a huge person with a severe yet motherly face. She had her

hands on her hips, and she cast a rather disapproving glance at father and daughter.

"He was waiting for hours," went on the worthy woman. "I never saw a man in such a stew. . . . No wonder,

"But Wetherby's not the kind to take no. And I'm not satisfied to let you mean it. Lucy Bostil, you don't know

your mind an hour straight running. You've fooled enough with these riders of your Dad's. If you're not

careful you'll marry one of them. . . . One of these wild riders! As bad as a Ute Indian! . . . Wetherby is young

"You like him as well as anybody. . . . John Bostil, what do you say? You approved of Wetherby. I heard you

Evidently Bostil found himself in a corner between two fires. He looked sheepish, then disgusted.

"See here, Jane," said Bostil, with an air of finality, "the girl is of age todayan' she can do what she damn

"That's a fine thing for you to say," retorted Aunt Jane. "Like as not she'll be fetching that hangdog Joel

"Oh, child, you torment meworry me so," said the disappointed woman. "It's all for your sake. . . . Look at

you, Lucy Bostil! A girl of eighteen who comes of a family! And you riding around and going around as you

"But, you dear old goose, I can't ride in a woman's skirt," expostulated Lucy. "Mind you, Auntie, I can

"Lucy, if I live here forever I'd never get reconciled to a Bostil woman in leather pants. We Bostils were

Bostil laughed. "Yes, an' if I hadn't hit the trail west we'd be starvin' yet. Jane, you're a sentimental old fool.

Aunt Jane's eyes were wet with tears. Lucy, seeing them, ran to her and hugged and kissed her.

"Auntie, I will promisefrom todayto have some dignity. I've been free as a boy in these rider clothes.

As I am now the men never seem to regard me as a girl. Somehow that's better. I can't explain, but I like it.

My dresses are what have caused all the trouble. I know that. But if I'm grown upif it's so tremendous

then I'll wear a dress all the time, except just WHEN I ride. Will that do, Auntie?"

"Maybe you will grow up, after all," replied Aunt Jane, evidently surprised and pleased.

"I don't know any more than is gossiped. That I told you. Have you ever asked Lucy about him?"

"Well, ask her. If she tells you at all she'll tell the truth. Lucy'd never sleep at night if she lied."

Aunt Jane returned to her housewifely tasks, leaving Bostil thoughtfully stroking the hound and watching the

fire. Presently Lucy returneda different Lucyone that did not rouse his rider's pride, but thrilled his

father's heart. She had been a slim, lithe, supple, disheveled boy, breathing the wild spirit of the open and the

horse she rode. She was now a girl in the graceful roundness of her slender form, with hair the gold of the

sage at sunset, and eyes the blue of the deep haze of distance, and lips the sweet red of the upland rose. And

But these two, so keen, so strong, so alive, did not abide long with sad memories.

"Lucy, I want to ask you somethin'," said Bostil, presently. "What about this young Joel Creech?"

Lucy started as if suddenly recalled, then she laughed merrily. "Dad, you old fox, did you see him ride out

"Dad, you know how Joel runs after me. I've told you. I let him till lately. I liked him. But that wasn't why. I

"Listen. I'm serious. I mean I've grown to seelooking back that a slow, gradual change has come over

Joel since he was kicked in the head by a mustang. I'm sure no one else has noticed it."

"We're talking about Joel Creech. Lately he has done some queer things. Today, for instance. I thought I

gave him the slip. But he must have been watching. Anyway, to my surprise he showed up on Peg. He doesn't

often get Peg across the river. He said the feed was getting scarce over there. I was dying to race Buckles

"Well, Joel caught up to meand he wasn't nice at all. He was worse today. We quarreled. I said I'd bet

he'd never follow me again and he said he'd bet he would. Then he got sulky and hung back. I rode away,

glad to be rid of him, and I climbed to a favorite place of mine. On my way home I saw Peg grazing on the

rim of the creek, near that big springhole where the water's so deep and clear. And what do you think? There

was Joel's head above the water. I remembered in our quarrel I had told him to go wash his dirty face. He was

doing it. I had to laugh. When he saw mehethenthen he" Lucy faltered, blushing with anger and

"I tell you I was mad," continued Lucy, "and just as surprised. That was one of the queer things. But never

"I yelled, 'I'll fix you, Joel Creech!'. . . His clothes were in a pile on the bank. At first I thought I'd throw them

in the water, but when I got to them I thought of something better. I took up all but his shoes, for I

remembered the ten miles of rock and cactus between him and home, and I climbed up on Buckles. Joel

screamed and swore something fearful. But I didn't look back. And Peg, you knowmaybe you don't

knowbut Peg is fond of me, and he followed me, straddling his bridle all the way in. I dropped Joel's

clothes down the ridge a ways, right in the trail, so he can't miss them. And that's all. . . . Dad, was itwas it

"Bad! Why, you ought to have thrown your gun on him. At least bounced a rock off his head! But say, Lucy,

"The sun is hot today. Hot! An' if Joel's as crazy an' mad as you say he'll not have sense enough to stay in

the water or shade till the sun's gone down. An' if he tackles that ten miles before he'll sunburn himself within

"Sunburn? Oh, Dad! I'm sorry," burst out Lucy, contritely. "I never thought of that. I'll ride back with his

"Girl, haven't you the nerve to play your own game? Let Creech get his lesson. He deserves it. . . . An' now,

Lucy's eyes shaded dreamily, and she seemed to look beyond the room, out over the ranges.

"Tell him to go back to Durango and forget the foolish girl who can care only for the desert and a horse."

"All right. That is straight talk, like an Indian's. An' now the last questionwhat do you want for a birthday

"Oh, of course," she cried, gleefully clapping her hands. I'd forgotten that. I'm eighteen!"

"Why, Lucy, what'd you do with that big black devil? He's too high. Seventeen hands high! You couldn't

"He has got an iron jaw," agreed Lucy. "Well, thenhow about Dusty Ben?" She was tormenting her father

"Nonot Ben. He's the faithfulest hoss I ever owned. It wouldn't be fair to part with him, even to you. Old

"Dad, you're afraid I'd train and love Ben into beating the King. Some day I'll ride some horse out in front of

"Sure not her, Lucy. Thet mare can't be trusted. Look why we named her Two Face."

"Buckles, then, dear generous Daddy who longs to give his grownup girl ANYTHING!"

"Lucy, can't you be satisfied an' happy with your mustangs? You've got a dozen. You can have any others on

Bostil was notably the most generous of men, the kindest of fathers. It was an indication of his strange

obsession, in regard to horses, that he never would see that Lucy was teasing him. As far as horses were

concerned he lacked a sense of humor. Anything connected with his horses was of intense interest.

Bostil had grown red in the face and now he was on the rack. The monstrous selfishness of a rider who had

"I haven'tthe jade! She threw me once. I've never forgiven her . . . . Dad, I'm only teasing you. Don't I

"Dad, I'll bet if Cordts gets me and holds me as ransom for the King as he's threatenedyou'll let him

"Dear Dad, keep your old racers! But, remember, I'm my father's daughter. I can love a horse, too. Oh, if I

ever get the one I want to love! A wild horsea desert stallionpure Arabian broken right by an Indian!

If I ever get him, Dad, you look out! For I'll run away from Sarch and Benand I'll beat the King!"

The hamlet of Bostil's Ford had a singular situation, though, considering the wonderful nature of that desert

country, it was not exceptional. It lay under the protecting red bluff that only Lucy Bostil cared to climb. A

hardtrodden road wound down through rough breaks in the canyon wall to the river. Bostil's house, at the

head of the village, looked in the opposite direction, down the sage slope that widened like a colossal fan.

There was one wide street bordered by cottonwoods and cabins, and a number of gardens and orchards,

beginning to burst into green and pink and white. A brook ran out of a ravine in the huge bluff, and from this

The place resembled an Indian encampmentquiet, sleepy, colorful, with the tinystreams of water running

everywhere, and lazy columns of blue woodsmoke 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. Perhaps once a month

the big, clumsy flatboat was rowed across the river with horses or cattle or sheep. And the season was now

close at hand when for weeks, sometimes months, the river was unfordable. There were a score of permanent

families, a host of merry, sturdy children, a number of idle young men, and only one girlLucy Bostil. But

the village always had transient inhabitantsfriendly Utes and Navajos in to trade, and sheepherders with a

scraggy, woolly flock, and travelers of the strange religious sect identified with Utah going on into the

wilderness. Then there were always riders passing to and fro, and sometimes unknown ones regarded with

caution. Horsethieves sometimes boldly rode in, and sometimes were able to sell or trade. In the matter of

Old Brackton, a man of varied Western experience, kept the one store, which was tavern, tradingpost,

freighter's headquarters, blacksmith's shop, and any thing else needful. Brackton employed riders, teamsters,

sometimes Indians, to freight supplies in once a month from Durango. And that was over two hundred miles

away. Sometimes the supplies did not arrive on timeoccasionally not at all. News from the outside world,

except that elicited from the taciturn travelers marching into Utah, drifted in at intervals. But it was not

missed. These wilderness spirits were the forerunners of a great, movement, and as such were big, strong,

stern, sufficient unto themselves. Life there was made possible by horses. The distant future, that looked

bright to farseeing men, must be and could only be fulfilled through the endurance and faithfulness of

horses. And then, from these men, horses received the meed due them, and the love they were truly worth.

The Navajo was a nomad horseman, an Arab of the Painted Desert, and the Ute Indian was close to him. It

was they who developed the white riders of the uplands as well as the wildhorse wrangler or hunter.

Brackton's ramshackle establishment stood down at the end of the village street. There was not a sawed board

in all that structure, and some of the pine logs showed how they had been dropped from the bluff. Brackton, a

little old gray man, with scant beard, and eyes like those of a bird, came briskly out to meet an incoming

freighter. The wagon was minus a hind wheel, but the teamster had come in on three wheels and a pole. The

sweaty, dustcaked, weary, thinribbed mustangs, and the grayandredstained wagon, and the huge

Red Wilson had red eyes from fighting the flying sand, and red dust pasted in his scraggy beard, and as he

With him were Indians who began to unhitch the teams. Riders lounging in the shade greeted Wilson and

inquired for news. The teamster replied that travel was dry, the waterholes were dry, and he was dry. And

"Holley seen a dry spell comin'. Wal, we can drift along without freighters. There's grass an' water enough

Some one prodded a sleepy rider who lay all his splendid lithe length, hat over his eyes. Then he sat up and

"Huh! An, you woke me for thet? . . . Bostil says in a few weeks, soon as he hears from the Indians. Plans to

have eight hundred Indians here, an' the biggest purses an' best races ever had at the Ford."

"Reckon so. But Bostil is kickin' because I'm heavier than I was," replied the rider.

"Mebbe you'll need to work a little off, Van. Some one said Creech's Blue Roan was comin' fast this year."

"Bill, your mind ain't operatin'," replied Van, scornfully. "Didn't I beat Creech's hosses last year without the

Then they argued, after the manner of friendly riders, but all earnest, an eloquent in their convictions. The

prevailing opinion was that Creech's horse had a chance, depending upon condition and luck.

The argument shifted upon the arrival of two newcomers, leading mustangs and apparently talking trade. It

And that diverse judgment appeared to be characteristic throughout. The strange thing was that Macomber,

the rancher, had already traded his mustang and money to boot for the sorrel. The deal, whether wise or not,

had been consummated. Brackton came out with Red Wilson, and they had to have their say.

"Wal, durned if some of you fellers ain't kind an' complimentary," remarked Macomber, scratching his head.

"But then every feller can't have hoss sense." Then, looking up to see Lucy Bostil coming along the road, he

Lucy was at home among them, and the shy eyes of the younger riders, especially Van, were nothing if not

revealing. She greeted them with a bright smile, and when she saw Brackton she burst out:

"Oh, Mr. Brackton, the wagon's in, and did my box come? . . . Today's my birthday."

"'Deed it did, Lucy; an' many more happy ones to you!" he replied, delighted in her delight. "But it's too

Five riders in unison eagerly offered their services and looked as if each had spoken first. Then Macomber

"There's a little difference of opinion," said Macomber, politely indicating the riders. "Now, Miss Lucy,

weall know you're a judge of a hoss. And as good as thet you tell the truth. Thet ain't in some hosstraders I

Macomber had eyes of enthusiasm for his latest acquisition, but some of the cocksureness had been knocked

"Macomber, aren't you a great one to talk?" queried Lucy, severely. "Didn't you get around Dad and trade

him an old, blind, knockkneed bag of bones for a perfectly good ponyone I liked to ride?"

"'Pon my word, Miss Lucy, I'm surprised you could think thet of such an old friend of yoursan' your Dad's,

"Dad and I never agree about a horse. He thinks he got the best of you. But you know, Macomber, what a

"Wal, if I got the best of Bostil I'm willin' to be thought bad. I'm the first feller to take him in. . . . An' now,

Lucy Bostil did indeed have an eye for a horse. She walked straight up to the wild, shaggy mustang with a

confidence born of intuition and experience, and reached a hand for his head, not slowly, nor yet swiftly. The

mustang looked as if he was about to jump, but he did not. His eyes showed that he was not used to women.

"He's not well broken," said Lucy. "Some Navajo has beaten his head in breaking him."

"He's deceiving at first because he's good to look at," said Lucy. "But I wouldn't own him. A saddle will turn

on him. He's not vicious, but he'll never get over his scare. He's narrow between the eyesa bad sign. His

"Wal, now I'm sorry, for I was thinkin' of thet," replied Macomber, ruefully. It was plain that the sorrel had

"Macomber, I often tell Dad all you horsetraders get your deserts now and then. It's vanity and desire to beat

Lucy went away, with Van shouldering her box, leaving Macomber trying to return the banter of the riders.

The riders whirled to see an apparently nude savage approaching, almost on a run.

"Take a shot at thet, Bill," said another rider. "Miss Lucy might seeNo, she's out of sight. But, mebbe some

Some of the riders swore, others laughed, and all suddenly became keen with interest.

The strange figure neared them. It was indeed red up to the face, which seemed white in contrast. Yet only in

Young Creech was headed down the road toward the ford across which he had to go to reach home. He saw

the curious group, slowed his pace, and halted. His face seemed convulsed with rage and pain and fatigue.

His body, even to his hands, was incased in a thick, heavy coating of red adobe that had caked hard.

"God's sakefellers" he panted, with eyes rolling, "take this 'dobe mud off me! . . . I'm dyin'!"

Then he staggered into Brackton's place. A howl went up from the riders and they surged after him.

That evening after supper Bostil stamped in the big room, roaring with laughter, red in the face; and he

Bostil conquered his paroxysm, and, wiping his moist red face, he eyed Lucy in mock solemnity.

"Lucy, I never heard the beat of it. . . . Joel's smarter in some ways than we thought, an' crazier in others. He

had the sun figgered, but what'd he want to run through town for? Why, never in my life have I seen such

"Wal, I see it this way. He couldn't or wouldn't wait for sundown. An' he wasn't hankerin' to be burned. So he

wallows in a 'dobe mudhole an' covers himself thick with mud. You know that 'dobe mud! Then he starts

home. But he hadn't figgered on the 'dobe gettin' hard, which it didharder 'n rock. An' thet must have hurt

more 'n sunburn. Late this afternoon he came runnin' down the road, yellin' thet he was dyin'. The boys had

conniption fits. Joel ain't overliked, you know, an' here they had one on him. Mebbe they didn't try hard to

clean him off. But the fact is not for hours did they get thet 'dobe off him. They washed an' scrubbed an'

curried him, while he yelled an' cussed. Finally they peeled it off, with his skin I guess. He was raw. an' they

Lucy was struggling between fear and mirth. She did not look sorry. "Oh! Oh! Oh, Dad!"

"Lord only knows. Thet worries me some. Because he never said a word about how he come to lose his

clothes or why he had the 'dobe on him. An' sure I never told. Nobody knows but us."

The days did not pass swiftly at Bostil's Ford. And except in winter, and during the spring sandstorms, the

lagging time passed pleasantly. Lucy rode every day, sometimes with Van, and sometimes alone. She was not

overkeen about riding with Vanfirst, 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 muchanticipated races.

At last word arrived from the Utes and Navajos that they accepted Bostil's invitation and would come in

force, which meant, according to Holley and other old riders, that the Indians would attend about eight

"Thet old chief, Hawk, is comin'," Holley informed Bostil. "He hasn't been here fer several years. Recollect

thet bunch of colts he had? They're bosses, not mustangs. . . . So you look out, Bostil!"

No rider or rancher or sheepman, in fact, no one, ever lost a chance to warn Bostil. Some of it was in fun, but

most of it was earnest. The nature of events was that sooner or later a horse would beat the King. Bostil knew

that as well as anybody, though he would not admit it. Holley's hint made Bostil look worried. Most of

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 was no longer a friend of Bostil's, but Bostil had always been fairminded, and now he

did not allow his animosities to influence him. Holley, the veteran rider, made the sixth member of the club.

Bostil had a cedar log blazing cheerily in the wide fireplace, for these early spring nights in the desert were

Brackton was the last guest to arrive. He shuffled in without answering the laconic greetings accorded him,

"John, I reckon you won't love me fer this here I've got to tell you, tonight specially," he said, seriously.

"You old robber, I couldn't love you anyhow," retorted Bostil. But his humor did not harmonize with the

"Cordts! . . . Cordts, an' four of his outfit. Two of them I didn't know. Bad men, judgin' from appearances, let

Muncie and Williams echoed Bostil. Holley appeared suddenly interested. Creech alone showed no surprise.

"He was deadwe thought," replied Brackton, with a grim laugh. "But he's alive again. He told me he'd been

in Idaho fer two years, in the goldfields. Said the work was too hard, so he'd come back here. Laughed when

he said it, the little devil! I'll bet he was thinkin' of thet wagontrain of mine he stole."

"Wal, I reckon we didn't kill Sears, after all," replied Holley. "I wasn't never sure."

"Lord! Cordts an' Sears in camp," ejaculated Bostil, and he began to pace the room.

"Take it easy, boss. Sit down," drawled Holley. "The King is safe, an' all the racers. I swear to thet. Why,

Cordts couldn't chop into thet logan'wire corral if he an' his gang chopped all night! They hate work.

"Sure. He was friendly an' talkative," replied Brackton. "He came in just after dark. Left a man I didn't see out

with the hosses. He bought two big packs of supplies, an' some leather stuff, an', of course, ammunition. Then

some whisky. Had plenty of gold an' wouldn't take no change. Then while his men, except Sears, was carryin'

"Wal, he'd been out north of Durango an' fetched news. There's wild talk back there of a railroad goin' to be

built some day, joinin' east an' west. It's interestin', but no sense to it. How could they build a railroad through

"Grandest idea ever thought of for the West," avowed Bostil. "If thet railroad ever starts we'll all get rich. . . .

"Then Cordts said water an' grass was peterin' out back on the trail, same as Red Wilson said last week.

Finally he asked, 'How's my friend Bostil?' I told him you was well. He looked kind of thoughtful then, an' I

knew what was comin'. . . .'How's the King?' 'Grand' I told him'grand.' 'When is them races comin' off?' I

said we hadn't planned the time yet, but it would be sooninside of a month or two. 'Brackton,' he said,

sharplike, 'is Bostil goin' to pull a gun on me at sight?' 'Reckon he is,' I told him. 'Wal, I'm not powerful glad

to know thet. . . . I hear Creech's blue hoss will race the King this time. How about it?' 'Sure an' certain this

year. I've Creech's an' Bostil's word for thet.' Cordts put his hand on my shoulder. You ought to 've seen his

eyes!. . .'I want to see thet race. . . . I'm goin' to.' 'Wal,' I said, 'you'll have to stop bein'You'll need to

change your bizness.' Then, Bostil, what do you think? Cordts was sort of eager an' wild. He said thet was a

race he jest couldn't miss. He swore he wouldn't turn a trick or let a man of his gang stir a hand till after thet

"Wal, it's a queer deal," went on Brackton. "Fer a long time you've meant to draw on Cordts when you meet.

"Yes, I'll kill him!" The light left Bostil's face. His voice sounded differently. His mouth opened, drooped

strangely at the corners, then shut in a grim, tense line. Bostil had killed more than one man. The memory, no

"Cordts seemed to think his word was guarantee of his good faith. He said he'd send an Indian in here to find

out if he can come to the races. I reckon, Bostil, thet it wouldn't hurt none to let him come. An' hold your gun

hand fer the time he swears he'll be honest. Queer deal, ain't it, men? A hossthief turnin' honest jest to see a

race! Beats me! Bostil, it's a cheap way to get at least a little honesty from Cordts. An' refusin' might rile him

"I'll let him come," replied Bostil, breathing deep. "But it'll be hard to see him, rememberin' how he's robbed

me, an' what he's threatened. An' I ain't lettin' him come to bribe a few weeks' decency from him. I'm doin' it

for only one reason. . . . Because I know how he loves the Kinghow he wants to see the King run away

There was a moment of silence, during which all turned to Creech. He was a stalwart man, no longer young,

"Bostil, if Cordts loves the King thet well, he's in fer heartbreak," said Creech, with a ring in his voice.

Down crashed Bostil's heavy boots and fire flamed in his gaze. The other men laughed, and Brackton

"Hold on, you boy riders!" he yelled. "We ain't agoin' to have any arguments like thet. . . . Now, Bostil, it's

They seated themselves around the table, upon which Bostil laid an old and muchsoiled ledger and a stub of

"First well set the time," he said, with animation, "an' then pitch into details. . . . What's the date?"

"Huh! Then it's Tuesday again," said Bostil, laboriously writing it down. "Now, what's the date?"

"Aw, so it was," rejoined Bostil, confused at her reproach. "An' thet date waslet's seeApril sixth. . . .

Then this is April thirteenth. Much obliged, Lucy. Run back to your aunt now. This hoss talk won't interest

Lucy tossed her head. "I'll bet I'll have to straighten out the whole thing." Then with a laugh she disappeared.

"Three days beginninsay June first. June firstsecond, an' third. How about thet for the races?"

Everybody agreed, and Bostil laboriously wrote that down. Then they planned the details. Purses and prizes,

largely donated by Bostil and Muncie, the rich members of the community, were recorded. The old rules

were adhered to. Any rider or any Indian could enter any horse in any race, or as many horses as he liked in

as many races. But by winning one race he excluded himself from the others. Bostil argued for a certain

weight in riders, but the others ruled out this suggestion. Special races were arranged for the Indians, with

All this appeared of absorbing interest to Bostil. He perspired freely. There was a gleam in his eye, betraying

excitement. When it came to arranging the details of the big race between the highclass racers, then he grew

intense and harder to deal with. Many points had to go by vote. Muncie and Williams both had fleet horses to

enter in this race; Holley had one; Creech had two; there were sure to be several Indians enter fast mustangs;

and Bostil had the King and four others to choose from. Bostil held out stubbornly for a long race. It was well

known that Sage King was unbeatable in a long race. If there were any chance to beat him it must be at short

distance. The vote went against Bostil, much to his chagrin, and the great race was set down for two miles.

"But two miles! . . . Two miles!" he kept repeating. "Thet's Blue Roan's distance. Thet's his distance. An' it

His guests, excepting Creech, argued with him, explained, reasoned, showed him that it was fair to all

concerned. Bostil finally acquiesced, but he was not happy. The plain fact was that he was frightened.

When the men were departing Bostil called Creech back into the sittingroom. Creech appeared surprised,

"What'll you take for the roan?" Bostil asked, tersely,' as if he had never asked that before.

"Bostil, didn't we thresh thet out beforean' FELL out over it?" queried Creech, with a deprecating spread of

"You need money an' hosses, don't you?" demanded Bostil, brutally. He had no conscience in a matter of

"Wal, then, here's your chance. I'll give you five hundred in gold an' Sarchedon to boot."

"Two thousand an' Dusty Ben along with the others?" This was an unheardof price to pay for any horse.

Creech saw that Bostil was desperate. It was an almost overpowering temptation. Evidently Creech resisted it

only by applying all his mind to the thought of his cleanlimbed, softeyed, noble horse.

Bostil did not give Creech time to speak. "Twentyfive hundred an' Two Face along with the rest!"

"My God, Bostilstop it! I can't PART with Blue Roan. You're rich an' you've no heart. Thet I always knew.

At least to me you never had, since I owned them two racers. Didn't I beg you, a little time back, to lend me a

few hundred? To meet thet debt? An' you wouldn't, unless I'd sell the hosses. An' I had to lose my sheep.

Now I'm a poor mangettin' poorer all the time. But I won't sell or trade Blue Roan, not for all you've got!"

Creech seemed to gain strength with his speech and passion with the strength. His eyes glinted at the hard,

During that week Lucy had heard many things about Joel Creech, and some of them were disquieting.

Some rider had not only found Joel's clothes on the trail, but he had recognized the track of the horse Lucy

rode, and at once connected her with the singular discovery. Coupling that with Joel's appearance in the

village incased in a heaving armor of adobe, the riders guessed pretty close to the truth. For them the joke

was tremendous. And Joel Creech was exceedingly sensitive to ridicule. The riders made life unbearable for

him. They had fun out of it as long as Joel showed signs of taking the joke manfully, which was not long, and

then his resentment won their contempt. That led to sarcasm on their part and bitter anger on his. It came to

Lucy's ears that Joel began to act and talk strangely. She found out that the rider Van had knocked Joel down

in Brackton's store and had kicked a gun out of his hand. Van laughed off the rumor and Brackton gave her

no satisfaction. Moreover, she heard no other rumors. The channels of gossip had suddenly closed to her.

Bostil, when questioned by Lucy, swore in a way that amazed her, and all he told her was to leave Creech

alone. Finally, when Muncie discharged Joel, who worked now and then, Lucy realized that something was

She grew worried and anxious and sorry, but she held her peace, and determined to find out for herself what

was wrong. Every day when she rode out into the sage she expected to meet him, or at least see him

One afternoon she saw some Indians driving sheep down the river road toward the ford, and, acting upon

Lucy seldom went down the river road. Riding down and up was merely work, and a horse has as little liking

for it as she had. Usually it was a hot, dusty trip, and the great, dark, overhanging walls had a depressing

effect, upon her. She always felt awe at the gloomy canyon and fear at the strange, murmuring red river. But

she started down this afternoon in the hope of meeting Joel. She had a hazy idea of telling him she was sorry

for what she had done, and of asking him to forget it and pay no more heed to the riders.

The sheep raised a dustcloud in the sandy wash where the road wound down, and Lucy hung back to let

them get farther ahead. Gradually the tiny roar of pattering hoofs and the blended bleating and baaing died

away. The dustcloud, however, hung over the head of the ravine, and Lucy had to force Sarchedon through

it. Sarchedon did not mind sand and dust, but he surely hated the smell of sheep. Lucy seldom put a spur to

Sarchedon; still, she gave him a lash with her quirt, and then he went on obediently, if disgustedly. He carried

his head like a horse that wondered why his mistress preferred to drive him down into an unpleasant hole

The wash, with its sand and clay walls, dropped into a gulch, and there was an end of green growths. The

road led down over solid rock. Gradually the rims of the gorge rose, shutting out the light and the cliffs. It

was a winding road and one not safe to tarry on in a stormy season. Lucy had seen boulders weighing a ton

go booming down that gorge during one of the sudden fierce desert storms, when a torrent of water and mud

and stone went plunging on to the river. The ride through here was short, though slow. Lucy always had time

to adjust her faculties for the overpowering contrast these lower regions presented. Long before she reached

the end of the gorge she heard the sullen thunder of the river. The river was low, too, for otherwise there

Presently she came out upon a lower branch of the canyon, into a great redwalled space, with the river still a

thousand feet below, and the cliffs towering as high above her. The road led down along this rim where to the

left all was open, across to the split and peaked wall opposite. The river appeared to sweep round a bold,

bulging comer a mile above. It was a wide, swift, muddy, turbulent stream. A great bar of sand stretched out

from the shore. Beyond it, through the mouth of an intersecting canyon, could be seen a clump of

cottonwoods and willows that marked the home of the Creeches. Lucy could not see the shore nearest her, as

it was almost directly under her. Besides, in this narrow road, on a spirited horse, she was not inclined to

watch the scenery. She hurried Sarchedon down and down, under the overhanging brows of rock, to where

the rim sloped out and failed. Here was a halfacre of sand, with a few scant willows, set down seemingly in

a dent at the base of the giant, beetling cliffs. The place was light, though the light seemed a kind of veiled

red, and to Lucy always ghastly. She could not have been joyous with that river moaning before her, even if it

had been up on a level, in the clear and open day. As a little girl eight years old she had conceived a terror

and hatred of this huge, jagged rent so full of red haze and purple smoke and the thunder of rushing waters.

And she had never wholly outgrown it. The joy of the sun and wind, the rapture in the boundless open, the

sweetness in the sagethese were not possible here. Something mighty and ponderous, heavy as those

colossal cliffs, weighted down her spirit. The voice of the river drove out any dream. Here was the incessant

frowning presence of destructive forces of nature. And the ford was associated with catastropheto sheep, to

Lucy rode across the bar to the shore where the Indians were loading the sheep into an immense rude flatboat.

As the sheep were frightened, the loading was no easy task. Their bleating could be heard above the roar of

the river. Bostil's boatmen, Shugrue and Somers, stood kneedeep in the quicksand of the bar, and their

efforts to keep freefooted were as strenuous as their handling of the sheep. Presently the flock was all

crowded on board, the Indians followed, and then the boatmen slid the unwieldy craft off the sandbar. Then,

each manning a clumsy oar, they pulled upstream. Along shore were whirling, slow eddies, and there

rowing was possible. Out in that swift current it would have been folly to try to contend with it, let alone

make progress. The method of crossing was to row up along the shore as far as a great cape of rock jutting

out, and there make into the current, and while drifting down pull hard to reach the landing opposite. Heavily

laden as the boat was, the chances were not wholly in favor of a successful crossing.

Lucy watched the slow, laborious struggle of the boatmen with the heavy oars until she suddenly remembered

the object of her visit down to the ford. She appeared to be alone on her side of the river. At the landing

opposite, however, were two men; and presently Lucy recognized Joel Creel and his father. A second glance

showed Indians with burros, evidently waiting for the boat. Joel Creech jumped into a skiff and shoved off.

The elder man, judging by his motions, seemed to be trying to prevent his son from leaving the shore. But

Joel began to row upstream, keeping close to the shore. Lucy watched him. No doubt he had seen her and

was coming across. Either the prospect of meeting him or the idea of meeting him there in the place where

she was never herself made her want to turn at once and ride back home. But her stubborn sense of fairness

overruled that. She would hold her ground solely in the hope of persuading Joel to be reasonable. She saw the

big flatboat sweep into line of sight at the same time Joel turned into the current. But while the larger craft

drifted slowly the other way, the smaller one came swiftly down and across. Joel swept out of the current into

the eddy, rowed across that, and slid the skiff up on the sandbar. Then he stepped out. He was bareheaded

Then he approached. He was a tall, lean young man, stoopshouldered and bowlegged from much riding,

with sallow, freckled face, a thin fuzz of beard, weak mouth and chin, and eyes remarkable for their small

size and piercing quality and different color. For one was gray and the other was hazel. There was no scar on

his face, but the irregularity of his features reminded one who knew that he had once been kicked in the face

Creech came up hurriedly, in an eager, wild way that made Lucy suddenly pity him. He did not seem to

remember that the stallion had an antipathy for him. But Lucy, if she had forgotten, would have been

"Look out, Joel!" she called, and she gave the black's head a jerk. Sarchedon went up with a snort and came

"No. I wouldn't let you hit Sarch. You beat him once, and he's never forgotten," replied Lucy.

The eye of the horse and the man met and clashed, and there was a hostile tension in their attitudes. Then

Lucy dropped the bridle and drew Joel over to a huge driftlog, half buried in the sand. Here she sat down,

but Joel remained standing. His gaze was now all the stranger for its wistfulness. Lucy was quick to catch a

"I've heard a lot of things, Joel," replied Lucy, trying to think of just what she wanted to say.

"Reckon you have," said Joel, dejectedly, and then he sat down on the log and dug holes in the sand with his

Lucy had never before seen him look tired, and it seemed that some of the healthy brown of his cheeks had

"All thet you say is nothin' to what's happened," he replied, bitterly. "Them riders mocked the life an' soul out

"But, Joel, you shouldn't be soso touchy," said Lucy, earnestly. "After all, the joke WAS on you. Why

"Suppose they, did. That wasn't much to care about. If you hadn't taken it so hard they'd have let up on you."

"Mebbe I might have stood that. But they taunted me with bein' loony about you."

Joel spoke huskily. There was no doubt that he had been deeply hurt. Lucy saw tears in his eyes, and her first

impulse was to put a hand on his and tell him how sorry she was. But she desisted. She did not feel at her

"What'd you and Van fight about?" she asked, presently. Joel hung his head. "I reckon I ain't agoin' to tell

"You said something about me?" Lucy could not resist her curiosity, back of which was a little heat. "It must

"I did, an' like a fool I didn't wait till I got up. Then he kicked me! . . . Bostil's Ford will never be big enough

"Don't talk foolish. You won't fight with Van. . . . Joel, maybe you deserved what you got. You say

There was indeed something lacking in Joel, but it was not sincerity. His hurt had rankled deep and his voice

"But, Joel, I don't go swimming in springholes," protested Lucy, divided between amusement and

She believed him, and saw the unfortunate circumstance more than ever her fault. "I'm sorry, Joel. I'm much

to blame. I shouldn't have lost my temper and played that trick with your clothes. . . . If you'd only had sense

enough to stay out till after dark! But no use crying over spilt milk. Now, if you'll do your share I'll do mine.

I'll tell the boys I was to blame. I'll persuade them to let you alone. I'll go to Muncie"

"You'll not say one word about me to any one," he went on, with the blood beginning to darken his face. And

now he faced her. How strange the blaze in his differently colored eyes! "Lucy Bostil, there's been thet done

an' said to me which I'll never forgive. I'm no good in Bostil's Ford. Mebbe I never was much. But I could get

a job when I wanted it an' credit when I needed it. Now I can't get nothin'. I'm no good! . . . I'm no good! An'

"I reckon there's only one way you can square me," he replied, suddenly growing pale. But his eyes were like

"You can marry me. Thet'll show thet gang! An' it'll square me. Then I'll go back to work an' I'll stick. Thet's

Manifestly he was laboring under strong suppressed agitation. That moment was the last of real strength and

"But, Joel, I can't marry youeven if I am to blame for your ruin," said Lucy, simply.

Lucy gazed blankly at him. He began to shake, and his eyes grew wild. She rose from the log.

"None of your business!" retorted Lucy. Then, at a strange darkening of his face, an aspect unfamiliar to her,

"So they all say. An' they got my old man believin' it, too. Mebbe I am. . . . But I'm agoin' to kill Van!"

"No! No! Joel, what are you saying? I don't love Van. I don't care any more for him than for any other

"How dare you say I lie?" demanded Lucy. "I've a mind to turn my back on you. I'm trying to make up for my

"You talk sweet . . . but talk isn't enough. You made me nogood . . . . Will you marry me?"

"I will not!" And Lucy, with her blood up, could not keep contempt out of voice and look, and she did not

care. That was the first time she had ever shown anything, approaching ridicule for Joel. The effect was

remarkable. Like a lash upon a raw wound it made him writhe; but more significant to Lucy was the sudden

convulsive working of his features and the wildness of his eyes. Then she turned her back, not from

"Let me go!" cried Lucy, standing perfectly motionless. The hard clutch of his fingers roused a fierce, hot

Joel did not heed her command. He was forcing her back. He talked incoherently. One glimpse of his face

"Joel, you're out of your head!" she cried, and she began to wrench and writhe out of his grasp. Then ensued a

short, sharp struggle. Joel could not hold Lucy, but he tore her blouse into shreds. It seemed to Lucy that he

did that savagely. She broke free from him, and he lunged at her again. With all her strength she lashed his

Lucy bounded to Sarchedon. In a rush she was up in the saddle. Joel was running toward her. Blood on his

The big black plunged at a touch of spur and came down quivering, ready to bolt.

Creech swerved to one side. His face was lividly white except where the bloody welts crossed it. His jaw

"Jest ferthet" he panted, hoarsely, "I'll lay fer youan' I'll strip youan' I'll tie you on a hossan' I'll

Lucy saw the utter futility of all her good intentions. Something had snapped in Joel Creech's mind. And in

hers kindness had given precedence to a fury she did not know was in her. For the second time she touched a

spur to Sarchedon. He leaped out, flashed past Creech, and thundered up the road. It was all Lucy could do to

Three wildhorse hunters made camp one night beside a little stream in the Sevier Valley, five hundred

These hunters had a poor outfit, excepting, of course, their horses. They were young men, rangy in build, lean

and hard from life in the saddle, bronzed like Indians, stillfaced, and keeneyed. Two of them appeared to

be tired out, and lagged at the campfire duties. When the meager meal was prepared they sat, crosslegged,

The sky in the west was rosy, slowly darkening. The valley floor billowed away, ridged and cut, growing

gray and purple and dark. Walls of stone, pink with the last rays of the setting sun, inclosed the valley,

The place was wild, beautiful, open, with something nameless that made the desert different from any other

country. It was, perhaps, a loneliness of vast stretches of valley and stone, clear to the eye, even after sunset.

That black mountain range, which looked close enough to ride to before dark, was a hundred miles distant.

The shades of night fell swiftly, and it was dark by the time the hunters finished the meal. Then the campfire

had burned low. One of the three dragged branches of dead cedars and replenished the fire. Quickly it flared

up, with the white flame and crackle characteristic of dry cedar. The night wind had risen, moaning through

the gnarled, stunted cedars near by, and it blew the fragrant woodsmoke into the faces of the two hunters,

"Wal, Bill," replied the other, dryly, "your mind's made up, else you'd not say smoke."

The tallest of the three, he who had brought the firewood, stood in the bright light of the blaze. He looked the

Then, presently, he accepted the pipe tendered him, and, sitting down beside the fire, he composed himself to

the enjoyment which his companions evidently considered worthy of a decision they had reached.

"So this smokin' means you both want to turn back?" queried Lin, his sharp gaze glancing darkly bright in the

"We've been long comin' to it, Lin, an' thet was for your sake," replied the other.

Lin slowly pulled at his pipe and blew out the smoke as if reluctant to part with it. "Let's go on," he said,

"No. I've had all I want of chasin' thet damn wild stallion," returned Bill, shortly.

The other spread wide his hands and bent an expostulating look upon the one called Lin. "We're two hundred

miles out," he said. "There's only a little flour left in the bag. No coffee! Only a little salt! All the hosses

except your big Nagger are played out. We're already in strange country. An' you know what we've heerd of

this an' all to the south. It's all canyons, an' somewheres down there is thet awful canyon none of our people

He finished with a conviction that no one could say a word against the common sense of his argument. Lin

Bill raised a strong, lean, brown hand in a forcible gesture. "We can't ketch Wildfire!"

"Bill is sure right, if I'm wrong, which I ain't," went on the other. "Lin, we've trailed thet wild stallion for six

weeks. Thet's the longest chase he ever had. He's left his old range. He's cut out his band, an' left them, one

by one. We've tried every trick we know on him. An' he's too smart for us. There's a hoss! Why, Lin, we're all

"Lin, it makes me sick to quit. I ain't denyin' thet for a long time I've had hopes of ketchin' Wildfire. He's the

grandest hoss I ever laid eyes on. I reckon no man, onless he was an Arab, ever seen as good a one. But now,

"Boys, I reckon I'll stick to Wildfire's tracks," said Lin, in the same quiet tone.

"Ireckon," replied Slone. The working of his throat as he swallowed could be plainly seen by his

Bill looked at his ally as if to confirm some sudden understanding between them. They took Slone's attitude

gravely and they wagged their heads doubtfully, as they might have done had Slone just acquainted them

with a hopeless and deathless passion for a woman. It was significant of the nature of riders that they

accepted his attitude and had consideration for his feelings. For them the situation subtly changed. For weeks

they had been three wildhorse wranglers on a hard chase after a valuable stallion. They had failed to get

even close to him. They had gone to the limit of their endurance and of the outfit, and it was time to turn

back. But Slone had conceived that strange and rare longing for a horsea passion understood, if not shared,

by all riders. And they knew that he would catch Wildfire or die in the attempt. From that moment their

attitude toward Slone changed as subtly as had come the knowledge of his feeling. The gravity and gloom left

their faces. It seemed they might have regretted what they had said about the futility of catching Wildfire.

"Aw, he's better," vouchsafed the other rider. "Nagger needed to lose some weight. Lin, have you got an extra

"Wal, thet's enough. You can keep Nagger shod. An' MEBBE thet red stallion will get sore feet an' go lame.

"No matter. He's leavin' the country, an' he's bound to strike sandstone sooner or later. Then, by gosh! mebbe

"Say, can't he ring bells offen the rocks?" exclaimed Bill. "Oh, Lordy! what a hoss!"

"Sure he is," replied Bill. "He ain't the first stallion I've chased off the Sevier range. An' I know. It's a stallion

"Yep, Lin, he's sure leavin'," added the other comrade. "Why, he's traveled a beeline for days! I'll bet he's

seen us many a time. Wildfire's about as smart as any man. He was born wild, an' his dam was born wild, an'

there you have it. The wildest of all wild creaturesa wild stallion, with the intelligence of a man! A grand

hoss, Lin, but one thet'll be hell, if you ever ketch him. He has killed stallions all over the Sevier range. A

"I'll break him," said Lin Slone, grimly. "It's gettin' him thet's the job. I've got patience to break a hoss. But

"Nope; you're right," replied Bill. "If you have some luck you'll get himmebbe. If he wears out his feet, or

if you crowd him into a narrow canyon, or ran him into a bad place where he can't get by you. Thet might

happen. An' then, with Nagger, you stand a chance. Did you ever tire thet hoss?"

"An' how fur did you ever run him without a break? Why, when we ketched thet sorrel last year I rode

"I've beat thet," replied Lin. "He could run hard fifty miles mebbe more. Honestly, I never seen him tired

"Wal, Nagger ain't so durned slow, come to think of thet," replied Bill, with a grunt. "He's good enough for

"Lin, you're goin' to wear out Wildfire, an' then trap him somehow is thet the plan?" asked the other

"Lin, if Wildfire gives you the slip he'll have to fly. You've got the best eyes for tracks of any wrangler in

Slone accepted the compliment with a fleeting, doubtful smile on his dark face. He did not reply, and no more

was said by his comrades. They rolled with backs to the fire. Slone put on more wood, for the keen wind was

cold and cutting; and then he lay down, his head in his saddle, with a goatskin under him and a

All three were soon asleep. The wind whipped the sand and ashes and smoke over the sleepers. Coyotes

barked from near in darkness, and from the valley ridge came the faint mourn of a hunting wolf. The desert

The Stewart brothers were wildhorse hunters for the sake of trades and occasional sales. But Lin Slone

never traded nor sold a horse he had captured. The excitement of the game, and the lure of the desert, and the

love of a horse were what kept him at the profitless work. His type was rare in the uplands.

These were the early days of the settlement of Utah, and only a few of the hardiest and most adventurous

pioneers had penetrated the desert in the southern part of that vast upland. And with them came some of that

wild breed of riders to which Slone and the Stewarts belonged. Horses were really more important and

Before the Spaniards came there were no horses in the West. Those explorers left or lost horses all over the

southwest. Many of them were Arabian horses of purest blood. American explorers and travelers, at the

outset of the nineteenth century, encountered countless droves of wild horses all over the plains. Across the

Grand Canyon, however, wild horses were comparatively few in number in the early days; and these had

The Stewarts and Slone had no established mode of catching wild horses. The game had not developed fast

enough for that. Every chase of horse or drove was different; and once in many attempts they met with

A favorite method originated by the Stewarts was to find a waterhole frequented by the band of horses or

the stallion wanted, and to build round this hole a corral with an opening for the horses to get in. Then the

hunters would watch the trap at night, and if the horses went in to drink, a gate was closed across the opening.

Another method of the Stewarts was to trail a coveted horse up on a mesa or highland, places which seldom

had more than one trail of ascent and descent, and there block the escape, and cut lines of cedars, into which

the quarry was ran till captured. Still another method, discovered by accident, was to shoot a horse lightly in

the neck and sting him. This last, called creasing, was seldom successful, and for that matter in any method

Lin Slone helped the Stewarts in their own way, but he had no especial liking for their tricks. Perhaps a few

remarkable captures of remarkable horses had spoiled Slone. He was always trying what the brothers claimed

to be impossible. He was a fearless rider, but he had the fault of saving his mount, and to kill a wild horse

was a tragedy for him. He would much rather have hunted alone, and he had been alone on the trail of the

Lin Slone awoke next morning and rolled out of his blanket at his usual early hour. But he was not early

The fact surprised him and somehow relieved him. They had left him more than his share of the outfit, and

perhaps that was why they had slipped off before dawn. They knew him well enough to know that he would

not have accepted it. Besides, perhaps they felt a little humiliation at abandoning a chase which he chose to

The morning was clear, cool, with the air dark like that before a storm, and in the east, over the steely wall of

Slone looked away to the west, down the trail taken by his comrades, but he saw nothing moving against that

"Goodby," he said, and he spoke as if he was saying goodby to more than comrades.

"I reckon I won't see Sevier Village soon againan' maybe never," he soliloquized.

There was no one to regret him, unless it was old Mother Hall, who had been kind to him on those rare

occasions when he got out of the wilderness. Still, it was with regret that he gazed away across the red valley

to the west. Slone had no home. His father and mother had been lost in the massacre of a wagontrain by

Indians, and he had been one of the few saved and brought to Salt Lake. That had happened when he was ten

years old. His life thereafter had been hard, and but for his sturdy Texas training he might not have survived.

The last five years he had been a horsehunter in the wild uplands of Nevada and Utah.

Slone turned his attention to the pack of supplies. The Stewarts had divided the flour and the parched corn

equally, and unless he was greatly mistaken they had left him most of the coffee and all of the salt.

"Now I hold that decent of Bill an' Abe," said Slone, regretfully. "But I could have got along without it better

Then he swiftly set about kindling a fire and getting a meal. In the midst of his task a sudden ruddy brightness

The cold, steely, darkling sweep of desert had been transformed. It was now a world of red earth and gold

rocks and purple sage, with everywhere the endless straggling green cedars. A breeze whipped in, making the

fire roar softly. The sun felt warm on his cheek. And at the moment he heard the whistle of his horse.

Presently he went off into the cedars to find Nagger and the mustang that he used to carry a pack. Nagger was

grazing in a little open patch among the trees, but the packhorse was missing. Slone seemed to know in

what direction to go to find the trail, for he came upon it very soon. The packhorse wore hobbles, but he

belonged to the class that could cover a great deal of ground when hobbled. Slone did not expect the horse to

go far, considering that the grass thereabouts was good. But in a wildhorse country it was not safe to give

any horse a chance. The call of his wild brethren was irresistible. Slone, however, found the mustang standing

quietly in a clump of cedars, and, removing the hobbles, he mounted and rode back to camp. Nagger caught

This horse Nagger appeared as unique in his class as Slone was rare among riders. Nagger seemed of several

colors, though black predominated. His coat was shaggy, almost woolly, like that of a sheep. He was huge,

rawboned, knotty, long of body and long of leg, with the head of a war charger. His build did not suggest

speed. There appeared to be something slow and ponderous about him, similar to an elephant, with the same

suggestion of power and endurance. Slone discarded the packsaddle and bags. The latter were almost empty.

He roped the tarpaulin on the back of the mustang, and, making a small bundle of his few supplies, he tied

that to the tarpaulin. His blanket he used for a saddleblanket on Nagger. Of the utensils left by the Stewarts

he chose a couple of small iron pans, with long handles. The rest he left. In his saddlebags he had a few

extra a horseshoes, some nails, bullets for his rifle, and a knife with a heavy blade.

"Not a rich outfit for a far country," he mused. Slone not talk very much, and when he did he addressed

Nagger and himself simultaneously. Evidently he expected a long chase, one from which he would not return,

Then he mounted and rode down the gradual slope, facing the valley and the black, bold, flat mountain to the

southeast. Some few hundred yards from camp he halted Nagger and bent over in the saddle to scrutinize the

The cleancut track of a horse showed in the bare, hard sand. The hoofmarks were large, almost oval,

perfect in shape, and manifestly they were beautiful to Lin Slone. He gazed at them for a long time, and then

he looked across the dotted red valley up the vast ridgy steps, toward the black plateau and beyond. It was the

look that an Indian gives to a strange country. Then Slone slipped off the saddle and knelt to scrutinize the

horse tracks. A little sand had blown into the depressions, and some of it was wet and some of it was dry. He

took his time about examining it, and he even tried gently blowing other sand into the tracks, to compare that

"Reckon we won't have to argue with Abe an' Bill this mornin'," he said, with satisfaction. "Wildfire made

Thereupon Slone remounted and put Nagger to a trot. The packhorse followed with an alacrity that showed

As straight as a beeline Wildfire had left a trail down into the floor of the valley. He had not stopped to

graze, and he had not looked for water. Slone had hoped to find a waterhole in one of the deep washes in the

red earth, but if there had been any water there Wildfire would have scented it. He had not had a drink for

three days that Slone knew of. And Nagger had not drunk for forty hours. Slone had a canvas waterbag

hanging over the pommel, but it was a habit of his to deny himself, as far as possible, till his horse could

It took four hours of steady trotting to reach the middle and bottom of that wide, flat valley. A network of

washes cut up the whole center of it, and they were all as dry as bleached bone. To cross these Slone had only

to keep Wildfire's trail. And it was proof of Nagger's quality that he did not have to veer from the stallion's

It was hot down in the lowland. The heat struck up, reflected from the sand. But it was a March sun, and no

more than pleasant to Slone. The wind rose, however, and blew dust and sand in the faces of horse and rider.

Miles of low greasewood and sparse yellow sage led to the first almost imperceptible rise of the valley floor

on that side. The distant cedars beckoned to Slone. He was not patient, because he was on the trail of

Slone had no past to think about, and the future held nothing except a horse, and so his thoughts revolved the

possibilities connected with this chase of Wildfire. The chase was hopeless in such country as he was

traversing, and if Wildfire chose to roam around valleys like this one Slone would fail utterly. But the stallion

had long ago left his band of horses, and then, one by one his favorite consorts, and now he was alone,

headed with unerring instinct for wild, untrammeled ranges. He had been used to the pure, cold water and the

succulent grass of the cold desert uplands. Assuredly he would not tarry in such barren lands as these.

For Slone an everpresent and growing fascination lay in Wildfire's clear, sharply defined tracks. It was as if

every hoofmark told him something. Once, far up the interminable ascent, he found on a ridgetop tracks

"Ha, Nagger!" cried Slone, exultingly. "Look there! He's begun facin' about. He's wonderin' if we're still after

When Slone reached the cedars the sun was low down in the west. He looked back across the fifty miles of

valley to the colored cliffs and walls. He seemed to be above them now, and the cool air, with tang of cedar

A mile or more ahead of him rose a gray cliff with breaks in it and a line of dark cedars or pinyons on the

level rims. He believed these breaks to be the mouths of canyons, and so it turned out. Wildfire's trail led into

the mouth of a narrow canyon with very steep and high walls. Nagger snorted his perception of water, and the

mustang whistled. Wildfire's tracks led to a point under the wall where a spring gushed forth. There were

Slone made camp here. The mustang was tired. But Nagger, upon taking a long drink, rolled in the grass as if

he had just begun the trip. After eating, Slone took his rifle and went out to look for deer. But there appeared

to be none at hand. He came across many lion tracks and saw, with apprehension, where one had taken

Wildfire's trail. Wildfire had grazed up the canyon, keeping on and on, and he was likely to go miles in a

night. Slone reflected that as small as were his own chances of getting Wildfire, they were still better than

those of a mountainlion. Wildfire was the most cunning of all animalsa wild stallion; his speed and

endurance were incomparable; his scent as keen as those animals that relied wholly upon scent to warn them

of danger, and as for sight, it was Slone's belief that no hoofed creature, except the mountainsheep used to

It bothered Slone a little that he was getting into a lion country. Nagger showed nervousness, something

unusual for him. Slone tied both horses with long halters and stationed them on patches of thick grass. Then

he put a cedar stump on the fire and went to sleep. Upon awakening and going to the spring he was somewhat

chagrined to see that deer had come down to drink early. Evidently they were numerous. A lion country was

Slone was packed and saddled and on his way before the sun reddened the canyon wall. He walked the

horses. From time to time he saw signs of Wildfire's consistent progress. The canyon narrowed and the walls

grew lower and the grass increased. There was a decided ascent all the time. Slone could find no evidence

that the canyon had ever been traveled by hunters or Indians. The day was pleasant and warm and still. Every

once in a while a little breath of wind would bring a fragrance of cedar and pinyon, and a sweet hint of pine

and sage. At every turn he looked ahead, expecting to see the green of pine and the gray of sage. Toward the

middle of the afternoon, coming to a place where Wildfire had taken to a trot, he put Nagger to that gait, and

by sundown had worked up to where the canyon was only a shallow ravine. And finally it turned once more,

to lose itself in a level where straggling pines stood high above the cedars, and great, darkgreen silver

spruces stood above the pines. 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 campfire, and some flint arrowheads. Indians had been in there,

probably having come from the opposite direction to Slone's. This encouraged him, for where Indians could

hunt so could he. Soon he was entering a forest where cedars and pinyons and pines began to grow thickly.

Presently he came upon a faintly defined trail, just a dim, dark line even to an experienced eye. But it was a

Slone halted for the night. The air was cold. And the dampness of it gave him an idea there were snowbanks

somewhere not far distant. The dew was already heavy on the grass. He hobbled the horses and put a bell on

Nagger. A bell might frighten lions that had never heard one. Then he built a fire and cooked his meal.

It had been long since he had camped high up among the pines. The sough of the wind pleased him, like

music. There had begun to be prospects of pleasant experience along with the toil of chasing Wildfire. He

was entering new and strange and beautiful country. How far might the chase take him? He did not care. He

was not sleepy, but even if he had been it developed that he must wait till the coyotes ceased their barking

round his campfire. They came so close that he saw their gray shadows in the gloom. But presently they

wearied of yelping at him and went away. After that the silence, broken only by the wind as it roared and

lulled, seemed beautiful to Slone. He lost completely that sense of vague regret which had remained with

him, and he forgot the Stewarts. And suddenly he felt absolutely free, alone, with nothing behind to

remember, with wild, thrilling, nameless life before him. Just then the long mourn of a timber wolf wailed in

with the wind. Seldom had he heard the cry of one of those night wanderers. There was nothing like itno

sound like it to fix in the lone camper's heart the great solitude and the wild.

In the early morning when all was gray and the big, dark pines were shadowy specters, Slone was awakened

by the cold. His hands were so numb that he had difficulty starting a fire. He stood over the blaze, warming

Daylight came while he was in the midst of his morning meal. A white frost covered the ground and crackled

under his feet as he went out to bring in the horses. He saw fresh deer tracks. Then he went back to camp for

his rifle. Keeping a sharp lookout for game, he continued his search for the horses.

The forest was open and parklike. There were no fallen trees or evidences of fire. Presently he came to a

wide glade in the midst of which Nagger and the packmustang were grazing with a herd of deer. The size of

the latter amazed Slone. The deer he had hunted back on the Sevier range were much smaller than these.

Evidently these were mule deer, closely allied to the elk. They were so tame they stood facing him curiously,

with long ears erect. It was sheer murder to kill a deer standing and watching like that, but Slone was out of

meat and hungry and facing a long, hard trip. He shot a buck, which leaped spasmodically away, trying to

follow the herd, and fell at the edge of the glade. Slone cut out a haunch, and then, catching the horses, he

returned to camp, where he packed and saddled, and at once rode out on the dim trail.

The wildness of the country he was entering was evident in the fact that as he passed the glade where he had

shot the deer a few minutes before, there were coyotes quarreling over the carcass.

Stone could see ahead and on each side several hundred yards, and presently he ascertained that the forest

floor was not so level as he had supposed. He had entered a valley or was traversing a wide, gently sloping

pass. He went through thickets of juniper, and had to go around clumps of quaking aspen. The pines grew

larger and farther apart. Cedars and pinyons had been left behind, and he had met with no silver spruces after

leaving camp. Probably that point was the height of a divide. There were banks of snow in some of the

hollows on the north side. Evidently the snow had very recently melted, and it was evident also that the depth

of snow through here had been fully ten feet, judging from the mutilation of the junipertrees where the deer,

The quiet of the forest thrilled Slone. And the only movement was the occasional gray flash of a deer or

coyote across a glade. No birds of any species crossed Stone's sight. He came, presently, upon a lion track in

the trail, made probably a day before. Slone grew curious about it, seeing how it held, as he was holding, to

Wildfire's tracks. After a mile or so he made sure the lion had been trailing the stallion, and for a second he

felt a cold contraction of his heart. Already he loved Wildfire, and by virtue of all this toil of travel

"No lion could ever get close to Wildfire," he soliloquized, with a short laugh. Of that he was absolutely

The sun rose, melting the frost, and a breath of warm air, laden with the scent of pine, moved heavily under

the huge, yellow trees. Slone passed a point where the remains of an old campfire and a pile of deer antlers

were further proof that Indians visited this plateau to hunt. From this camp broader, more deeply defined

trails led away to the south and east. Slone kept to the east trail, in which Wildfire's tracks and those of the

lion showed clearly. It was about the middle of the forenoon when the tracks of the stallion and lion left the

trail to lead up a little draw where grass grew thick. Slone followed, reading the signs of Wildfire's progress,

and the action of his pursuer, as well as if he had seen them. Here the stallion had plowed into a snowbank,

eating a hole two feet deep; then he had grazed around a little; then on and on; there his splendid tracks were

deep in the soft earth. Slone knew what to expect when the track of the lion veered from those of the horse,

and he followed the lion tracks. The ground was soft from the late melting of snow, and Nagger sunk deep.

The lion left a plain track. Here he stole steadily along; there he left many tracks at a point where he might

have halted to make sure of his scent. He was circling on the trail of the stallion, with cunning intent of

ambush. The end of this slow, careful stalk of the lion, as told in his tracks, came upon the edge of a knoll

From this perch he had made a magnificent springSlone estimating it to be forty feetbut he had missed

the stallion. There were Wildfire's tracks again, slow and short, and then deep and sharp where in the impetus

of fright he had sprung out of reach. A second leap of the lion, and then lessening bounds, and finally an

abrupt turn from Wildfire's trail told the futility of that stalk. Slone made certain that Wildfire was so keen

Wildfire had run for a mile, then slowed down to a trot, and he had circled to get back to the trail he had left.

Slone believed the horse was just so intelligent. At any rate, Wildfire struck the trail again, and turned at right

Here the forest floor appeared perfectly level. Patches of snow became frequent, and larger as Slone went on.

At length the patches closed up, and soon extended as far as he could see. It was soft, affording difficult

travel. Slone crossed hundreds of deer tracks, and the trail he was on eventually became a deer runway.

Presently, far down one of the aisles between the great pines Slone saw what appeared to be a yellow cliff, far

away. It puzzled him. And as he went on he received the impression that the forest dropped out of sight

ahead. Then the trees grew thicker, obstructing his view. Presently the trail became soggy and he had to help

his horse. The mustang floundered in the soft snow and earth. Cedars and pinyons appeared again, making

All at once there came to Slone a strange consciousness of light and wind and space and void. On the instant

his horse halted with a snort. Slone quickly looked up. Had he come to the end of the world? An abyss, a

canyon, yawned beneath him, beyond all comparison in its greatness. His keen eye, educated to desert

distance and dimension, swept down and across, taking in the tremendous truth, before it staggered his

comprehension. But a second sweeping glance, slower, becoming intoxicated with what it beheld, saw

gigantic cliffsteps and yellow slopes dotted with cedars, leading down to clefts filled with purple smoke,

and these led on and on to a ragged red world of rock, bare, shining, bold, uplifted in mesa, dome, peak, and

This, then, was the great canyon, which had seemed like a hunter's fable rather than truth. Slone's sight

dimmed, blurring the spectacle, and he found that his eyes had filled with tears. He wiped them away and

looked again and again, until he was confounded by the vastness and the grandeur and the vague sadness of

the scene. Nothing he had ever looked at had affected him like this canyon, although the Stewarts had tried to

It was the horsehunter's passion that reminded him of his pursuit. The deer trail led down through a break in

the wall. Only a few rods of it could be seen. This trail was passable, even though choked with snow. But the

depth beyond this wall seemed to fascinate Slone and hold him back, used as he was to desert trails. Then the

He started down, leading Nagger. The mustang followed. Slone kept to the wall side of the trail, fearing the

horses might slip. The snow held firmly at first and Slone had no trouble. The gap in the rimrock widened to

a slope thickly grown over with cedars and pinyons and manzanita. This growth made the descent more

laborious, yet afforded means at least for Slone to go down with less danger. There was no stopping. Once

started, the horses had to keep on. Slone saw the impossibility of ever climbing out while that snow was

there. The trail zigzagged down and down. Very soon the yellow wall hung tremendously over him, straight

up. The snow became thinner and softer. The horses began to slip. They slid on their haunches. Fortunately

the slope grew less steep, and Slone could see below where it reached out to comparatively level ground.

Still, a mishap might yet occur. Slone kept as close to Nagger as possible, helping him whenever he could do

it. The mustang slipped, rolled over, and then slipped past Slone, went down the slope to bring up in a cedar.

Slone worked down to him and extricated him. Then the huge Nagger began to slide. Snow and loose rock

slid with him, and so did Slone. The little avalanche stopped of its own accord, and then Slone dragged

Nagger on down and down, presently to come to the end of the steep descent. Slone looked up to see that he

had made short work of a thousandfoot slope. Here cedars and pinyons grew thickly enough to make a

forest. The snow thinned out to patches, and then failed. But the going remained bad for a while as the horses

sank deep in a soft red earth. This eventually grew more solid and finally dry. Slone worked out of the cedars

to what appeared a grassy plateau inclosed by the great greenandwhite slope with its yellow wall over

hanging, and distant mesas and cliffs. Here his view was restricted. He was down on the first bench of the

great canyon. And there was the deer trail, a wellworn path keeping to the edge of the slope. Slone came to

a deep cut in the earth, and the trail headed it, where it began at the last descent of the slope. It was the source

of a canyon. He could look down to see the bare, worn rock, and a hundred yards from where he stood the

earth was washed from its rims and it began to show depth and something of that ragged outline which told of

violence of flood. The trail headed many canyons like this, all running down across this bench, disappearing,

dropping invisibly. 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. There was fragrance of flowers he could not see and a low murmur

of a waterfall that was likewise invisible. For most of the time his view was shut off, but occasionally he

reached a point where through some break he saw towers gleaming red in the sun. A strange place, a place of

silence, and smoky veils in the distance. Time passed swiftly. Toward the waning of the afternoon he began

to climb to what appeared to be a saddle of land, connecting the canyon wall on the left with a great plateau,

goldrimmed and pinefringed, rising more and more in his way as he advanced. At sunset Slone was more

shut in than for several hours. He could tell the time was sunset by the golden light on the cliff wall again

overhanging him. The slope was gradual up to this pass to the saddle, and upon coming to a spring, and the

first pinetrees, he decided to halt for a camp. The mustang was almost exhausted.

Thereupon he hobbled the horses in the luxuriant grass round the spring, and then unrolled his pack. Once as

dusk came stealing down, while he was eating his meal, Nagger whistled in fright. Slone saw a gray,

pantherish form gliding away into the shadows. He took a quick shot at it, but missed.

"It's a lion country, all right," he said. And then he set about building a big fire on the other side of the grassy

plot, so to have the horses between fires. He cut all the venison into thin strips, and spent an hour roasting

them. Then he lay down to rest, and he said: "Wonder where Wildfire is tonight? Am I closer to him?

The night was warm and still. It was black near the huge cliff, and overhead velvety blue, with stars of white

fire. It seemed to him that he had become more thoughtful and observing of the aspects of his wild

environment, and he felt a welcome consciousness of loneliness. Then sleep came to him and the night

The horses were restive. Nagger snorted a welcome. Evidently they had passed an uneasy night. Slone found

lion tracks at the spring and in sandy places. Presently he was on his way up to the notch between the great

wall and the plateau. A growth of thick scruboak made travel difficult. It had not appeared far up to that

saddle, but it was far. There were straggling pinetrees and huge rocks that obstructed his gaze. But once up

he saw that the saddle was only a narrow ridge, curved to slope up on both sides.

Straight before Slone and under him opened the canyon, blazing and glorious along the peaks and ramparts,

where the rising sun struck, misty and smoky and shadowy down in those mysterious depths.

It took an effort not to keep on gazing. But Slone turned to the grim business of his pursuit. The trail he saw

leading down had been made by Indians. It was used probably once a year by them; and also by wild animals,

and it was exceedingly steep and rough. Wildfire had paced to and fro along the narrow ridge of that saddle,

making many tracks, before he had headed down again. Slone imagined that the great stallion had been

daunted by the tremendous chasm, but had finally faced it, meaning to put this obstacle between him and his

pursuers. It never occurred to Slone to attribute less intelligence to Wildfire than that. So, dismounting, Slone

took Nagger's bridle and started down. The mustang with the pack was reluctant. He snorted and whistled and

The trail led down under cedars that fringed a precipice. Slone was aware of this without looking. He

attended only to the trail and to his horse. Only an Indian could have picked out that course, and it was cruel

to put a horse to it. But Nagger was powerful, surefooted, and he would go anywhere that Slone led him.

Gradually Slone worked down and away from the bulging rimwall. It was hard, rough work, and risky

because it could not be accomplished slowly. Brush and rocks, loose shale and weathered slope, long, dusty

inclines of yellow earth, and jumbles of stonethese made bad going for miles of slow, zigzag trail down

That ravine became a canyon. At its head it was a dry wash, full of gravel and rocks. It began to cut deep into

the bowels of the earth. It shut out sight of the surrounding walls and peaks. Water appeared from under a

cliff and, augmented by other springs, became a brook. Hot, dry, and barren at its beginning, this cleft

became cool and shady and luxuriant with grass and flowers and amber moss with silver blossoms. The rocks

had changed color from yellow to deep red. Four hours of turning and twisting, endlessly down and down,

over boulders and banks and every conceivable roughness of earth and rock, finished the packmustang; and

Slone mercifully left him in a long reach of canyon where grass and water never failed. In this place Slone

halted for the noon hour, letting Nagger have his fill of the rich grazing. Nagger's three days in grassy upland,

despite the continuous travel by day, had improved him. He looked fat, and Slone had not yet caught the

horse resting. Nagger was iron to endure. Here Slone left all the outfit except what was on his saddle, and the

sack containing the few pounds of meat and supplies, and the two utensils. This sack he tied on the back of

Presently he came to a place where Wildfire had doubled on his trail and had turned up a side canyon. The

climb out was hard on Slone, if not on Nagger. Once up, Slone found himself upon a wide, barren plateau of

glaring red rock and clumps of greasewood and cactus. The plateau was miles wide, shut in by great walls

and mesas of colored rock. The afternoon sun beat down fiercely. A blast of wind, as if from a furnace, swept

across the plateau, and it was laden with red dust. Slone walked here, where he could have ridden. And he

made several miles of upanddown progress over this rough plateau. The great walls of the opposite side of

the canyon loomed appreciably closer. What, Slone wondered, was at the bottom of this rent in the earth? The

great desert river was down there, of course, but he knew nothing of it. Would that turn back Wildfire? Slone

thought grimly how he had always claimed Nagger to be part fish and part bird. Wildfire was not going to

By and by only isolated mescal plants with long, yellowplumed spears broke the bare monotony of the

plateau. And Slone passed from red sand and gravel to a red, soft shale, and from that to hard, red rock. Here

Wildfire's tracks were lost, the first time in seven weeks. But Slone had his direction down that plateau with

the cleavage lines of canyons to right and left. At times Slone found a vestige of the old Indian trail, and this

made him doubly sure of being right. He did not need to have Wildfire's tracks. He let Nagger pick the way,

and the horse made no mistake in finding the line of least resistance. But that grew harder and harder. This

bare rock, like a file, would soon wear Wildfire's hoofs thin. And Slone rejoiced. Perhaps somewhere down

in this awful chasm he and Nagger would have it out with the stallion. Slone began to look far ahead,

beginning to believe that he might see Wildfire. Twice he had seen Wildfire, but only at a distance. Then he

had resembled a running streak of fire, whence his name, which Slone had given him.

This bare region of rock began to be cut up into gullies. It was necessary to head them or to climb in and out.

Miles of travel really meant little progress straight ahead. But Slone kept on. He was hot and Nagger was hot,

and that made hard work easier. Sometimes on the wind came a low thunder. Was it a storm or an avalanche

slipping or falling water? He could not tell. The sound was significant and haunting.

Of one thing he was surethat he could not have found his backtrail. But he divined he was never to

retrace his steps on this journey. The stretch of broken plateau before him grew wilder and bolder of outline,

darker in color, weirder in aspect, and progress across it grew slower, more dangerous. There were many

places Nagger should not have been put towhere a slip meant a broken leg. But Slone could not turn back.

And something besides an indomitable spirit kept him going. Again the sound resembling thunder assailed

his ears, louder this time. The plateau appeared to be ending in a series of great capes or promontories. Slone

feared he would soon come out upon a promontory from which he might see the impossibility of further

travel. He felt relieved down in the gullies, where he could not see far. He climbed out of one, presently, from

which there extended a narrow ledge with a slant too perilous for any horse. He stepped out upon that with far

less confidence than Nagger. To the right was a bulge of low wall, and a few feet to the left a dark precipice.

The trail here was faintly outlined, and it was six inches wide and slanting as well. It seemed endless to

Slone, that ledge. He looked only down at his feet and listened to Nagger's steps. The big horse trod carefully,

but naturally, and he did not slip. That ledge extended in a long curve, turning slowly away from the

precipice, and ascending a little at the further end. Slone, drew a deep breath of relief when he led Nagger up

Suddenly a strange yet familiar sound halted Slone, as if he had been struck. The wild, shrill, highpitched,

piercing whistle of a stallion! Nagger neighed a blast in reply and pounded the rock with his ironshod hoofs.

He could not believe his sight. He imagined he was dreaming. But as Nagger stamped and snorted defiance

Slone looked with fixed and keen gaze, and knew that beautiful picture was no lie.

Wildfire was as red as fire. His long mane, wild in the wind, was like a whipping, blackstreaked flame.

Silhouetted there against that canyon background he seemed gigantic, a demon horse, ready to plunge into

fiery depths. He was looking back over his shoulder, his head very high, and every line of him was instinct

with wildness. Again he sent out that shrill, airsplitting whistle. Slone understood it to be a clarion call to

Nagger. If Nagger had been alone Wildfire would have killed him. The red stallion was a killer of horses. All

over the Utah ranges he had left the trail of a murderer. Nagger understood this, too, for he whistled back in

rage and terror. It took an iron arm to hold him. Then Wildfire plunged, apparently down, and vanished from

Slone hurried onward, to be blocked by a huge crack in the rocky plateau. This he had to head. And then

another and like obstacle checked his haste to reach that promontory. He was forced to go more slowly.

Wildfire had been close only as to sight. And this was the great canyon that dwarfed distance and magnified

proximity. Climbing down and up, toiling on, he at last learned patience. He had seen Wildfire at close range.

That was enough. So he plodded on, once more returning to careful regard of Nagger. It took an hour of work

A promontory indeed it was, overhanging a valley a thousand feet below. A white torrent of a stream wound

through it. There were lines of green cottonwoods following the winding course. Then Slone saw Wildfire

slowly crossing the flat toward the stream. He had gone down that cliff, which to Slone looked perpendicular.

Wildfire appeared to be walking lame. Slone, making sure of this, suffered a pang. Then, when the

significance of such lameness dawned upon him he whooped his wild joy and waved his hat. The red stallion

must have heard, for he looked up. Then he went on again and waded into the stream, where he drank long.

When he started to cross, the swift current drove him back in several places. The water wreathed white

around him. But evidently it was not deep, and finally he crossed. From the other side he looked up again at

There was a break in the cliff wall, a bare stone slant where horses had gone down and come up. That was

enough for Slone to know. He would have attempted the descent if he were sure no other horse but Wildfire

had ever gone down there. But Slone's hair began to rise stiff on his head. A horse like Wildfire, and

mountain sheep and Indian ponies, were all very different from Nagger. The chances were against Nagger.

Slone had never seen a trail as perilous as this. He was afraid for his horse. A slip there meant death. The way

Nagger trembled in every muscle showed his feelings. But he never flinched. He would follow Slone

anywhere, providing Slone rode him or led him. And here, as riding was impossible, Slone went before. If the

horse slipped there would be a double tragedy, for Nagger would knock his master off the cliff. Slone set his

teeth and stepped down. He did not let Nagger see his fear. He was taking the greatest risk he had ever run.

The break in the wall led to a ledge, and the ledge dropped from step to step, and these had bare, slippery

slants between. Nagger was splendid on a bad trail. He had methods peculiar to his huge build and great

weight. He crashed down over the stone steps, both front hoofs at once. The slants he slid down on his

haunches with his forelegs stiff and the iron shoes scraping. He snorted and heaved and grew wet with sweat.

He tossed his head at some of the places. But he never hesitated and it was impossible for him to go slowly.

Whenever Slone came to corrugated stretches in the trail he felt grateful. But these were few. The rock was

like smooth red iron. Slone had never seen such hard rock. It took him long to realize that it was marble. His

heart seemed a tense, painful knot in his breast, as if it could not beat, holding back in the strained suspense.

But Nagger never jerked on the bridle. He never faltered. Many times he slipped, often with both front feet,

but never with all four feet. So he did not fall. And the red wall began to loom above Slone. Then suddenly he

seemed brought to a point where it was impossible to descend. It was a round bulge, slanting fearfully, with

only a few little rough surfaces to hold a foot. Wildfire had left a broad, clearswept mark at that place, and

red hairs on some of the sharp points. He had slid down. Below was an offset that fortunately prevented

further sliding, Slone started to walk down this place, but when Nagger began to slide Slone had to let go the

bridle and jump. Both he and the horse landed safely. Luck was with them. And they went on, down and

down, to reach the base of the great wall, scraped and exhausted, wet with sweat, but unhurt. As Slone gazed

upward he felt the impossibility of believing what he knew to be true. He hugged and petted the horse. Then

It was green water white with foam. Slone waded in and found the water cool and shallow and very swift. He

had to hold to Nagger to keep from being swept downstream. They crossed in safety. There in the sand

showed Wildfire's tracks. And here were signs of another Indian camp, half a year old.

The shade of the cottonwoods was pleasant. Slone found this valley oppressively hot. There was no wind and

the sand blistered his feet through his boots. Wildfire held to the Indian trail that had guided him down into

this wilderness of worn rock. And that trail crossed the stream at every turn of the twisting, narrow valley.

Slone enjoyed getting into the water. He hung his gun over the pommel and let the water roll him. A dozen

times he and Nagger forded the rushing torrent. Then they came to a boxlike closing of the valley to canyon

walls, and here the trail evidently followed the stream bed. There was no other way. Slone waded in, and

stumbled, rolled, and floated ahead of the sturdy horse. Nagger was wet to his breast, but he did not fall. This

gulch seemed full of a hollow rushing roar. It opened out into a wide valley. And Wildfire's tracks took to the

Here the traveling was good, considering what had been passed. Once up out of the valley floor Slone saw

Wildfire far ahead, high on the slope. He did not appear to be limping, but he was not going fast. Slone

Sometimes Wildfire was plain in his sight for a moment, but usually he was hidden by rocks. The slope was

one great talus, a jumble of weathered rock, fallen from what appeared a mountain of red and yellow wall.

Here the heat of the sun fell upon him like fire. The rocks were so hot Slone could not touch them with bare

hand. The close of the afternoon was approaching, and this slope was interminably long. Still, it was not

At last from the height of slope Wildfire appeared, looking back and down. Then he was gone. Slone plodded

upward. Long before he reached that summit be heard the dull rumble of the river. It grew to be a roar, yet it

seemed distant. Would the great desert river stop Wildfire in his flight? Slone doubted it. He surmounted the

ridge, to find the canyon opening in a tremendous gap, and to see down, far down, a glittering, sunblasted

slope merging into a deep, black gulch where a red river swept and chafed and roared.

Somehow the river was what he had expected to see. A force that had cut and ground this canyon could have

been nothing but a river like that. The trail led down, and Slone had no doubt that it crossed the river and led

up out of the canyon. He wanted to stay there and gaze endlessly and listen. At length he began the descent.

As he proceeded it seemed that the roar of the river lessened. He could not understand why this was so. It

took half an hour to reach the last level, a ghastly, black, and ironribbed canyon bed, with the river splitting

it. He had not had a glimpse of Wildfire on this side of the divide, but he found his tracks, and they led down

off the last level, through a notch in the black bank of marble to a sandbar and the river.

Wildfire had walked straight off the sand into the water. Slone studied the river and shore. The water ran

slow, heavily, in sluggish eddies. From far up the canyon came the roar of a rapid, and from below the roar of

another, heavier and closer. The river appeared tremendous, in ways Slone felt rather than realized, yet it was

not swift. Studying the black, rough wall of rock above him, he saw marks where the river had been sixty feet

higher than where he stood on the sand. It was low, then. How lucky for him that he had gotten there before

flood season! He believed Wildfire had crossed easily, and he knew Nagger could make it. Then he piled and

tied his supplies and weapons high on the saddle, to keep them dry, and looked for a place to take to the

Wildfire had sunk deep before reaching the edge. Manifestly he had lunged the last few feet. Slone found a

better place, and waded in, urging Nagger. The big horse plunged, almost going under, and began to swim.

Slone kept upstream beside him. He found, presently, that the water was thick and made him tired, so it was

necessary to grasp a stirrup and be towed. The river appeared only a few hundred feet wide, but probably it

was wider than it looked. Nagger labored heavily near the opposite shore; still, he landed safely upon a rocky

bank. There were patches of sand in which Wildfire's tracks showed so fresh that the water had not yet dried

Slone rested his horse before attempting to climb out of that split in the rock. However, Wildfire had found an

easy ascent. On this side of the canyon the bare rock did not predominate. A clear trail led up a dusty,

gravelly slope, upon which scant greasewood and cactus appeared. Half an hour's climbing brought Slone to

where he could see that he was entering a vast valley, sloping up and narrowing to a notch in the dark cliffs,

above which towered the great red wall and about that the slopes of cedar and the yellow rimrock.

And scarcely a mile distant, bright in the westering sunlight, shone the red stallion, moving slowly.

Slone pressed on steadily. Just before dark he came to an ideal spot to camp. The valley had closed up, so that

the lofty walls cast shadows that met. A clump of cottonwoods surrounding a spring, abundance of rich grass,

willows and flowers lining the banks, formed an oasis in the bare valley. Slone was tired out from the day of

ceaseless toil down and up, and he could scarcely keep his eyes open. But he tried to stay awake. The dead

silence of the valley, the dry fragrance, the dreaming walls, the advent of night low down, when up on the

ramparts the last red rays of the sun lingered, the strange lonelinessthese were sweet and comforting to

And that night's sleep was as a moment. He opened his eyes to see the crags and towers and peaks and

domes, and the lofty walls of that vast, broken chaos of canyons across the river. They were now emerging

from the misty gray of dawn, growing pink and lilac and purple under the rising sun.

He arose and set about his few tasks, which, being soon finished, allowed him an early start.

Wildfire had grazed along no more than a mile in the lead. Slone looked eagerly up the narrowing canyon,

but he was not rewarded by a sight of the stallion. As he progressed up a gradually ascending trail he became

aware of the fact that the notch he had long looked up to was where the great red walls closed in and almost

met. And the trail zigzagged up this narrow vent, so steep that only a few steps could be taken without rest.

Slone toiled up for an houran agetill he was wet, burning, choked, with a great weight on his chest. Yet

still he was only halfway up that awful break between the walls. Sometimes he could have tossed a stone

down upon a part of the trail, only a few rods below, yet many, many weary steps of actual toil. As he got

farther up the notch widened. What had been scarcely visible from the valley below was now colossal in

actual dimensions. The trail was like a twisted mile of thread between two bulging mountain walls leaning

Slone rested often. Nagger appreciated this and heaved gratefully at every halt. In this monotonous toil Slone

forgot the zest of his pursuit. And when Nagger suddenly snorted in fright Slone was not prepared for what

Above him ran a low, red wall, around which evidently the trail led. At the curve, which was a promontory,

scarcely a hundred feet in an airline above him, he saw something red moving, bobbing, coming out into

There he stood looking down. He fulfilled all of Slone's dreams. Only he was bigger. But he was so

magnificently proportioned that he did not seem heavy. His coat was shaggy and red. It was not glossy. The

color was what made him shine. His mane was like a crest, mounting, then failing low. Slone had never seen

so much muscle on a horse. Yet his outline was graceful, beautiful. The head was indeed that of the wildest of

all wild creaturesa stallion born wildand it was beautiful, savage, splendid, everything but noble.

Whatever Wildfire was, he was a devil, a murdererhe had no noble attributes. Slone thought that if a horse

could express hate, surely Wildfire did then. It was certain that he did express curiosity and fury.

Slone shook a gantleted fist at the stallion, as if the horse were human. That was a natural action for a rider of

his kind. Wildfire turned away, showed bright against the dark background, and then disappeared.

It took all of this day to climb out of the canyon. The second was a slow march of thirty miles into a scrub

cedar and pinyon forest, through which the great red and yellow walls of the canyon could be seen. That night

Slone found a waterhole in a rocky pocket and a little grass for Nagger. The third day's travel consisted of

forty miles or more through level pine forest, dry and odorous, but lacking the freshness and beauty of the

forest on the north side of the canyon. On this south side a strange feature was that all the water, when there

was any, ran away from the rim. Slone camped this night at a muddy pond in the woods, where Wildfire's

On the following day Slone rode out of the forest into a country of scanty cedars, bleached and stunted, and

out of this to the edge of a plateau, from which the shimmering desert flung its vast and desolate distances,

forbidding and menacing. This was not the desert upland country of Utah, but a naked and bony world of

colored rock and sand a painted desert of heat and wind and flying sand and waterless wastes and barren

ranges. But it did not daunt Slone. For far down on the bare, billowing ridges moved a red speck, at a snail's

On open ground like this, Nagger, carrying two hundred and fifty pounds, showed his wonderful quality. He

did not mind the heat nor the sand nor the glare nor the distance nor his burden. He did not tire. He was an

Slone gained upon Wildfire, and toward evening of that day he reached to within half a mile of the stallion.

And he chose to keep that far behind. That night he camped where there was dry grass, but no water.

Next day he followed Wildfire down and down, over the endless swell of rolling red ridges, bare of all but

bleached white grass and meager greasewood, always descending in the face of that painted desert of bold

and ragged steps. Slone made fifty miles that day, and gained the valley bed, where a slender stream ran thin

and spread over a wide sandy bottom. It was salty water, but it was welcome to both man and beast.

The following day he crossed, and the tracks of Wildfire were still wet on the sandbars. The stallion was

slowing down. Slone saw him, limping along, not far in advance. There was a tenmile stretch of level

ground, blown hard as rock, from which the sustenance had been bleached, for not a spear of grass grew

there. And following that was a tortuous passage through a weird region of clay dunes, blue and violet and

heliotrope and lavender, all worn smooth by rain and wind. Wildfire favored the soft ground now. He had

deviated from his straight course. And he was partial to washes and dips in the earth where water might have

lodged. And he was not now scornful of a greenscummed waterhole with its white margin of alkali. That

night Slone made camp with Wildfire in plain sight. The stallion stopped when his pursuers stopped. And he

began to graze on the same stretch with Nagger. How strange this seemed to Slone!

Here at this camp was evidence of Indians. Wildfire had swung round to the north in his course. Like any

pursued wild animal, he had began to circle. And he had pointed his nose toward the Utah he had left.

Next morning Wildfire was not in sight, but he had left his tracks in the sand. Slone trailed him with Nagger

at a trot. Toward the head of this sandy flat Slone came upon old cornfields, and a broken dam where the

water had been stored, and welldefined trails leading away to the right. Somewhere over there in the desert

lived Indians. At this point Wildfire abandoned the trail he had followed for many days and cut out more to

the north. It took all the morning hours to climb three great steps and benches that led up to the summit of a

mesa, vast in extent. It turned out to be a sandy waste. The wind rose and everywhere were moving sheets of

sand, and in the distance circular yellow dustdevils, rising high like waterspouts, and back down in the

sunscorched valley a sandstorm moved along majestically, burying the desert in its yellow pall.

Then two more days of sand and another day of a slowly rising ground growing from bare to gray and gray to

green, and then to the purple of sage and cedarthese three grinding days were toiled out with only one

And Wildfire was lame and in distress and Nagger was growing gaunt and showing strain; and Slone,

Slone felt that it would be futile to put the chase to a test of speed. Nagger could never head that stallion.

Slone meant to go on and on, always pushing Wildfire, keeping him tired, wearied, and worrying him, till a

section of the country was reached where he could drive Wildfire into some kind of a natural trap. The

pursuit seemed endless. Wildfire kept to open country where he could not be surprised.

There came a morning when Slone climbed to a cedared plateau that rose for a whole day's travel, and then

split into a labyrinthine maze of canyons. There were trees, grass, water. It was a high country, cool and wild,

like the uplands he had left. For days he camped on Wildfire's trail, always relentlessly driving him, always

watching for the trap he hoped to find. And the red stallion spent much of this time of flight in looking

backward. Whenever Slone came in sight of him he had his head over his shoulder, watching. And on the soft

ground of these canyons he had begun to recover from his lameness. But this did not worry Slone. Sooner or

later Wildfire would go down into a highwalled wash, from which there would be no outlet; or he would

wander into a boxcanyon; or he would climb out on a mesa with no place to descend, unless he passed

Slone; or he would get cornered on a soft, steep slope where his hoofs would sink deep and make him slow.

The nature of the desert had changed. Slone had entered a wonderful region, the like of which he had not

seena high plateau crisscrossed in every direction by narrow canyons with red walls a thousand feet high.

The plateau had weathered and washed away, leaving huge sections of stone walls, all standing isolated,

different in size and shape, but all cleancut, bold, with straight lines. They stood up everywhere,

monumental, towering, manycolored, lending a singular and beautiful aspect to the great greenandgray

valley, billowing away to the north, where dim, broken battlements mounted to the clouds.

The only living thing in Slone's sight was Wildfire. He shone red down on the green slope.

Slone's heart swelled. This was the setting for that grand horse a perfect wild range. But also it seemed the

last place where there might be any chance to trap the stallion. Still that did not alter Slone's purpose, though

it lost to him the joy of former hopes. He rode down the slope, out upon the billowing floor of the valley.

Wildfire looked back to see his pursuers, and then the solemn stillness broke to a wild, piercing whistle.

Day after day, camping where night found him, Slone followed the stallion, never losing sight of him till

darkness had fallen. The valley was immense and the monuments miles apart. But they always seemed close

together and near him. The air magnified everything. Slone lost track of time. The strange, solemn, lonely

days and the silent, lonely nights, and the endless pursuit, and the wild, weird valleythese completed the

The toil and privation had worn him down and he was like iron. His garments hung in tatters; his boots were

ripped and soleless. Long since his flour had been used up, and all his supplies except the salt. He lived on

the meat of rabbits, but they were scarce, and the time came when there were none. Some days he did not eat.

Hunger did not make him suffer. He killed a desert bird now and then, and once a wildcat crossing the valley.

Eventually he felt his strength diminishing, and then he took to digging out the packrats and cooking them.

But these, too, were scarce. At length starvation faced Slone. But he knew he would not starve. Many times

he had been within rifleshot of Wildfire. And the grim, forbidding thought grew upon him that he must kill

the stallion. The thought seemed involuntary, but his mind rejected it. Nevertheless, he knew that if he could

not catch the stallion he would kill him. That had been the end of many a desperate rider's pursuit of a

While Slone kept on his merciless pursuit, never letting Wildfire rest by day, time went on just as

relentlessly. Spring gave way to early summer. The hot sun bleached the grass; waterholes failed out in the

valley, and water could be found only in the canyons; and the dry winds began to blow the sand. It was a

sandy valley, green and gray only at a distance, and out toward the north there were no monuments, and the

Wildfire worked away from this open valley, back to the south end, where the great monuments loomed, and

still farther back, where they grew closer, till at length some of them were joined by weathered ridges to the

walls of the surrounding plateau. For all that Slone could see, Wildfire was in perfect condition. But Nagger

was not the horse he had been. Slone realized that in one way or another the pursuit was narrowing down to

He found a waterhole at the head of a wash in a split in the walls, and here he let Nagger rest and graze one

whole daythe first day for a long time that he had not kept the red stallion in sight. That day was marked

by the good fortune of killing a rabbit, and while eating it his gloomy, fixed mind admitted that he was

starving. He dreaded the next sunrise. But he could not hold it back. There, behind the dark monuments,

standing sentinellike, the sky lightened and reddened and burst into gold and pink, till out of the golden

glare the sun rose glorious. And Slone, facing the leaguelong shadows of the monuments, rode out again

For a change Wildfire had climbed high up a slope of talus, through a narrow pass, rounded over with drifting

sand. And Slone gazed down into a huge amphitheater full of monuments, like all that strange country. A

basin three miles across lay beneath him. Walls and weathered slants of rock and steep slopes of

reddishyellow sand inclosed this oval depression. The floor was white, and it seemed to move gently or

radiate with heatwaves. Studying it, Slone made out that the motion was caused by wind in long bleached

grass. He had crossed small areas of this grass in different parts of the region.

Wildfire's tracks led down into this basin, and presently Slone, by straining his eyes, made out the red spot

"He's lookin' to quit the country," soliloquized Slone, as he surveyed the scene.

With keen, slow gaze Slone studied the lay of wall and slope, and when he had circled the huge depression he

made sure that Wildfire could not get out except by the narrow pass through which he had gone in. Slone sat

astride Nagger in the mouth of this passa wash a few yards wide, walled by broken, rough rock on one side

"If this hole was only little, now," sighed Slone, as he gazed at the sweeping, shimmering oval floor, "I might

There was no water in that dry bowl. Slone reflected on the uselessness of keeping Wildfire down there,

because Nagger could not go without water as long as Wildfire. For the first time Slone hesitated. It seemed

merciless to Nagger to drive him down into this hot, windy hole. The wind blew from the west, and it

But that hot wind stirred Slone with an idea, and suddenly he was tense, excited, glowing, yet grim and hard.

"Wildfire, I'll make you run with your namesake in that high grass," called Slone. The speech was full of

bitter failure, of regret, of the hardness of a rider who could not give up the horse to freedom.

Slone meant to ride down there and fire the long grass. In that wind there would indeed be wildfire to race

with the red stallion. It would perhaps mean his death; at least it would chase him out of that hole, where to

"I'd make you hump now to get away if I could get behind you," muttered Slone. He saw that if he could fire

the grass on the other side the wind of flame would drive Wildfire straight toward him. The slopes and walls

narrowed up to the pass, but high grass grew to within a few rods of where Slone stood. But it seemed

"At nightthenI could get round him," said Slone, thinking hard and narrowing his gaze to scan the circle

of wall and slope. "Why not? . . . No wind at night. That grass would burn slow till mornin' till the wind

Suddenly Slone began to pound the patient Nagger and to cry out to him in wild exultance.

"Old horse, we've got him! . . . We've got him! . . . We'll put a rope on him before this time tomorrow!"

Slone yielded to his strange, wild joy, but it did not last long, soon succeeding to sober, keen thought. He

rode down into the bowl a mile, making absolutely certain that Wildfire could not climb out on that side. The

far end, beyond the monuments, was a sheer wall of rock. Then he crossed to the left side. Here the sandy

slope was almost too steep for even him to go up. And there was grass that would burn. He returned to the

pass assured that Wildfire had at last fallen into a trap the like Slone had never dreamed of The great horse

Then Slone reflected. Nagger had that very morning had his fill of good waterthe first really satisfying

drink for days. If he was rested that day, on the morrow he would be fit for the grueling work possibly in

store for him. Slone unsaddled the horse and turned him loose, and with a snort he made down the gentle

slope for the grass. Then Slone carried his saddle to a shady spot afforded by a slab of rock and a dwarf

Wildfire was plainly in sight no more than two miles away. Gradually he was grazing along toward the

monuments and the far end of the great basin. Slone believed, because the place was so large, that Wildfire

thought there was a way out on the other side or over the slopes or through the walls. Never before had the

farsighted stallion made a mistake. Slone suddenly felt the keen, stabbing fear of an outlet somewhere. But

it left him quickly. He had studied those slopes and walls. Wildfire could not get out, except by the pass he

Slone lay in the shade, his head propped on his saddle, and while gazing down into the shimmering hollow he

began to plan. He calculated that he must be able to carry fire swiftly across the far end of the basin, so that

he would not be absent long from the mouth of the pass. Fire was always a difficult matter, since he must

depend only on flint and steel. He decided to wait till dark, build a fire with dead cedar sticks, and carry a

bundle of them with burning ends. He felt assured that the wind caused by riding would keep them burning.

After he had lighted the grass all he had to do was to hurry back to his station and there await developments.

The day passed slowly, and it was hot. The heatwaves rose in dark, wavering lines and veils from the valley.

The wind blew almost a gale. Thin, curling sheets of sand blew up over the crests of the slopes, and the sound

it made was a soft, silken rustling, very low. The sky was a steely blue above and copper close over the

That afternoon, toward the close, Slone ate the last of the meat. At sunset the wind died away and the air

cooled. There was a strip of red along the wall of rock and on the tips of the monuments, and it lingered there

for long, a strange, bright crown. Nagger was not far away, but Wildfire had disappeared, probably behind

When twilight fell Slone went down after Nagger and, returning with him, put on bridle and saddle. Then he

began to search for suitable sticks of wood. Farther back in the pass he found stunted dead cedars, and from

these secured enough for his purpose. He kindled a fire and burnt the ends of the sticks into red embers.

Making a bundle of these, he put them under his arm, the dull, glowing ends backward, and then mounted his

It was just about dark when he faced down into the valley. When he reached level ground he kept to the edge

of the left slope and put Nagger to a good trot. The grass and brush were scant here, and the color of the sand

From time to time his horse went through grass, and its dry, crackling rustle, showing how it would burn, was

music to Slone. Gradually the monuments began to loom up, bold and black against the blue sky, with stars

seemingly hanging close over them. Slone had calculated that the basin was smaller than it really was, in both

length and breadth. This worried him. Wildfire might see or hear or scent him, and make a break back to the

pass and thus escape. Slone was glad when the huge, dark monuments were indistinguishable from the black,

frowning wall. He had to go slower here, because of the darkness. But at last he reached the slow rise of

jumbled rock that evidently marked the extent of weathering on that side. Here he turned to the right and rode

out into the valley. The floor was level and thickly overgrown with long, dead grass and dead greasewood, as

dry as tinder. It was easy to account for the dryness; neither snow nor rain had visited that valley for many

months. Slone whipped one of the sticks in the wind and soon had the smoldering end red and showering

sparks. Then he dropped the stick in the grass, with curious intent and a strange feeling of regret.

Instantly the grass blazed with a little sputtering roar. Nagger snorted. "Wildfire!" exclaimed Slone. That

word was a favorite one with riders, and now Slone used it both to call out his menace to the stallion and to

Without looking back Slone rode across the valley, dropping a glowing stick every quarter of a mile. When

he reached the other side there were a dozen fires behind him, burning slowly, with white smoke rising lazily.

Then he loped Nagger along the side back to the sandy ascent, and on up to the mouth of the pass. There he

searched for tracks. Wildfire had not gone out, and Slone experienced relief and exultation. He took up a

position in the middle of the narrowest part of the pass, and there, with Nagger ready for anything, he once

Far across the darkness of the valley, low down, twelve lines of fire, widely separated, crept toward one

another. They appeared thin and slow, with only an occasional leaping flame. And some of the black spaces

must have been monuments, blotting out the creeping snaillines of red. Slone watched, strangely fascinated.

"What do you think of that?" he said, aloud, and he meant his query for Wildfire.

As he watched the lines perceptibly lengthened and brightened and pale shadows of smoke began to appear.

Over at the left of the valley the two brightest fires, the first he had started, crept closer and closer together.

They seemed long in covering distance. But not a breath of wind stirred, and besides they really might move

swiftly, without looking so to Slone. When the two lines met a sudden and larger blaze rose.

"Ah!" said the rider, and then he watched the other lines creeping together. How slowly fire moved, he

thought. The red stallion would have every chance to run between those lines, if he dared. But a wild horse

feared nothing like fire. This one would not run the gantlet of flames. Nevertheless, Slone felt more and more

relieved as the lines closed. The hours of the night dragged past until at length one long, continuous line of

fire spread level across the valley, its bright, red line broken only where the monuments of stone were

The darkness of the valley changed. The light of the moon changed. The radiance of the stars changed. Either

the line of fire was finding denser fuel to consume or it was growing appreciably closer, for the flames began

The time seemed endless in its futility of results, but fleeting after it had passed; and he could tell how the

hours fled by the everrecurring need to replenish the little fire he kept burning in the pass.

A broad belt of valley grew bright in the light, and behind it loomed the monuments, weird and dark, with

Suddenly Slone's sensitive ear vibrated to a thrilling sound. He leaned down to place his ear to the sand.

Rapid, rhythmic beat of hoofs made him leap to his feet, reaching for his lasso with right hand and a gun with

Nagger lifted his head, sniffed the air, and snorted. Slone peered into the black belt of gloom that lay below

him. It would be hard to see a horse there, unless he got high enough to be silhouetted against that line of fire

now flaring to the sky. But he heard the beat of hoofs, swift, sharp, louderlouder. The night shadows were

deceptive. That wonderful light confused him, made the place unreal. Was he dreaming? Or had the long

chase and his privations unhinged his mind? He reached for Nagger. No! The big black was real, alive,

Once more Slone peered down into the void or what seemed a void. But it, too, had changed, lightened. The

whole valley was brightening. Great palls of curling smoke rose white and yellow, to turn back as the

monuments met their crests, and then to roll upward, blotting out the stars. It was such a light as he had never

seen, except in dreams. Pale moonlight and dimmed starlight and wan dawn all vague and strange and

In the pale path before Slone, that fanlike slope of sand which opened down into the valley, appeared a

swiftly moving black object, like a fleeting phantom. It was a phantom horse. Slone felt that his eyes,

deceived by his mind, saw racing images. Many a wild chase he had lived in dreams on some far desert. But

what was that beating in his earssharp, swift, even, rhythmic? Never had his ears played him false. Never

had he heard things in his dreams. That running object was a horse and he was coming like the wind. Slone

felt something grip his heart. All the time and endurance and pain and thirst and suspense and longing and

hopelessnessthe agony of the whole endless chase closed tight on his heart in that instant.

The running horse halted just in the belt of light cast by the burning grass. There he stood sharply defined,

Slone uttered an involuntary cry. Thrill on thrill shot through him. Delight and hope and fear and despair

claimed him in swift, successive flashes. And then again the ruling passion of a rider held himthe sheer

glory of a grand and unattainable horse. For Slone gave up Wildfire in that splendid moment. How had he

ever dared to believe he could capture that wild stallion? Slone looked and looked, filling his mind, regretting

The weird lights magnified Wildfire and showed him clearly. He seemed gigantic. He shone black against the

fire. His head was high, his mane flying. Behind him the fire flared and the valleywide column of smoke

rolled majestically upward, and the great monuments seemed to retreat darkly and mysteriously as the flames

advanced beyond them. It was a beautiful, unearthly spectacle, with its silence the strangest feature.

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. Soon Wildfire became again a running black object, and then he disappeared.

The great line of fire had gotten beyond the monuments and now stretched unbroken across the valley from

wall to slope. Wildfire could never pierce that line of flames. And now Slone saw, in the paling sky to the

Slone looked grimly glad when simultaneously with the first red flash of sunrise a breeze fanned his cheek.

The valley appeared hazy and smoky, with slow, rolling clouds low down where the line of fire moved. The

coming of daylight paled the blaze of the grass, though here and there Slone caught flickering glimpses of

dull red flame. The wild stallion kept to the center of the valley, restlessly facing this way and that, but never

toward the smoke. Slone made sure that Wildfire gradually gave ground as the line of smoke slowly worked

Every moment the breeze freshened, grew steadier and stronger, until Slone saw that it began to clear the

valley of the lowhanging smoke. There came a time when once more the blazing line extended across from

Wildfire was cornered, trapped. Many times Slone nervously uncoiled and recoiled his lasso. Presently the

great chance of his life would comethe hardest and most important throw he would ever have with a rope.

He did not miss often, but then he missed sometimes, and here he must be swift and sure. It annoyed him that

his hands perspired and trembled and that something weighty seemed to obstruct his breathing. He muttered

that he was pretty much worn out, not in the best of condition for a hard fight with a wild horse. Still he

would capture Wildfire; his mind was unalterably set there. He anticipated that the stallion would make a

final and desperate rush past him; and he had his plan of action all outlined. What worried him was the

possibility of Wildfire doing some unforeseen feat at the very last. Slone was prepared for hours of strained

watching, and then a desperate effort, and then a shock that might kill Wildfire and cripple Nagger, or a long

But he soon discovered that he was wrong about the long watch and wait. The wind had grown strong and

was driving the fire swiftly. The flames, fanned by the breeze, leaped to a formidable barrier. In less than an

hour, though the time seemed only a few moments to the excited Slone, Wildfire had been driven down

toward the narrowing neck of the valley, and he had begun to run, to and fro, back and forth. Any moment,

then, Slone expected him to grow terrorized and to come tearing up toward the pass.

Wildfire showed evidence of terror, but he did not attempt to make the pass. Instead he went at the

righthand slope of the valley and began to climb. The slope was steep and soft, yet the stallion climbed up

and up. The dust flew in clouds; the gravel rolled down, and the sand followed in long streams. Wildfire

"Go ahead, you red devil!" yelled Slone. He was much elated. In that soft bank Wildfire would tire out while

Slone watched the stallion in admiration and pity and exultation. Wildfire did not make much headway, for

he slipped back almost as much as he gained. He attempted one place after another where he failed. There

was a bank of clay, some few feet high, and he could not round it at either end or surmount it in the middle.

Finally he literally pawed and cut a path, much as if he were digging in the sand for water. When he got over

that he was not much better off. The slope above was endless and grew steeper, more difficult toward the top.

Slone knew absolutely that no horse could climb over it. He grew apprehensive, however, for Wildfire might

stick up there on the slope until the line of fire passed. The horse apparently shunned any near proximity to

Long sheets of sand and gravel slid down to spill thinly over the low bank. Wildfire, now sinking to his

knees, worked steadily upward till he had reached a point halfway up the slope, at the head of a long, yellow

bank of treacherouslooking sand. Here he was halted by a low bulge, which he might have surmounted had

his feet been free. But he stood deep in the sand. For the first time he looked down at the sweeping fire, and

Suddenly the bank of sand began to slide with him. He snorted in fright. The avalanche started slowly and

was evidently no mere surface slide. It was deep. It stoppedthen started againand again stopped.

Wildfire appeared to be sinking deeper and deeper. His struggles only embedded him more firmly. Then the

bank of sand, with an ominous, low roar, began to move once more. This time it slipped swiftly. The dust

rose in a cloud, almost obscuring the horse. Long streams of gravel rattled down, and waterfalls of sand

Just as suddenly the avalanche stopped again. Slone saw, from the great oval hole it had left above, that it was

indeed deep. That was the reason it did not slide readily. When the dust cleared away Slone saw the stallion,

With a wild whoop Slone leaped off Nagger, and, a lasso in each hand, he ran down the long bank. The fire

was perhaps a quarter of a mile distant, and, since the grass was thinning out, it was not coming so fast as it.

had been. The position of the stallion was halfway between the fire and Slone, and a hundred yards up the

Like a madman Slone climbed up through the dragging, loose sand. He was beside himself with a fury of

excitement. He fancied his eyes were failing him, that it was not possible the great horse really was up there,

helpless in the sand. Yet every huge stride Slone took brought him closer to a fact he could not deny. In his

eagerness he slipped, and fell, and crawled, and leaped, until he reached the slide which held Wildfire

The stallion might have been fast in quicksand, up to his body, for all the movement he could make. He could

move only his head. He held that up, his eyes wild, showing the whites, his foaming mouth wide open, his

teeth gleaming. A sound like a scream rent the air. Terrible fear and hate were expressed in that piercing

neigh. And shaggy, wet, dusty red, with all of brute savageness in the look and action of his head, he

As Slone leaped within roping distance the avalanche slipped a foot or two, halted, slipped once more, and

slowly started again with that low roar. He did not care whether it slipped or stopped. Like a wolf he leaped

closer, whirling his rope. The loop hissed round his head and whistled as he flung it. And when fiercely he

He stared, unbelieving. It was unreal, that sightunreal like the slow, grinding movement of the avalanche

under him. Wildfire's head seemed a demon head of hate. It reached out, mouth agape, to bite, to rend. That

Slone was a wildhorse hunter, a rider, and when that second of incredulity flashed by, then came the

moment of triumph. No moment could ever equal that one, when he realized he stood there with a rope

around that grand stallion's neck. All the days and the miles and the toil and the endurance and the

hopelessness and the hunger were paid for in that moment. His heart seemed too large for his breast.

"I trackedyou!" he cried, savagely. "I stayedwith you! . . . An' I got a ropeon you! An'I'll ride

The passion of the man was intense. That endless, racking pursuit had brought out all the hardness the desert

had engendered in him. Almost hate, instead of love, spoke in Slone's words. He hauled on the lasso, pulling

the stallion's head down and down. The action was the lust of capture as well as the rider's instinctive motive

to make the horse fear him. Life was unquenchably wild and strong in that stallion; it showed in the terror

which made him hideous. And man and beast somehow resembled each other in that moment which was

The avalanche slipped with little jerks, as if treacherously loosing its hold for a long plunge. The line of fire

below ate at the bleached grass and the long column of smoke curled away on the wind.

Slone held the taut lasso with his left hand, and with the right he swung the other rope, catching the noose

round Wildfire's nose. Then letting go of the first rope he hauled on the other, pulling the head of the stallion

far down. Hand over hand Slone closed in on the horse. He leaped on Wildfire's head, pressed it down, and,

holding it down on the sand with his knees, with swift fingers he tied the noose in a hackamorean

improvised halter. Then, just as swiftly, he bound his scarf tight round Wildfire's head, blindfolding him.

"All so easy!" exclaimed Slone, under his breath. "Lord! who would believe it! . . . Is it a dream?"

"Wildfire, I got a rope on youan' a hackamorean' a blinder," said Slone. "An' if I had a bridle I'd put that

Slone, finding himself failing on the sand, grew alive to the augmented movement of the avalanche. It had

begun to slide, to heave and bulge and crack. Dust rose in clouds from all around. The sand appeared to open

and let him sink to his knees. The rattle of gravel was drowned in a soft roar. Then he shot down swiftly,

holding the lassoes, keeping himself erect, and riding as if in a boat. He felt the successive steps of the slope,

and then the long incline below, and then the checking and rising and spreading of the avalanche as it slowed

down on the level. All movement then was checked violently. He appeared to be half buried in sand. While

he struggled to extricate himself the thick dust blew away and settled so that he could see. Wildfire lay before

him, at the edge of the slide, and now he was not so deeply embedded as he had been up on the slope. He was

struggling and probably soon would have been able to get out. The line of fire was close now, but Slone did

At his shrill whistle Nagger bounded toward him, obedient, but snorting, with ears laid back. He halted. A

second whistle started him again. Slone finally dug himself out of the sand, pulled the lassoes out, and ran the

length of them toward Nagger. The black showed both fear and fight. His eyes roiled and he half shied away.

He got a hand on the horse, pulled him round, and, mounting in a flash, wound both lassoes round the

One plunge of Nagger's slid the stallion out of the sand. Snorting, wild, blinded, Wildfire got up, shaking in

every limb. He could not see his enemies. The blowing smoke, right in his nose, made scent impossible. But

in the taut lassoes he sensed the direction of his captors. He plunged, rearing at the end of the plunge, and

struck out viciously with his hoofs. Slone, quick with spur and bridle, swerved Nagger aside and Wildfire, off

his balance, went down with a crash. Slone dragged him, stretched him out, pulled him over twice before he

got forefeet planted. Once up, he reared again, screeching his rage, striking wildly with his hoofs. Slone

"Wildfire, it's no fair fight," he called, grimly. "But you led me a chase. . . . An' you learn right now I'm

Again he dragged the stallion. He was ruthless. He would have to be so, stopping just short of maiming or

killing the horse, else he would never break him. But Wildfire was nimble. He got to his feet and this time he

lunged out. Nagger, powerful as he was, could not sustain the tremendous shock, and went down. Slone

saved himself with a rider's supple skill, falling clear of the horse, and he leaped again into the saddle as

Nagger pounded up. Nagger braced his huge frame and held the plunging stallion. But the saddle slipped a

The horses had worked away from the fire, and Wildfire, free of the stifling smoke, began to break and lunge

and pitch, plunging round Nagger in a circle, running blindly, but with unerring scent. Slone, by masterly

horsemanship, easily avoided the rushes, and made a pivot of Nagger, round which the wild horse dashed in

his frenzy. It seemed that he no longer tried to free himself. He lunged to kill.

"Steady, Nagger, old boy!" Slone kept calling. "He'll never get at you. . . . If he slips that blinder I'll kill him!"

The stallion was a fiend in his fury, quicker than a panther, wonderful on his feet, and powerful as an ox. But

he was at a disadvantage. He could not see. And Slone, in his spoken intention to kill Wildfire should the

scarf slip, acknowledged that he never would have a chance to master the stallion. Wildfire was bigger, faster,

stronger than Slone had believed, and as for spirit, that was a grand and fearful thing to see.

The soft sand in the pass was plowed deep before Wildfire paused in his mad plunges. He was wet and

Slone uncoiled the lassoes from the pommel and slacked them a little. Wildfire stood up, striking at the air,

snorting fiercely. Slone tried to wheel Nagger in close behind the stallion. Both horse and man narrowly

escaped the vicious hoofs. But Slone had closed in. He took a desperate chance and spurred Nagger in a

single leap as Wildfire reared again. The horses collided. Slone hauled the lassoes tight. The impact threw

Wildfire off his balance, just as Slone had calculated, and as the stallion plunged down on four feet Slone

spurred Nagger close against him. Wildfire was a little in the lead. He could only half rear now, for the

heaving, moving Nagger, always against him, jostled him down, and Slone's iron arm hauled on the short

ropes. When Wildfire turned to bite, Slone knocked the vicious nose back with a long swing of his fist.

Up the pass the horses plunged. With a rider's wild joy Slone saw the long greenandgray valley, and the

isolated monuments in the distance. There, on that wide stretch, he would break Wildfire. How marvelously

They left the pass and swept out upon the waste of sage. Slone realized, from the stinging of the sweet wind

in his face, that Nagger was being pulled along at a tremendous pace. The faithful black could never have

made the wind cut so. Lower the wild stallion stretched and swifter he ran, till it seemed to Slone that death

Lucy Bostil had called twice to her father and he had not answered. He was out at the hitchingrail, with

Holley, the rider, and two other men. If he heard Lucy he gave no sign of it. She had on her chaps and did not

"Somers has gone to Durango an' Shugrue is out huntin' hosses," Lucy heard Bostil say, gruffly.

"Wal now, I reckon I could handle the boat an' fetch Creech's hosses over," said Holley.

Then one of the other two men spoke up. Lucy had seen him before, but did not know his name.

"Sure there ain't any need to rustle the job. The river hain't showed any signs of risin' yet. But Creech is

worryin'. He allus is worryin' over them hosses. No wonder! Thet Blue Roan is sure a hoss. Yesterday at two

miles he showed Creech he was a sight faster than last year. The grass is gone over there. Creech is grainin'

"How about the flat up the canyon?" queried Bostil. "Ain't there any grass there?"

"Reckon not. It's the dryest spell Creech ever had," replied the other. "An' if there was grass it wouldn't do

"Bostil, them hosses, the racers special, ought to be brought acrost the river," said Holley, earnestly. He loved

It occurred to Lucy that her father was also thinking of Creech's thoroughbreds, but not like Holley. She grew

There was an awkward pause. Creech's rider, whoever he was, evidently tried to conceal his anxiety. He

flicked his boots with a quirt. The boots were covered with wet mud. Probably he had crossed the river very

"Wal, when will you have the hosses fetched over?" he asked, deliberately. "Creech'll want to know."

"Just as soon as the boat's mended," replied Bostil. "I'll put Shugrue on the job tomorrow."

"Thanks, Bostil. Sure, thet'll be all right. Creech'll be satisfied," said the rider, as if relieved. Then he

The lean, gray Holley bent a keen gaze upon Bostil. But Bostil did not notice that; he appeared preoccupied

"Bostil, the dry winter an' spring here ain't any guarantee thet there wasn't a lot of snow up in the mountains."

"An' any mornin' along now we might wake up to hear the Colorado boomin'," went on Holley, significantly.

"Creech hain't lived over there so many years. What's he know about the river? An' fer that matter, who

"It ain't my business thet Creech lives over there riskin' his stock every spring," replied Bostil, darkly.

Holley opened his lips to speak, hesitated, looked away from Bostil, and finally said, "No, it sure ain't." Then

he turned and walked away, head bent in sober thought. Bostil came toward the open door where Lucy stood.

"I just said, 'Hello, Dad,'" she replied, demurely. Yet she thoughtfully studied her father's dark face.

Bostil swore under his breath. "There ain't any riders on the range thet can be trusted," he said, disgustedly.

"They're all the same. They like to get in a bunch an' jeer each other an' bet. They want MEAN hosses. They

make good hosses buck. They haven't any use for a hoss thet won't buck. They all want to give a hoss a rakin'

over. . . . Think of thet fool Van gettin' throwed by a twodollar Ute mustang. An' hurt so he can't ride for

"No matter. It's bad business. If I had any other rider who could handle the King I'd let Van go."

"Wal, I might let you ride at thet, if Van ain't in shape," rejoined her father.

"Sure I would," replied Lucy, teasingly. "But, Dad, I'm afraid Sarch never will beat him."

Bostil grunted. "See here. I don't want any weight up on the King. You take him out for a few days. An' ride

"Give him miles an' milesan' then comin' home, on good trails, ride him for all your worth. . . . Now, Lucy,

"Not Joel. But I'd rather lose all my stock then have Cordts or Dick Sears get within a mile of you."

"A mile!" exclaimed Lucy, lightly, though a fleeting shade crossed her face. "Why, I'd run away from him, if

"A mile is close enough, my daughter," replied Bostil. "Don't ever forget to keep your eye open. Cordts has

"Wal, Lucy, I've a sneakin' idea thet Cordts will never leave the uplands unless he gets you an' the King

"And, Dadyou consented to let that horsethief come to our races?" exclaimed Lucy, with heat.

"Why not? He can't do any harm. If he or his men get uppish, the worse for them. Cordts gave his word not to

"Yes. But his men might break loose, away from his sight. Especially thet Dick Sears. He's a bad man. So be

As Lucy went down toward the corrals she was thinking deeply. She could always tell, womanlike. when

her father was excited or agitated. She remembered the conversation between him and Creech's rider. She

remembered the keen glance old Holley had bent upon him. And mostly she remembered the somber look

upon his face. She did not like that. Once, when a little girl, she had seen it and never forgotten it, nor the

thing that it was associated withsomething tragical which had happened in the big room. There had been

loud, angry voices of menand shotsand then the men carried out a long form covered with a blanket.

She loved her father, but there was a side to him she feared. And somehow related to that side was his

hardness toward Creech and his intolerance of any rider owning a fast horse and his obsession in regard to his

own racers. Lucy had often tantalized her father with the joke that if it ever came to a choice between her and

his favorites they would come first. But was it any longer a joke? Lucy felt that she had left childhood behind

Sight of the corrals, however, and of the King prancing around, drove serious thoughts away. There were

"Wal, now, I'm doggoned!" added Farlane, looking worried and pleased at once. "I reckon, Miss Lucy,

"Why, Farlane!" returned Lucy, reproachfully. "Did I ever do a single thing around horses that you didn't

Farlane rubbed his chin beard somewhat dubiously. "Wal, Miss Lucy, not exactly while you was around the

They brought out the gray, and after the manner of riders who had the care of a great horse and loved him,

"Reckon you'd better ride Van's saddle," suggested Farlane. "Them races is close now, an' a strange

"Of course. Don't change anything he's used to, except the stirrups," replied Lucy.

Despite her antipathy toward Sage King, Lucy could not gaze at him without all a rider's glory in a horse. He

was sleek, so graceful, so racy, so near the soft gray of the sage, so beautiful in build and action. Then he was

the kind of a horse that did not have to be eternally watched. He was spirited and full of life, eager to run, but

when Farlane called for him to stand still he obeyed. He was the kind of a horse that a child could have

played around in safety. He never kicked. He never bit. He never bolted. It was splendid to see him with

Farlane or with Bostil. He did not like Lucy very well, a fact that perhaps accounted for Lucy's antipathy. For

that matter, he did not like any woman. If he had a bad trait, it came out when Van rode him, but all the

"Thar, I reckon them stirrups is right," declared Farlane. "Now, Miss Lucy, hold him tight till he wears off

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. The wind, laden

with the breath of sage, blew briskly from the west. All before Lucy lay the vast valley, gray and dusky gray,

then blue, then purple where the monuments stood, and, farther still, dark ramparts of rock. Lucy had a habit

of dreaming while on horseback, a habit all the riders had tried to break, but she did not give it rein while she

rode Sarchedon, and assuredly now, up on the King, she never forgot him for an instant. He shied at

mockingbirds and packrats and blowing blossoms and even at butterflies; and he did it, Lucy thought, just

because he was full of mischief. Sage King had been known to go steady when there had been reason to shy.

He did not like Lucy and he chose to torment her. Finally he earned a good dig from a spur, and then, with

swift pounding of hoofs, he plunged and veered and danced in the sage. Lucy kept her temper, which was

what most riders did not do, and by patience and firmness pulled Sage King out of his prancing back into the

trail. He was not the least crossgrained, and, having had his little spurt, he settled down into easy going.

In an hour Lucy was ten miles or more from home, and farther down in the valley than she had ever been. In

fact, she had never before been down the long slope to the valley floor. How changed the horizon became!

The monuments loomed up now, dark, sentinellike, and strange. The first one, a great red rock, seemed to

her some five miles away. It was lofty, straightsided, with a green slope at its base. And beyond that the

other monuments stretched out down the valley. Lucy decided to ride as far as the first one before turning

back. Always these monuments had fascinated her, and this was her opportunity to ride near one. How lofty

Presently, over the left, where the monuments were thicker, and gradually merged their slopes and lines and

"Well, what's that, I wonder?" she mused. To see smoke on the horizon in that direction was unusual, though

out toward Durango the grassy benches would often burn over. And these low clouds of smoke resembled

So she kept on, now and then gazing at the smoke. As she grew nearer to the first monument she was

surprised, then amazed, at its height and surpassing size. It was mountainhigha grand towersmooth,

worn, glistening, yellow and red. The trail she had followed petered out in a deep wash, and beyond that she

crossed no more trails. The sage had grown meager and the greasewoods stunted and dead; and cacti

appeared on barren places. The grass had not failed, but it was not rich grass such as the horses and cattle

grazed upon miles back on the slope. The air was hot down here. The breeze was heavy and smelled of fire,

and the sand was blowing here and there. She had a sense of the bigness, the openness of this valley, and then

she realized its wildness and strangeness. These lonely, isolated monuments made the place different from

any she had visited. They did not seem mere standing rocks. They seemed to retreat all the time as she

approached, and they watched her. They interested her, made her curious. What had formed all these strange

monuments? Here the ground was level for miles and miles, to slope gently up to the bases of these huge

rocks. In an old book she had seen pictures of the Egyptian pyramids, but these appeared vaster, higher, and

Suddenly Sage King halted sharply, shot up his ears, and whistled. Lucy was startled. That from the King

meant something. Hastily, with keen glance she swept the foreground. A mile on, near the monument, was a

small black spot. It seemed motionless. But the King's whistle had proved it to be a horse. When Lucy had

covered a quarter of the intervening distance she could distinguish the horse and that there appeared some

thing strange about his position. Lucy urged Sage King into a lope and soon drew nearer. The black horse had

his head down, yet he did not appear to be grazing. He was as still as a statue. He stood just outside a clump

Suddenly a sound pierced the stillness. The King jumped and snorted in fright. For an instant Lucy's blood

ran cold, for it was a horrible cry. Then she recognized it as the neigh of a horse in agony. She had heard

crippled and dying horses utter that longdrawn and bloodcurdling neigh. The black horse had not moved,

so the sound could not have come from him. Lucy thought Sage King acted more excited than the occasion

called for. Then remembering her father's warning, she reined in on top of a little knoll, perhaps a hundred

It was a huge, gaunt, shaggy black horse she saw, with the saddle farther up on his shoulders than it should

have been. He stood motionless, as if utterly exhausted. His forelegs were braced, so that he leaned slightly

back. Then Lucy saw a rope. It was fast to the saddle and stretched down into the cactus. There was no other

horse in sight, nor any living thing. The immense monument dominated the scene. It seemed stupendous to

She hesitated. She knew there was another horse, very likely at the other end of that lasso. Probably a rider

had been thrown, perhaps killed. Certainly a horse had been hurt. Then on the moment rang out the same

neigh of agony, only weaker and shorter. Lucy no longer feared an ambush. That was a cry which could not

be imitated by a man or forced from a horse. There was probably death, certainly suffering, near at hand. She

There was a little slope to descend, a wash to cross, a bench to climb and then she rode up to the black

"What's wrong with you?" she demanded, pulling him down. Suddenly, as she felt him tremble, she realized

that he was frightened. "That's funny!" Then when she got him quiet she looked around.

The black horse was indeed huge. His mane, his shaggy flanks, were lathered as if he had been smeared with

heavy soapsuds. He raised his head to look at her. Lucy, accustomed to horses all her life, saw that this one

Two taut lassoes stretched from the pommel of his saddle down a little into a depression full of brush and

cactus and rocks. Then Lucy saw a red horse. He was down in a bad position. She heard his low, choking

heaves. Probably he had broken legs or back. She could not bear to see a horse in pain. She would do what

was possible, even to the extent of putting him out of his misery, if nothing else could be done. Yet she

scanned the surroundings closely, and peered into the bushes and behind the rocks before she tried to urge

The red horse was partly hidden by overbending brush. He had plunged into a hole full of cactus. There was a

hackamore round his nose and a tight noose round his neck. The one round his neck was also round his

forelegs. And both lassoes were held taut by the black horse. A torn and soiled rider's scarf hung limp round

"A wild horse, a stallion, being broken!" exclaimed Lucy, instantly grasping the situation. "Oh! where's the

She gazed around, ran to and fro, glanced down the little slope, and beyond, but she did not see anything

Lucy took another quick look at the red stallion. She did not believe either his legs or back were hurt. He was

just played out and tangled and tied in the ropes, and could not get up. The shaggy black horse stood there

braced and indomitable. But he, likewise, was almost ready to drop. Looking at the condition of both horses

and the saddle and ropes, Lucy saw what a fight there had been, and a race! Where was the rider? Thrown,

Lucy went closer to the stallion so that she could almost touch him. He saw her. He was nearly choked. Foam

and blood wheezed out with his heaves. She must do something quickly. And in her haste she pricked her

She led the black horse closer in, letting the ropes go, slack. The black seemed as glad of that release as she

Then she edged down in among the cactus and brush. The red horse no longer lay in a strained position. He

could lift his head. Lucy saw that the noose still held tight round his neck. Fearlessly she jerked it loose. Then

she backed away, but not quite out of his reach. He coughed and breathed slowly, with great heaves. Then he

"You're all right now," said Lucy, soothingly. Slowly she reached a hand toward his head. He drew it back as

far as he could. She stepped around, closer, and more back of him, and put a hand on him, gently, for an

instant. Then she slipped out of the brush and, untying one lasso from the pommel, she returned to the horse

and pulled it from round his legs. He was free now, except the hackamore, and that rope was slack. Lucy

stood near him, watching him, talking to him, waiting for him to get up. She could not be sure he was not

badly hurt till he stood up. At first he made no efforts to rise. He watched Lucy, less fearfully, she imagined.

And she never made a move. She wanted him to see, to understand that she had not hurt him and would not

Finally, with a long, slow heave he got to his feet. Lucy led him out of the hole to open ground. She seemed

"A little horse sense, as Dad would say," she soliloquized, and then, when she got him out of the brush, she

"Oh, what a wild, beautiful horse! What a giant! He's bigger than the King. Oh, if Dad could see him!"

The red stallion did not appear to be hurt. The twitching of his muscles must have been caused by the cactus

spikes embedded in him. There were drops of blood all over one side. Lucy thought she dared to try to pull

these thorns out. She had never in her life been afraid of any horse. Farlane, Holley, all the riders, and her

father, too, had tried to make her realize the danger in a horse, sooner or later. But Lucy could not help it; she

was not afraid; she believed that the meanest horse was actuated by natural fear of a man; she was not a man

and she had never handled a horse like a man. This red stallion showed hate of the black horse and the rope

that connected them; he showed some spirit at the repeated blasts of Sage King. But he showed less fear of

"He has been a proud, wild stallion," mused Lucy. "And he's now brokenterribly brokenall but ruined."

Then she walked up to him naturally and spoke softly, and reached a hand for his shoulder.

"Whoa, Reddy. Whoa now. . . . There. That's a good fellow. Why, I wouldn't rope you or hit you. I'm only a

He drew up, made a single effort to jump, which she prevented, and then he stood quivering, eying her, while

she talked soothingly, and patted him and looked at him in the way she had found infallible with most horses.

Lucy believed horses were like people, or easier to get along with. Presently she gently pulled out one of the

cactus spikes. The horse flinched, but he stood. Lucy was slow, careful, patient, and dexterous. The cactus

needles were loose and easily removed or brushed off. At length she got him free of them, and was almost as

proud as she was glad. The horse had gradually dropped his head; he was tired and his spirit was broken.

"Now, what shall I do?" she queried. "I'll take the back trail of these horses. They certainly hadn't been here

long before I saw them. And the rider may be close. If not I'll take the horses home."

She slipped the noose from the stallion's head, leaving the hackamore, and, coiling the loose lasso, she hung it

The black followed her, and the stallion, still fast to him by the lasso Lucy had left tied, trooped behind with

bowed head. Lucy was elated. But Sage King did not like the matter at all. Lucy had to drop the black's bridle

A broad trail marked the way the two horses had come, and it led off to the left, toward where the monuments

were thickest, and where the great sections of wall stood, broken and battlemented. Lucy was hard put to it to

hold Sage King, but the horses behind plodded along. The black horse struck Lucy as being an ugly, but a

faithful and wonderful animal. He understood everything. Presently she tied the bridle she was leading him

by to the end of her own lasso, and thus let him drop back a few yards, which lessened the King's fretting.

Intent on the trail, Lucy failed to note time or distance till the looming and frowning monuments stood aloft

before her. What weird effect they had! Each might have been a colossal statue left there to mark the work of

the ages. Lucy realized that the whole vast valley had once been solid rock, just like the monuments, and

through the millions of years the softer parts had eroded and weathered and blown awaygone with the

great sea that had once been there. But the beauty, the solemnity, the majesty of these monuments fascinated

her most. She passed the first one, a huge square butte, and then the second, a ragged, thin, double shaft, and

then went between two much alike, reaching skyward in the shape of monstrous mittens. She watched and

watched them, sparing a moment now and then to attend to the trail. She noticed that she was coming into a

region of grass, and faint signs of water in the draws. She was getting high again, not many miles now from

All at once Sage King shied, and Lucy looked down to see a man lying on the ground. He lay inert. But his

eyes were opendark, staring eyes. They moved. And he called. But Lucy could not understand him.

In a flash she leaped off the King. She ran to the prostrate man dropped to her knees.

She raised his head. What a strained, passionate, terrible gaze he bent upon the horses.

"You caughtthat red devilan' fetched himback to me?" went on the wondering, faint voice.

He lifted a long, ragged arm and pulled Lucy down. The action amazed her equally as his passion of

gratitude. He might have been injured, but he had an arm of iron. Lucy was powerless. She felt her face

against hisand her breast against his. The pounding of his heart was like blows. The first instant she

wanted to laugh, despite her pity. Then the powerful armthe contact affected her as nothing ever before.

Suppose this crippled rider had taken her for a boyShe was not a boy! She could not help being herself.

And no man had ever put a hand on her. Consciousness of this brought shame and anger. She struggled so

Lucy tore off her sombrero, which had been pulled far forward, and this revealed her face fully, and her hair

came tumbling down. The rider gazed, stupefied. Then a faint tinge of red colored his ghastly cheeks.

He seemed so astounded, he looked so ashamed, so scared, and withal, so haggard and weak, that Lucy

"Sure I'm a girl. But that's no matter. . . . You've been thrown. Are you hurt?"

Lucy flew to her horse to get the small canteen she always carried. But that had been left on her saddle, and

she had ridden Van's. Then she gazed around. The wash she had crossed several times ran near where the

rider lay. Green grass and willows bordered it. She ran down and, hurrying along, searched for water. There

was water in places, yet she had to go a long way before she found water that was drinkable. Filling her

sombrero, she hurried back to the side of the rider. It was difficult to give him a drink.

Lucy, being an intelligent girl, born in the desert and used to its needs, had not often encountered a situation

"Let me feel if you have any broken bones. . . . THAT arm isn't broken, I'm positive."

The rider smiled faintly again. How he stared with his strained, dark eyes! His face showed ghastly through

the thin, soft beard and the tan. Lucy found his right arm badly bruised, but not broken. She made sure his

collarbones and shoulderblades were intact. Broken ribs were harder to locate; still, as he did not feel pain

from pressure, she concluded there were no fractures there. With her assistance he moved his legs, proving no

"But you raised your head once," she replied. "If your back was was broken or injured you couldn't raise

"So I couldn't. I guess I'm just knocked out. I waspretty weak before Wildfire knocked meoff Nagger."

"I think far north of here. Itrailed himdaysweeksmonths. We crossed the great canyon"

"The Grand Canyon is down there," said Lucy, pointing. "I live on it. . . . You've come a long way."

"Hundreds of miles! . . . Oh, the ground I covered that awful canyon country! . . . But I stayed with Wildfire.

An' I put a rope on him. An' he got away. . . . An' it was a boynoa GIRL whosaved him for mean'

Lucy ran to her saddle and got the biscuits out of the pockets of her coat, and she ran back to the rider.

"Here. I never thought. Oh, you've had a hard time of it! I understand. That wonderful flame of a horse! I'd

have stayed, too. My father was a rider once. Bostil. Did you ever hear of him?"

"Bostil. The nameI've heard." Then the rider lay thinking, as he munched a biscuit. "Yes, I remember, but

it was long ago. I spent a night with a wagontrain, a camp of many men and women, religious people,

"I remember well now. They said Bostil couldn't count his horses that he was a rich man, hard on

"Here we are talkingwasting time," she said. "I must start home. You can't be moved. What shall I do?"

"My name's Lucy," replied the girl, blushing painfully, "I mean I'll be glad to do anything you think best."

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. His gaunt face bore traces of what might have been

a fine, strong comeliness, but now it was only thin, worn, wan, pitiful, with that look which always went to a

woman's heart. He had the look of a homeless rider. Lucy had seen a few of his wandering type, and his story

was so plain. But he seemed to have a touch of pride, and this quickened her interest.

First she unsaddled the black Nagger. With the saddle she made a pillow for the rider's head, and she covered

him with the saddle blanket. Before she had finished this task he turned his eyes upon her. And Lucy felt she

would be haunted. Was he badly hurt, after all? It seemed probable. How strange he was!

Lucy had some faint inkling of what a terrible fight that had been between man and horse. "Yes; when I

But the rider did not appear to want to see the stallion. He gazed up at Lucy, and she saw something in his

eyes that made her think of a child. She left him, had no trouble in watering the horses, and haltered Wildfire

"Girl, if YOU want to help me morebring me some bread an' meat. Don't tell any one. Look what a

ragamuffin I am. . . . An' there's Wildfire. I don't want him seen till I'mon my feet again. I know riders. . . .

Lucy hesitated, with her hand on the King's bridle. She did not like to leave this young man lying there

helpless on the desert. But what else could she do? What a strange adventure had befallen her! At the

following thought that it was not yet concluded she felt a little stir of excitement at her pulses. She was so

strangely preoccupied that she forgot it was necessary for her to have a step to mount Sage King. She realized

it quickly enough when she attempted it. Then she led him off in the sage till she found a rock. Mounting, she

turned him straight across country, meaning to cut out miles of travel that would have been necessary along

her backtrail. Once she looked back. The rider was not visible; the black horse, Nagger, was out of sight, but

Lucy Bostil could not control the glow of strange excitement under which she labored, but she could put her

mind on the riding of Sage King. She did not realize, however, that she was riding him under the stress and

She had headed out to make a short cut, fairly sure of her direction, yet she was not unaware of the fact that

she would be lost till she ran across her trail. That might be easy to miss and time was flying. She put the

Soon she had left the monument region and was down on the valley floor again. From time to time she

conquered a desire to look back. Presently she was surprised and very glad to ride into a trail where she saw

the tracks she had made coming out. With much relief she turned Sage King into this trail, and then any

anxiety she had felt left her entirely. But that did not mitigate her excitement. She eased the King into a long,

swinging lope. And as he warmed to the work she was aroused also. It was hard to hold him in, once he got

out of a trot, and after miles and miles of this, When she thought best to slow down he nearly pulled her arms

off. Still she finally got him in hand. Then followed miles of soft and rough going, which seemed long and

tedious. Beyond that was the home stretch up the valley, whose gradual slope could be seen only at a

distance. Here was a straight, broad trail, not too soft nor too hard, and for all the years she could remember

Lucy reached down to assure herself that the cinch was tight, then she pulled her sombrero down hard,

slackened the bridle, and let the King go. He simply broke his gait, he was so surprised. Lucy saw him trying

to look back at her, as if he could not realize that this young woman rider had given him a free rein. Perhaps

one reason he disliked her had been always and everlastingly that tight rein. Like the wary horse he was he

"Say, what's the matter with you?" called Lucy, disdainfully. "Are you lazy? Or don't you believe I can ride

Whereupon she dug him with her spurs. Sage King snorted. His action shifted marvelously. Thunder rolled

from under his hoofs. And he broke out of that clattering roar into his fleet stride, where his hoofbeats were

Lucy rode him with teeth and fists clenched, bending low. After all, she thought, it was no trick to ride him.

In that gait he was dangerous, for a fall meant death; but he ran so smoothly that riding him was easy and

certainly glorious. He went so fast that the wind blinded her. The trail was only a white streak in blurred gray.

She could not get her breath; the wind seemed to whip the air away from her. And then she felt the lessening

of the tremendous pace. Sage King had run himself out and the miles were behind her. Gradually her sight

became clear, and as the hot and wet horse slowed down, satisfied with his wild run, Lucy realized that she

was up on the slope only a few miles from home. Suddenly she thought she saw something dark stir behind a

sagebush just ahead. Before she could move a hand at the bridle Sage King leaped with a frantic snort. It

was a swerving, nimble, tremendous bound. He went high. Lucy was unseated, but somehow clung on, and

came down with him, finding the saddle. And it seemed, while in the air, she saw a long, snaky, whipping

She screamed. The horse broke and ran. Lucy, righting herself, looked back to see Joel Creech holding a limp

The blood of her father was aroused in Lucy. She thought of the horsenot herself. If the King had not been

so keensighted, so swift, he would have gone down with a broken leg. Lucy never in her life had been so

She did not reply, though she had to fight herself to keep from pulling her gun and shooting at him. She

guided the running horse back into the trail, rapidly leaving Creech out of sight.

She ran the King clear up to the corrals, and he was still going hard when she turned down the lane to the

"Wal, Miss Lucy, the King sure looks good," said Farlane, as she jumped off and flung him the bridle. "He's

just had about right, judgin'. . . . Say, girl, you're all pale! Oh, say, you wasn't scared of the King, now?"

"Wal, what's up, then?" The rider spoke in an entirely different voice, and into his clear, hazel eyes a little

"Joel Creech waylaid me out in the sageandand tried to catch me." Lucy checked herself. It might not

"He did? An' you on the King!" Farlane laughed, as if relieved. "Wal, he's tried thet before. Miss Lucy. But

"Wal, cool off, Miss Lucy. It ain't nothin' to git set up about. An' don't tell the old man."

"Wal, because he's in a queer sort of bad mood lately. It wouldn't be safe. He hates them Creeches. So don't

"Sure I'll keep mum. But if Joel doesn't watch out I'll put a crimp in him myself."

Lucy hurried away down the lane and entered the house without meeting any one. In her room she changed

Strangely enough, Lucy might never have encountered Joel Creech out in the sage, for all the thought she

gave him. Her mind was busy with the crippled rider. Who was he? Where was he from? What strange

passion he had shown over the recovery of that wonderful red horse! Lucy could not forget the feeling of his

iron arm when he held her in a kind of frenzied gratitude. A wild upland rider, living only for a wild horse!

How like Indians some of these riders! Yet this fellow had seemed different from most of the uncouth riders

she had known. He spoke better. He appeared to have had some little schooling. Lucy did not realize that she

was interested in him. She thought she was sorry for him and interested in the stallion. She began to compare

Wildfire with Sage King, and if she remembered rightly Wildfire, even in his disheveled state, had appeared a

worthy rival of the King. What would Bostil say at sight of that flamecolored stallion? Lucy thrilled.

Later she left her room to see if the hour was opportune for her plan to make up a pack of supplies for the

rider. Her aunt was busy in the kitchen, and Bostil had not come in. Lucy took advantage of the moment to tie

up a pack and carry it to her room. Somehow the task pleased her. She recalled the lean face of the rider. And

that recalled his ragged appearance. Why not pack up an outfit of clothes? Bostil had a stockroom full of

such accessories for his men. Then Lucy, glowing with the thought, hurried to Bostil's stockroom, and with

deft hands and swift judgment selected an outfit for the rider, even down to a comb and razor. All this she

carried quickly to her room, where in her thoughtfulness she added a bit of glass from a broken mirror, and

Bostil did not come home to supper, a circumstance that made Lucy's aunt cross. They ate alone, and, waiting

awhile, were rather late in clearing away the table. After this Lucy had her chance in the dusk of early

evening, and she carried both packs way out into the sage and left them near the trail.

"Hope a coyote doesn't come along," she said. That possibility, however, did not worry her as much as

She hurried back to the house, stealthily keeping to the shadow of the cottonwoods, for she would have faced

an embarrassing situation if she had met her father, even had he been in a good humor. And she reached the

sittingroom unobserved. The lamps had been lighted and a log blazed on the hearth. She was reading when

He looked tired, and Lucy knew he had been drinking, because when he had been he never offered to kiss

her. The strange, somber shade was still on his face, but it brightened somewhat at sight of her. Lucy greeted

"Farlane tells me you handled the King greatbetter 'n Van has worked him lately," said Bostil. "But don't

That was sweet praise from Farlane. "Oh, Dad, it could hardly be true," expostulated Lucy. "Both you and

"Wal, every hair on a hoss talks to Farlane, so Holley says. . . . Lucy, you take the King out every day for a

while. Ride him now an' watch out! Joel Creech was in the village today. He sure sneaked when he seen me.

Lucy did not want to lie and she did not know what to say. Presently Bostil bade her good night. Lucy

endeavored to read, but her mind continually wandered back to the adventure of the day.

Next morning she had difficulty in concealing her impatience, but luck favored her. Bostil was not in

evidence, and Farlane, for once, could spare no more time than it took to saddle Sage King. Lucy rode out

She had hidden the packs near the tallest bunch of greasewood along the trail; and when she halted behind it

she had no fear of being seen from the corrals. She got the packs. The light one was not hard to tie back of the

saddle, but the large one was a very different matter. She decided to carry it in front. There was a goodsized

rock near, upon which she stepped, leading Sage King alongside; and after an exceedingly trying moment she

Then she started off, holding the pack across her lap, and she tried the King's several gaits to see which one

would lend itself more comfortably to the task before her. The trouble was that Sage King had no slow gait,

even his walk was fast. And Lucy was compelled to hold him into that. She wanted to hurry, but that seemed

out of the question. She tried to keep from gazing out toward the monuments, because they were so far away.

How would she find the crippled rider? It flashed into her mind that she might find him dead, and this seemed

horrible. But her common sense persuaded her that she would find him alive and better. The pack was hard to

hold, and Sage King fretted at the monotonous walk. The hours dragged. The sun grew hot. And it was noon,

almost, when she reached the point where she cut off the trail to the left. Thereafter, with the monuments

standing ever higher, and the distance perceptibly lessening, the minutes passed less tediously.

At length she reached the zone of lofty rocks, and found them different, how, she could not tell. She rode

down among them, and was glad when she saw the huge mittensher landmarks. At last she espied the

greenbordered wash and the few cedartrees. Then a horse blazed red against the sage and another shone

black. That sight made Lucy thrill. She rode on, eager now, but moved by the strangeness of the experience.

Before she got quite close to the cedars she saw a man. He took a few slow steps out of the shade. His back

was bent. Lucy recognized the rider, and in her gladness to see him on his feet she cried out. Then, when

The rider looked up with eyes that seemed keener, less staring than she remembered. "You came? . . . I was

"Sure I came. . . . You're betternot badly hurt?" she said, gravely, "II'm so glad."

Lucy was quick to see that after the first glance at her he was all eyes for Sage King. She laughed. How like a

rider! She watched him, knowing that presently he would realize what a horse she was riding. She slipped off

and threw the bridle, and then, swiftly untying the second pack, she laid it down.

The rider, with slow, painful steps and bent back, approached Sage King and put a lean, strong, brown hand

on him, and touched him as if he wished to feel if he were real. Then he whistled softly. When he turned to

"A fine horse," replied the rider. "Of course he can run?" This last held a note of a rider's jealousy.

Lucy laughed. "Run! . . . The King is Bostil's favorite. He can run away from any horse in the uplands."

Then the rider and girl looked more earnestly at each other. He smiled in a way that changed his

"I reckon I'll have to crawl," he said, ruefully. "But maybe I can ride in a few daysif you'll come back

His remark brought to Lucy the idea that of course she would hardly see this rider again after today. Even if

he went to the Ford, which event was unlikely, he would not remain there long. The sensation of blankness

"Yes, butII thought" Lucy became unaccountably embarrassed. Suppose this strange rider would be

offended. "Your clothes were so torn. . . . And no wonder you were thrownin those boots! . . . So I

"You thought I needed clothes as bad as grub," he said, bitterly. "I reckon that's so."

His look, more than his tone, cut Lucy; and involuntarily she touched his arm. "Oh, you won't refuse to take

He tried to reach down to lift the pack, but as it was obviously painful for him to bend, Lucy intercepted him.

"But you've had no breakfast," she protested. "Why not eat before you open that pack?"

"Nope. I'm not hungry. . . . Maybe I'll eat a little, after I dress up." He started to walk away, then turned.

"Miss Bostil, have you been so good to every wanderin' rider you happened to run across?"

"Good!" she exclaimed, flushing. She dropped her eyes before his. "Nonsense. . . . Anyway, you're the first

"Well, you're good," he replied, with emotion. Then he walked away with slow, stiff steps and disappeared

Lucy uncoiled the rope on her saddle and haltered Sage King on the best grass near at hand. Then she opened

The pack contained dried fruits and meat and staples, also an assortment of good things to eat that were of a

perishable nature, already much the worse for the long ride. She spread all this out in the shade of a cedar.

The utensils were fewtwo cups, two pans, and a tiny pot. She gathered wood, and arranged it for a fire, so

that the rider could start as soon as he came back. He seemed long in coming. Lucy waited, yet still he did not

return. Finally she thought of the red stallion, and started off down the wash to take a look at him. He was

grazing. He had lost some of the dirt and dust and the bedraggled appearance. When he caught sight of her he

lifted his head high and whistled. How wild he looked! And his whistle was shrill, clear, strong. Both the

other horses answered it. Lucy went on closer to Wildfire. She was fascinated now.

"If he doesn't know me!" she cried. Never had she been so pleased. She had expected every sign of

savageness on his part, and certainly had not intended to go near him. But Wildfire did not show fear or hate

in his recognition. Lucy went directly to him and got a hand on him. Wildfire reared a little and shook a little,

but this disappeared presently under her touch. He held his head very high and watched her with wonderful

eyes. Gradually she drew his head down. Standing before him, she carefully and slowly changed the set of the

hackamore, which had made a welt on his nose. It seemed to have been her good fortune that every

significant move she had made around this stallion had been to mitigate his pain. Lucy believed he knew this

as well as she knew it. Her theory, an often disputed one, was that horses were as intelligent as human beings

and had just the same fears, likes, and dislikes. Lucy knew she was safe when she untied the lasso from the

strong root where she had fastened it, and led the stallion down the wash to a pool of water. And she stood

beside him with a hand on his shoulder while he bent his head to sniff at the water. He tasted it, plainly with

disgust. It was stagnant water, full of vermin. But finally he drank. Lucy led him up the wash to another

When she got back to the camp in the cedars the rider was there, on his knees, kindling the fire. His

cleanshaved face and new apparel made him vastly different. He was young, and, had he not been so gaunt.

"Wildfire remembered me," Lucy burst out. "He wasn't a bit scary. Let me handle him. Followed me to

"He's taken to you," replied the rider, seriously. "I've heard of the like, but not so quick. Was he in a bad fix

"Aha! . . . If that red devil has any love in him I'll never get it. I wish I could have done so much for him. But

Lucy saw that the rider was in difficulties. He could not bend his back, and evidently it pained him to try. His

"Thanks. It took about all my strength to get into this new outfit," he said, relinquishing, his place to Lucy.

When she looked up from her task, presently, he was sitting in the shade of the cedar, watching her. He had

As far as vanity was concerned Lucy had only one weaknessand he had touched upon it.

"Well, Dad and Holley and Farlane argue much about me. Still, I guess they all agree I can ride."

Lucy glanced up quickly. The idea surprised herpleased her. "In a minute," she replied. "And he'd be grand

He remained silent, and Lucy, busy about the campfire, did not speak again till the simple fare was ready.

"I'm pretty hungry myself," she said. "But I don't suppose I know what hunger is."

"After a while a fellow loses the feelin' of hunger," he replied. "I reckon it'll come back quick. . . . This all

So they began to eat. Lucy's excitement, her sense of the unreality of this adventure, in no wise impaired her

appetite. She seemed acutely sensitive to the perceptions of the moment. The shade of the cedars was cool.

And out on the desert she could see the dark smoky veils of heat lifting. The breeze carried a dry odor of sand

and grass. She heard bees humming by. And all around the great isolated monuments stood up, red tops

against the blue sky. It was a silent, dreaming, impressive place, where she felt unlike herself.

The question startled Lucy. "WhyII don't know. . . . Won't you ride in to the Ford just as soon as you're

"But it's the only place where there's people in hundreds of miles. Surely you won't try to go back the way

"There's no one. I'm an orphan. My people were lost in an Indian massacrewith a wagontrain crossin'

Wyomin'. A few escaped, an' I was one of the youngsters. I had a tough time, like a stray dog, till I grew up.

"Oh, I see. II'm sorry," replied Lucy. "But that's not very different from my dad's story, of his early years. .

"Yes," replied Lucy, without looking at him; and she wondered if it were really she who was speaking.

Then he asked her about the Ford, and Bostil, and the ranches and villages north, and the riders and horses.

Lucy told him everything she knew and could think of, and, lastly, after waxing eloquent on the horses of the

uplands, particularly Bostil's, she gave him a graphic account of Cordts and Dick Sears.

"Horsethieves!" exclaimed the rider, darkly. There was a grimness as well as fear in his tone. "I've heard of

"No one knows. 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

"There's none. And I suppose that's why we're not familiar with the wild canyon country. I'd like to ride in

there sometime and camp. But our people don't go in for that. They love the open ranges. No one I know,

except a halfwitted boy, ever rode down among these monuments. And how wonderful a place! It can't be

more than twenty miles from home. . . . I must be going soon. I'm forgetting Sage King. Did I tell you I was

Then Lucy told him about the great passion of her fatherabout the long, timehonored custom of

freeforall races, and the great races that had been run in the past; about the Creeches and their swift horses;

about the rivalry and speculation and betting; and lastly about the races to be run in a few weeksraces so

wonderful in prospect that even the horsethief, Cordts, had begged to be allowed to attend.

"I'm going to see the King beat Creech's roan," shouted the rider, with red in his cheeks and a flash in his eye.

His enthusiasm warmed Lucy's interest, yet it made her thoughtful. Ideas flashed into her mind. If the rider

attended the races he would have that fleet stallion with him. He could not be separated from the horse that

had cost him so dearly. What would Bostil and Holley and Farlane say at sight of Wildfire? Suppose Wildfire

was to enter the races! It was probable that he could run away from the whole fieldeven beat the King.

Lucy thrilled and thrilled. What a surprise it would be! She had the rider's true love of seeing the unheralded

horse win over the favorite. She had for years wanted to see a horseand ride a horseout in front of Sage

King. Then suddenly all these flashing ideas coruscated seemingly into a gleam a leaping, radiant,

His response was instantaneousa smile that was keen and sweet and strong, and a proffered hand.

"You don't mean it," she said. "Oh, it's what Auntie would call one of my wild dreams! . . . And I'm growing

upthey say. . . . But Oh, if I could ride Wildfire against the field in that race. . . . If I ONLY COULD!"

She was on fire with the hope, flushing, tingling. She was unconscious of her effect upon the rider, who

"You can ride him. I reckon I'd like to see that race just as much as Bostil or Cordts or any man. . . . An' see

"Wildfire can beat the King," repeated the rider, intensely. "The tame horse doesn't step on this earth that can

run with Wildfire. He's a stallion. He has been a killer of horses. It's in him to KILL. If he ran a race it would

"How can we plan it?" went on Lucy, impulsively. She had forgotten to withdraw her hands from his. "It

must be a surprisea complete surprise. If you came to the Ford we couldn't keep it secret. And Dad or

"It's easy. Ride out here as often as you can. Bring a light saddle an' let me put you up on Wildfire. You'll run

him, train him, get him in shape. Then the day of the races or the night before I'll go in an' hide out in the sage

"Oh, it'll be glorious," she cried, with eyes like stars. "I know just where to have you hide. A pile of rocks

near the racecourse. There's a spring and good grass. I could ride out to you just before the big race, and we'd

come back, with me on Wildfire. The crowd always stays down at the end of the racecourse. Only the starters

stay out there. . . . Oh, I can see Bostil when that red stallion runs into sight!"

"I reckon so. It's likely to be the grandest ever seen. But Wildfire will win because he's run wild all his

"Yes. I never saw the horse I couldn't ride. Bostil says there are some I can't ride. Farlane says not. Only two

horses have thrown me, the King and Sarchedon. But that was before they knew me. And I was sort of wild. I

"THAT'S the last part of it I'd ever doubt," replied the rider. "It's settled, then. I'll camp here. I'll be well in a

few days. Then I'll take Wildfire in hand. You will ride out whenever you have a chance, without bein' seen.

Lucy's gaze was impelled and held by the rider's. Why was he so pale? But then he had been

injuredweakened. This compact between them had somehow changed their relation. She seemed to have

Then she released her hands. "I must ride in now. If this isn't a dream I'll come back soon." She led Sage

"It's good to see you up there," said Slone. "An' that splendid horse! . . . He knows what he is. It'll break

Slone went close to the King and, putting a hand on the pommel, he looked up at Lucy. "Maybeit isa

"Then I'll come in dreams," she flashed. "Be careful of yourself. . . . Goodby."

And at a touch the impatient King was off. From far up the slope near a monument Lucy looked back. Slone

Two weeks slipped by on the wings of time and opportunity and achievement, all colored so wonderfully for

Lucy was riding down into the sage toward the monuments with a whole day before her. Bostil kept more and

more to himself, a circumstance that worried her, though she thought little about it. Van had taken up the

training of the King; and Lucy had deliberately quarreled with him so that she would be free to ride where

she listed. Farlane nagged her occasionally about her rides into the sage, insisting that she must not go so far

Things had happened at the Ford which would have concerned Lucy greatly had she not been overexcited

about her own affairs. Some one had ambushed Bostil in the cottonwoods near his house and had shot at him,

narrowly missing him. Bostil had sworn he recognized the shot as having come from a rifle, and that he knew

to whom it belonged. The riders did not believe this, and said some boy, shooting at a rabbit or coyote, had

been afraid to confess he had nearly hit Bostil. The riders all said Bostil was not wholly himself of late. The

river was still low. The boat had not been repaired. And Creech's horses were still on the other side.

These things concerned Lucy, yet they only came and went swiftly through her mind. She was obsessed by

"Oh, I oughtn't to go," she said, aloud. But she did not even check Sarchedon's long swing, his rockingchair

lope. She had said a hundred times that she ought not go again out to the monuments. For Lin Slone had

It was not this, she averred, but the monuments and the beautiful Wildfire that had woven a spell round her

she could not break. She had ridden Wildfire all through that strange region of monuments and now they

claimed something of her. Just as wonderful was Wildfire's love for her. The great stallion hated Slone and

loved Lucy. Of all the remarkable circumstances she had seen or heard about a horse, this fact was the most

striking. She could do anything with him. All that savageness and wildness disappeared when she approached

him. He came at her call. He whistled at sight of her. He sent out a ringing blast of disapproval when she rode

away. Every day he tried to bite or kick Slone, but he was meek under Lucy's touch.

But this morning there came to Lucy the first vague doubt of herself. Once entering her mind, that doubt

became clear. And then she vowed she liked Slone as she might a brother. And something within her accused

her own conviction. The conviction was her real self, and the accusation was some other girl lately born in

her. Lucy did not like this new person. She was afraid of her. She would not think of her unless she had to.

"I never cared for himthat way," she said, aloud. "I don'tI couldn'teverIIlove Lin Slone!"

The spoken thoughtthe sound of the words played havoc with Lucy's selfconscious calmness. She

burned. She trembled. She was in a rage with herself. 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. Why had she discarded her boy's rider outfit and

chaps for a ridinghabit made by her aunt, and one she had scorned to wear? Some awful, accusing voice

thundered in Lucy's burning ears that she had done this because she was ashamed to face Lin Slone any more

in that costumeshe wanted to appear different in his eyes, to look like a girl. If that shameful suspicion was

a fact why was itwhat did it mean? She could not tell, yet she was afraid of the truth.

All of a sudden Lin Slone stood out clearer in her mental vision the finest type of a rider she had ever

knowna strong, lithe, magnificent horseman, whose gentleness showed his love for horses, whose

roughness showed his powera strange, intense, lonely man in whom she had brought out pride, gratitude,

kindness, passion, and despair. She felt her heart swell at the realization that she had changed him, made him

kinder, made him divide his love as did her father, made him human, hopeful, longing for a future unfettered

by the toils of desert allurement. She could not control her pride. She must like him very much. She

confessed that, honestly, without a qualm. It was only bewildering moments of strange agitation and

uncertainty that bothered her. She had refused to be concerned by them until they had finally impinged upon

her peace of mind. Then they accused her; now she accused herself. She ought not go to meet Lin Slone any

"But thenthe race!" she murmured. "I couldn't give that up. . . . And oh! I'm afraid the harm is done! What

After the racewhat then? To be sure, all of Bostil's Ford would know she had been meeting Slone out in

"Dad will simply be radiant, IF he can buy Wildfireand a fiend if he can't," she muttered.

Lucy saw that her own impulsiveness had amounted to daring. She had gone too far. She excused thatfor

she had a rider's bloodshe was Bostil's girl. But she had, in her wildness and joy and spirit, spent many

hours alone with a rider, to his undoing. She could not excuse that. She was ashamed. What would he say

when she told him she could see him no more? The thought made her weak. He would accept and go his

And the scarlet fired her neck and cheek and temple. That leap of blood seemed to release a riot of emotions.

What had been a torment became a torture. She turned Sarchedon homeward, but scarcely had faced that way

when she wheeled him again. She rode slowly and she rode swiftly. The former was hateful because it held

her backfrom what she no longer dared think; the latter was fearful because it hurried her on swiftly,

Lin Slone had changed his camp and had chosen a pass high up where the great walls had began to break into

sections. Here there was intimacy with the sheer cliffs of red and yellow. Wide avenues between the walls

opened on all points of the compass, and that one to the north appeared to be a gateway down into the valley

of monuments. The monuments trooped down into the valley to spread out and grow isolated in the distance.

Slone's camp was in a clump of cedars surrounding a spring. There was grass and white sage where rabbits

Lucy did not approach this camp from that roundabout trail which she had made upon the first occasion of

her visiting Slone. He had found an opening in the wall, and by riding this way into the pass Lucy cut off

miles. In fact, the camp was not over fifteen miles from Bostil's Ford. It was so close that Lucy was worried

lest some horsetracker should stumble on the trail and follow her up into the pass.

This morning she espied Slone at his outlook on a high rock that had fallen from the great walls. She always

looked to see if he was there, and she always saw him. The days she had not come, which were few, he had

spent watching for her there. His tasks were not many, and he said he had nothing to do but wait for her. Lucy

had a persistent and remorseful, yet sweet memory of Slone at his lonely lookout. Here was a fine, strong,

splendid young man who had nothing to do but watch for hera waste of precious hours!

She waved her hand from afar, and he waved in reply. Then as she reached the cedared part of the pass Slone

was no longer visible. She put Sarchedon to a run up the hard, windswept sand, and reached the camp

Lucy dismounted reluctantly. What would he say about the ridinghabit that she wore? She felt very curious

to learn, and shyer than ever before, and altogether different. The skirt made her more of a girl, it seemed.

"Hello, Lin! " she called. There was nothing in her usual greeting to betray the state of her mind.

"Good mornin'Lucy," he replied, very slowly. He was looking at her, she thought, with different eyes. And

he seemed changed, too, though he had long been well, and his tall, lithe rider's form, his lean, strong face,

and his dark eyes were admirable in her sight. Only this morning, all because she had worn a girl's

ridingskirt instead of boy's chaps, everything seemed different. Perhaps her aunt had been right, after all,

"Lin, I'll tell you, if I wasn't as crazy about Wildfire as you are, I'd say he'll have to kill himself to beat the

"Sometimes I doubt, too," said Slone. "But I only have to look at Wildfire to get back my nerve. . . . Lucy,

"Yes and no. But I'm going to beat the King, anyway. . . . Bring on your Wildfire!"

Lucy unsaddled Sarchedon and turned him loose to graze while Slone went out after Wildfire. And presently

it appeared that Lucy might have some little time to wait. Wildfire had lately been trusted to hobbles, which

Lucy gazed about her at the great looming red walls and out through the avenues to the gray desert beyond.

This adventure of hers would soon have an end, for the day of the races was not far distant, and after that it

was obvious she would not have occasion to meet Slone. To think of never coming to the pass again gave

Lucy a pang. Unconsciously she meant that she would never ride up here again, because Slone would not be

here. A wind always blew through the pass, and that was why the sand was so clean and hard. Today it was

a pleasant wind, not hot, nor laden with dust, and somehow musical in the cedars. The blue smoke from

Slone's fire curled away and floated out of sight. It was lonely, with the haunting presence of the broken walls

ever manifest. But the loneliness seemed full of content. She no longer wondered at Slone's desert life. That

might be well for a young man, during those years when adventure and daring called him, but she doubted

that it would be well for all of a man's life. And only a little of it ought to be known by a woman. She saw

how the wildness and loneliness and brooding of such a life would prevent a woman's development. Yet she

loved it all and wanted to live near it, so that when the need pressed her she could ride out into the great open

stretches and see the dark monuments grow nearer and nearer, till she was under them, in the silent and

Slone returned presently with Wildfire. The stallion shone like a flame in the sunlight. His fear and hatred of

Slone showed in the way he obeyed. Slone had mastered him, and must always keep the upper hand of him. It

had from the first been a fight between man and beast, and Lucy believed it would always be so.

But Wildfire was a different horse when he saw Lucy. Day by day evidently Slone loved him more and tried

harder to win a little of what Wildfire showed at sight of Lucy. Still Slone was proud of Lucy's control over

the stallion. He was just as much heart and soul bent on winning the great race as Lucy was. She had ridden

It was serious business, that training of Wildfire, and Slone had peculiar ideas regarding it. Lucy rode him up

and down the pass until he was warm. Then Slone got on Sarchedon. Wildfire always snorted and showed

fight at sight of Sage King or Nagger, and the stallion Sarchedon infuriated him because Sarchedon showed

fight, too. Slone started out ahead of Lucy, and then they raced down the long pass. The course was

hardpacked 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. Like a burr Lucy stuck low over his neck, a part of the horse, and so light he would

not have known he was carrying her but for the repeated calls in his ears. Lucy never spurred him. She

absolutely refused to use spurs on him. This day she ran away from Slone, and, turning at the end of the

twomile course they had marked out, she loped Wildfire back. Slone turned with her, and they were soon in

camp. Lucy did not jump off. She was in a transport. Every race kindled a mounting fire in her. She was

scarlet of face, out of breath, her hair flying. And she lay on Wildfire's neck and hugged him and caressed

Slone dismounted and got Sarchedon out of the way, then crossed to where Lucy still fondled Wildfire. He

paused a moment to look at her, but when she saw him he started again, and came close up to her as she sat

"Yes, he couldtoday. I know it," replied Lucy. "OhI get soso excited. II make a fool of

"You sure can ride him," replied Slone. "I can't see a fault anywhere in himor in your handling him. He

never breaks. He goes hard, but he saves something. He gets madfierceall the time, yet he WANTS to

go your way. Lucy, I never saw the like of it. Somehow you an' Wildfire make a combination. You can't be

"I don't care, Lucy," replied Slone, stoutly. "You rode this horse perfect. I've found fault with you on the

King, on your mustangs, an' on this black horse Sarch. But on Wildfire! You grow there."

"What will Dad say, and Farlane, and Holley, and Van? Oh, I'll crow over Van," said Lucy. "I'm crazy to ride

Wildfire out before all the Indians and ranchers and riders, before the races, just to show him off, to make

"No, Lucy. The best plan is to surprise them all. Enter your horse for the race, but don't show up till all the

Her words made Slone thoughtful, and Lucy, seeing that, straightway grew thoughtful, too.

His tone convinced Lucy that he meant to speak again as he had spoken once before, precipitating the only

"Only Auntie. I told her the other day. She had been watching me. She thought things. So I told her."

"She was mad," replied Lucy. "She scolded me. She said. . . . But, anyway, I coaxed her not to tell on me."

Lucy blushed, and it was a consciousness of confusion as well as Slone's tone that made her halfangry.

"She said when I was found out there'd be aa great fuss at the Ford. There would be talk. Auntie said I'm

now a grownup girl. . . . Oh, she carried on! . . . Bostil would likely shoot you. And if he didn't some of the

riders would. . . . Oh, Lin, it was perfectly ridiculous the way Auntie talked."

"I reckon not," replied Slone. "I'm afraid I've done wrong to let you come out here. . . . But I never thought.

"It's my own business," declared Lucy, spiritedly. "And I guess they'd better let you alone."

Slone shook his head mournfully. He was getting one of those gloomy spells that Lucy hated. Nevertheless,

"Lucy, there won't be any doubt about my standwhen I meet Bostil," said Slone. Some thought had

There was a sternness about Slone, a dignity that seemed new. "I'll ask him toto let you marry me."

"I reckon the possibility isthat," replied Slone, bitterly, "but my motive isn't."

"It is. Why, you've known me only a few days. . . . Dad would be mad. Like as not he'd knock you down. . . .

I tell you, Lin, my dad isis pretty rough. And just at this time of the races. . . . And if Wildfire beats the

"Dad will be dangerous," warned Lucy. "Please don'tdon't ask him that. Then everybody would know

"But it's a little place," flashed Lucy. "Every one knows me. I'm the only girl. There have beenother

Lucy turned away her head without answering. Something deep within her was softening her anger. She must

fight to keep angry; and that was easy enough, she thought, if she could only keep in mind Slone's opposition

to her. Strangely, she discovered that it had been sweet to find him always governed by her desire or will.

"Maybe you misunderstand," he began, presently. And his voice was not steady. "I don't forget I'm onlya

beggarly rider. I couldn't have gone into the Ford at allI was such a ragamuffin"

"Listen," he replied. "My askin' Bostil for you doesn't mean I've any hope. . . . It's just I want him an'

"But Dadeverybody will think that YOU think there's reasonwhy Iwhy, you OUGHT to ask,"

"But there's no reason. None! Not a reason under the sun," retorted Lucy, hotly. "I found you out here. I did

you aa little service. We planned to race Wildfire. And I came out to ride him. . . . That's all."

Slone's dark, steady gaze disconcerted Lucy. "But, no one knows me, and we've been alone in secret."

"Lin Slone, I'll never forgive you if you ask Dad that," declared Lucy, with startling force.

"Oh!so you don't care." Lucy felt herself indeed in a mood not comprehensible to her. Her blood raced.

She wanted to be furious with Slone, but somehow she could not wholly be so. There was something about

him that made her feel small and thoughtless and selfish. Slone had hurt her pride. But the thing that she

feared and resented and could not understand was the strange gladness Slone's declaration roused in her. She

tried to control her temper so she could think. Two emotions contended within herone of intense

annoyance at the thought of embarrassment surely to follow Slone's action, and the other a vague, disturbing

element, all sweet and furious and inexplicable. She must try to dissuade him from approaching her father.

"Please don't go to Dad." She put a hand on Slone's arm as he stood close up to Wildfire.

"Lin!" In that word there was the subtle, nameless charm of an intimacy she had never granted him until that

moment. He seemed drawn as if by invisible wires. He put a shaking hand on hers and crushed her gauntleted

fingers. And Lucy, in the current now of her woman's need to be placated if not obeyed, pressed her small

hand to his. How strange to what lengths a little submission to her feeling had carried her! Every spoken

Lucy did not understand what. But his amazed voice, his wideopen eyes of bewilderment, seemed to aid her

into piercing the maze of her own mind. A hundred thoughts whirled together, and all around them was

wrapped the warm, strong feeling of his hand on hers. What did she mean that he would tell her father? There

seemed to be a deep, hidden self in her. Up out of these depths came a whisper, like a ray of light, and it said

to her that there was more hope for Lin Slone than he had ever had in one of his wildest dreams.

"Lin, if you tell Dadthen he'll knowand there WON'T be any hope for you!" cried Lucy, honestly.

"I'm goin' to Bostil after the race an' ask him. That's settled," declared Slone, stubbornly.

Slone drew back suddenly as if struck, and a spot of dark blood leaped to his lean face. "No! It seems to me

"I see more than I used to," he replied. "I was a fool over a horse. An' now I'm a fool over a girl. . . . I wish

Lucy whirled in the saddle and made Wildfire jump. She quieted him, and, leaping off, threw the bridle to

Slone. "I won't ride your horse in the race!" she declared with sudden passion. She felt herself shaking all

"Lucy Bostil, I wish I was as sure of Heaven as I am you'll be up on Wildfire in that race," he said.

Slone suddenly turned white, and his eyes flashed dark fire. "You won't be able to help ridin' him any more

"A lot you know about me, Lin Slone!" returned Lucy, with scorn. "I can be asas bullheaded as you, any

Slone evidently controlled his temper, though his face remained white. He even smiled at her.

"You are blood an' bone, heart an' soul a rider, if any girl ever was. You're a wonder with a horseas good

as any man I ever saw. You love Wildfire. An' lookhow strange! That wild stallionthat killer of horses,

why he follows you, he whistles for you, he runs like lightnin' for you; he LOVES you."

Slone had attacked Lucy in her one weak point. She felt a force rending her. She dared not look at Wildfire.

Yesall, that was true Slone had said. How desperately hard to think of forfeiting the great race she knew

"MINE! . . . So that's the trouble. Well, Wildfire won't be mine when you ride the race."

"What do you mean?" demanded Lucy. "You'll sell him to Bostil. . . . Bah! you couldn't"

"Sell Wildfire!after what it cost me to catch an' break him? . . . Not for all your father's lands an' horses an'

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 cedartree and could go no farther. How white he was now!

Lucy's heart gave a great, fearful leap, for she imagined Slone intended to take her in his arms. But he did

The rider's white face and dark eyes showed the strain of great and passionate sacrifice.

"You've got to ride Wildfire in that race. You've got to beat the King. . . . So I give Wildfire to you. An' now

"Because you love Wildfire. An' Wildfire loves you. . . . If that isn't reason enoughthen . . . because I love

himas no rider ever loved a horse. . . . An' I love you as no man ever loved a girl!"

Slone had never before spoken words of love to Lucy. She dropped her head. She knew of his infatuation.

But he had always been shy except once when he had been bold, and that had caused a quarrel. With a

strange pain at her breast Lucy wondered why Slone had not spoken that way before? It made as great a

change in her as if she had been born again. It released something. A bolt shot back in her heart. She knew

she was quivering like a leaf, with no power to control her muscles. She knew if she looked up then Slone

might see the depths of her soul. Even with her hands shutting out the light she thought the desert around had

changed and become all mellow gold and blue and white, radiant as the moonlight of dreamsand that the

monuments soared above them grandly, and were beautiful and noble, like the revelations of love and joy to

her. And suddenly she found herself sitting at the foot of the cedar, weeping, with tearwet hands over her

"There's nothin' toto cry about," Slone was saying. "But I'm sorry if I hurt you."

While Slone went for the horse and saddled him Lucy composed herself outwardly. And she had two very

strong desiresone to tell Slone something, and the other to run. She decided she would do both together.

Slone brought Sarchedon. Lucy put on her gauntlets, and, mounting the horse, she took a moment to arrange

her skirts before she looked down at Slone. He was now pale, rather than white, and instead of fire in his eyes

there was sadness. Lucy felt the swelling and pounding of her heartand a long, delicious shuddering thrill

"Yes, you will. You can't refuse. Remember he's grown to look to you. It wouldn't be right by the horse."

"But he's all you have in the world," she protested. Yet she knew any protestations would be in vain.

"Would you go try to hunt another wild stallionlike Wildfire?" asked Lucy, curiously. She was playing

with the wonderful sweet consciousness of her power to render happiness when she chose.

"No more horsehuntin' for me," declared Slone. "An' as for findin' one like Wildfirethat'd never be."

"How could you refuse? Not for me but for Wildfire's sake! . . . But if you could be mean an' refuse, why,

Lucy paused a moment. How dry her tongue seemed! And her breathing was labored! An unreal shimmering

gleam shone on all about her. Even the red stallion appeared enveloped in a glow. And the looming

monuments looked down upon her, paternal, old, and wise, bright with the color of happiness

"Wildfire ought to have several more days' trainingthen a day of restand then the race," said Lucy,

Lucy's eyes flashed blue. She saw the crowdthe curious, friendly Indiansthe eager ridersthe spirited

horsesthe face of her father and last the race itself, such a race as had never been ran, so swift, so fierce,

"Then Lin," began Lucy, with a slowly heaving breast, "if I accept Wildfire will you keep him for meuntil

"Wait, will you . . . promise not to say a worda single word to ME till after the race?"

"A wordto you! What about?" he queried, wonderingly. Something in his eyes made Lucy think of the

Lucy settled herself in the saddle and, shortening the bridle, she got ready to spur Sarchedon into a bolt.

Sarchedon leaped forward. Lucy did not see Slone's face nor hear him speak. Then she was tearing through

the sage, out past the whistling Wildfire, with the wind sweet in her face. She did not look back.

All through May there was an idea, dark and sinister, growing in Bostil's mind. Fiercely at first he had

rejected it as utterly unworthy of the man he was. But it returned. It would not be denied. It was fostered by

singular and unforeseen circumstances. The meetings with Creech, the strange, sneaking actions of young

Joel Creech, and especially the gossip of riders about the improvement in Creech's swift horsethese things

appeared to loom larger and larger and to augment in Bostil's mind the monstrous idea which he could not

It appeared to be an indication of his intense preoccupation of mind that he seemed unaware of Lucy's long

trips down into the sage. But Bostil had observed them long before Holley and other riders had approached

"Let her alone," he growled to his men. "I gave her orders to train the King. An' after Van got well mebbe

To himself, when alone, Bostil muttered: "Wonder what the kid has looked up now? Some mischief, I'll bet!"

Nevertheless, he did not speak to her on the subject. Deep in his heart he knew he feared his keeneyed

daughter, and during these days he was glad she was not in evidence at the hours when he could not very well

keep entirely to himself. Bostil was afraid Lucy might divine what he had on his mind. There was no one else

he cared for. Holley, that old hawkeyed rider, might see through him, but Bostil knew Holley would be

Toward the end of the month, when Somers returned from horsehunting, Bostil put him and Shugrue to

work upon the big flatboat down at the crossing. Bostil himself went down, and he walkeda fact apt to be

"Put in new planks," was his order to the men. "An' pour hot tar in the cracks. Then when the tar dries shove

Every morning young Creech rowed over to see if the boat was ready to take the trip across to bring his

father's horses back. The third morning of work on the boat Bostil met Joel down there. Joel seemed eager to

"Bostil, my ole man is losin' sleep waitin' to git the hosses over," he said, frankly. "Feed's almost gone."

"That'll be all right, Joel," replied Bostil. "You see, the river ain't begun to raise yet. . . . How're the hosses

"Grand, sirgrand!" exclaimed the simple Joel. "Peg is runnin' faster than last year, but Blue Roan is leavin'

Bostil felt like a bull bayed at by a hound. Blue Roan was a young horse, and every season he had grown

bigger and faster. The King had reached the limit of his speed. That was great, Bostil knew, and enough to

win over any horse in the uplands, providing the luck of the race fell even. Luck, however, was a fickle thing.

Joel's simplicity and frankness vanished, and with them his rationality. He looked queer. His contrasting eyes

shot little malignant gleams. He muttered incoherently, and moved back toward the skiff, making violent

gestures, and his muttering grew to shouting, though still incoherent. He got in the boat and started to row

"Sure he's got a screw loose," observed Somers. Shugrue tapped his grizzled head significantly.

Bostil made no comment. He strode away from his men down to the river shore, and, finding a seat on a

stone, he studied the slow eddying red current of the river and he listened. If any man knew the strange and

remorseless Colorado, that man was Bostil. He never made any mistakes in anticipating what the river was

And now he listened, as if indeed the sullen, low roar, the murmuring hollow gurgle, the sudden strange

splash, were spoken words meant for his ears alone. The river was low. It seemed tired out. It was a dirty red

in color, and it swirled and flowed along lingeringly. At times the current was almost imperceptible; and then

again it moved at varying speed. It seemed a petulant, waiting, yet inevitable stream, with some remorseless

end before it. It had a thousand voices, but not the one Bostil listened to hear.

He plodded gloomily up the trail, resting in the quiet, dark places of the canyon, loath to climb out into the

clear light of day. And once in the village, Bostil shook himself as if to cast off an evil, everpresent,

The races were now only a few days off. Piutes and Navajos were camped out on the sage, and hourly the

number grew as more came in. They were building cedar sunshades. Columns of blue smoke curled up here

and there. Mustangs and ponies grazed everywhere, and a line of Indians extended along the racecourse,

where trials were being held. The village was full of riders, horsetraders and hunters, and ranchers. Work on

the ranges had practically stopped for the time being, and in another day or so every inhabitant of the country

Bostil walked into the village, grimly conscious that the presence of the Indians and riders and horses, the

action and color and bustle, the near approach of the great racedaythese things that in former years had

brought him keen delight and speculationhad somehow lost their tang. He had changed. Something was

wrong in him. But he must go among these visitors and welcome them as of old; he who had always been the

life of these racingdays must be outwardly the same. And the task was all the harder because of the pleasure

shown by old friends among the Indians and the riders at meeting him. Bostil knew he had been a cunning

horsetrader, but he had likewise been a good friend. Many were the riders and Indians who owed much to

him. So everywhere he was hailed and besieged, until finally the old excitement of betting and bantering took

Brackton's place, as always, was a headquarters for all visitors. Macomber had just come in full of

enthusiasm and pride over the horse he had entered, and he had money to wager. Two Navajo chiefs, called

by white men Old Horse and Silver, were there for the first time in years. They were ready to gamble horse

against horse. Cal Blinn and his riders of Durango had arrived; likewise Colson, Sticks, and Burthwait, old

For a while Brackton's was merry. There was some drinking and much betting. It was characteristic of Bostil

that he would give any odds asked on the King in a race; and, furthermore, he would take any end of wagers

on other horses. As far as his own horses were concerned he bet shrewdly, but in races where his horses did

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

"Wetherby's ridin' over tomorrow," replied Macomber. "But you gotta bet him two to one."

"See hyar, Bostil," spoke up old Cal Blinn, "you jest wait till I git an eye on the King's runnin'. Mebbe I'll go

"An' as fer me, Bostil," said Colson, "I ain't set up yit which hoss I'll race."

Burthwait, an old rider, came forward to Brackton's desk and entered a wager against the field that made all

"By George! pard, you ain't alimpin' along!" ejaculated Bostil, admiringly, and he put a hand on the other's

"Bostil, I've a grand hoss," replied Burthwait. "He's four years old, I guess, fer he was born wild, an' you

"Wal, I'm glad to hear it," said Bostil, gruffly. "Brack, how many hosses entered now for the big race?"

The lean, gray Brackton bent earnestly over his soiled ledger, while the riders and horsemen round him grew

"Thar's the Sage King by Bostil," replied Brackton. "Blue Roan an' Peg, by Creech; Whitefoot, by

Macomber; Rocks, by Holley; Hossshoes, by Blinn; Bay Charley, by Burthwait. Then thar's the two

"She sure has. She came in today, regular an' businesslike, writ her name an' her hoss'shere 'tisan' put

"Wal, I'll be dd!" exclaimed Bostil. He was astonished and pleased. "She said she'd do it. But I didn't take

"Huh! . . . Wildfire. Mebbe thet girl can't think of names for hosses! What's this hoss she calls Wildfire?"

"She sure didn't say," replied Brackton. "Holley an' Van an' some more of the boys was here. They joked her

a little. You oughter seen the look Lucy give them. But fer once she seemed mum. She jest walked away

"Lucy's got a pony off some Indian, I reckon," returned Bostil, and he laughed. "Then thet makes ten hosses

"Right. An' there's sure to be one more. I guess the, track's wide enough for twelve."

"Wal, Brack, there'll likely be one hoss out in front an' some stretched out behind," replied Bostil, dryly. "The

"Won't thet be a grand race!" exclaimed an enthusiastic rider. "Wisht I had about a million to bet!"

"Bostil, I 'most forgot," went on Brackton, "Cordts sent word by the Piutes who come today thet he'd be

Bostil's face subtly changed. The light seemed to leave it. He did not reply to Bracktondid not show that he

heard the comment on all sides. Public opinion was against Bostil's permission to allow Cordts and his

horsethieves to attend the races. Bostil appeared grave, regretful. Yet it was known by all that in the

strangeness and perversity of his rider's nature he wanted Cordts to see the King win that race. It was his

rider's vanity and defiance in the teeth of a great horsethief. But no good would come of Cordts's presence

There was a moment of silence. All these men, if they did not fear Bostil, were sometimes uneasy when near

him. Some who were more reckless than discreet liked to irritate him. That, too, was a rider's weakness.

By the time he got home all the excitement of the past hour had left him and gloom again abided in his mind.

He avoided his daughter and forgot the fact of her entering a horse in the race. He ate supper alone, without

speaking to his sister. Then in the dusk he went out to the corrals and called the King to the fence. There was

love between master and horse. Bostil talked low, like a woman, to Sage King. And the hard old rider's heart

was full and a lump swelled in his throat, for contact with the King reminded him that other men loved other

Bostil returned to the house and went to his room, where he sat thinking in the dark. By and by all was quiet.

Then seemingly with a wrench he bestirred himself and did what for him was a strange action. Removing his

boots, he put on a pair of moccasins. He slipped out of the house; he kept to the flagstone of the walk; he took

to the sage till out of the village, and then he sheered round to the river trail. With the step and sureness and

the eyes of an Indian he went down through that pitchblack canyon to the river and the ford.

The river seemed absolutely the same as during the day. He peered through the dark opaqueness of gloom. It

moved there, the river he knew, shadowy, mysterious, murmuring. Bostil went down to the edge of the water,

and, sitting there, he listened. Yesthe voices of the stream were the same. But after a long time he

imagined there was among them an infinitely low voice, as if from a great distance. He imagined this; he

doubted; he made sure; and then all seemed fancy again. His mind held only one idea and was riveted round

it. He strained his hearing, so long, so intently, that at last he knew he had heard what he was longing for.

Then in the gloom he took to the trail, and returned home as he had left, stealthily, like an Indian.

Next morning early he rode down to the river. Somers and Shugrue had finished the boat and were waiting.

Other men were there, curious and eager. Joel Creech, barefooted and ragged, with hollow eyes and strange

The boat was lying bottom up. Bostil examined the new planking and the seams. Then he straightened his

Joel smiled, and that smile showed what might have been possible for him under kinder conditions of life.

Joel ran down to his skiff and, leaping in, began to row vigorously across. Bostil watched while the workmen

turned the boat over and slid it off the sandbar and tied it securely to the mooring. Bostil observed that not a

man there saw anything unusual about the river. But, for that matter, there was nothing to see. The river was

That night when all was quiet in and around the village Bostil emerged from his house and took to his

The moment he got out into the night oppression left him. How interminable the hours had been! Suspense,

doubt, anxiety, fear no longer burdened him. The night was dark, with only a few stars, and the air was cool.

A soft wind blew across his heated face. A neighbor's dog, baying dismally, startled Bostil. He halted to

listen, then stole on under the cottonwoods, through the sage, down the trail, into the jetblack canyon. Yet

he found his way as if it had been light. In the darkness of his room he had been a slave to his indecision; now

The distance seemed short. He passed out of the narrow canyon, skirted the gorge over the river, and hurried

The boat lay at the mooring, one end resting lightly the sandbar. With strong, nervous clutch Bostil felt the

knots of the cables. Then he peered into the opaque gloom of that strange and huge Vshaped split between

the great canyon walls. Bostil's mind had begun to relax from the single idea. Was he alone? Except for the

low murmur of the river there was dead silencea silence like no othera silence which seemed held under

imprisoning walls. Yet Bostil peered long into the shadows. Then he looked up. The ragged ramparts far

above frowned bold and black at a few cold stars, and the blue of its sky was without the usual velvety

brightness. How far it was up to that corrugated rim! All of a sudden Bostil hated this vast ebony pit.

He strode down to the water and, sitting upon the stone he had occupied so often, he listened. He turned his

ear upstream, then downstream, and to the side, and again upstream and listened.

It was slow, heavy, listless, eddying, lingering, movingthe same apparently as for days past. It splashed

very softly and murmured low and gurgled faintly. It gave forth fitful little swishes and musical tinkles and

lapping sounds. It was flowing water, yet the proof was there of tardiness. Now it was almost still, and then

again it moved on. It was a river of mystery telling a lie with its low music. As Bostil listened all those soft,

watery sounds merged into what seemed a moaning, and that moaning held a roar so low as to be only

Nothe river was not the same. For the voice of its soft moaning showed to Bostil its meaning. It called

from the far norththe north of great iceclad peaks beginning to glisten under the nearing sun; of vast

snowfilled canyons dripping and melting; of the crystal brooks suddenly colored and roiled and filled

bankfull along the mountain meadows; of many brooks plunging down and down, rolling the rocks, to pour

their volume into the growing turbid streams on the slopes. It was the voice of all that widely separated water

spilled suddenly with magical power into the desert river to make it a mighty, thundering torrent, red and

defiled, terrible in its increasing onslaught into the canyon, deep, ponderous, but swift the Colorado in

And as Bostil heard that voice he trembled. What was the thing he meant to do? A thousand thoughts assailed

him in answer and none were clear. A chill passed over him. Suddenly he felt that the cold stole up from his

feet. They were both in the water. He pulled them out and, bending down, watched the dim, dark line of

Bostil leaped up. He seemed possessed of devils. A rippling hot gash of blood fired his every vein and tremor

He stared in fascinated certainty at the river. All about it and pertaining to it had changed. The murmur and

moan changed to a low, sullen roar. The music was gone. The current chafed at its rockbound confines.

Here was an uneasy, tormented, driven river! The light from the stars shone on dark, glancing, restless

waters, uneven and strange. And while Bostil watched, whether it was a short time or long, the remorseless,

Bostil began to pace the sands. He thought of those beautiful racehorses across the river.

He knew that on the morrow the Colorado in flood would bar those horses, imprison them in a barren canyon,

"It'd be hellish! . . . Bostil, you can't do it. You ain't thet kind of a man . . . . Bostil poison a waterhole where

hosses loved to drink, or burn over grass! . . . What would Lucy think of you? . . . No, Bostil, you've let spite

He strode down to the boat. It swung clear now, and there was water between it and the shore. Bostil laid

hold of the cables. As he did so he thought of Creech and a blackness enfolded him. He forgot Creech's

horses. Something gripped him, burned himsome hard and bitter feeling which he thought was hate of

Creech. Again the wave of fire ran over him, and his huge hands strained on the cables. The fiend of that

fiendish river had entered his soul. He meant ruin to a man. He meant more than ruin. He meant to destroy

what his enemy, his rival loved. The darkness all about him, the gloom and sinister shadow of the canyon, the

sullen increasing roar of the' riverthese lent their influence to the deed, encouraged him, drove him

onward, fought and strangled the resistance in his heart. As he brooded all the motives for the deed grew like

that remorseless river. Had not his enemy's son shot at him from ambush? Was not his very life at stake? A

terrible blow must be dealt Creech, one that would crush him or else lend him manhood enough to come forth

with a gun. Bostil, in his torment, divined that Creech would know who had ruined him. They would meet

then, as Bostil had tried more than once to bring about a meeting. Bostil saw into his soul, and it was a gulf

like this canyon pit where the dark and sullen river raged. He shrank at what he saw, but the furies of passion

held him fast. His hands tore at the cables. Then he fell to pacing to and fro in the gloom. Every moment the

river changed its voice. In an hour flood would be down. Too late, then! Bostil again remembered the sleek,

slim, racy thoroughbredsBlue 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

"How soon'll Creech hear the river an' know what's comin'?" muttered Bostil, darkly. And that question

showed him how he was lost. All this strife of doubt and fear and horror were of no use. He meant to doom

Creech's horses. The thing had been unalterable from the inception of the insidious, hateful idea. It was

irresistible. He grew strong, hard, fierce, and implacable. He found himself. He strode back to the cables. The

knots, having dragged in the water, were soaking wet and swollen. He could not untie them. Then he cut one

HeBostilwho had made this Crossing of the Fathers more famous as Bostil's Fordheto cut the boat

The roar of the river rose weird and mournful and incessant, with few breaks, and these were marked by

strange ripping and splashing sounds made as the bulges of water broke on the surface. Twenty feet out the

boat floated, turning a little as it drifted. It seemed loath to leave. It held on the shore eddy. Hungrily,

spitefully the little, heavy waves lapped it. Bostil watched it with dilating eyes. There! the current caught one

end and the water rose in a hollow splash over the corner. An invisible hand, like a mighty giant's, seemed to

swing the boat out. It had been dark; now it was opaque, now shadowy, now dim. How swift this cursed

river! Was there any way in which Bostil could recover his boat? The river answered him with hollow, deep

mockery. Despair seized upon him. And the vague shape of the boat, spectral and instinct with meaning,

"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

"To hell with Creech an' his hosses, but where do I come in as a man?" he whispered. And he sat there, arms

The rising water broke the spell and drove him back. The river was creeping no longer. It swelled. And the

roar likewise swelled. Bostil hurried across the flat to get to the rocky trail before he was cut off, and the last

"I'll leave no trail there," he muttered, with a hard laugh. It sounded ghastly to him, like the laugh of the river.

And there at the foot of the rocky trail he halted to watch and listen. The old memorable boom came to his

ears. The flood was coming. For twentythree years he had heard the vanguard boom of the Colorado in

flood. But never like this, for in the sound he heard the strife and passion of his blood, and realized himself a

human counterpart of that remorseless river. The moments passed and each one saw a swelling of the volume

of sound. The sullen roar just below him was gradually lost in a distant roar. A steady wind now blew

through the canyon. The great walls seemed to gape wider to prepare for the torrent. Bostil backed slowly up

the trail as foot by foot the water rose. The floor of the amphitheater was now a lake of choppy, angry waves.

The willows bent and seethed in the edge of the current. Beyond ran an uneven, bulging mass that resembled

some gray, heavy moving monster. In the gloom Bostil could see how the river turned a corner of wall and

slanted away from it toward the center, where it rose higher. Black objects that must have been driftwood

appeared on this crest. They showed an instant, then flashed out of sight. The boom grew steadier, closer,

louder, and the reverberations, like low detonations of thunder, were less noticeable because all sounds were

A harder breeze puffed into Bostil's face. It brought a tremendous thunder, as if all the colossal walls were

falling in avalanche. Bostil knew the crest of the flood had turned the corner above and would soon reach

him. He watched. He listened, but sound had ceased. His cars seemed ringing and they hurt. All his body felt

The shadows of the canyon lightened. A riverwide froth, like a curtain, moved down, spreading

mushroomwise before it, a rolling, heaving maelstrom. Bostil ran to escape the great wave that surged into

the amphitheater, up and up the rocky trail. When he turned again he seemed to look down into hell. Murky

depths, streaked by pale gleams, and black, sinister, changing forms yawned beneath them. He watched with

fixed eyes until once more the feeling of filled ears left him and an awful thundering boom assured him of

Bostil slept that night, but his sleep was troubled, and a strange, dreadful roar seemed to run through it, like a

mournful wind over a dark desert. He was awakened early by a voice at his window. He listened. There came

Bostil rolled off the bed. He had slept without removing any apparel except his boots.

Holley's face appeared above the rude sill. It was pale and grave, with the hawk eyes like glass. "It ain't so

Bostil halted in the act of pulling on a boot. He looked at his man while he listened. The still air outside

seemed filled with low boom, like thunder at a distance. Bostil tried to look astounded.

"Reckon it's hell all rightfor Creech," replied Holley. "Boss, why didn't you fetch them hosses over?"

Bostil's face darkened. He was a bad man to opposeto question at times. "Holley, you're sure powerful

"Naw! I've little use fer Creech," replied Holley. "An' you know thet. But I hold for his hosses as I would any

"Nothin'except you could have fetched them over before the flood come down. That's all."

The old horsetrader end his righthand rider looked at each other for a moment in silence. They understood

each other. Then Bostil returned to the task of pulling on wet boots and Holley went away.

Bostil opened his door and stepped outside. The eastern ramparts of the desert were bright red with the rising

sun. With the night behind him and the morning cool and bright and beautiful, Bostil did not suffer a pang

nor feel a regret. He walked around under the cottonwoods where the mockingbirds were singing. The

shrill, screeching bray of a burro split the morning stillness, and with that the sounds of the awakening village

He encountered Lucy in the kitchen, and he did not avoid her. He could tell from her smiling greeting that he

seemed to her his old self again. Lucy wore an apron and she had her sleeves rolled up, showing round,

strong, brown arms. Somehow to Bostil she seemed different. She had been pretty, but now she was more

than that. She was radiant. Her blue eyes danced. She looked excited. She had been telling her aunt

something, and that worthy woman appeared at once shocked and delighted. 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, goodnaturedly.

"Kid? . . . See here, Dad, I'm eighteen long ago. I'm grown up. I can do as I please, go where I like, and

"Wal, Lucy, I'd just like to see you fetch some fool lovesick rider around when I'm feelin' good," said Bostil.

Lucy laughed, but there was a roguish, daring flash in her eyes. "Dad, you do seem to have all the young

fellows scared. Some day maybe one will ride alonga rider like you used to bethat nobody could bluff. .

"Bostil, she's in fun, of course," declared Aunt Jane. "Still, at that, there's some sense in what she says. Come

Bostil took his seat at the table, glad that he could once more be amiable with his womenfolk. "Lucy,

"It sure will be, Dad. The biggest SURPRISING day the Ford ever had," replied Lucy.

Bostil said to himself that he had been used to Lucy's banter, but during his moody spell of days past he had

"Open as the desert, Lucy," he replied. "What's this hoss Wildfire you've entered?"

"If he's as good as his name you might be in at the finish. . . . But, Lucy, my dear, talkin' good sense

Bostil liked the look of her then. She had paled a little; her eyes blazed; she was intense. His question had

brought out her earnestness, and straightway Bostil became thoughtful. If Lucy had been a boy she would

have been the greatest rider on the uplands; and even girl as she was, superbly mounted, she would have been

"Wal, I ain't afraid of your handlin' of a hoss, " he said, soberly. "An' as long as you're in earnest I won't stop

Bostil stared at the girl. What had gotten into her? "What'll you bet?" he, queried, with blunt curiosity.

Bostil threw back his head to laugh heartily. What a chip of the old block she was! "Child, there's some fast

Blue fire shone in his daughter's eyes. She meant business, all right, and Bostil thrilled with pride in her.

"Wal, of all the nerve!" ejaculated Bostil. "No, I won't take you up. Reckon I never before turned down an

At that juncture Bostil suddenly shoved back his plate and turned his face to the open door. "Don't I hear a

Aunt Jane stopped the noise she was making, and Lucy darted to the door. Then Bostil heard the sharp,

rhythmic hoofbeats he recognized. They shortened to clatter and poundthen ceased somewhere out in

"It's the King with Van up," said Lucy, from the door. "Dad, Van's jumped offhe's coming in . . . he's

running. Something has happened. . . . There are other horses comingridersIndians."

Bostil knew what was coming and prepared himself. Rapid footsteps sounded without.

Van strode in, spurs jangling, cap in hand. "Boss, there'sa sixtyfoot raisein the river!" Van panted.

"Wal, Van, I reckon I knowed thet," replied Bostil. "Mebbe I'm gettin' old, but I can still hear. . . . Listen."

Lucy tiptoed to the door and turned her head sidewise and slowly bowed it till she stiffened. Outside were,

sounds of birds and horses and men, but when a lull came it quickly filled with a sullen, low boom.

"Not to the river," replied Van. "I went as far aswhere the gulch openson the bluff. There was a string of

Navajos goin' down. An' some comin' up. I stayed there watchin' the flood, an' pretty soon Somers come up

the trail with Blakesley an' Brack an' some riders. . . . An' Somers hollered out, 'The boat's gone!'"

"Sure she's gone. An' the whole place down therewhere the willows was an' the sandbarit was deep

"My God! ain't it a shame!" went on Bostil, and he could have laughed aloud at his hypocrisy. He felt Lucy's

"Thet's what we all was sayin'," went on Van. "While we was watchin' the awful flood an' listenin' to the deep

bumbumbum of rollin' rocks some one seen Creech an' two Piutes leadin' the hosses up thet trail where

the slide was. We counted the hossesnine. An' we saw the roan shine blue in the sunlight."

"Piutes with Creech!" exclaimed Bostil, the deep gloom in his eyes lighting. "By all thet's lucky! Mebbe them

"Mebbe," replied Van, doubtfully. "Sure them Piutes could if there's a chance. But there ain't any grass."

"So lots of the boys say. But the Navajos they shook their heads. An' Farlane an' Holley, why, they jest held

"With them Indians Creech has a chance to get his hosses out," declared Bostil. He was sure of his sincerity,

but he was not certain that his sincerity was not the birth of a strange, sudden hope. And then he was able to

"Oh, Dad, why, why didn't you hurry Creech's horses over?" said Lucy, with her tears falling.

Something tight within Bostil's breast seemed to ease and lessen. "Why didn't I? . . . Wal, Lucy, I reckon I

"He stayed on this side last night," replied Van. "Fact is, Joel's the one who first knew the flood was on.

Some one said he said he slept in the canyon last night. Anyway, he's ravin' crazy now. An' if he doesn't do

"Dad, can't anything be done to help Creech now?" appealed Lucy, going close to her father.

Bostil put his arm around her and felt immeasurably relieved to have the golden head press close to his

shoulder. "Child, we can't fly acrost the river. Now don't you cry about Creech's hosses. They ain't starved

yet. It's hard luck. But mebbe it'll turn out so Creech'll lose only the race. An', Lucy, it was a dead sure bet

Bostil fondled his daughter a moment, the first time in many a day, and then he turned to his rider at the door.

"Wild to run, Bostil, jest plumb wild. There won't be any hoss with the ghost of a show tomorrow."

Lucy raised her drooping head. "Is THAT so, Van Sickle? . . . Listen here. If you and Sage King don't get

more wild running tomorrow than you ever had I'll never ride again!" With this retort Lucy left the room.

Van stared at the door and then at Bostil. "What'd I say, Bostil?" he asked, plaintively. "I'm always r'ilin' her."

"Cheer up, Van. You didn't say much. Lucy is fiery these days. She's got a hoss somewhere an' she's goin' to

ride him in the race. She offered to bet on himagainst the King! It certainly beat me all hollow. But see

here, Van. I've a hunch there's a dark hoss goin' to show up in this race. So don't underrate Lucy an' her

"I sure haven't. Fact is, I haven't seen Lucy for days an' days. As for the hunch you gave, I'll say I was figurin'

Lucy for some real race. Bostil, she doesn't MAKE a hoss run. He'll run jest to please her. An' Lucy's lighter

'n a feather. Why, Bostil, if she happened to ride out there on Blue Roan or some other hoss as fast I'dI'd

Bostil uttered a laugh full of pride in his daughter. "Wal, she won't show up on Blue Roan," he replied, with

grim gruffness. "Thet's sure as death. . . . Come on out now. I want a look at the King."

Bostil went into the village. All day long he was so busy with a thousand and one things referred to him, put

on him, undertaken by him, that he had no time to think. Back in his mind, however, there was a burden of

which he was vaguely conscious all the time. He worked late into the night and slept late the next morning.

Never in his life had Bostil been gloomy or retrospective on the day of a race. In the press of matters he had

only a word for Lucy, but that earned a saucy, dauntless look. He was glad when he was able to join the

The racecourse lay at the foot of the slope, and now the gray and purple sage was dotted with more horses

and Indians, more moving things and colors, than Bostil had ever seen there before. It was a spectacle that

stirred him. Many fires sent up blue columns of smoke from before the hastily built brush huts where the

Indians cooked and ate. Blankets shone bright in the sun; burros grazed and brayed; horses whistled

piercingly across the slope; Indians lolled before the huts or talked in groups, sitting and lounging on their

ponies; down in the valley, here and there, were Indians racing, and others were chasing the wiry mustangs.

Beyond this gay and colorful spectacle stretched the valley, merging into the desert marked so strikingly and

Bostil was among the last to ride down to the high bench that overlooked the home end of the racecourse. He

calculated that there were a thousand Indians and whites congregated at that point, which was the best

vantageground to see the finish of a race. And the occasion of his arrival, for all the gaiety, was one of

dignity and importance. If Bostil reveled in anything it was in an hour like this. His liberality made this event

a great raceday. The thoroughbreds were all there, blanketed, in charge of watchful riders. In the center of

the brow of this long bench lay a huge, flat rock which had been Bostil's seat in the watching of many a race.

Here were assembled his neighbors and visitors actively interested in the races, and also the important Indians

As Bostil dismounted, throwing the bridle to a rider, he saw a face that suddenly froze the thrilling delight of

the moment. A tall, gaunt man with cavernous black eyes and huge, drooping black mustache fronted him

and seemed waiting. Cordts! Bostil had forgotten. Instinctively Bostil stood on guard. For years he had

prepared himself for the moment when he would come face to face with this noted horsethief.

"Bostil, how are you?" said Cordts. He appeared pleasant, and certainly grateful for being permitted to come

"Hello, Cordts," replied Bostil, slowly unbending. Then he met the other's proffered hand.

For the moment there could have been no other way to Bostil's good graces, and this remark made the gruff

"Wal, I was hopin' you'd back some other hoss, so I could take your money," replied Bostil.

Cordts held out the belt and guns to Bostil. "I want to enjoy this race," he said, with a smile that somehow

"Cordts, I don't want to take your guns," replied Bostil, bluntly. "I've taken your word an' that's enough."

"Thanks, Bostil. All the same, as I'm your guest I won't pack them," returned Cordts, and he hung the belt on

the horn of Bostil's saddle. "Some of my men are with me. They were all right till they got outside of

"Wal, you're square to say thet," replied Bostil. "An' I'll run this race an' answer for everybody."

Bostil recognized Hutchinson and Dick Sears, but the others of Cordts's gang he did not know. They were a

hardlooking lot. Hutchinson was a spare, stoopshouldered, redfaced, squintyeyed rider, branded all over

with the marks of a bad man. And Dick Sears looked his notoriety. He was a little knot of muscle, short and

bowlegged, rough in appearance as cactus. He wore a ragged slouchhat pulled low down. His face and

stubby beard were dustcolored, and his eyes seemed sullen, watchful. He made Bostil think of a dusty,

scaly, hard, desert rattlesnake. Bostil eyed this righthand man of Cordts's and certainly felt no fear of him,

though Sears had the fame of swift and deadly skill with a gun. Bostil felt that he was neither afraid nor loath

to face Sears in gunplay, and he gazed at the little horsethief in a manner that no one could mistake. Sears

was not drunk, neither was he wholly free from the unsteadiness caused by the bottle. Assuredly he had no

fear of Bostil and eyed him insolently. Bostil turned away to the group of his riders and friends, and he asked

Bostil waved a hand to her, and Lucy, evidently mistaking his action, came forward, leading one of her

ponies. She wore a gray blouse with a red scarf, and a skirt over overalls and boots. She looked pale, but she

was smiling, and there was a dark gleam of excitement in her blue eyes. She did not have on her sombrero.

She wore her hair in a braid, and had a red band tight above her forehead. Bostil took her in all at a glance.

She meant business and she looked dangerous. Bostil knew once she slipped out of that skirt she could ride

with any rider there. He saw that she had become the center toward which all eyes shifted. It pleased him. She

was his, like her mother, and as beautiful and thoroughbred as any rider could wish his daughter.

"Red's your color for today, then?" he questioned, as he put a big hand on the brightbanded head.

"Lucy, I never thought you'd flaunt red in your old Dad's face. Red, when the color of the King is like the

"Wal, the only bitter drop in my cup today will be seein' you get beat. But if you ran second I'll give you a

Even the Indian chiefs were smiling. 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, if you are really goin' to race I'll withdraw my hoss so you can win," said Wetherby, gallantly.

"Miss Lucy, I sure hate to run a hoss against yours," said old Cal Blinn. Then Colson, Sticks, Burthwait, the

Bostil enjoyed this hugely until he caught the strange intensity of regard in the cavernous eyes of Cordts.

That gave him a shock. Cordts had long wanted this girl as much probably as he wanted Sage King. There

were dark and terrible stories that stained the name of Cordts. Bostil regretted his impulse in granting the

horsethief permission to attend the races. Sight of Lucy's fair, sweet face might inflame this Cordtsthis

Kentuckian who had boasted of his love of horses and women. Behind Cordts hung the little dustcolored

Sears, like a coiled snake, ready to strike. Bostil felt stir in him a longdormant firea stealing along his

"Lucy, go back to the women till you're ready to come out on your hoss," he said. "An' mind you, be careful

He gave her a meaning glance, which she understood perfectly, he saw, and then he turned to start the day's

The Indian races run in twos and threes, and on up to a number that crowded the racecourse; the betting and

yelling and running; the wild and plunging mustangs; the heat and dust and pounding of hoofs; the excited

betting; the surprises and defeats and victories, the trial tests of the principals, jealously keeping off to

themselves in the sage; the endless moving, colorful procession, gaudy and swift and thrillingall these

But they were as nothing to what they gradually worked up tothe climaxthe great race.

It was afternoon when all was ready for this race, and the sage was bright gray in the westering sun.

Everybody was resting, waiting. The tense quiet of the riders seemed to settle upon the whole assemblage.

Only the thoroughbreds were restless. They quivered and stamped and tossed their small, fine heads. They

knew what was going to happen. They wanted to run. Blacks, bays, and whites were the predominating

colors; and the horses and mustangs were alike in those points of race and speed and spirit that proclaimed

Bostil himself took the covering off his favorite. Sage King was on edge. He stood out strikingly in contrast

with the other horses. His sagegray body was as sleek and shiny as satin. He had been trained to the hour.

He tossed his head as he champed the bit, and every moment his muscles rippled under his fine skin. Proud,

Sage King was the favorite in the betting, the Indians, who were ardent gamblers, plunging heavily on him.

The rider reached a quick hand for bridle and horn, and when his foot touched the stirrup Sage King was in

the air. He came down, springyquick, graceful, and then he pranced into line with the other horses.

Bostil waved his hand. Then the troop of riders and racers headed for the startingpoint, two miles up the

valley. Macomber and Blinn, with a rider and a Navajo, were up there as the official starters of the day.

Bostil's eyes glistened. He put a, friendly hand on Cordts's shoulder, an action which showed the stress of the

moment. Most of the men crowded around Bostil. Sears and Hutchinson hung close to Cordts. And Holley,

Suddenly he touched Bostil and pointed down the slope. "There's Lucy," he said. "She's ridin' out to join the

"There," repeated Holly, and he pointed. Others of the group spoke up, having seen Lucy riding down.

Bostil had the only fieldglass there and he was using it. Across the round, magnified field of vision moved a

giant red horse, his mane waving like a flame. Lucy rode him. They were moving from a jumble of broken

rocks a mile down the slope. She had kept her horse hidden there. Bostil felt an added stir in his pulsebeat.

Certainly he had never seen a horse like this one. But the distance was long, the glass not perfect; he could

"Holley, I can't make out nothin'," he complained. "Take the glass. Give me a line on Lucy's mount."

"Boss, I don't need the glass to see that she's up on a HOSS," replied Holley, as he took the glass. He leveled

it, adjusted it to his eyes, and then looked long. Bostil grew impatient. Lucy was rapidly overhauling the

Cordts showed intense eagerness, and all the group were excited. Lucy's advent, on an unknown horse that

even her father could not disparage, was the last and unexpected addition to the suspense. They all knew that

Holley at last spoke: "She's up on a wild stallion. He's red, like fire. He's mighty bigstrong. Looks as if he

didn't want to go near the bunch. Lord! what action! . . . Bostil, I'd saya great hoss!"

There was a moment's intense silence in the group round Bostil. Holley was never known to mistake a horse

"A wild stallion!" echoed Bostil. "Ahuh! An' she calls him Wildfire. Where'd she get him? . . . Gimme thet

But all Bostil could make out was a blur. His eyes were wet. He realized now that his first sight of Lucy on

the strange horse had been clear and strong, and it was that which had dimmed his eyes.

"Holley, you use the glassan' tell me what comes off," said Bostil, as he wiped his eyes with his scarf. He

was relieved to find that his sight was clearing. "My God! if I couldn't see this finish!"

Then everybody watched the close, dark mass of horses and riders down the valley. And all waited for Holley

to speak. "They're linin' up," began the rider. "Havin' some muss, too, it 'pears. . . . Bostil, thet red hoss is

raisin' hell! He wants to fight. There! he's up in the air. . . . Boys, he's a devila hosskiller like all them

wild stallions. . . . He's plungin' at the Kingstrikin'! There! Lucy's got him down. She's handlin' him. . . .

Now they've got the King on the other side. Thet's better. But Lucy's hoss won't stand. Anyway, it's a runnin'

start. . . . Van's got the best position. Foxy Van! . . . He'll be leadin' before the rest know the race's on.. . .

Them Indian mustangs are behavin' scandalous. Guess the red stallion scared 'em. Now they're all lined up

Then Holley was silent, strained. in watching. So were all the watchers silent. Bostil saw far down the valley

Bostil uttered a deep and booming yell, which rose above the shouts of the men round him and was heard

even in the din of Indian cries. Then as quickly as the yells had risen they ceased.

"Mac's dropped the flag. It's a sure go. Now! . . . Van's out there frontinside. The King's got his stride.

Boss, the King's stretchin' out! . . . Look! Look! see thet red hoss leap! . . . Bostil, he's runnin' down the King!

I knowed it. He's like lightnin'. He's pushin' the King overoff the course! See him plunge! Lord! Lucy can't

pull him! She goes updowntossedbut she sticks like a burr. Good, Lucy! Hang on! . . . My Gawd,

Bostil, the King's thrown! He's down! . . . He comes up, off the course. The others flash by. . . . Van's out of

the race! . . . An', Bostilan', gentlemen, there ain't anythin' more to this race but a red hoss!"

Bostil's heart gave a great leap and then seemed to stand still. He was half cold, half hot.

What a horrible, sickening disappointment. Bostil rolled out a cursing query. Holley's answer was short and

sharp. The King was out! Bostil raved. He could not see. He could not believe. After all the weeks of

preparation, of excitement, of suspense only this! There was no race. The King was out! The thing did not

seem possible. A thousand thoughts flitted through Bostil's mind. Rage, impotent rage, possessed him. He

cursed Van, he swore he would kill that red stallion. And some one shook him hard. Some one's incisive

words cut into his thick, throbbing ears: "Luck of the game! The King ain't beat! He's only out!"

Then the rider's habit of mind asserted itself and Bostil began to recover. For the King to fall was hard luck.

But he had not lost the race! Anguish and pride battled for mastery over him. Even if the King were out it was

"He ain't beat!" muttered Bostil. "It ain't fair! He's run off the track by a wild stallion!"

His dimmed sight grew clear and sharp. And with a gasp he saw the moving, dark line take shape as horses.

A bright horse was in the lead. Brighter and larger he grew. Swiftly and more swiftly he came on. The bright

color changed to red. Bostil heard Holley calling and Cordts callingand other voices, but he did not

distinguish what was said. The line of horses began to bob, to bunch. The race looked close, despite what

Holley had said. The Indians were beginning to lean forward, here and there uttering a short, sharp yell.

Everything within Bostil grew together in one great, throbbing, tingling mass. His rider's eye, keen once

more, caught a gleam of gold above the red, and that gold was Lucy's hair. Bostil forgot the King.

The race was beautiful. Bostil strained his eyes. He gloried in what he sawLucy low over the neck of that

red stallion. He could see plainer now. They were coming closer. How swiftly! What a splendid race! But it

was too swiftit would not last. The Indians began to yell, drowning the hoarse shouts of the riders. Out of

the tail of his eye Bostil saw Cordts and Sears and Hutchinson. They were acting like crazy men. Strange that

horsethieves should care! The million thrills within Bostil coalesced into one great shudder of rapture. He

"Threequarters!" bowled Holley into Bostil's ear. "An' Lucy's give thet wild hoss free rein! Look, Bostil!

Bostil never had. His heart swelled. Something shook him. Was that his girlthat tight little gray burr half

hidden in the huge stallion's flaming mane? The distance had been close between Lucy and the bunched

But it lengthened. How it widened! That flame of a horse was running away from the others. And now they

were closecoming into the home stretch. A deafening roar from the onlookers engulfed all other sounds. A

Bostil saw Lucy's golden hair whipping out from the flamestreaked mane. And then he could only see that

red brute of a horse. Wildfire before the wind! Bostil thought of the leaping prairie flame, stormdriven.

On came the red stalliononon! What a tremendous stride! What a marvelous recovery! What ease! What

He flashed past, low, pointed, long, going faster every magnificent stridewinner by a dozen lengths.

Wildfire ran on down the valley far beyond the yelling crowd lined along the slope. Bostil was deaf to the

Then Bostil whirled to see where Van was with the King. Most of the crowd surged down to surround the

racers, and the yells gave way to the buzz of many voices. Some of the ranchers and riders remained near

Bostil, all apparently talking at once. Bostil gathered that Holley's Whitefoot had ran second, and the

Navajo's mustang third. It was Holley himself who verified what Bostil had heard. The old rider's hawk eyes

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

The King's glossy hide was dirty with dust and bits of cactus and brush. He was not even hot. There did not

appear to be a bruise or mark on him. He whinnied and rubbed his face against Bostil, and then, flinching, he

"Wal, Van, get it out of your system," said Bostil, kindly. He was a harder loser before a race was run than

"Thet red hoss run in on the King before the start an' scared the race out of him," replied Van, swiftly. "We

had a hunch, you know, but at thet Lucy's hoss was a surprise. I'll say, sir, thet Lucy rode her wild hoss an'

handled him. Twice she pulled him off the King. He meant to kill the King! . . . Ask any of the boys. . . . We

got started. I took the lead, sir. The King was in the lead. I never looked back till I heard Lucy scream. She

couldn't pull Wildfire. He was rushin' the Kingmeant to kill him. An' Sage King wanted to fight. If I could

only have kept him runnin'! Thet would have been a race! . . . But Wildfire got in closer an' closer. He

crowded us. He bit at the King's flank an' shoulder an' neck. Lucy pulled till I yelled she'd throw the hoss an'

kill us both. Then Wildfire jumped for us. Runnin' an' strikin' with both feet at once! Bostil, thet hoss's hell!

Then he hit us an' down we went. I had a bad spill. But the King's not hurt an' thet's a blessed wonder."

Van's story of the accident vindicated Bostil's doubts. A new horse had appeared on the scene, wild and swift

and grand, but Sage King was still unbeaten in a fair race. There would come a reckoning, Bostil grimly

Holley might as well have read his mind. "Reckon this feller ridin' up will take down the prize money,"

remarked Holley, and he pointed to a man who rode a huge, shaggy, black horse and was leading Lucy's

Bostil gazed with a strange, irresistible attraction. Never had he expected to live to see a wild stallion like this

one, to say nothing of his daughter mounted on him, with the record of having put Sage King out of the race!

A thousand pairs of eyes watched Wildfire. He pranced out there beyond the crowd of men and horses. He

did not want to come closer. Yet he did not seem to fight his rider. Lucy hung low over his neck, apparently

exhausted, and she was patting him and caressing him. There were horses and Indians on each side of the race

Bostil strode down and, waving and yelling for everybody to move back to the slope, he cleared the way and

It was then Bostil discovered that Lucy did not wear a spur and she had neither quirt nor whip. She turned

Wildfire and he came prancing on, head and mane and tail erect. His action was beautiful, springy, and every

Bostil became all eyes. He did not see his daughter as she paraded the winner before the applauding throng.

And Bostil recorded in his mind that which he would never forgeta wild stallion, with unbroken spirit; a

giant of a horse, glistening red, with mane like darkstriped, windblown flame, all muscle, all grace, all

power; a neck long and slender and arching to the small, savagely beautiful head; the jaws open, and the

thinskinned, pinkcolored nostrils that proved the Arabian blood; the slanting shoulders and the deep, broad

chest, the powerful legs and knees not too high nor too low, the symmetrical dark hoofs that rang on the little

stonesall these marks so significant of speed and endurance. A stallion with a wonderful physical

perfection that matched the savage, ruthless spirit of the desert killer of horses!

Lucy waved her hand, and the strange rider to whom Holley had called attention strode out of the crowd

Bostil's gaze took in the splendid build of this lithe rider, the cleancut face, the dark eye. This fellow had a

shiny, coiled lasso in hand. He advanced toward Wildfire. The stallion snorted and plunged. If ever Bostil

raw hate expressed by a horse he saw it then. But he seemed to be tractable to the control of the girl. Bostil

swiftly grasped the strange situation. Lucy had won the love of the savage stallion. That always had been the

secret of her power. And she had hated Sage King because he alone had somehow taken a dislike to her.

The rider walked straight up to the trembling Wildfire. When Wildfire plunged and reared up and up the rider

leaped for the bridle and with an iron arm pulled the horse down. Wildfire tried again, almost lifting the rider,

but a stinging cut from the lasso made him come to a stand. Plainly the rider held the mastery.

Bostil went forward, close, while the rider held Wildfire. Lucy was as wanfaced as a flower by moonlight.

Her eyes were dark with emotions, fear predominating. Then for Bostil the half of his heart that was human

reasserted itself. Lucy was only a girl now, and weakening. Her fear, her pitiful little smile, as if she dared not

hope for her father's approval yet could not help it, touched Bostil to the quick, and he opened his arms. Lucy

"Oh, Dad, I never knewI never dreamed Wildfirewould jump the King," Lucy faltered. "I couldn't hold

him. He was terrible. . . . It made me sick. . . . Daddy, tell me Van wasn't hurtor the King!"

"The hoss's all right an' so's Van," replied Bostil. "Don't cry, Lucy. It was a fool trick you pulled off, but you

did it great. By Gad! you sure was ridin' thet red devil. . . . An' say, it's all right with me!"

Lucy did not faint then, but she came near it. Bostil put her down and led her through the lines of admiring

When he turned again he was in time to see the strange rider mount Wildfire. It was a swift and hazardous

mount, the stallion being in the air. When he came down he tore the turf and sent it flying, and when he shot

up again he was doubled in a red knot, bristling with fiery hair, a furious wild beast, mad to throw the rider.

Bostil never heard as wild a scream uttered by a horse. Likewise he had never seen so incomparable a

horseman as this stranger. Indians and riders alike thrilled at a sight which was after their own hearts. The

rider had hooked his long spurs under the horse and now appeared a part of him. He could not be dislodged.

This was not a bucking mustang, but a fierce, powerful, fighting stallion. No doubt, thought Bostil, this fight

took place every time the rider mounted his horse. It was the sort of thing riders loved. Most of them would

not own a horse that would not pitch. Bostil presently decided, however, that in the case of this red stallion no

rider in his right senses would care for such a fight, simply because of the extraordinary strengths, activity,

The riders were all betting the horse would throw the stranger. And Bostil, seeing the gathering might of

Wildfire's momentum, agreed with them. No horseman could stick on that horse. Suddenly Wildfire tripped

in the sage, and went sprawling in the dust, throwing his rider ahead. Both man and beast were quick to rise,

but the rider had a foot in the stirrup before Wildfire was under way. Then the horse plunged, ran free, came

circling back, and slowly gave way to the rider's control. Those few moments of frenzied activity had brought

out the foam and the sweatWildfire was wet. The man pulled him in before Bostil and dismounted.

Bostil held out his hand. He liked this rider. He would have liked the frank face, less hard than that of most

riders, and the fine, dark eyes, straight and steady, even if their possessor had not come with the open sesame

"Wal, you rode him longer 'n any of us figgered " said Bostil, heartily shaking the man's hand. "I'm Bostil.

"My name's SloneLin Slone," replied the rider, frankly. "I'm a wildhorse hunter an' hail from Utah."

"Utah? How'd you ever get over? Wal, you've got a grand hossan' you put a grand rider up on him in the

Bostil hesitated. His mind was running swiftly. Back of his thoughts gathered the desire and the

determination to get possession of this horse Wildfire. He had forgotten what he might have said to this

stranger under different circumstances. He looked keenly into Slone's face and saw no fear, no subterfuge.

"Bostil, I chased this wild horse days an' weeks an' months, hundreds of milesacross the canyon an' the

"Yes. I'll tell you how later. . . . Out here somewhere I caught Wildfire, broke him as much as he'll ever be

broken. He played me out an' got away. Your girl rode alongsaved my horsean' saved my life, too. I was

in bad shape for days. But I got well an'an' then she wanted me to let her run Wildfire in the big race. I

couldn't refuse. . . . An' it would have been a great race but for the unlucky accident to Sage King. I'm sorry,

"Slone, it jarred me some, thet disappointment. But it's over," replied Bostil. "An' so thet's how Lucy found

her hoss. She sure was mysterious. . . . Wal, wal." Bostil became aware of others behind him. "Holley, shake

hands with Slone, hosswrangler out of Utah. . . . You, too, Cal Blinn. . . . An' Macomberan' Wetherby,

meet my friend hereyoung Slone. . . . An', Cordts, shake hands with a feller thet owns a grand hoss!"

Bostil laughed as he introduced the horsethief to Slone. The others laughed, too, even Cordts joining in.

There was much of the old rider daredevil spirit left in Bostil, and it interested and amused him to see Cordts

and Slone meet. Assuredly Slone had heard of the noted stealer of horses. The advantage was certainly on

Cordts's side, for he was goodnatured and pleasant while Slone stiffened, paling slightly as he faced about to

"Howdy, Slone," drawled Cordts, with hand outstretched. "I sure am glad to meet yuh. I'd like to trade the

A roar of laughter greeted this sally, all but Bostil and Slone joining in. The joke was on Bostil, and he

"Howdy, Cordts," he replied. "I'm glad to meet youso I'll know you when I see you again."

"Wal, we're all good fellers today," interposed Bostil. "An' now let's ride home an' eat. Slone, you come

The group slowly mounted the slope where the horses waited. Macomber, Wetherby, Burthwait, Blinnall

Bostil's friends proffered their felicitations to the young rider, and all were evidently prepossessed with him.

The sun was low in the west; purple shades were blotting out the gold lights down the valley; the day of the

great races was almost done. Indians were still scattered here and there in groups; others were turning out the

mustangs; and the majority were riding and walking with the crowd toward the village.

Bostil observed that Cordts had hurried ahead of the group and now appeared to be saying something

emphatic to Dick Sears and Hutchinson. Bostil heard Cordts curse. Probably he was arraigning the sullen

Sears. Cordts had acted first ratehad lived up to his word, as Bostil thought he would do. Cordts and

Hutchinson mounted their horses and rode off, somewhat to the left of the scattered crowd. But Sears

remained behind. Bostil thought this strange and put it down to the surliness of the fellow, who had lost on

the races. Bostil, wishing Sears would get out of his sight, resolved never to make another blunder like

All the horses except Wildfire stood in a bunch back on the bench. Sears appeared to be fussing with the

straps on his saddle. And Bostil could not keep his glance from wandering back to gloat over Wildfire's

Suddenly there came a halt in the conversation of the men, a curse in Holley's deep voice, a violent split in

the group. Bostil wheeled to see Sears in a menacing position with two guns leveled low.

"I'll bore you if you movethet's what!" replied Sears. His eyes, bold, steely, with a glint that Bostil knew,

vibrated as he held in sight all points before him. A vicious little sandrattlesnake about to strike!

The old rider, who stood foremost of the group' instantly obeyed, with hands up. He took no chances here, for

he alone packed a gun. With swift steps Sears moved, pulled Holley's gun, flung it aside into the sage.

"Sears, it ain't a holdup!" expostulated Bostil. The act seemed too bold, too wild even for Dick Sears.

"Ain't it?" scoffed Sears, malignantly. "Bostil, I was after the King. But I reckon I'll git the hoss thet beat

Bostil's face turned darkblood color and his neck swelled. "By Gawd, Sears! You ain't agoin' to steal this

"Shut up!" hissed the horsethief. He pushed a gun close to Bostil. "I've always laid fer you! I'm achin' to

bore you now. I would but fer scarin' this hoss. If you yap again I'll KILL YOU, anyhow, an' take a chance!"

All the terrible hate and evil and cruelty and deadliness of his kind burned in his eyes and stung in his voice.

"Sears, if it's my horse you want you needn't kill Bostil," spoke up Slone. The contrast of his cool, quiet voice

Wildfire appeared more shy of the horses back of him than of the men. Slone was able to lead him, however,

to within several paces of Sears. Then Slone dropped the reins. He still held a lasso which was loosely coiled,

Sears sheathed the lefthand gun. Keeping the group covered with the other, he moved backward, reaching

for the hanging reins. Wildfire snorted, appeared about to jump. But Sears got the reins. Bostil, standing like

a stone, his companions also motionless, could not help but admire the daring of this upland horsethief.

How was he to mount that wild stallion? Sears was noted for two qualitieshis nerve before men and his

skill with horses. Assuredly he would not risk an ordinary mount. Wildfire began to suspect Searsto look

at him instead of the other horses. Then quick as a cat Sears vaulted into the saddle. Wildfire snorted and

Sears in vaulting up had swung the gun aloft. He swept it down, but waveringly, for Wildfire had begun to

Bostil saw how fatal that single instant would have been for Sears if he or Holley had a gun.

Something whistled. Bostil saw the leap of Slone's lassothe 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

Almost swifter than Bostil's sight was the action of Sloneflashing byin the airhimself on the plunging

horse. Sears shot once, twice. Then Wildfire bolted as his rider whipped the lasso round the horn. Sears, half

Bostil stood amazed. The red stallion made short plunges. Slone reached low for the tripping reins. When he

It was characteristic of Holley that at this thrilling, tragic instant he walked over into the sage to pick up his

"Throwed a gun on me, got the drop, an' pitched mine away!" muttered Holley, in disgust. The way he spoke

Holley thought of his gun; Bostil thought of the splendid horse. The thoughts were characteristic of these

riders. The other men, however, recovering from a horrorbroken silence, burst out in acclaim of Slone's feat.

"Bostil, that rider is worthy of his horse," said Wetherby. "I think Sears would have bored you. I saw his

finger pressingpressing on the trigger. Men like Sears can't help but pull at that stage."

They watched Wildfire run down the slope, out into the valley, with a streak of rising dust out behind. They

all saw when there ceased to be that peculiar rising of dust. Wildfire appeared to shoot ahead at greater speed.

Then he slowed up. The rider turned him and faced back toward the group, coming at a stiff gallop. Soon

Wildfire breasted the slope, and halted, snorting, shaking before the men. The lasso was still trailing out

Bostil strode slowly ahead. He sympathized with the tension that held Slone; he knew why the rider's face

was gray, why his lips only moved mutely, why there was horror in the dark, strained eyes, why the lean,

There was only dust on the lasso. But Bostil knewthey all knew that none the less it had dealt a terrible

Somehow Bostil could not find words for what he wanted to say. He put a hand on the red stallionpatted

his shoulder. Then he gripped Slone close and hard. He was thinking how he would have gloried in a son like

"Nope. Cordts was on the square," replied Holley. "But he must have seen it comin' an' left Sears to his fate.

Bostil sent Holley and Farlane on ahead to find Cordts and Hutchinson, with their comrades, to tell them the

The sun was setting golden and red over the broken battlements of the canyons to the west. The heat of the

day blew away on a breeze that bent the tips of the sagebrush. A wild song drifted back from the riders to

the fore. And the procession of Indians moved along, their gay trappings and bright colors beautiful in the

When Bostil and, his guests arrived at the corrals, Holley, with Farlane and other riders, were waiting.

"Boss," said Holley, "Cordts an' his outfit never rid in. They was last seen by some Navajos headin' for the

"Thet's good!" ejaculated Bostil, in relief. "Wal boys, look after the hosses. . . . Slone, just turn Wildfire over

Farlane scratched his head and looked dubious. "I'm wonderin' how safe it'll be fer us."

Bostil nodded as if he had expected Slone to refuse to let any rider put the stallion away for the night.

Wildfire would not go into the barn, and Slone led him into one of the highbarred corrals. Bostil waited,

talking with his friends, until Slone returned, and then they went toward the house.

"I reckon we couldn't get inside Brack's place now," remarked Bostil. "But in a case like this I can scare up a

drink." Lights from the windows shone bright through the darkness under the cottonwoods. Bostil halted at

the door, as if suddenly remembering, and he whispered, huskily: "Let's keep the women from learnin' about

Then he led the way through the big door into the huge livingroom. There were hanginglights on the walls

and blazing sticks on the hearth. Lucy came running in to meet them. It did not escape Bostil's keen eyes that

she was dressed in her best white dress. He had never seen her look so sweet and pretty, and, for that matter,

so strange. The flush, the darkness of her eyes, the added something in her face, tender, thoughtful,

strongthese were new. Bostil pondered while she welcomed his guests. Slone, who had hung back, was last

in turn. Lucy greeted him as she had the others. Slone met her with awkward constraint. The gray had not left

Lucy, or any other girl, could have seen that he, was evading the truth. She flashed a look from Slone to her

"Until today we never had a big race that something dreadful didn't happen," said Lucy. "This was my

"Wal, Lucy dear," replied Bostil, as she faltered. "Nothin' came off thet'd make you feel bad. Young Slone

had a scare about his hoss. Wildfire's safe out there in the corral, an' he'll be guarded like the King an' Sarch.

Lucy's color returned and her smile, but Bostil noted that, while she was serving them and brightly responsive

to compliments, she gave more than one steady glance at Slone. She was deep, thought Bostil, and it angered

Then they had dinner, with twelve at table. The wives of Bostil's three friends had been helping Aunt Jane

prepare the feast, and they added to the merriment. Bostil was not much given to social intercoursehe

would have preferred to be with his horses and ridersbut this night he outdid himself as host, amazed his

sister Jane, who evidently thought he drank too much, and delighted Lucy. Bostil's outward appearance and

his speech and action never reflected all the workings of his mind. No one would ever know the depth of his

bitter disappointment at the outcome of the race. With Creech's Blue Roan out of the way, another horse,

swifter and more dangerous, had come along to spoil the King's chance. Bostil felt a subtly increasing

covetousness in regard to Wildfire, and this colored all his talk and action. The upland country, vast and

rangy, was for Bostil too small to hold Sage King and Wildfire unless they both belonged to him. And when

old Cal Blinn gave a ringing toast to Lucy, hoping to live to see her up on Wildfire in the grand race that must

be run with the King, Bostil felt stir in him the birth of a subtle, bitter fear. At first he mocked it.

HeBostilafraid to race! It was a lie of the excited mind. He repudiated it. Insidiously it returned. He

drowned it downsmothered it with passion. Then the ghost of it remained, hauntingly.

After dinner Bostil with the men went down to Brackton's, where Slone and the winners of the day received

"Why, it's more money than I ever had in my whole life!" exclaimed Slone, gazing incredulously at the gold.

Bostil was amused and pleased, and back of both amusement and pleasure was the old inventive, driving

"Wal, thet ain't gamblin'. These fool riders of mine will bet on the switchin' of a hoss's tail." He drew Slone a

little aside from the others, who were interested in Brackton's delivery of the different prizes. "Slone, how'd

Slone appeared surprised. "Why, I never rode for any one," he replied, slowly. "I can't stand to be tied down.

Bostil eyed the young man, wondering what he knew about the difficulties of the job offered. It was no news

to Bostil that he was at once the best and the worst man to ride for in all the uplands.

"Sure, I know. But thet doesn't make no difference," went on Bostil, persuasively. "If we got alongwal,

you'd save some of thet yellow coin you're jinglin'. A roamin' rider never builds no corral!"

"Thank you, Bostil," replied Slone, earnestly. "I'll think it over. It would seem kind of tame now to go back to

wildhorse wranglin', after I've caught Wildfire. I'll think it over. Maybe I'll do it, if you're sure I'm good

"Wal, by Gawd!" blurted out Bostil. "Holley says he'd rather you throwed a gun on him than a rope! So

Slone appeared embarrassed and kept studying the gold coins in his palm. Some one touched Bostil, who,

turning, saw Brackton at his elbow. The other men were now bantering with the Indians.

"Come now while I've got a minnit," said Brackton, taking up a lantern. "I've somethin' to show you."

Bostil followed Brackton, and Slone came along. The old man opened a door into a small room, half full of

Bostil recognized the pale face of Joel Creech. "Brack! . . . What's this? Is he dead?" Bostil sustained a

strange, incomprehensible shock. Sight of a dead man had never before shocked him.

"Nope, he ain't dead, which if he was might be good for this community," replied Brackton. "He's only fallen

Brackton set down the lantern and, pushing Slone outside, said: "Jest a minnit, son," and then he closed the

door. "Joel's been on my hands since the flood cut him off from home," said Brackton. "An' he's been some

trial. But nobody else would have done nothin' for him, so I had to. I reckon I felt sorry for him. He cried like

a baby thet had lost its mother. Then he gets wildlookin' an' raved around. When I wasn't busy I kept an eye

on him. But some of the time I couldn't, an' he stole drinks, which made him wuss. An' when I seen he was

tryin' to sneak one of my guns, I up an' gets suspicious. Once he said, 'My dad's hosses are goin' to starve, an'

I'm goin' to kill somebody!' He was out of his head an' dangerous. Wal, I was worried some, but all I could do

was lock up my guns. Last night I caught him confabin' with some men out in the dark, behind the store.

They all skedaddled except Joel, but I recognized Cordts. I didn't like this, nuther. Joel was surly an' ugly. An'

when one of the riders called him he said: 'Thet boat NEVER DRIFTED OFF. Fer the night of the flood I

went down there myself an' tied the ropes. They never come untied. Somebody cut themjest before the

floodto make sure my dad's hosses couldn't be crossed. Somebody figgered the river an' the flood. An' if

"Then a rider punched JoelI never seen whoan' Joel had a fit. I dragged him in here. An' as you see, he

"So I reckon. An' I'm afeared he'll burn us outhe's crazy on fires, anywayor do somethin' like."

And they went out to find Slone waiting. Then Bostil called his guests, and with Slone also accompanying

Bostil threw off the recurring gloom, and he was goodnatured when Lucy came to his room to say good

"Hello, daughter!" he said. "Aren't you ashamed to come facin' your poor old dad?"

"I'm harmless, child. I'm a broken man. When you put Sage King out of the race you broke me."

"Dad, that isn't funny. You make me anangry when you hint I did something underhand."

"I thought it would be fun to surprise you all. Why, you're always delighted with a surprise in a race, unless it

beats you. . . . Then, it was my great and only chance to get out in front of the King. Oh, how grand it'd have

"Never, girl! Knockin' a goodtempered hoss off his pins ain't beatin' him in a runnin'race."

Then father and daughter fought over the old score, the one doggedly, imperturbably, the other spiritedly,

with flashing eyes. It was different this time, however, for it ended in Lucy saying Bostil would never risk

another race. That stung Bostil, and it cost him an effort to control his temper.

Lucy readily began the narrative, and she had scarcely started before Bostil found himself intensely

interested. Soon he became absorbed. That was the most thrilling and moving kind of romance to him, like

"Lucy, you're sure a game kid," he said, fervidly, when she had ended. "I reckon I don't blame Slone for

She looked up with eyes as true as ever they were, yet a little sad, he thought, a little wistful and wondering,

Bostil meant to ask her then if she in any sense returned the rider's love, but unaccountably he could not put

the question. The girl was as true as everas good as gold. Bostil feared a secret that might hurt him. just as

sure as life was there and death but a step away, some rider, sooner or later, would win this girl's love. Bostil

knew that, hated it, feared it. Yet he would never give his girl to a beggarly rider. Such a man as Wetherby

ought to win Lucy's hand. And Bostil did not want to know too much at present; he did not want his

swiftmounting animosity roused so soon. Still he was curious, and, wanting to get the drift of Lucy's mind,

"Another moonstruck rider!" he said. "Your eyes are sure full moons, Lucy. I'd be ashamed to trifle with

"I'm not. And I don't believe mother was, either," replied Lucy. It was easy to strike fire from her.

"Wal, you did dead wrong to ride out there day after day meetin' Slone, becauseyoung womanif he ever

"Wal, mebbe," returned Bostil, secretly delighted and surprised at Lucy's failure to see through him. But she

was looking inward. He wondered what hid there deep in her. "But I can't stand for the nerve of thet."

Lucy did not catch the slip of tongue. She was flushing now. "He said he'd never have let me meet him out

there aloneunless hehe loved meand as our neighbors and the riders would learn of itand

"Wal, he's a square young man!" ejaculated Bostil, involuntarily. It was hard for Bostil to hide his sincerity

and impulsiveness; much harder than to hide unworthy attributes. Then he got back on the other track.

"That'll make me treat him decent, so when he rides up to ask for you I'll let him off with, 'No!"

Lucy dropped her head. Bostil would have given all he had, except his horses, to feel sure she did not care for

This time Bostil did not withhold the profane word of surprise. ". . . So he's asked you, then? Wal, wal!

Lucy slipped into her father's arms, and her slender form shook. Bostil instinctively felt what she then needed

was her mother. Her mother was dead, and he was only a rough, old, hard rider. He did not know what to

doto say. His heart softened and he clasped her close. It hurt him keenly to realize that he might have been

a better, kinder father if it were not for the fear that she would find him out. But that proved he loved her,

Bostil was positive she had meant to tell him something and suddenly changed her mind. Subtly the child

vanisheda woman remained. Lucy sat up selfpossessed once more. Some powerfully impelling thought

had transformed her. Bostil's keen sense gathered that what she would not tell was not hers to reveal. For

"Days ago I told him I cared for him, she went on. "But I forbade him to speak of it to me. He promised. I

wanted to wait till after the racetill after I had found courage to confess to you. He broke his word. . . .

The slow scarlet welled into Lucy's face and her eyes grew shamed, but bravely she kept facing her father.

"Hehe pulled me offhe hugged mehe kkissed me. . . . Oh, it was dreadfulshameful! . . . Then I

gave him backsomesomething he had given me. And I told him II hated himand I told him, 'No!'"

Bostil stroked the bright head. What a quandary for a thickskulled old horseman! "Wal, it seems to me

Slone didn't act so bad, considerin'. You'd told him you cared for him. If it wasn't for thet! . . . I remember I

did much the same to your mother. She raised the devil, but I never seen as she cared any less for me."

"I'll never forgive him," Lucy cried, passionately. "I hate him. A man who breaks his word in one thing will

Bostil sadly realized that his little girl had reached womanhood and love, and with them the sweet, bitter

pangs of life. He realized also that here was a crisis when a wordan unjust or lying word from him would

forever ruin any hope that might still exist for Slone. Bostil realized this acutely, but the realization was not

"Wal, listen. I'm bound to confess your new rider is sure swift. An', Lucy, today if he hadn't been as swift

She grew as white as her dress. "Oh, Dad! I KNEW something had happened," she cried, reaching for him.

Then Bostil told her how Dick Sears had menaced himhow Slone had foiled the horsethief. He told the

story bluntly, but eloquently, with all a rider's praise. Lucy rose with hands pressed against her breast. When

had Bostil seen eyes like thosedark, shining, wonderful? Ah! he remembered her mother's onceonly

Bostil stared after her. "Dn me!" he swore, as he threw a boot against the wall. "I reckon I'll never let her

Slone lay wide awake under an open window, watching the stars glimmer through the rustling foliage of the

cottonwoods. Somewhere a lonesome hound bayed. Very faintly came the silvery tinkle of running water.

For five days Slone had been a guest of Bostil's, and the whole five days had been torment.

On the morning of the day after the races Lucy had confronted him. Would he ever forget her eyesher

voice? "Bless you for saving my dad!" she had said. "It was brave. . . . But don't let dad fool you. Don't

believe in his kindness. Above all, don't ride for him! He only wants Wildfire, and if he doesn't get him he'll

That speech of Lucy's had made the succeeding days hard for Slone. Bostil loaded him with gifts and

kindnesses, and never ceased importuning him to accept his offers. But for Lucy, Slone would have accepted.

It was she who cast the first doubt of Bostil into his mind. Lucy averred that her father was splendid and good

The great stallion that Slone had nearly sacrificed his life to catch was like a thorn in the rider's flesh. Slone

lay there in the darkness, restless, hot, rolling from side to side, or staring out at the starstudded

skymiserably unhappy all on account of that horse. Almost he hated him. What pride he had felt in

Wildfire! How he had gloried in the gift of the stallion to Lucy! Then, on the morning of the race had come

that unexpected, incomprehensible and wild act of which he had been guilty. Yet not to save his life, his soul,

could he regret it! Was it he who had been responsible, or an unknown savage within him? He had kept his

word to Lucy, when day after day he had burned with love until that fatal moment when the touch of her, as

he lifted her to Wildfire's saddle, had made a madman out of him. He had swept her into his arms and held

her breast to his, her face before him, and he had kissed the sweet, parting lips till he was blind.

Then he had learned what a little fury she was. Then he learned how he had fallen, what he had forfeited. In

his amaze at himself, in his humility and shame, he had not been able to say a word in his own defense. She

did not know yet that his act had been ungovernable and that he had not known what he was doing till too

late. And she had finished with: "I'll ride Wildfire in the racebut I won't have himand I won't have

For Slone, the watching of that race was a blend of rapture and despair. He lived over in mind all the time

between the race and this hour when he lay there sleepless and full of remorse. His mind was like a

racecourse with many races; and predominating in it was that swift, strange, stinging race of his memory of

What an utter fool he was to believe she had meant those tender words when, out there under the looming

monuments, she had accepted Wildfire! She had been an impulsive child. Her scorn and fury that morning of

the race had left nothing for him except footless fancies. She had mistaken love of Wildfire for love of him.

No, his case was hopeless with Lucy, and if it had not been so Bostil would have made it hopeless. Yet there

were things Slone could not fathomthe wilful, contradictory, proud and cold and unaccountably sweet

looks and actions of the girl. They haunted Slone. They made him conscious he had a mind and tortured him

with his development. But he had no experience with girls to compare with what was happening now. It

seemed that accepted fact and remembered scorn and cold certainty were somehow at variance with hitherto

unknown intuitions and instincts. Lucy avoided him, if by chance she encountered him alone. When Bostil or

Aunt Jane or any one else was present Lucy was kind, pleasant, agreeable. What made her flush red at sight

of him and then, pale? Why did she often at table or in the big livingroom softly brush against him when it

seemed she could have avoided that? Many times he had felt some inconceivable drawing power, and looked

up to find her eyes upon him, strange eyes full of mystery, that were suddenly averted. Was there any

meaning attachable to the fact that his room was kept so tidy and neat, that every day something was added to

its comfort or color, that he found fresh flowers whenever he returned, or a book, or fruit, or a dainty morsel

to eat, and once a bunch of Indian paintbrush, wild flowers of the desert that Lucy knew he loved? Most of

all, it was Lucy's eyes which haunted Sloneeyes that had changed, darkened, lost their audacious flash, and

yet seemed all the sweeter. The glances he caught, which he fancied were stolen and then derided his

fancythrilled him to his heart. Thus Slone had spent waking hours by day and night, mad with love and

remorse, tormented one hour by imagined grounds for hope and resigned to despair the next.

Upon the sixth morning of his stay at Bostil's Slone rose with something of his former will reasserting itself.

He could not remain in Bostil's home any longer unless he accepted Bostil's offer, and this was not to be

thought of. With a wrench Slone threw off the softening indecision and hurried out to find Bostil while the

Bostil was in the corral with Wildfire. This was the second time Slone had found him there. Wildfire

appeared to regard Bostil with a much better favor than he did his master. As Slone noted this a little heat

"I like your hoss," said Bostil, with gruff frankness. But a tinge of red showed under his beard.

"Bostil, I'm sorry I can't take you up on the job," rejoined Slone, swiftly. "It's been hard for me to decide.

"Why can't you?" demanded Bostil, straightening up with a glint in his big eyes. It was the first time he had

Slone felt the blood swell and boil in his veins. This Bostil could say as harsh and hard things as repute gave

"Yes, I AM sweet on Lucy, an' she won't have me," said Slone, steadily. "I asked her to let me come to you

"Wal, it's just as good you didn't come, because I might. . . ." Bostil broke off his speech and began again.

"Nothin' exceptBut that doesn't matter," replied Slone, cut to the quick by Bostil's scorn. "I'm glad you

Bostil turned to look at Wildfire once more, and he looked long. When he faced around again he was another

"Slone, I'll give you pick of a hundred mustangs an' a thousand dollars for Wildfire!"

So he unmasked his power in the face of a beggarly rider! Though it struck Slone like a thunderbolt, he felt

amused. But he did not show that. Bostil had only one possession, among all his uncounted wealth, that could

"Save your breath, Bostil," flashed Slone. "You don't know me. But let me tell youyou CAN'T BUY my

The great veins swelled and churned in Bostil's bull neck; a thick and ugly contortion worked in his face; his

Slone saw that two passions shook Bostilone, a bitter, terrible disappointment, and the other, the passion of

a man who could not brook being crossed. It appeared to Slone that the best thing he could do was to get

away quickly, and to this end he led Wildfire out of the corral to the stable courtyard, and there quickly

saddled him. Then he went into another corral for his other horse, Nagger, and, bringing him out, returned to

find Bostil had followed as far as the court. The old man's rage apparently had passed or had been smothered.

"See here," he began, in thick voice, "don't be a d fool an' ruin your chance in life. I'll"

"Bostil, my one chance was ruinedan' you know who did it," replied Slone, as he gathered Nagger's rope

and Wildfire's bridle together. "I've no hard feelin's. . . . But I can't sell you my horse. An' I can't ride for

Holley and Farlane and Van, with several other riders, had come up and were standing openmouthed. Slone

gathered from their manner and expression that anything might happen with Bostil in such a mood.

"An' supposin' we would?" returned Bostil, ominously. His huge frame vibrated with a slight start.

"Wildfire would run off with your favoritean' you wouldn't like that," answered Slone. It was his rider's hot

"You wildhoss chaser," roared Bostil, "your Wildfire may be a bloody killer, but he can't beat the King in a

This was only adding fuel to the fire. Slone saw Holley making signs that must have meant silence would be

"You're a lair!" declared Bostil, with a tremendous stride forward. Slone saw then how dangerous the man

Bostil was like a furious, intractable child whose favorite precious treasure had been broken; and he burst out

into a torrent of incoherent speech, apparently reasons why this and that were so. Slone did not make out

what Bostil meant and he did not care. When Bostil got out of breath Slone said:

"We're both wastin' talk. An' I'm not wantin' you to call me a liar twice. . . . Put your rider up on the King an'

There was a moment's silence, in which Slone took Holley's measure. The hawkeyed old rider may have

"What am I up, against here?" demanded Slone. "Am I goin' to be shot because I'm takin' my own part?

Holley, you an' the rest of your pards are all afraid of this old devil. But I'm notan' you stay out of this."

"Wal, son, you needn't git riled," replied Holley, placatingly. "I was only tryin' to stave off talk you might be

"Sorry for nothin'! I'm goin' to make this great horsetrader, this rich an' mighty rancher, this judge of grand

horses, this BOSTIL! . . . I'm goin' to make him race the King or take water!" Then Slone turned to Bostil.

That worthy evidently had been stunned by the rider who dared call him to his face. "Come on! Fetch the

Bostil struggled both to control himself and to speak. "Naw! I ain't goin' to see thet red hosskiller jump the

"Bah! you're afraid. You know there'd be no girl on his back. You know he can outrun the King an' that's why

Slone caught his breath then. He realized suddenly, at Bostil's paling face, that perhaps he had dared too

much. Yet, maybe the truth flung into this hard old rider's teeth was what he needed more than anything else.

Slone nodded a goodby to the riders, and, turning away, he led the two horses down the lane toward the

house. It scarcely needed sight of Lucy under the cottonwoods to still his anger and rouse his regret. Lucy

saw him coming, and, as usual, started to avoid meeting him, when sight of the horses, or something else,

Slone halted. Both Wildfire and Nagger whinnied at sight of the girl. Lucy took one flashing glance at them,

"Lin! Oh, don't say Dad." Lucy's face whitened and she put a swift hand upon his arma touch that thrilled

"I should say not," declared Slone, quickly lifting his hand to his face. "Must be from my cut, that blood. I

"Oh! II was sick withwith" Lucy faltered and broke off, and then drew back quickly, as if suddenly

Then Slone began to relate everything that had been said, and before he concluded his story his heart gave a

"You said that to Dad!" she cried, in amaze and fear and admiration. "Oh, Dad richly deserved it! But I wish

"Come to think of that, I don't know," replied Slone, blankly. "I started back to fetch my things out of my

"Your things? . . . Oh!" Suddenly she grew intensely white. The little freckles that had been so indistinct

stood out markedly, and it was as if she had never had any tan. One brown hand went to her breast, the other

"Lin! . . . Oh, there comes Dad! He mustn't see me. I must run. . . . Lin, don't leave Bostil's Forddon't

Then she flew round the comer of the house, to disappear. Slone stood there transfixed and thrilling. Even

Bostil's heavy tread did not break the trance, and a meeting would have been unavoidable had not Bostil

turned down the path that led to the back of the house. Slone, with a start collecting his thoughts, hurried into

the little room that had been his and gathered up his few belongings. He was careful to leave behind the gifts

of guns, blankets, gloves, and other rider's belongings which Bostil had presented to him. Thus laden, he went

outside and, tingling with emotions utterly sweet and bewildering, he led the horses down into the village.

Slone went down to Brackton's, and put the horses into a large, highfenced pasture adjoining Brackton's

house. Slone felt reasonably sure his horses would be safe there, but he meant to keep a mighty close watch

on them. And old Brackton, as if he read Slone's mind, said this: "Keep your eye on thet daffy boy, Joel

Creech. He hangs round my place, sleeps out somewheres, an' he's crazy about hosses."

Slone did not need any warning like that, nor any information to make him curious regarding young Creech.

Lucy had seen to that, and, in fact, Slone was anxious to meet this halfwitted fellow who had so grievously

offended and threatened Lucy. That morning, however, Creech did not put in an appearance. The village had

nearly returned to its normal state now, and the sleepy tenor of its way. The Indians, had been the last to go,

but now none remained. The days were hot while the sun stayed high, and only the riders braved its heat.

The morning, however, did not pass without an interesting incident. Brackton approached Slone with an offer

that he take charge of the freighting between the Ford and Durango. "What would I do with Wildfire?" was

Slone's questioning reply, and Brackton held up his hands. A later incident earned more of Slone's attention.

He had observed a man in Brackton's store, and it chanced that this man heard Slone's reply to Brackton's

offer, and he said: "You'll sure need to corral thet red stallion. Grandest hoss I ever seen!"

That praise won Slone, and he engaged in conversation with the man, who said his name was Vorhees. It

developed soon that Vorhees owned a little house, a corral, and a patch of ground on a likely site up under the

bluff, and he was anxious to sell cheap because he had a fine opportunity at Durango, where his people lived.

What interested Slone most was the man's remark that he had a corral which could not be broken into. The

price he asked was ridiculously low if the property was worth anything. An idea flashed across Slone's mind.

He went up to Vorhees's place and was much pleased with everything, especially the corral, which had been

built by a man who feared horsethieves as much as Bostil. The view from the door of the little cabin was

magnificent beyond compare. Slone remembered Lucy's last words. They rang like bells in his ears. "Don't

godon't!" They were enough to chain him to Bostil's Ford until the crack of doom. He dared not dream of

what they meant. He only listened to their music as they pealed over and over in his ears.

"It's enough an' to spare," replied the man. "An' I'd take it as a favor of you."

"Well, I'll go you," said Slone, and he laughed a little irrationally. "Only you needn't tell right away that I

The deal was consummated, leaving Slone still with half of the money that had been his prize in the race. He

felt elated. He was rich. He owned two horsesone the grandest in all the uplands, the other the

faithfulestand he owned a neat little cabin where it was a joy to sit and look out, and a corral which would

let him sleep at night, and he had money to put into supplies and furnishings, and a garden. After he drank out

of the spring that bubbled from under the bluff he told himself it alone was worth the money.

"Looks right down on Bostil's place," Slone soliloquized, with glee. "Won't he just be mad! An' Lucy! . . .

The more Slone looked around and thought, the more he became convinced that good fortune had knocked at

his door at last. And when he returned to Brackton's he was in an exultant mood. The old storekeeper gave

him a nudge and pointed underhand to a young man of ragged aspect sitting gloomily on a box. Slone

recognized Joel Creech. The fellow surely made a pathetic sight, and Slone pitied him. He looked needy and

Slone sustained the queerest shock of his life when he met the gaze of those contrasting eyes. Yet he did not

believe that his strange feeling came from sight of differentcolored eyes. There was an instinct or portent in

He purchased a bill of goods from Brackton, and, with Creech helping, carried it up to the cabin under the

bluff. Three trips were needed to pack up all the supplies, and meanwhile Creech had but few words to say,

He seemed rational enough and certainly responded to kindness. Slone found that Vorhees had left the cabin

so clean there was little cleaning to do. An open fireplace of stone required some repair and there was wood

Young Creech nodded and Slone left him there. It was not easy to catch Wildfire, nor any easier to get him

into the new corral; but at last Slone saw him safely there. And the bars and locks on the gate might have

defied any effort to open or break them quickly. Creech was standing in the doorway, watching the horses,

"Grand wild hoss! He did what Blue was agoin' to dobeat thet there dd Bostil's King!"

Creech wagged his head. He was gloomy and strange. His eyes were unpleasant to look into. His face

changed. And he mumbled. Slone pitied him the more, but wished to see the last of him. Creech stayed on,

however, and grew stranger and more talkative during the meal. He repeated things oftentalked

disconnectedly, and gave other indications that he was not wholly right in his mind. Yet Slone suspected that

Creech's want of balance consisted only in what concerned horses and the Bostils. And Slone, wanting to

learn all he could, encouraged Creech to talk about his father and the racers and the river and boat, and finally

Slone became convinced that, whether young Creech was half crazy or not, he knew his father's horses were

doomed, and that the boat at the ferry had been cut adrift. Slone could not understand why he was convinced,

but he was. Finally Creech told how he had gone down to the river only a day before; how he had found the

flood still raging, but much lower; how he had worked round the cliffs and had pulled up the rope cables to

"You see, Bostil cut them when he didn't need to," continued Creech, shrewdly. "But he didn't know the flood

was comin' down so quick. He was afeared we'd come across an' git the boat thet night. An' he meant to take

"Bostil?" queried Slone, as he gazed hard at Creech. The fellow had told that rationally enough. Slone

wondered if Bostil could have been so base. No! and yetwhen it came to horses Bostil was scarcely

Slone's query served to send Creech off on another tangent which wound up in dark, mysterious threats. Then

"What's the girl got to do with it?" he demanded, angrily. "If you want to talk to me don't use her name."

"You crazy loon!" exclaimed Slone, with impatience and disgust added to anger. "What's the use of being

Creech crouched low, his hands digging like claws into the table, as if he were making ready to spring. At

"Crazy, am I?" he yelled. "Mebbe not dn crazy! I kin tell you're gone on Lucy Bostil! I seen you with her

out there in the rocks the mornin' of the race. I seen what you did to her. An' I'm agoin' to tell it! . . . An' I'm

agoin' to ketch Lucy Bostil an' strip her naked, an' when I git through with her I'll tie her on a hoss an' fire

the grass! By Gawd! I am!" Livid and wild, he breathed hard as he got up, facing Slone malignantly.

"Crazy or not, here goes!" muttered Slone, grimly; and, leaping up, with one blow he knocked Creech half

out of the door, and then kicked him the rest of the way. "Go on and have a fit!" cried Slone. "I'm liable to

Creech got up and ran down the path, turning twice on the way. Then he disappeared among the trees.

Slone sat down. "Lost my temper again!" he said. "This has been a day. Guess I'd better cool off right now an'

stay here. . . . That poor devil! Maybe he's not so crazy. But he's wilder than an Indian. I must warn Lucy. . . .

Lord! I wonder if Bostil could have held back repairin' that boat, an' then cut it loose? I wonder? Yesterday

Slone drove the conclusion of that thought out of his consciousness before he wholly admitted it. Then he set

to work cutting the long grass from the wet and shady nooks under the bluff where the spring made the

ground rich. He carried an armful down to the corral. Nagger was roaming around outside, picking grass for

himself. Wildfire snorted as always when he saw Slone, and Slone as always, when time permitted, tried to

coax the stallion to him. He had never succeeded, nor did he this time. When he left the bundle of grass on

"You're that tame, anyhow, you hungry red devil," said Slone, jealously. Wildfire would take a bunch of

grass from Lucy Bostil's hand. Slone's feelings had undergone some reaction, though he still loved the horse.

But it was love mixed with bitterness. More than ever he made up his mind that Lucy should have Wildfire.

Several days slipped by with Slone scarcely realizing how they flew. Unaccustomed labor tired him so that he

went to bed early and slept like a log. If it had not been for the everpresent worry and suspense and longing,

in regard to Lucy, he would have been happier than ever he could remember. Almost at once he had become

attached to his little home, and the more he labored to make it productive and comfortable the stronger grew

his attachment. Practical toil was not conducive to daydreaming, so Slone felt a loss of something vague and

sweet. Many times he caught himself watching with eager eyes for a glimpse of Lucy Bostil down there

among the cottonwoods. Still, he never saw her, and, in fact, he saw so few villagers that the place began to

have a loneliness which endeared it to him the more. Then the view down the gray valley to the purple

monuments was always thrillingly memorable to Slone. It was out there Lucy had saved his horse and his

life. His keen desert gaze could make out even at that distance the great, dark monument, goldcrowned, in

the shadow of which he had heard Lucy speak words that had transformed life for him. He would ride out

there some day. The spell of those looming grand shafts of colored rock was still strong upon him.

One morning Slone had a visitorold Brackton. Slone's cordiality died on his lips before it was half uttered.

Brackton's former friendliness was not in evidence indeed, he looked at Slone with curiosity and disfavor

"So you took over the place, hey? We all figgered thet. But Vorhees was mum. Fact is, he was sure

mysterious." Brackton sat down and eyed Slone with interest. "Folks are talkin' a lot about you," he said,

"You 'pear to be a pretty mysterious kind of a feller, Slone. I kind of took a shine to you at first, an' thet's why

Brackton repeated substantially what he had said, then, pausing an instant, continued: "I've no call to give

The old man seemed fussy and nervous and patronizing and disparaging all at once.

"He got what he deserved," replied Slone, and the memory, coming on the head of this strange attitude of

"Wal, Joel tells some queer things about youfer instance, how you took advantage of little Lucy Bostil,

"Wal, Joel's a bit off, but he's not loony all the time. He's seen you an' he's tellin' it. When Bostil hears it

Slone felt the hot, sick rush of blood to his face, and humiliation and rage overtook him.

"Joel's down at my house. He had fits after you beat him, an' he 'ain't got over them yet. But he could blab to

the riders. Van Sickle's lookin' fer you. An' today when I was alone with Joel he told me some more queer

things about you. I shut him up quick. But I ain't guaranteein' I can keep him shut up."

"Slone, hev you been round these hyar partsdown among the monuments fer any considerable time?"

"If it's any of your mix, I was out on the slope among the rocks. I heard that flood comin' down long before it

Brackton averted his gaze, and abruptly rose as if the occasion was ended. "Wal, take my hunch an' leave!"

"Brackton, if you mean well, I'm much obliged," returned Slone, slowly, ponderingly. "But I'll not take the

"I'll be darned!" muttered Slone. "Funny old man. Maybe Creech's not the only loony one hereabouts."

Slone tried to laugh off the effect of the interview, but it persisted and worried him all day. 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

righthand man could not call on him for any friendly reason. Holley came up slowly, awkwardly, after the

manner of a rider unused to walking. Slone had built a little porch on the front of his cabin and a bench,

which he had covered with goatskins. It struck him a little strangely that he should bend over to rearrange

"Howdy, son!" was the rider's drawled remark. "Sure makesmepuff to climbup this mountain."

Slone turned instantly, surprised at the friendly tone, doubting his own ears, and wanting to verify them. He

"Wal, I'm right spry fer an old bird. But I can't climb wuth a dn . . . . Say, this here beats Bostil's view."

"Yes, it's fine," replied Slone, rather awkwardly, as he sat down on the porch step. What could Holley want

"Slone, you ain't holdin' it ag'in methet I tried to shut you up the other day?" he drawled, with dry

"Why, no, Holley, I'm not. I saw your point. You were right. But Bostil made me mad."

"Sure! He'd make anybody mad. I've seen riders bite themselves, they was so mad at Bostil. You called him,

an' you sure tickled all the boys. But you hurt yourself, fer Bostil owns an' runs this here Ford."

"You got yourself in bad right off, fer Bostil has turned the riders ag'in you, an' this here punchin' of Creech

Slone caught the kindly interest and intent of the rider, and it warmed him as Brackton's disapproval had

"Wal, I reckon I'd better tell you," drawled Holley, as Slone hesitated, "thet Lucy wants to know IF you beat

"She sure did. The girl's worried these days, Slone. . . . You see, you haven't been around, an' you don't know

"Brackton was here today an' he told me a good deal. I'm worried, too," said Slone, dejectedly.

"Thet hoss of yours, Wildfire, he's enough to make you hated in Bostil's camp, even if you hadn't made a fool

"What Creech swears he seen you do to Miss Lucy, out there among the rocks, where you was hid with

Wildfireis there any truth in thet?" asked Holley, earnestly. "Tell me, Slone. Folks believe it. An' it's hurt

you at the Ford. Bostil hasn't heard it yet, an' Lucy she doesn't know. But I'm figgerin' thet you punched Joel

"Wal, I knowed thet. I knowed fer a long time how Lucy cares fer you," returned the old rider, kindly.

"Wal, I am. I've been sort of a big brother to Lucy Bostil for eighteen years. I carried her in these here hands

when she weighed no more 'n my spurs. I taught her how to ridewhat she knows about hosses. An' she

knows more 'n her dad. I taught her to shoot. I know her better 'n anybody. An' lately she's been different,

"I reckon not," went on Holley, as Slone halted. "I think she cares fer you. An' I'm your friend, Slone. You're

goin' to buck up ag'in some hell round here sooner or later. An' you'll need a friend."

"ThanksHolley," replied Slone, unsteadily. He thrilled under the iron grasp of the rider's hard hand.

"Lucy Bostil. An' don't you fergit thet. I'll bet she'll raise more trouble than Bostil when she hears what Joel

Creech is tellin'. Fer she's bound to hear it. Van Sickle swears he's agoin' to tell her an' then beat you up with

"I've a hunch Lucy's guessed why you punched Joel. But she wants to know fer sure. Now, Slone, I'll tell her

"Wal, it'll be better comin' from you an' me. Take my word fer thet. I'll prepare Lucy. An' she's as good a

"It all scares me," replied Slone. He did feel panicky, and that was from thoughts of what shame might befall

Lucy. The cold sweat oozed out of every pore. What might not Bostil do? "Holley, I love the girl. So II

didn't insult her. Bostil will never understand. An' what's he goin' to do when he finds out?"

"Let Bostil beat me!" ejaculated Slone. "I think I'm willinnowthe way I feel. But I've a temper, and

"Wall leave your gun home, an' fight Bostil. You're pretty husky. Sure he'll lick you, but mebbe you could

give the old cuss a black eye." Holley laughed as if the idea gave him infinite pleasure.

"Nix! You don't know thet kid. If the old man goes after you Lucy'll care more fer you. She's jest like him in

some ways." Holley pulled out a stubby black pipe and, filling and lighting it, he appeared to grow more

thoughtful. "It wasn't only Lucy thet sent me up here to see you. Bostil had been pesterin' me fer days. But I

"Reckon you can guess. He can't sleep, thinkin' about your red hoss. None of us ever seen Bostil have sich a

bad case. He raised Sage King. But he's always been crazy fer a great wild stallion. An' here you come

"Reckon I do. Lucy says so, an' I'll back her any day. But, son, I ain't paradin' what I think. I'd git in bad

myself. Farlane an' the other boys, they're with Bostil. Van he's to blame fer thet. He's takin' a dislike to you,

right off. An' what he tells Bostil an' the boys about thet race don't agree with what Lucy tells me. Lucy says

Wildfire ran fiery an' cranky at the start. He wanted to run round an' kill the King instead of racin'. So he was

three lengths behind when Macomber dropped the flag. Lucy says the King got into his stride. She knows.

An' there Wildfire comes from behind an' climbs all over the King! . . . Van tells a different story."

"Wal, thet's neither here nor there. What you're up ag'in is this. Bostil is sore since you called him. But he

holds himself in because he hasn't given up hope of gittin' Wildfire. An', Slone, you're sure wise, ain't you,

"Wal, I'd never wasted my breath tellin' you all this if I hadn't figgered about Lucy. You've got her to think

Slone turned on Holley passionately. "You keep hintin' there's a hope for me, when I know there's none!"

"You're only a boy," replied Holley. "Son, where there's life there's hope. I ain't agoin' to tell you agin thet I

Slone could not stand nor walk nor keep still. He was shaking from head to foot.

"I gave Wildfire to her. She accepted him. It was DONE. Thenthen I lost my head an' made her mad. . . .

"Oho! I see. Slone, I was goin' to advise you to sell Wildfire all on account of Lucy. You're young an'

you'd have a big start in life if you would. But Lucy's your girl an' you give her the hoss. . . . Thet settles

"If I go away from here an' leave Wildfire for Lucydo you think she could keep him? Wouldn't Bostil take

"Wal, son, if he tried thet on Lucy she'd jump Wildfire an' hit your trail an' hang on to it till she found you."

"I'm consarned if I know," replied Holley. "Mebbe I'll think of some idee. I'll go back now. An' say, son, I

reckon you'd better hang close to home. If you meet Bostil down in the village you two'd clash sure. I'll come

"Shut up, son," interrupted the rider, dryly. "Thet's your only weakness, so far as I can see. You say too

Holley started down then, his long, clinking spurs digging into the steep path. He left Slone a prey to deep

Next day Slone worked hard all day, looking forward to nightfall, expecting that Holley would come up. He

tried to resist the sweet and tantalizing anticipation of a message from Lucy, but in vain. The rider had

immeasurably uplifted Slone's hope that Lucy, at least, cared for him. Not for a moment all day could Slone

drive away the hope. At twilight he was too eager to eattoo obsessed to see the magnificent sunset. But

The next day was worse. Slone found work irksome, yet he held to it. On the third day he rested and dreamed,

and grew doubtful again, and then moody. On the fourth day Slone found he needed supplies that he must

obtain from the store. He did not forget Holley's warning, but he disregarded it, thinking there would scarcely

There were horses standing, bridles down, before Brackton's place, and riders lounging at the rail and step.

Some of these men had been pleasant to Slone on earlier occasions. This day they seemed not to see him.

Slone was tingling all over when he went into the store. Some deviltry was afoot! He had an angry thought

that these riders could not have minds of their own. Just inside the door Slone encountered Wetherby, the

young rancher from Durango. Slone spoke, but Wetherby only replied with an insolent stare. Slone did not

glance at the man to whom Wetherby was talking. Only a few people were inside the store, and Brackton was

waiting upon them. Slone stood back a little in the shadow. Brackton had observed his entrance, but did not

greet him. Then Slone absolutely knew that for him the good will of Bostil's Ford was a thing of the past.

Presently Brackton was at leisure, but he showed no disposition to attend to Slone's wants. Then Slone

"Have you got the money?" asked Brackton, as if addressing one he would not trust.

"Yes," replied Slone, growing red under an insult that he knew Wetherby had heard.

Brackton handed out the supplies and received the money, without a word. He held his head down. It was a

singular action for a man used to dealing fairly with every one. Slone felt outraged. He hurried out of the

place, with shame burning him, with his own eyes downcast, and in his hurry he bumped square into a burly

form. Slone recoiled looked up. Bostil! The old rider was eying him with cool speculation.

Yet the query was to Slone like a blow. It brought his head up with a jerk, his glance steady and keen on

"Ahuh! I know a lot about you, Slone. . . . I heard you bought Vorhees's place, up on the bench."

"Wal, if it interests you I'll show you papers thet proves the property's mine."

"We can't agree on any deal, Bostil," replied Slone, steadily. It was not what Bostil said, but the way he said

it, the subtle meaning and power behind it, that gave Slone a sense of menace and peril. These he had been

used to for years; he could meet them. But he was handicapped here because it seemed that, though he could

meet Bostil face to face, he could not fight him. For he was Lucy's father. Slone's position, the impotence of

"Why can't we?" demanded Bostil. "If you wasn't so touchy we could. An' let me say, young feller, thet

The big hand that forced Slone back was far from gentle, and again he felt the quick rush of blood.

"Not if you talked yourself dumb!" flashed Slone. There was no use to try to keep cool with this Bostil, if he

"Race! Wal, we don't run races around here without stakes," replied Bostil, with deep scorn. "An' what can

you bet? Thet little dab of prize money is gone, an' wouldn't be enough to meet me. You're a strange one in

these parts. I've pride an' reputation to uphold. You brag of racin' with mean' you a beggarly rider! . . . You

The riders behind Bostil laughed. Wetherby's face was there in the door, not amused, but hard with scorn and

something else. Slone felt a sickening, terrible gust of passion. It fairly shook him. And as the wave subsided

"Yes, Bostil, I'm what you say," responded Slone, and his voice seemed to fill his ears. "But you're dead

The riders suddenly grew silent and intense. Bostil vibrated to that. He turned white. He more than any rider

One instant the surprise held Bostil mute and motionless. Then he seemed to expand. His huge bulk jerked

Slone saw the blow coming, made no move to avoid it. The big fist took him square on the mouth and chin

and laid him flat on the ground. Sight failed Slone for a little, and likewise ability to move. But he did not

lose consciousness. His head seemed to have been burst into rays and red mist that blurred his eyes. Then

these cleared away, leaving intense pain. He started to get up, his brain in a whirl. Where was his gun? He

had left it at home. But for that he would have killed Bostil. He had already killed one man. The thing was a

Slone gathered up the packages of supplies, and without looking at the men he hurried away. He seemed

possessed of a fury to turn and run back. Some force, like an invisible hand, withheld him. When he reached

the cabin he shut himself in, and lay on his bunk, forgetting that the place did not belong to him, alive only to

the mystery of his trouble, smarting with the shame of the assault upon him. It was dark before he composed

himself and went out, and then he had not the desire to eat. He made no move to open the supplies of food,

did not even make a light. But he went out to take grass and water to the horses. When he returned to the

cabin a man was standing at the porch. Slone recognized Holley's shape and then his voice.

"Don't talk so loud," whispered the rider in return. "I've only a minnit. . . . Herea letter from Lucy. . . . An',

Slone took the letter with trembling fingers. All the fury and gloom instantly fled. Lucy had written him! He

"Son, I'm doublecrossin' the boss, right this minnit!" whispered Holley, hoarsely. "An' the same time I'm

playin' Lucy's game. If Bostil finds out he'll kill me. I mustn't be ketched up here. But I won't lose track of

Holley slipped away stealthily in the dusk, leaving Slone with a throbbing heart.

Lucy's letter made his fingers tinglemade them so hasty and awkward that he had difficulty in kindling

blaze enough to see to read. The letter was short, written in leadpencil on the torn leaf of a ledger. Slone

could not read rapidlythose years on the desert had seen to thatand his haste to learn what Lucy said

Come at once to the bench in the cottonwoods. I'll meet you there. My heart is breaking. It's a liea

liewhat they say. I'll swear you were with me the night the boat was cut adrift. I KNOW you didn't do that.

I know who. . . . Oh, come! I will stick to you. I will run off with you. I love you!"

Slone's heart leaped to his throat, and its beating choked his utterances of rapture and amaze and dread. But

rapture dominated the other emotions. He could scarcely control the impulse to run to meet Lucy, without a

He put the precious letter inside his blouse, where it seemed to warm his breast. He buckled on his gunbelt,

A crescent moon had just tipped the bluff. The village lanes and cabins and trees lay silver in the moonlight.

A lonesome coyote barked in the distance. All else was still. The air was cool, sweet, fragrant. There

Slone kept under the dark lee of the bluff and worked around so that he could be above the village, where

there was little danger of meeting any one. Yet presently he had to go out of the shadow into the

moonblanched lane. Swift and silent as an Indian he went along, keeping in the shade of what trees there

were, until he came to the grove of cottonwoods. The grove was a black mystery lanced by silver rays. He

slipped in among the trees, halting every few steps to listen. The action, the realization had helped to make

him cool, to steel him, though never before in his life had he been so exalted. The pursuit and capture of

Wildfire, at one time the desire of his heart, were as nothing to this. Love had called himand lifeand he

knew death hung in the balance. If Bostil found him seeking Lucy there would be blood spilled. Slone quaked

at the thought, for the cold and ghastly oppression following the death he had meted out to Sears came to him

at times. But such thoughts were fleeting; only one thought really held his mindand the one was that Lucy

He found the narrow path, its white crossed by slowly moving black bars of shadow, and stealthily he

followed this, keen of eye and ear, stopping at every rustle. He well knew the bench Lucy had mentioned. It

was in a remote corner of the grove, under big trees near the spring. Once Slone thought he had a glimpse of

white. Perhaps it was only moonlight. He slipped on and on, and when beyond the branching paths that led

toward the house he breathed freer. The grove appeared deserted. At last he crossed the runway from the

spring, smelled the cool, wet moss and watercress, and saw the big cottonwood, looming dark above the other

trees. A patch of moonlight brightened a little glade just at the edge of dense shade cast by the cottonwood.

Slone's rapture vanished. He was suddenly chilled. She was not there! She might have been intercepted. He

would not see her. The disappointment, the sudden relaxation, was horrible. Then a white, slender shape

flashed from beside the black treetrunk and flew toward him. It was noiseless, like a specter, and swift as

the wind. Was he dreaming? He felt so strange. Thenthe white shape reached him and he knew.

"Lin! Lin! Oh, I'm soso glad to see you!" she whispered. She seemed breathless, keen, new to him, not in

the least afraid nor shy. Slone could only hold her. He could not have spoken, even if she had given him a

chance. "I know everythingwhat they accuse you ofhow the riders treated youhow my dad struck

you. Oh! . . . He's a brute! I hate him for that. Why didn't you keep out of his way? . . . Van saw it all. Oh, I

hate him, too! He said you lay stillwhere you fell! . . . Dear Lin, that blow may have hurt you

dreadfullyshamed you because you couldn't strike back at my dadbut it reached me, too. It hurt me. It

woke my heart. . . . Wherewhere did he hit you? Oh, I've seen him hit men! His terrible fists!"

He felt her hands softly on his face, feeling around tenderly till they found the swollen bruise on mouth and

"Ah! . . . He struck you. And II'll kiss you," she whispered. "If kisses will make it wellit'll be well!"

She seemed strange, wild, passionate in her tenderness. She lifted her face and kissed him softly again and

again and again, till the touch that had been exquisitely painful to his bruised lips became rapture. Then she

leaned back in his arms, her hands on his shoulders, whitefaced, darkeyed, and laughed up in his face,

"If I love you? . . . My God! . . . I've felt my heart die a thousand times since that mornin'whenwhen

"Lin, I didn't know," she interrupted, with sweet, grave earnestness. "I know now!"

And Slone could not but know, too, looking at her; and the sweetness, the eloquence, the noble abandon of

her avowal sounded to the depths of him. His dread, his resignation, his shame, all sped forever in the deep,

full breath of relief with which he cast off that burden. He tasted the nectar of happiness, the first time in his

life. He lifted his headnever, he knew, to lower it again. He would be true to what she had made him.

"Come in the shade," he whispered, and with his arm round her he led her to the great treetrunk. "Is it safe

"I had it out with Dadleft him licked once in his life," she replied. "Then I went to my room, fastened the

door, and slipped out of my window. I can stay out as long as I want. No one will know."

Slone's heart throbbed. She was his. The clasp of her hands on his, the gleam of her eyes, the white, daring

flash of her face in the shadow of the moonthese told him she was his. How it had come about was beyond

him, but he realized the truth. What a girl! This was the same nerve which she showed when she had run

"Tell me, then," he began, quietly, with keen gaze roving under the trees and eyes strained tight, "tell me

"Only that for some reason I'm done in Bostil's Ford. It can't be because I punched Joel Creech. I felt it before

I met Bostil at the store. He taunted me. We had bitter words. He told before all of them how the outfit I wore

you gave me. An' then I dared him to race the King. My horse an' my life against YOU!"

"Yes, I know," she whispered, softly. "It's all over town. . . . Oh, Lin! it was a grand bet! And Bostil

fourflushed, as the riders say. For days a race between Wildfire and the King had been in the air. There'll

"But, Lucy, could Bostil's wantin' Wildfire an' hatin' me because I won't sellcould that ruin me here at the

"It could. But, Lin, there's more. Oh, I hate to tell you!" she whispered, passionately. "I thought you'd know. .

"The loon!" ejaculated Slone, and he laughed low in both anger and ridicule. "Lucy, that's only a fool's talk."

"He's crazy. Oh, if I ever get him in front of me again when I'm on SarchI'llI'll. . . ." She ended with a

little gasp and leaned a moment against Slone. He felt her heart beatfelt the strong clasp of her hands. She

was indeed Bostil's flesh and blood, and there was that in her dangerous to arouse.

"Lin, the folks here are queer," she resumed, more calmly. "For long years Dad has ruled them. They see with

his eyes and talk with his voice. Joel Creech swore you cut those cables. Swore he trailed you. Brackton

believed him. Van believed him. They told my father. And hemy dadGod forgive him! he jumped at

that. The village as one person now believes you sent the boat adrift so Creech's horses could not cross and

"It isn't funny. It's terrible. . . . I know who cut those cables. . . Holley knows. . . . DAD knowsan', oh,

"My God!" gasped Slone, as the full signification burst upon him. Then his next thought was for Lucy.

"Listen, dearyou mustn't say that," he entreated. "He's your father. He's a good man every way except

when he's after horses. Then he's half horse. I understand him. I feel sorry for him. . . . An' if he's throwed the

blame on me, all right. I'll stand it. What do I care? I was queered, anyhow, because I wouldn't part with my

horse. It can't matter so much if people think I did that just to help win a race. But if they knew youryour

father did it, an' if Creech's horses starve, why it'd be a disgrace for himan' you."

"Lin Sloneyou'll accept the blame!" she whispered, with wide, dark eyes on him, hands at his shoulders.

"You're better than all of themmy rider!" she cried, fullvoiced and tremulous. "Lin, you make me love

you soitit hurts!" And she seemed about to fling herself into his arms again. There was a strangeness

about hera glory. "But you'll not take the shame of that act. For I won't let you. I'll tell my father I was with

"I will! An' he'll not kill you. Lin, Dad took a great fancy to you. I know that. He thinks he hates you. But in

his heart he doesn't. If he got hold of Wildfirewhy, he'd never be able to do enough for you. He never

could make it up. What do you think? I told him you hugged and kissed me shamefully that day."

"I sure did. And what do you think? He said he once did the same to my mother! . . . No, Lin, Dad'd never kill

you for anything except a fury about horses. All the fights he ever had were over horse deals. The two

menhehe" Lucy faltered and her shudder was illuminating to Slone. "Both of themfights over

"Lucy, if I'm ever unlucky enough to meet Bostil again I'll be deaf an' dumb. An' now you promise me you

"Then fight shy of the occasion," he rejoined, earnestly. "For that would be the end of Lin Slone!"

"I think we must wait. You wrote in your letter you'd stick to me you'd" He could not get the words out,

"If it comes to a finish, I'll go with you," Lucy returned, with passion rising again.

"Oh! to ride off with you, Lucyto have you all to myselfI daren't think of it. But that's only selfish."

"Maybe it's not so selfish as you believe. If you left the Fordnow it'd break my heart. I'd never get over

Then their lips met again and their hands locked, and they stood silent, straining toward each other. He held

the slight form, so pliant, so responsive, so alive, close to him, and her face lay hidden on his breast; and he

looked out over her head into the quivering moonlit shadows. The night was as still as one away on the desert

far from the abode of men. It was more beautiful than any dream of a night in which he had wandered far into

strange lands where wild horses were and forests lay black under moonsilvered peaks.

"We'll runthenif it comes to a finish," said Slone, huskily. "But I'll wait. I'll stick it out here. I'll take

"I told Van II gloried in being hugged by you that day," she replied, and her little defiant laugh told what

"You torment him," remonstrated Slone. "You set him against us. It would be better to keep still."

"But my blood is up!" she said, and she pounded his shoulder with her fist. "I'll fightI'll fight! . . . I couldn't

avoid Van. It was Holley who told me Van was threatening you. And when I met Van he told me how

everybody said you insulted mehad been worse than a drunken riderand that he'd beat you half to death.

So I told Van Joel Creech might have seen usI didn't doubt thatbut he didn't see that I liked being

"That was what made me so furious," she admitted, shyly. "I was surprised when you grabbed me off

Wildfire. And my heart beatbeat beat so when you hugged me. And when you kissed me II was

Slone drew a long, deep breath of utter enchantment. "You'll take back Wildfire?"

"An' now you must go," said Slone, reluctantly. "Listen. I forgot to warn you about Joel Creech. Don't ever

"He's strong, Lucy. I saw him lift bags that were hefty for me. . . . Lucy, do you ride these days?"

"I'm afraid," said Slone, nervously. "There's Creech an' Cordts both have threatened you."

"I'm afraid of Cordts," replied Lucy, with a shiver. "You should have seen him look at me raceday. It made

me hot with anger, yet weak, too, somehow. But Dad says I'm never in any danger if I watch out. And I do.

"Any horse can be tripped in the sage. You told me how Joel tried to rope Sage King. Did you ever tell your

"I forgot. But then I'm glad I didn't. Dad would shoot for that, quicker than if Joel tried to rope him. . . . Don't

Slone remembered that Holley had said he had taught Lucy how to shoot as well as ride. "You'll be

"I thought I did. But . . . never mind. Maybe I won't get put out just yet. An' when will I see you again?"

"I'llwait!" he exclaimed, with a catch in his voice. "Oh, my luck! . . . I'll wait, Lucy, every dayhopin' an'

He kissed her goodby and watched the slight form glide away, flit to and fro, white in the dark patches,

Slone stole back to the cabin and lay sleepless and tranced, watching the stars, till late that night.

All the next day he did scarcely anything but watch and look after his horses and watch and drag the hours

out and dream despite his dread. But no one visited him. The cabin was left to him that day.

It had been a hot day, with great thunderhead, black and creamy white clouds rolling down from the canyon

country. No rain had fallen at the Ford, though storms near by had cooled the air. At sunset Slone saw a

rainbow bending down, ruddy and gold, connecting the purple of cloud with the purple of horizon.

Out beyond the valley the clouds were broken, showing rifts of blue, and they rolled low, burying the heads

of the monuments, creating a wild and strange spectacle. Twilight followed, and appeared to rise to meet the

darkening clouds. And at last the gold on the shafts faded; the monuments faded; and the valley grew dark.

Slone took advantage of the hour before moonrise to steal down into the grove, there to wait for Lucy. She

came so quickly he scarcely felt that he waited at all; and then the time spent with her, sweet, fleeting,

precious, left him stronger to wait for her again, to hold himself in, to cease his brooding, to learn faith in

The next day he tried to work, but found idle waiting made the time fly swifter because in it he could dream.

In the dark of the rustling cottonwoods he met Lucy, as eager to see him as he was to see her, tender, loving,

remorsefula hundred sweet and bewildering things all so new, so unbelievable to Slone.

That night he learned that Bostil had started for Durango with some of his riders. This trip surprised Slone

and relieved him likewise, for Durango was over two hundred miles distant, and a journey there even for the

"He left no orders for me," Lucy said, "except to behave myself. . . . Is this behaving?" she whispered, and

nestled close to Slone, audacious, tormenting as she had been before this dark cloud of trouble. "But he left

orders for Holley to ride with me and look after me. Isn't that funny? Poor old Holley! He hates to

"I'm glad Holley's to look after you," replied Slone. "Yesterday I saw you tearin' down into the sage on Sarch.

I wondered what you'd do, Lucy, if Cordts or that loon Creech should get hold of you?"

"Couldn't I? Well, I just could. I'dI'd shoot Cordts. And I'd whip Joel Creech with my quirt. And if he kept

"You're a brave sweetheart," mused Slone. "Suppose you were caught an' couldn't get away. Would you leave

"Lucy, I'm a wildhorse hunter," he went on, thoughtfully, as if speaking to himself. "I never failed on a trail.

"Lin, I'll leave a trail, so never fear," she replied. "But don't borrow trouble. You're always afraid for me.

Look at the bright side. Dad seems to have forgotten you. Maybe it all isn't so bad as we thought. Oh, I hope

so! . . . How is my horse, Wildfire? I want to ride him again. I can hardly keep from going after him."

It was early during the afternoon of the next day that Slone, hearing the clipclop of unshod ponies, went

outside to look. One part of the lane he could see plainly, and into it stalked Joel Creech, leading the leanest

and gauntest ponies Slone had ever seen. A man as lean and gaunt as the ponies stalked behind.

The sight shocked Slone. Joel Creech and his father! Slone had no proof, because he had never seen the elder

Creech, yet strangely he felt convinced of it. And grim ideas began to flash into his mind. 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 racehorsesBlue

Yet he believed just this had happened. How strange he had never considered such an event as the return of

It took but an instant to strap on his belt and gun. Then Slone strode down his path, out into the lane toward

Brackton's. Whatever before boded ill to Slone had been nothing to what menaced him now. He would have a

Before Slone reached the vicinity of the store he saw riders come out to meet the Creech party. It so happened

there were more riders than usually frequented Brackton's at that hour. The old storekeeper came stumbling

out and raised his hands. The riders could be heard, loudvoiced and excited. Slone drew nearer, and the

nearer he got the swifter he strode. Instinct told him that he was making the right move. He would face this

man whom he was accused of ruining. The poor mustangs hung their heads dejectedly.

And then Slone drew dose to the excited group. Brackton held the center; he was gesticulating; his thin voice

"Creech! Whar's Peg an' the Roan? Gawd Almighty, man! You ain't meanin' them cayuses thar are all you've

There was scarcely a sound. All the riders were still. Slone fastened his eyes on Creech. He saw a gaunt,

haggard face almost black with dust worn and sadwith big eyes of terrible gloom. He saw an unkempt,

Creech stood silent in a dignity of despair that wrung Slone's heart. His silence was an answer. It was Joel

Brackton shook all over. Tears dimmed his eyestears that he had no shame for. "So help me GawdI'm

Slone had forgotten himself and possible revelation concerning him. But when Holley appeared close to him

with a significant warning look, Slone grew keen once more on his own account. He felt a hot flame inside

hima deep and burning anger at the man who might have saved Creech's horses. And he, like Brackton,

felt sorrow for Creech, and a rider's sense of loss, of pain. These horsesthese dumb brutes faithful and

sometimes devoted, had to suffer an agonizing death because of the selfishness of men.

"I reckon we'd all like to hear what come off, Creech, if you don't feel too bad to tell us," said Brackton.

"Wal, dn my old head!" exclaimed Brackton. "I'm gittin' old. Come on in. All of you! We're glad to see

The riders filed in after Brackton and the Creeches. Holley stayed close beside Slone, both of them in the

"I heerd the flood comin' thet night," said Creech to his silent and tensefaced listeners. "I heerd it miles up

the canyon. 'Peared a bigger roar than any flood before. As it happened, I was alone, an' it took time to git the

hosses up. If there'd been an Indian with meor even Joelmebbe" His voice quavered slightly, broke,

and then he resumed. "Even when I got the hosses over to the landin' it wasn't too lateif only some one had

heerd me an' come down. I yelled an' shot. Nobody heerd. The river was risin' fast. An' thet roar had begun to

make my hair raise. It seemed like years the time I waited there. . . . Then the flood came down black an'

"Next mornin' two Piutes come down. They had lost mustangs up on the rocks. All the feed on my place was

gone. There wasn't nothin' to do but try to git out. The Piutes said there wasn't no chance northno

waterno grassan' so I decided to go south, if we could climb over thet last slide. Peg broke her leg there,

an'II had to shoot her. But we climbed out with the rest of the bunch. I left it then to the Piutes. We

traveled five days west to head the canyons. No grass an' only a little water, salt at thet. Blue Roan was game

if ever I seen a game hoss. Then the Piutes took to workin' in an' out an' around, not to git out, but to find a

little grazin'. I never knowed the earth was so barren. One by one them hosses went down. . . . An' at last, I

couldn'tI couldn't see Blue Roan starvin'dyin' right before my eyesan' I shot him, too. . . . An' what

"Them Piutes will git paid if ever I can pay them. I'd parched myself but for them. . . . We circled an' crossed

them red cliffs an' then the strip of red sand, an' worked down into the canyon. Under the wall was a long

"Wal,!" burst out the profane Brackton. "Bostil's boat! . . . Say, 'ain't Joel told you yet about thet boat?"

Manifestly Brackton expected this to be staggering to Creech. But he did not even show surprise.

"There's a rider here named Slonea wildhoss wrangler," went on Brackton, "an' Joel swears this Slone cut

the boat loose so's he'd have a better chance to win the race. Joel swears he tracked this feller Slone."

For Slone the moment was fraught with many emotions, but not one of them was fear. He did not need the

sudden force of Holley's strong hand, pushing him forward. Slone broke into the group and faced Creech.

"My name's Slone. I rode in here with a wild horse, an' he won a race. Then I was blamed for this trick."

Creech's steady, gloomy eyes seemed to pierce Slone through. They were terrible eyes to look into, yet they

"Come round hyar, Joel," called Creech, sternly. His big, scaly, black hand closed on the boy's shoulder. Joel

Joel showed abject fear of his father. "He's gone on Lucyan' I seen him with her," muttered the boy.

Joel would not reply to this in speech, though that was scarcely needed to show he had lied. He seemed to

"Men, my son has done this rider dirt," said Creech. "Youall see thet. Slone never cut the boat loose. . . . An'

say, youall seem to think cuttin' thet boat loose was the crime. . . . No! Thet wasn't the crime. The crime was

keepin' the boat out of the water fer days when my hosses could have been crossed."

Slone stepped back, forgotten, it seemed to him. Both joy and sorrow swayed him. He had been exonerated.

Creech gave him a strange glance. "As I was sayin', we come on the boat fast at the head of the long stretch. I

seen the cables had been cut. An' I seen more'n thet. . . . Wal, the river was high an' swift. But this was a long

stretch with good landin' way below on the other side. We got the boat in, an' by rowin' hard an' driftin' we

got acrost, leadin' the hosses. We had five when we took to the river. Two went down on the way over. We

climbed out then. The Piutes went to find some Navajos an' get hosses. An' I headed fer the Fordmade

"Creech, was there anythin' left in thet boat?" began Brackton, with intense but pondering curiosity.

Creech made no reply to that. The gloom burned darker in his eyes. He seemed a man with a secret. He

trusted no one there. These men were all friends of his, but friends under strange conditions. His silence was

No moon showed that night, and few stars twinkled between the slowmoving clouds. The air was thick and

oppressive, full of the day's heat that had not blown away. A dry storm moved in dry majesty across the

horizon, and the sheets and ropes of lightning, blazing white behind the black monuments, gave weird and

Lucy Bostil had to evade her aunt to get out of the house, and the window, that had not been the means of exit

since Bostil left, once more came into use. Aunt Jane had grown suspicious of late, and Lucy, much as she

wanted to trust her with her secret, dared not do it. For some reason unknown to Lucy, Holley had also been

hard to manage, particularly today. Lucy certainly did not want Holley to accompany her on her nightly

rendezvous with Slone. She changed her light gown to the darker and thicker ridinghabit.

There was a longedfor, allsatisfying flavor in this night adventure something that had not all to do with

love. The stealth, the outwitting of guardians, the darkness, the silence, the riskall these called to some

deep, undeveloped instinct in her, and thrilled along her veins, cool, keen, exciting. She had the blood in her

Lucy feared she was a little late. Allaying the suspicions of Aunt Jane and changing her dress had taken time.

Lucy burned with less cautious steps. Still she had only used caution in the grove because she had promised

Slone to do so. This night she forgot or disregarded it. And the shadows were thickdarker than at any other

time when she had undertaken this venture. She had always been a little afraid of the darka fact that made

her contemptuous of herself. Nevertheless, she did not peer into the deeper pits of gloom. She knew her way

Suddenly she imagined she heard a step and she halted, still as a treetrunk. There was no reason to be afraid

of a step. It had been a surprise to her that she had never encountered a rider walking and smoking under the

trees. Listening, she assured herself she had been mistaken, and then went on. But she looked back. Did she

see a shadowdarker than othersmoving? It was only her imagination. Yet she sustained a slight chill.

The air seemed more oppressive, or else there was some intangible and strange thing hovering in it. She went

onreached the lane that divided the grove. But she did not cross at once. It was lighter in this lane; she

As she stood there, listening, keenly responsive to all the influences of the night, she received an impression

that did not have its origin in sight nor sound. And only the leaves touched herand only their dry fragrance

But Lucy was brave, and this feeling, whatever it might be, angered her. She entered the lane and stole

swiftly along toward the end of the grove. Paths crossed the lane at right angles, and at these points she went

swifter. It would be something to tell Sloneshe had been frightened. But thought of him drove away her

Then she came to a wider path. She scarcely noted it and passed on. Then came a quick rustlea swift

shadow. Between two stepsas her heart leapedviolent arms swept her off the ground. A hard hand was

Lucy tried to struggle. She could scarcely move a muscle. Iron arms wrapped her in coils that crushed her.

She tried to scream, but her lips were tightpressed. Her nostrils were almost closed between two hard

Whoever had her, she was helpless. Lucy's fury admitted of reason. Then both succumbed to a paralyzing

horror. Cordts had got her! She knew it. She grew limp as a rag and her senses dulled. She almost fainted.

The sickening paralysis of her faculties lingered. But she felt her body releasedshe was placed upon her

feetshe was shaken by a rough hand. She swayed, and but for that hand might have fallen. She could see a

tall, dark form over her, and horses, and the gloomy gray open of the sage slope. The hand left her face.

"Don't yap, girl!" This command in a hard, low voice pierced her ears. She saw the glint of a gun held before

her. Instinctive fear revived her old faculties. The horrible sick weakness, the dimness, the shaking internal

"I'llbequiet!" she faltered. She knew what her father had always feared had come to pass. And though

she had been told to put no value on her life, in that event, she could not run. All in an instantwhen life had

The man moved back a step. He was tall, gaunt, ragged. But not like Cordts! Never would she forget Cordts.

She peered up at him. In the dim light of the few stars she recognized Joel Creech's father.

"Oh, thank God!" she whispered, in the shock of blessed relief. I thoughtyou wereCordts!"

Lucy awoke to realities. Something evil menaced her, even though this man was not Cordts. Her mind could

not grasp it. She was amazed stunned. She struggled to speak, yet to keep within that warning command.

"Whaton earthdoes thismean?" she gasped, very low. She had no sense of fear of Creech. Once, when

he and her father had been friends, she had been a favorite of Creech's. When a little girl she had ridden his

knee many times. Between Creech and Cordts there was immeasurable distance. Yet she had been violently

Creech leaned down. His gaunt face, lighted by terrible eyes, made her recoil. "Bostil ruined mean' killed

my hosses," he whispered, grimly. "An' I'm takin' you away. An' I'll hold you in ransom for the King an'

"Oh!" cried Lucy, in startling surprise that yet held a pang. "Oh, Creech! . . . Then you mean me no harm!"

The man straightened up and stood a moment, darkly silent, as if her query had presented a new aspect of the

case. "Lucy Bostil, I'm a broken man an' wild an' full of hate. But God knows I never thought of thetof

harm to you. . . . No, child, I won't harm you. But you must obey an' go quietly, for there's a devil in me."

"Down in the canyons, where no one can track me," he said. "It'll be hard goin' fer you, child, an' hard fare. . .

. But I'm strikin' at Bostil's heart as he has broken mine. I'll send him word. An' I'll tell him if he won't give

"Oh, Creechbut you wouldn't!" she whispered, and her hand went to his brawny arm.

"Lucy, in thet case I'd make as poor a blackguard as anythin' else I've been," he said, forlornly. "But I'm

"Creech, I'm afraid he won't. You'd better give me up. Let me go back. I'll never tell. I don't blame you. I

think you're square. My dad is. . . . But, oh, don't make ME suffer! You used toto care for me, when I was

"Thet ain't no use," he replied. "Don't talk no more. . . . Git up hyar now an' ride in front of me."

He led her to a lean mustang. Lucy swung into the saddle. She thought how singular a coincidence it was that

she had worn a ridinghabit. It was dark and thick, and comfortable for riding. Suppose she had worn the

flimsy dress, in which she had met Slone every night save this one? Thought of Slone gave her a pang. He

would wait and wait and wait. He would go back to his cabin, not knowing what had befallen her.

Suddenly Lucy noticed another man, near at hand, holding two mustangs. He mounted, rode before her, and

then she recognized Joel Creech. Assurance of this brought back something of the dread. But the father could

And Lucy found herself riding single file, with two men and a packhorse, out upon the windy, dark sage

slope. They faced the direction of the monuments, looming now and then so weirdly black and grand against

Ever since Lucy had reached her teens there had been predictions that she would be kidnapped, and now the

thing had come to pass. She was in danger, she knew, but in infinitely less than had any other wild character

of the uplands been her captor. She believed, if she went quietly and obediently with Creech, that she would

be, at least, safe from harm. It was hard luck for Bostil, she thought, but no worse than he deserved.

Retribution had overtaken him. How terribly hard he would take the loss of his horses! Lucy wondered if he

really ever would part with the King, even to save her from privation and peril. Bostil was more likely to trail

her with his riders and to kill the Creeches than to concede their demands. Perhaps, though, that threat to sell

The horses trotted and swung up over the slope, turning gradually, evidently to make a wide detour round the

Ford, until Lucy's back was toward the monuments. Before her stretched the bleak, barren, dark desert, and

through the opaque gloom she could see nothing. Lucy knew she was headed for the north, toward the wild

canyons, unknown to the riders. Cordts and his gang hid in there. What might not happen if the Creeches fell

in with Cordts? Lucy's confidence sustained a check. Still, she remembered the Creeches were like Indians.

And what would Slone do? He would ride out on her trail. Lucy shivered for the Creeches if Slone ever

caught up with them, and remembering his wildhorsehunter's skill at tracking, and the fleet and tireless

Wildfire, she grew convinced that Creech could not long hold her captive. For Slone would be wary. He

would give no sign of his pursuit. He would steal upon the Creeches in the dark and Lucy shivered again.

So as she rode on Lucy's mind was full. She was used to riding, and in the motion of a horse there was

something in harmony with her blood. Even now, with worry and dread and plotting strong upon her, habit

had such power over her that riding made the hours fleet. She was surprised to be halted, to see dimly low,

"Reckon hyar's the rocks. An' you sleep some, fer you'll need it." He spread a blanket, laid her saddle at the

head of it, and dropped another blanket. "What I want to know isshall I tie you up or not?" asked Creech.

Lucy pondered. She divined some fineness of feeling in this coarse man. He wanted to spare her not only

pain, but the necessity of watchful eyes on her every moment. Lucy did not like to promise not to try to

escape, if opportunity presented. Still, she reasoned, that once deep in the canyons, where she would be in

another day, she would be worse off if she did get away. The memory of Cordts's cavernous, hungry eyes

"Creech, if I give my word not to try to get away, would you believe me?" she asked.

Lucy did as she was bidden and pulled the blanket over her. The place was gloomy and still. She heard the

sound of mustangs' teeth on grass, and the soft footfalls of the men. Presently these sounds ceased. A cold

wind blew over her face and rustled in the sage near her. Gradually the chill passed away, and a stealing

warmth took its place. Her eyes grew tired. What had happened to her? With eyes closed she thought it was

all a dream. Then the feeling of the hard saddle as a pillow under her head told her she was indeed far from

her comfortable little room. What would poor Aunt Jane do in the morning when she discovered who was

missing? What would Holley do? When would Bostil return? It might be soon and it might be days. And

SloneLucy felt sorriest for him. For he loved her best. She thrilled at thought of Slone on that grand

horseon her Wildfire. And with her mind running on and on, seemingly making sleep impossible, the

thoughts at last became dreams. Lucy awakened at dawn. One hand ached with cold, for it had been outside

the blanket. Her hard bed had cramped her muscles. She heard the crackling of fire and smelled cedar smoke.

Lucy got up then. Both men saw her, but made no comment. In that cold, gray dawn she felt her predicament

more gravely. Her hair was damp. She had ridden nearly all night without a hat. She had absolutely nothing

of her own except what was on her body. But Lucy thanked her lucky stars that she had worn the thick

ridingsuit and her boots, for otherwise, in a summer dress, her condition would soon have been miserable.

"Come an' eat," said Creech. "You have sensean' eat if it sticks in your throat."

Bostil had always contended in his arguments with riders that a man should eat heartily on the start of a trip

so that the finish might find him strong. And Lucy ate, though the coarse fare sickened her. Once she looked

curiously at Joel Creech. She felt his eyes upon her, but instantly he averted them. He had grown more

The Creeches did not loiter over the camp tasks. Lucy was left to herself. The place appeared to be a kind of

depression from which the desert rolled away to a bulge against the rosy east, and the rocks behind rose

"Git the hosses in, if you want to," Creech called to her, and then as Lucy started off to where the mustangs

grazed she heard him curse his son. "Come back hyar! Leave the girl alone or I'll rap you one!"

Lucy drove three of the mustangs into camp, where Creech began to saddle them. The remaining one, the

pack animal, Lucy found among the scrub cedars at the base of the low cliffs. When she drove him in Creech

"When you come back, work up this canyon till you git up. It heads on the pine plateau. I can't miss seein'

you, or any one, long before you git up on top. An' you needn't come without Bostil's hosses. You know what

to tell Bostil if he threatens you, or refuses to send his hosses, or turns his riders on my trail. Thet's all. Now

When he had gotten all in readiness he ordered Lucy to follow closely in his tracks. He entered a narrow cleft

in the low cliffs which wound in and out, and was thick with sage and cedars. Lucy, riding close to the

cedars, conceived the idea of plucking the little green berries and dropping them on parts of the trail where

Creech led the way without looking back, and did not seem to care where the horses stepped. The time had

not yet come, Lucy concluded, when he was ready to hide his trail. Presently the narrow cleft opened into a

lowwalled canyon, full of debris from the rotting cliffs, and this in turn opened into a main canyon with

mounting yellow crags. It appeared to lead north. Far in the distance above rims and crags rose in a long,

Creech crossed this wide canyon and entered one of the many breaks in the wall. This one was full of

splintered rock and weathered shale the hardest kind of travel for both man and beast. Lucy was nothing if

not considerate of a horse, and here she began to help her animal in all the ways a good rider knows. Much as

this taxed her attention, she remembered to drop some of the cedar berries upon hard ground or rocks. And

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

Creech had a glance of sympathy and admiration for her, but he did not say anything about the long day's

ride. Lucy never in her life before appreciated rest nor the softness of grass nor the relief at the end of a ride.

She lay still with a throbbing, burning ache in all her body. Creech, after he had turned the horses loose,

"By the way round I reckon nigh on to sixty miles," he replied. "But we ain't half thet far from where we

Then he set to work at camp tasks. Lucy shook her head when he brought her food, but he insisted, and she

had to force it down. Creech appeared rough but kind. After she had become used to the hard, gaunt, black

face she saw sadness and thought in it. One thing Lucy had noticed was that Creech never failed to spare a

Night soon mantled the gorge in blackness thick as pitch. Lucy could not tell whether her eyes were open or

shut, so far as what she saw was concerned. Her eyes seemed filled, however, with a thousand pictures of the

wild and tortuous canyons and gorges through which she had ridden that day. The ache in her limbs and the

fever in her blood would not let her sleep. It seemed that these were forever to be a part of her. For twelve

hours she had ridden and walked with scarce a thought of the nature of the wild country, yet once she lay

down to rest her mind was an endless hurrying procession of pictures narrow red clefts choked with green

growthsyellow gorges and weathered slidesdusty, treacherous divides connecting canyons jumbles of

ruined cliffs and piles of shalemiles and miles and endless winding miles yellow, low, beetling walls. And

Next day Creech climbed out of that lowwalled canyon, and Lucy saw a wild, rocky country cut by gorges,

green and bare, or yellow and cedared. The long, blackfringed line she had noticed the day before loomed

closer; overhanging this crisscrossed region of canyons. Every halfhour Creech would lead them downward

and presently climb out again. There were sand and hard ground and thick turf and acres and acres of bare

But the going was not so hardthere was not so much travel on foot for Lucyand she finished that day in

Next day Creech proceeded with care and caution. Many times he left the direct route, bidding Lucy wait for

him, and he would ride to the rims of canyons or the tops of ridges of cedar forests, and from these

vantagepoints he would survey the country. Lucy gathered after a while that he was apprehensive of what

might be encountered, and particularly so of what might be feared in pursuit. Lucy thought this strange,

These peculiar actions of Creech were more noticeable on the third day, and Lucy grew apprehensive herself.

She could not divine why. But when Creech halted on a high crest that gave a sweeping vision of the broken

tableland they had traversed Lucy made out for herself faint moving specks miles behind.

"Is some one trailing us?" asked Lucy, and she could not keep the tremor out of her voice.

"Wal, I should smile! Fer two daysan' it sure beats me. They've never had a sight of us. But they keep

"Ohdon't tell me so!" cried Lucy, suddenly terrified. Mention of Cordts had not always had power to

frighten her, but this time she had a return of that shaking fear which had overcome her in the grove the night

"Cordts all right," replied Creech. "I knowed thet before I seen him. Fer two mornin's back I seen his hoss

grazin in thet wide canyon. But I thought I'd slipped by. Some one seen us. Or they seen our trail. Anyway,

he's after us. What beats me is how he sticks to thet trail. Cordts never was no tracker. An' since Dick Sears is

dead there ain't a tracker in Cordts's outfit. An' I always could hide my tracks. . . . Beats me!"

Then she told him how she had been dropping cedar berries and bits of cedar leaves along the bare and stony

"Wal, I'm" Creech stifled an oath. Then he laughed, but gruffly. "You air a cute one. But I reckon you

didn't promise not to do thet. . . . An' now if Cordts gits you there'll be only yourself to blame."

"Oh!" cried Lucy, frantically looking back. The moving specks were plainly in sight. "How can he know he's

"Thet I can't say. Mebbe he doesn't know. His hosses air fresh, though, an' if I can't shake him he'll find out

"Go on! We must shake him. I'll never do THAT again! . . . For God's sake, Creech, don't let him get me!"

The day ended, and the night seemed a black blank to Lucy. Another sunrise found Creech leading on,

sparing neither Lucy nor the horses. He kept on a steady walk or trot, and he picked out ground less likely to

leave any tracks. Like an old deer he doubled on his trail. He traveled down streambeds where the water left

The canyons ran like the ribs of a washboard. And they grew deep and verdant, with looming, towered

walls. That night Lucy felt lost in an abyss. The dreaming silence kept her awake many moments while sleep

had already seized upon her eyelids. And then she dreamed of Cordts capturing her, of carrying her miles

deeper into these wild and purple cliffs, of Slone in pursuit on the stallion Wildfire, and of a savage fight.

On the next day Creech traveled west. This seemed to Lucy to be far to the left of the direction taken before.

And Lucy, in spite of her utter weariness, and the necessity of caring for herself and her horse, could not but

wonder at the wild and frowning canyon. It was only a tributary of the great canyon, she supposed, but it was

different, strange, impressive, yet intimate, because all about it was overpowering, near at hand, even the

beetling crags. And at every turn it seemed impossible to go farther over that narrow and rockbestrewn

Then came hours of climbing such slopes and benches and ledges as Lucy had not yet encountered. The

grasping spikes of dead cedar tore her dress to shreds, and many a scratch burned her flesh. About the middle

of the afternoon Creech led up over the last declivity, a yellow slope of cedar, to a flat upland covered with

"We've fooled Cordts, you can be sure of thet," said Creech. "You're a game kid, an', by Gawd! if I had this

"Sure as I am of death. An' we'll make surer in crossin' this bench. It's miles to the other side where I'm to

"Look at the lanes an' trails between. All pine mats thick an' soft an' springy. Only an Indian could follow us

Lucy gazed before her under the pines. It was a beautiful forest, with trees standing far apart, yet not so far

but that their foliage intermingled. A dry fragrance, thick as a heavy perfume, blew into her face. She could

not help but think of firehow it would race through here, and that recalled Joel Creech's horrible threat.

Lucy shuddered and put away the memory. "I can't goany farther today, " she said.

Creech looked at her compassionately. Then Lucy became conscious that of late he had softened.

"You'll have to come," he said. "There's no water on this side, short of thet canyonbed. An' acrost there's

So they set out into the forest. And Lucy found that after all she could go on. The horses walked and on the

soft, springy ground did not jar her. Deer and wild turkey abounded there and showed little alarm at sight of

the travelers. And before long Lucy felt that she would become intoxicated by the dry odor. It was so strong,

so thick, so penetrating. Yet, though she felt she would reel under its influence, it revived her.

The afternoon passed; the sun set off through the pines, a blackstreaked, golden flare; twilight shortly

changed to night. The trees looked spectral in the gloom, and the forest appeared to grow thicker. Wolves

murmured, and there were wild cries of cat and owl. Lucy fell asleep on her horse. At last, sometime late in

the night, when Creech lifted her from the saddle and laid her down, she stretched out on the soft mat of pine

She did not awaken until the afternoon of the next day. The site where Creech had made his final camp

overlooked the wildest of all that wild upland country. The pines had scattered and trooped around a beautiful

park of grass that ended abruptly upon bare rock. Yellow crags towered above the rim, and under them a

yawning narrow gorge, overshadowed from above, blue in its depths, split the end of the great plateau and

opened out sheer into the head of the canyon, which, according to Creech, stretched away through that

wilderness of red stone and green clefts. When Lucy's fascinated gaze looked afar she was stunned at the

vast, billowy, bare surfaces. Every green cleft was a short canyon running parallel with this central and longer

one. The dips and breaks showed how all these canyons were connected. They led the gaze away, descending

Lucy did nothing but gaze. She was unable to walk or eat that day. Creech hung around her with a remorse he

"Nope. But he's good at findin' places. An' I told him to stick to the main canyon. Would you believe you

could ride offer this rim, straight down thar fer fifty miles, an' never git off your hoss?"

"Wal, it's so. I've done it. An' I didn't want to come up thet way because I'd had to leave tracks."

Lucy regarded the man in surprise. "Oh, it's sostrange!" she said. "You'd fight for me. Yet you dragged me

for days over these awful rocks! . . . Look at me, Creech. Do I look much like Lucy Bostil?"

"You used to care for me when I was little. I remember how I used to take rides on your knee."

"Lucy, I never thought of thet when I ketched you. You was only a means to an end. Bostil hated me. He

"Creech, I'm not defending Dad. He'she's no good where horses are concerned. I know he wronged you.

Then why didn't you wait and meet him like a man instead of dragging me to this misery?"

"Wal, I never thought of thet, either. I wished I had." He grew gloomier then and relapsed into silent

Lucy felt better next day, and offered to help Creech at the few camp duties. He would not let her. There was

nothing to do but rest and wait, and the idleness appeared to be harder on Creech than on Lucy. He had

always been exceedingly active. Lucy divined that every hour his remorse grew keener, and she did all she

could think of to make it so. Creech made her a rude brush by gathering small roots and binding them tightly

and cutting the ends square. And Lucy, after the manner of an Indian, got the tangles out of her hair. That day

Creech seemed to want to hear Lucy's voice, and so they often fell into conversation. Once he said,

"I'm tryin' to remember somethin' I heerd at the Ford. I meant to ask you" Suddenly he turned to her with

animation. He who had been so gloomy and lusterless and dead showed a bright eagerness. "I heerd you beat

the King on a red hossa wild hoss! . . . Thet must have been a jokelike one of Joel's."

"Wal!" Creech simply blazed with excitement. "I ain't wonderin' if he did. His own girl! Lucy, come to

remember, you always said you'd beat thet gray racer. . . . Fer the Lord's sake tell me all about it."

Lucy warmed to him because, broken as he was, he could be genuinely glad some horse but his own had won

a race. Bostil could never have been like that. So Lucy told him about the raceand then she had to tell

about Wildfire, and then about Slone. But at first all of Creech's interest centered round Wildfire and the race

that had not really been run. He asked a hundred questions. He was as pleased as a boy listening to a good

story. He praised Lucy again and again. He crowed over Bostil's discomfiture. And when Lucy told him that

Slone had dared her father to race, had offered to bet Wildfire and his own life against her hand, then Creech

Lucy uttered a strange little broken sound, half laugh, half sob. "Love him! Ah!"

"An' your Dad's ag'in him! Sure Bostil'll hate any rider with a fast hoss. Why didn't the darn fool sell his

"I'd have done the same. Wal, now, when you git back home what's comin' of it all?"

Lucy shook her head sorrowfully. "God only knows. Dad will never own Wildfire, and he'll never let me

marry Slone. And when you take the King away from him to ransom methen my life will be hell, for if

"I can sure see the sense of all that," replied Creech, soberly. And he pondered.

Lucy saw through this man as if he had been an inch of crystal water. He was no villain, and just now in his

"It's one hell of a muss, if you'll excuse my talk," said Creech. "An' I don't like the looks of what I 'pear to be

throwin' in your way. . . . But see hyar, Lucy, if Bostil didn't give upor, say, he gits the King back, thet

"What good will that do?" cried Lucy, with tears in her eyes. "I don't want to lose Dad. IIlove

himmean as he is. And it'll kill me to lose Lin. Because Wildfire can beat Sage King, and that means Dad

Creech might have been plotting the happiness of his own daughter, he was so deeply in earnest.

"Wal, mebbe you don't love each other so much, after all. . . . Fast hosses mean much to a man in this hyar

country. I know, fer I lost mine! . . . But they ain't all. . . . I reckon you young folks don't love so much, after

"Thet's it. Fetch about a race, somehowone Bostil can't see an' then lie an' say the King run Wildfire off

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 Benor any racer. He loses

Creech's aspect changed. The eagerness and sympathy fled from his face, leaving it once more hard and stern.

He got up and stood a tall, dark, and gloomy man, brooding over his loss, as he watched the canyon. Still,

there was in him then a struggle that Lucy felt. Presently he bent over and put his big hand on her head. It

seemed gentle and tender compared with former contacts, and it made Lucy thrill. She could not see his face.

What did he mean? She divined something startling, and sat there trembling in suspense.

"Bostil won't lose his only girlor his favorite hoss! . . . Lucy, I never had no girl. But it seems I'm

Then he strode away toward the forest. Lucy watched him with a full heart, and as she thought of his

overcoming the evil in him when her father had yielded to it, she suffered poignant shame. This Creech was

not a bad man. He was going to let her go, and he was going to return Bostil's horses when they came. Lucy

resolved with a passionate determination that her father must make ample restitution for the loss Creech had

Upon his return, however, he seemed so strange and forbidding again that her heart failed her. Had he

reconsidered his generous thought? Lucy almost believed so. These old horsetraders were incomprehensible

in any relation concerning horses. Recalling Creech's intense interest in Wildfire and in the inevitable race to

be run between him and Sage King, Lucy almost believed that Creech would sacrifice his vengeance just to

see the red stallion beat the gray. If Creech kept the King in ransom for Lucy he would have to stay deeply

hidden in the wild breaks of the canyon country or leave the uplands. For Bostil would never let that deed go

unreckoned with. Like Bostil, old Creech was half horse and half human. The human side had warmed to

remorse. He had regretted Lucy's plight; he wanted her to be safe at home again and to find happiness; he

remembered what she had been to him when she was a little girl. Creech's other side was more complex.

Before the evening meal ended Lucy divined that Creech was dark and troubled because he had resigned

himself to a sacrifice harder than it had seemed in the first flush of noble feeling. But she doubted him no

more. She was safe. The King would be returned. She would compel her father to pay Creech horse for horse.

And perhaps the lesson to Bostil would be worth all the pain of effort and distress of mind that it had cost her.

That night as she lay awake listening to the roar of the wind in the pines a strange premonitionlike a

On the following day Creech appeared to have cast off the brooding mood. Still, he was not talkative. He

Lucy began to feel rested. That long trip with Creech had made her thin and hard and strong. She spent the

hours under the shade of a cedar on the rim that protected her from sun and wind. The wind, particularly, was

hard to stand. It blew a gale out of the west, a dry, odorous, steady rush that roared through the pinetops and

flattened the long, white grass. This day Creech had to build up a barrier of rock round his campfire, to keep

"Wal, I reckon the grass would burn back even ag'in thet wind," replied Creech. "I'd hate to see fire in the

woods now before the rains come. It's been the longest, dryest spell I ever lived through. But fer thet my

hosses This hyar's a west wind, an' it's blowin' harder every day. It'll fetch the rains."

Next day about noon, when both wind and heat were high, Lucy was awakened from a doze. Creech was

standing near her. When he turned his long gaze away from the canyon he was smiling. It was a smile at once

Creech pointed carefully with bent hand, like an Indian, and Lucy either could not get the direction or see far

"Right down along the base of thet red wall. A line of hosses. Jest like a few crawlin' ants' . . . An' now

"Positive an' sartin," he replied. "Joel's comin'. He'll be up hyar before long. I reckon we'd jest as well let him

It seemed an age to Lucy, waiting there, until she did see horses zigzagging the ridges below. They

disappeared, and then it was another age before they reappeared close under the bulge of wall. She thrilled at

sight of Sage King and Sarchedon. She got only a glimpse of them. They must pass round under her to climb

a split in the wall, and up a long draw that reached level ground back in the forest. But they were near, and

Lucy tried to wait. Creech showed eagerness at first, and then went on with his campfire duties. While in

Joel Creech, mounted on Sage King, and leading Sarchedon, was coming at a gallop. The other horses were

"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."

"Wal, Lucy, I reckon I ain't likin' this hyar. Look at Joel!" muttered Creech, and he strode out to meet his son.

Lucy ran out too, and beyond him. She saw only Sage King. He saw her, recognized her, and, whistled even

while Joel was pulling him in. For once the King showed he was glad to see Lucy. He had been having rough

treatment. But he was not windedonly hot and wet. She assured herself of that, then ran to quiet the

plunging Sarch. He came down at once, and pushed his big nose almost into her face. She hugged his great,

hot neck. He was quivering all over. Lucy heard the other horses pounding up; she recognized Two Face's

high whinny, like a squeal; and in her delight she was about to run to them when Creech's harsh voice

"I'd a good reason to run the hosses uphillthet's what!" snapped Joel. He was frothing at the mouth.

"Cordts an' Hutch rode in behind me down at thet cross canyon. They seen me. An' they're after me hard!"

Creech gave close and keen scrutiny to the strange face of his son. Then he wheeled away.

Lucy fought a sick faintness that threatened to make her useless. But she tried to help, and presently action

The Creeches made short work of that breaking of camp. But when it came to getting the horses there

appeared danger of delay. Sarchedon had led Dusty Ben and Two Face off in the grass. When Joel went for

"No. Hold the King." Creech went out after Plume, but the excited and wary horse eluded him. Then Creech

"Lucy, if Cordts gits after Sarch an' the others it'll be as well fer us," he said.

Soon they were riding into the forest, Creech leading, Lucy in the center, and Joel coming behind on the

King. Two unsaddled mustangs carrying the packs were driven in front. Creech limited the gait to the best

that the packhorses could do. They made fast time. The level forest floor, hard and springy, afforded the

A cold dread had once more clutched Lucy's heart. What would be the end of this flight? The way Creech

looked back increased her dread. How horrible it would be if Cordts accomplished what he had always

threatenedto run off with both her and the King! Lucy lost her confidence in Creech. She did not glance

again at Joel. Once had been enough. She rode on with heavy heart. Anxiety and dread and conjecture and a

gradual sinking of spirit weighed her down. Yet she never had a clearer perception of outside things. The

forest loomed thicker and darker. The sky was seen only through a green, crisscross of foliage waving in the

roaring gale. This strong wind was like a blast in Lucy's face, and its keen dryness cracked her lips.

When they rode out of the forest, down a gentle slope of windswept grass, to an opening into a canyon Lucy

was surprised to recognize the place. How quickly the ride through the forest had been made!

Creech dismounted. "Git off, Lucy. You, Joel, hurry an' hand me the little pack. . . . Now I'll take Lucy an' the

King down in hyar. You go thet way with the hosses an' make as if you was hidin' your trail, but don't. Do

Joel shook his head. He looked sullen, somber, strange. His father repeated what he had said.

"Sure. He'll ketch up with you sometime. But you needn't be afeared if he does."

"I'm agoin' with you. What d'ye mean, Dad, by this move? You'll be headin' back fer the Ford. An' we'd git

Creech evidently controlled his temper by an effort. "I'm takin' Lucy an' the King back to Bostil."

Joel echoed those words, slowly divining them. "Takin' them BOTH! The girl. . . . An' givin' up the King!"

But Creech never finished what he meant to say. Joel Creech was suddenly seized by a horrible madness. It

was then, perhaps, that the final thread which linked his mind to rationality stretched and snapped. His face

turned green. His strange eyes protruded. His jaw worked. He frothed at the mouth. He leaped, apparently to

get near his father, but he missed his direction. Then, as if sight had come back, he wheeled and made strange

gestures, all the while cursing incoherently. The father's shocked face began to show disgust. Then part of

"No, I won't!" shrieked Joel, wagging his head in spent passion. "An' you ain't agoin' to take thet girl home.

"You're crazy!" hoarsely shouted Creech, his face going black. "They allus said so. But I never believed thet."

"An' if I'm crazy, thet girl made me. . . . You know what I'm agoin' to do? . . . I'll strip her nakedan'

Lucy saw old Creech lunge and strike. She heard the sodden blow. Joel went down. But he scrambled up with

his eyes and mouth resembling those of a mad hound Lucy once had seen. The fact that he reached twice for

his gun and could not find it proved the breaking connection of nerve and sense. Creech jumped and grappled

with Joel. There was a wrestling, strained struggle. Creech's hair stood up and his face had a kind of sick fury,

and he continued to curse and command. They fought for the possession of the gun. But Joel seemed to have

superhuman strength. His hold on the gun could not be broken. Moreover, he kept straining to point the gun

at his father. Lucy screamed. Creech yelled hoarsely. But the boy was beyond reason or help, and he was

beyond over powering! Lucy saw him bend his arm in spite of the desperate hold upon it and fire the gun.

Creech's hoarse entreaties ceased as his hold on Joel broke. He staggered. His arms went up with a tragic,

terrible gesture. He fell. Joel stood over him, shaking and livid, but he showed only the vaguest realization of

the deed. His actions were instinctive. He was the animal that had clawed himself free. Further proof of his

aberration stood out in the action of sheathing his gun; he made the motion to do so, but he only dropped it in

Sight of that dropped gun broke Lucy's spell of horror, which had kept her silent but for one scream.

Suddenly her blood leaped like fire in her veins. She measured the distance to Sage King. Joel was turning.

Then Lucy darted at the King, reached him, and, leaping, was half up on him when he snorted and jumped,

not breaking her hold, but keeping her from getting up. Then iron hands clutched her and threw her, like an

Joel Creech did not say a word. His distorted face had the deriding scorn of a superior being. Lucy lay flat on

her back, watching him. Her mind worked swiftly. She would have to fight for her body and her life. Her

terror had fled with her horror. She was not now afraid of this demented boy. She meant to fight, calculating

Lucy lay perfectly still, for she knew she had been thrown near the spot where the gun lay. If she got her

hands on that gun she would kill Joel. It would be the action of an instant. She watched Joel while he watched

her. And she saw that he had his foot on the rope round Sage King's neck. The King never liked a rope. He

was nervous. He tossed his head to get rid of it. Creech, watching Lucy all the while, reached for the rope,

pulled the King closer and closer, and untied the knot. The King stood then, bridle down and quiet. Instead of

It seemed that Lucy located the gun without turning her eyes away from Joel's. She gathered all her

forcerolled over swiftlyagain got her hands on the gun just as Creech leaped like a panther upon her.

His weight crushed her flathis strength made her handhold like that of a child. He threw the gun aside.

Lucy lay face down, unable to move her body while he stood over her. Then he struck her, not a stunning

blow, but just the hard rap a cruel rider gives to a horse that wants its own way. Under that blow Lucy's spirit

rose to a height of terrible passion. Still she did not lose her cunning; the blow increased it. That blow showed

Joel to be crazy. She might outwit a crazy man, where a man merely wicked might master her.

Creech tried to turn her. Lucy resisted. And she was strong. Resistance infuriated Creech. He cuffed her

sharply. This action only made him worse. Then with hands like steel claws he tore away her blouse.

The shock of his hands on her bare flesh momentarily weakened Lucy, and Creech dragged at her until she

And Lucy saw that at the sight of her like this something had come between Joel Creech's mad motives and

their execution. Once he had loved herdesired her. He looked vague. He stroked her shoulder. His strange

eyes softened, then blazed with a different light. Lucy divined that she was lost unless she could recall his

insane fury. She must begin that terrible fight in which now the best she could hope for was to make him kill

Swift and vicious as a cat she fastened her teeth in his arm. She bit deep and held on. Creech howled like a

dog. He beat her. He jerked and wrestled. Then he lifted her, and the swing of her body tore the flesh loose

from his arm and broke her hold. Lucy half rose, crawled, plunged for the gun. She got it, too, only to have

Creech kick it out of her hand. The pain of that brutal kick was severe, but when he cut her across the bare

back with the rope she shrieked out. Supple and quick, she leaped up and ran. In vain! With a few bounds he

had her again, tripped her up. Lucy fell over the dead body of the father. Yet even that did not shake her

desperate nerve. All the ferocity of a desertbred savage culminated in her, fighting for death.

Creech leaned down, swinging the coiled rope. He meant to do more than lash her with it. Lucy's hands

flashed up, closed tight in his long hair. Then with a bellow he jerked up and lifted her sheer off the ground.

There was an instant in which Lucy felt herself swung and torn; she saw everything as a whirling blur; she

felt an agony in her wrists at which Creech was clawing. When he broke her hold there were handfuls of hair

She fell again and had not the strength to rise. But Creech was raging, and little of his broken speech was

intelligible. He knelt with a sharp knee pressing her down. He cut the rope. Nimbly, like a rider in moments

of needful swiftness, he noosed one end of the rope round her ankle, then the end of the other piece round her

wrist. He might have been tying up an unbroken mustang. Rising, he retained hold on both ropes. He moved

back, sliding them through his hands. Then with a quick move he caught up Sage King's bridle.

Creech paused a moment, darkly triumphant. A hideous success showed in his strange eyes. A

longcherished mad vengeance had reached its fruition. Then he led the horse near to Lucy.

Warily he reached down. He did not know Lucy's strength was spent. He feared she might yet escape. With

hard, quick grasp he caught her, lifted her, threw her over the King's back. He forced her down.

Lucy's resistance was her only salvation, because it kept him on the track of his old threat. She resisted all she

could. He pulled her arms down round the King's neck and tied them close. Then he pulled hard on the rope

Lucy realized that she was bound fast. Creech had made good most of his threat. And now in her mind the

hope of the death she had sought changed to the hope of life that was possible. Whatever power she had ever

had over the King was in her voice. If only Creech would slip the bridle or cut the reinsif only Sage King

Lucy could turn her face far enough to see Creech. Like a fiend he was reveling in his work. Suddenly he

With eyes on her, grinning horribly, he walked a few paces to where the long grass had not been trampled or

pressed down. The wind, whipping up out of the canyon, was still blowing hard. Creech put the gun down in

Sage King plunged. But he was not gunshy. He steadied down with a pounding of heavy hoofs. Then Lucy

could see again. A thin streak of yellow smoke rosea little snaky flamea slight crackling hiss! Then as

the wind caught the blaze there came a rushing, low roar. Fire, like magic, raced and spread before the wind

Lucy had forgotten that Creech had meant to drive her into fire. The sudden horror of it almost caused

collapse. Commotion within cold and quake and nausea and agonydeadened her hearing and darkened

her sight. But Creech's hard hands quickened her. She could see him then, though not clearly. His face

seemed inhuman, misshapen, gray. His hands pulled at her armsa last precaution to see that she was tightly

Lucy could not trust her sight. What made the King stand so still? His ears went upstiffpointed!

Creech stepped back and laid a violent hand on Lucy's garments. She benttwisted her neck to watch him.

But her sight grew no clearer. Still she saw he meant to strip her naked. He braced himself for a strong,

ripping pull. His yellow teeth showed deep in his lip. His contrasting eyes were alight with insane joy.

But he never pulled. Something attracted his attention. He looked. He saw something. The beast in him

became humanthe madness changed to rationalitythe devil to a craven! His ashen lips uttered a low,

Lucy felt the King trembling in every muscle. She knew that was flight. She expected his loud snort, and was

prepared for it when it rang out. In a second he would bolt. She knew that. She thrilled. She tried to call to

him, but her lips were weak. Creech seemed paralyzed. The King shifted his position, and Lucy's last glimpse

of Creech was one she would never forget. It was as if Creech faced burning hell!

Then the King whistled and reared. Lucy heard swift, dull, throbbing beats. Beats of a fast horse's hoofs on

the run! She felt a surging thrill of joy. She could not think. All of her blood and bone and muscle seemed to

throb. Suddenly the air split to a highpitched, wild, whistling blast. It pierced to Lucy's mind. She knew that

The King gave a mighty convulsive bound of terror. He, too, knew that whistle. And in that one great bound

he launched out into a run. Straight across the line of burning grass! Lucy felt the sting of flame. Smoke

blinded and choked her. Then clear, dry, keen wind sung in her ears and whipped her hair. The light about her

darkened. The King had headed into the pines. The heavy roar of the gale overhead struck Lucy with new and

torturing dread. Sage King once in his life was running away, bridleless, and behind him there was fire on the

For the first time in his experience Bostil found that horsetrading palled upon him. This trip to Durango was

a failure. Something was wrong. There was a voice constantly calling into his inner eara voice to which he

refused to listen. And during the five days of the return trip the strange mood grew upon him.

The last day he and his riders covered over fifty miles and reached the Ford late at night. No one expected

them, and only the men on duty at the corrals knew of the return. Bostil, much relieved to get home, went to

He awakened at a late hour for him. When he dressed and went out to the kitchen he found that his sister had

Aunt Jane did as she was bidden. Bostil finished his breakfast. But Lucy did not come.

Bostil began to feel something strange, and, going to Lucy's door, he knocked. There was no reply. Bostil

pushed open the door. Lucy was not in evidence, and her room was not as tidy as usual. He saw her white

dress thrown upon the bed she had not slept in. Bostil gazed around with a queer contraction of the heart.

That sense of something amiss grew stronger. Then he saw a chair before the open window. That window

was rather high, and Lucy had placed a chair before it so that she could look out or get out. Bostil stretched

his neck, looked out, and in the red earth beneath the window he saw fresh tracks of Lucy's boots. Then he

She came running, and between Bostil's furious questions and her own excited answers there was nothing

arrived at. But presently she spied the white dress, and then she ran to Lucy's closet. From there she turned a

Bostil could not have been shocked or hurt any more acutely by a knifethrust. He glared at his sister.

"Watch her? It wasn't possible. She'swell, she's as smart as you are. . . . Oh, I knew she'd do it! She was

Bostil strode out of the room and the house. He went through the grove and directly up the path to Slone's

The bars of the corral were down. Both Slone's horses were gone. Presently Bostil saw the black horse

There were riders in front of Brackton's. All spoke at once to Bostil, and he only yelled for Brackton. The old

"Wal, by golly, thet's news to me. . . . Bostil, there's been strange doin's lately." Brackton seemed at a loss for

words. "Mebbe Slone got out because of somethin' thet come off last night. . . . Now, Joel Creech

Bostil waited to hear no more. What did he care about the idiot Creech? He strode down the lane to the

corrals. Farlane, Van, and other riders were there, leisurely as usual. Then Holley appeared, coming out of the

barn. He, too, was easy, cool, natural, lazy. None of these riders knew what was amiss. But instantly a change

passed over them. It came because Bostil pulled a gun. "Holley, I've a mind to bore you!"

The old hawkeyed rider did not flinch or turn a shade off color. "What fer?" he queried. But his customary

Holley showed genuine surprise and distress. The other riders echoed Bostil's last word. Bostil lowered the

"I reckon what saves you is you're the only tracker thet'd have a show to find this cussed Slone."

"Wal, if she's gone, an' if he's gone, it's a cinch," replied Holley, throwing up his hands. "Boss, she

doublecrossed me same as you! . . . She promised faithful to stay in the house."

"Promises nothin'!" roared Bostil. "She's in love with this wildhoss wrangler! She met him last night!"

Bostil tossed his hands. He struggled with his rage. He had no fear that Lucy would not soon be found. But

Van left the group of riders and came close to Bostil. "It ain't an hour back thet I seen Slone ride off alone on

"What of thet?" demanded Bostil. "Sure she was waitin' somewheres. They'd have too much sense to go

"Say, Bostil, I happen to know Slone didn't see Lucy last night," interrupted Holley.

"I trusted Lucy," said Holley. "But all the same, knowin' she was in love, I jest wanted to see if any girl in

love could keep her word. . . . So about dark I went down the grove an' watched fer Slone. Pretty soon I seen

him. He sneaked along the upper end an' I follered. He went to thet bench up by the biggest cottonwood. An'

he waited a long time. But Lucy didn't come. He must have waited till midnight. Then he left. I watched him

Bostil gazed at Holley and the other riders, then back to Holley. What was the matter with this old rider?

Bostil had never seen Holley seem so strange. The whole affair began to loom strangely, darkly. Some

portent quickened Bostil's lumbering pulse. It seemed that Holley's mind must have found an obstacle to

thought. Suddenly the old rider's face changedthe bronze was blotted outa grayness came, and then a

"Bostil, mebbe you 'ain't been told yet thetthet Creech rode in yesterday. . . . He lost all his racers! He had

Bostil's thought suffered a sudden, blank halt. Then, with realization, came the shock for which he had long

Holley laughed a grim, significant laugh that curdled Bostil's blood. "Creech said a lot! But let thet go now. . .

Holley started with rapid strides down the lane. Bostil followed. And he heard the riders coming behind. A

dark and gloomy thought settled upon Bostil. He could not check that, but he held back impatience and

Holley went straight to Lucy's window. He got down on his knees to scrutinize the tracks.

"Made more 'n twelve hours ago," he said, swiftly. "She had on her boots, but no spurs. . . . Now let's see

Holley began to trail Lucy's progress through the grove, silently pointing now and then to a track. He went

"She stopped there," he said, "mebbe to listen. Looks like she wanted to cross the lane, but she didn't: here

Holley reached an intersecting path and suddenly halted stockstill, pointing at a big track in the dust.

One riving pang tore through Bostiland then he was suddenly his old self, facing the truth of danger to one

he loved. He saw beside the big track a faint imprint of Lucy's small foot. That was the last sign of her

The other riders, circling round with bent heads, all said one way or another that Slone could not have made

"Plain as if we seen it done!" exclaimed Holley. There was fire in the clear, hawk eyes.

Holley went so fast he almost ran, and he got ahead of Bostil. Finally several hundred yards out in the sage he

"Keep back; don't stamp round so close," ordered Holley. Then like a man searching for lost gold in sand and

grass he searched the ground. To Bostil it seemed a long time before he got through. When he arose there was

a dark and deadly certainty in his face, by which Bostil knew the worst had befallen Lucy.

"Four mustangs an' two men last night," said Holley, rapidly. "Here's where Lucy was set down on her feet.

Here's where she mounted. . . . An' here's the tracks of a third mantracks made this mornin'."

Bostil straightened up and faced Holley as if ready to take a deathblow. "I'm reckonin' them last is Slone's

Bostil felt swept away by a dark, whirling flame. And when it passed he lay in his barn, in the shade of the

loft, prostrate on the fragrant hay. His strength with his passion was spent. A dull ache remained. The fight

was gone from him. His spirit was broken. And he looked down into that dark abyss which was his own soul.

By and by the riders came for him, got him up, and led him out. He shook them off and stood breathing

slowly. The air felt refreshing; it cooled his hot, tired brain. It did not surprise him to see Joel Creech there,

Bostil lifted a hand for some one to speak. And Holley came a step forward. His face was haggard, but its

white tenseness was gone. He seemed as if he were reluctant to speak, to inflict more pain.

"Bostil," he began, huskily, "you're to send the Kingan' Sarchan' Ben an' Two Face an' Plume to ransom

What a strange look came into the faces of the riders! Did, they think he cared more for horseflesh than for

"Send the Kingan' all he wants. . . . An' send word fer Creech to come back to the Ford. . . . Tell him I

Bostil watched Joel Creech ride the King out upon the slope, driving the others ahead. Sage King wanted to

run. Sarchedon was wild and unruly. They passed out of sight. Then Bostil turned to his silent riders.

"Boys, seein' the King go thet way wasn't nothin'. . . . But what crucifies me isWILL THET FETCH HER

"God only knows!" replied Holley. "Mebbe notI reckon not! . . . But, Bostil, you forget Slone is out there

on Lucy's trail. Out there ahead of Joel! Slone he's a wildhoss hunterthe keenest I ever seen. Do you think

Creech can shake him on a trail? He'll kill Creech, an' he'll lay fer Joel goin' backan' he'll kill him. . . . An'

Holley laughed as if Bostil's query was the strangest thing of all that poignant day. "Naw. Slone'll lay fer Joel

"Holley, I reckon you seeclearer 'n me," said Bostil, plaintively. "'Pears as if I never had a hard knock

before. Fer my nerve's broke. I can't hope. . . . Lucy's gone! . . . Ain't there anythin' to do but wait?"

"Thet's all. Jest wait. If we went out on Joel's trail we'd queer the chance of Creech's bein' honest. An' we'd

On the day that old Creech repudiated his son, Slone with immeasurable relief left Brackton's without even a

After the first flush of elation had passed he found a peculiar mood settling down upon him. It was as if all

was not so well as he had impulsively conceived. He began to ponder over this strange depression, to think

back. What had happened to dash the cup from his lips? Did he regret being freed from guilt in the simple

minds of the villagers regret it because suspicion would fall upon Lucy's father? No; he was sorry for the

girl, but not for Bostil. It was not this new aspect of the situation at the Ford that oppressed him.

He trailed his vague feelings back to a subtle shock he had sustained in a last look at Creech's dark, somber

face. It had been the face of a Nemesis. All about Creech breathed silent, revengeful force. Slone worked out

in his plodding thought why that fact should oppress him; and it was because in striking Bostil old Creech

Slone divined itdivined it by the subtle, intuitive power of his love for Lucy. He did not reconsider what

had been his supposition before Creech's returnthat Creech would kill Bostil. Death would be no revenge.

Creech had it in him to steal the King and starve him or to do the same and worse with Lucy. So Slone

Before twilight set in Slone saw the Creeches riding out of the lane into the sage, evidently leaving the Ford.

This occasioned Slone great relief, but only for a moment. What the Creeches appeared to be doing might not

be significant. And he knew if they had stayed in the village that he would have watched them as closely as if

He got his evening meal, cared for his horses, and just as darkness came on he slipped down into the grove

for his rendezvous with Lucy. Always this made his heart beat and his nerves thrill, but tonight he was

excited. The grove seemed full of moving shadows, all of which he fancied were Lucy. Reaching the big

cottonwood, he tried to compose himself on the bench to wait. But composure seemed unattainable. The

night was still, only the crickets and the soft rustle of leaves breaking a dead silence. Slone had the ears of a

wild horse in that he imagined sounds he did not really hear. Many a lonely night while he lay watching and

waiting in the dark, ambushing a waterhole where wild horses drank, he had heard soft treads that were only

the substance of dreams. That was why, on this night when he was overstrained, he fancied he saw Lucy

coming, a silent, moving shadow, when in reality she did not come. That was why he thought he heard very

He waited. Lucy did not come. She had never failed before and he knew she would come. Waiting became

hard. He wanted to go back toward the houseto intercept her on the way. Still he kept to his post, watchful,

listening, his heart full. And he tried to reason away his strange dread, his sense of a need of hurry. For a time

he succeeded by dreaming of Lucy's sweetness, of her courage, of what a wonderful girl she was. Hours and

hours he had passed in such dreams. One dream in particular always fascinated him, and it was one in which

he saw the girl riding Wildfire, winning a great race for her life. Another, just as fascinating, but so haunting

that he always dispelled it, was a dream where Lucy, alone and in peril, fought with Cordts or Joel Creech for

more than her life. These vague dreams were Slone's acceptance of the blood and spirit in Lucy. She was

Bostil's daughter. She had no sense of fear. She would fight. And though Slone always thrilled with pride, he

At length even wilder dreams of Lucy's rare moments, when she let herself go, like a desert whirlwind, to

envelop him in all her sweetness, could not avail to keep Slone patient. He began to pace to and fro under the

big tree. He waited and waited. What could have detained her? Slone inwardly laughed at the idea that either

Holley or Aunt Jane could keep his girl indoors when she wanted to come out to meet him. Yet Lucy had

always said something might prevent. There was no reason for Slone to be concerned. He was mistaking his

thrills and excitement and love and disappointment for something in which there was no reality. Yet he could

not help it. The longer he waited the more shadows glided beneath the cottonwoods, the more faint, nameless

He waited long after he became convinced she would not come. Upon his return through the grove he reached

a point where the unreal and imaginative perceptions were suddenly and stunningly broken. He did hear a

step. He kept on, as before, and in the deep shadow he turned. He saw a man just faintly outlined. One of the

riders had been watching himhad followed him! Slone had always expected this. So had Lucy. And now it

had happened. But Lucy had been too clever. She had not come. She had found out or suspected the spy and

she had outwitted him. Slone had reason to be prouder of Lucy, and he went back to his cabin free from

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. But then it might be the Creeches. Slone

had an uneasy return of puzzling thoughts. These, however, did not hinder drowsiness, and, deciding that the

first thing in the morning he would trail the Creeches, just to see where they had gone, he fell asleep.

In the morning the bright, broad day, with its dispelling reality, made Slone regard himself differently. Things

that oppressed him in the dark of night vanished in the light of the sun. Still, he was curious about the

Creeches, and after he had done his morning's work he strolled out to take up their trail. It was not hard to

follow in the lane, for no other horses had gone in that direction since the Creeches had left.

Once up on the wide, windy slope the reach and color and fragrance seemed to call to Slone irresistibly, and

he fell to trailing these tracks just for the love of a skill long unused. Half a mile out the road turned toward

Durango. But the Creeches did not continue on that road. They entered the sage. Instantly Slone became

He followed the tracks to a pile of rocks where the Creeches had made a greasewood fire and had cooked a

meal. This was strangewithin a mile of the Ford, where Brackton and others would have housed them.

What was stranger was the fact that the trail started south from there and swung round toward the village.

Slone's heart began to thump. 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 Slone could no longer restrain conjecture and dread. He searched and searched. He got on his

knees. He crawled through the sage all around the trampled space. Suddenly his heart seemed to receive a

stab. He had found prints of Lucy's boots in the soft earth! And he leaped up, wild and fierce, needing to

He ran back to his cabin. He never thought of Bostil, of Holley, of anything except the story revealed in those

little boottracks. He packed a saddlebag with meat and biscuits, filled a canvas waterbottle, and, taking

them and his rifle, he hurried out to the corral. First he took Nagger down to Brackton's pasture and let him

in. Then returning, he went at the fiery stallion as he had not gone in many a day, roped him, saddled him,

mounted him, and rode off with a hard, grim certainty that in Wildfire was Lucy's salvation.

Four hours later Slone halted on the crest of a ridge, in the cover of sparse cedars, and surveyed a vast, gray,

He expected to find Joel Creech returning on the backtrail, and he had taken the precaution to ride on one

side of the tracks he was following. He did not want Joel to cross his trail. Slone had long ago solved the

meaning of the Creeches' flight. They would use Lucy to ransom Bostil's horses, and more than likely they

would not let her go back. That they had her was enough for Slone. He was grim and implacable.

The eyes of the wildhorse hunter had not searched that basin long before they picked out a dot which was

not a rock or a cedar, but a horse. Slone watched it grow, and, hidden himself, he held his post until he knew

the rider was Joel Creech. Slone drew his own horse back and tied him to a sagebush amidst some scant

grass. Then he returned to watch. It appeared Creech was climbing the ridge below Slone, and some distance

away. It was a desperate chance Joel ran then, for Slone had set out to kill him. It was certain that if Joel had

happened to ride near instead of far, Slone could not have helped but kill him. As it was, he desisted because

he realized that Joel would acquaint Bostil with the abducting of Lucy, and it might be that this would be

Slone was shaking when young Creech passed up and out of sight over the ridgeshaking with the deadly

grip of passion such as he had never known. He waited, slowly gaining control, and at length went back for

Then he rode boldly forth on the trail. He calculated that old Creech would take Lucy to some wild retreat in

the canyons and there wait for Joel and the horses. Creech had almost certainly gone on and would be

unaware of a pursuer so closely on his trail. Slone took the direction of the trail, and he saw a low, dark notch

in the rocky wall in the distance. After that he paid no more attention to choosing good ground for Wildfire

than he did to the trail. The stallion was more tractable than Slone had ever found him. He loved the open. He

smelled the sage and the wild. He settled down into his long, easy, swinging lope which seemed to eat up the

miles. Slone was obsessed with thoughts centering round Lucy, and time and distance were scarcely

The sun had dipped full red in a golden west when Slone reached the wall of rocks and the cleft where

Creech's tracks and Lucy's, too, marked the camp. Slone did not even dismount. Riding on into the cleft, he

wound at length into a canyon and out of that into a larger one, where he found that Lucy had remembered to

leave a trail, and down this to a break in a high wall, and through it to another winding, canyon. The sun set,

but Slone kept on as long as he could see the trail, and after that, until an intersecting canyon made it wise for

There were rich grass and sweet water for his horse. He himself was not hungry, but he ate; he was not

sleepy, but he slept. And daylight found him urging Wildfire in pursuit. On the rocky places Slone found the

cedar berries Lucy had dropped. He welcomed sight of them, but he did not need them. This man Creech

could never hide a trail from him, Slone thought grimly, and it suited him to follow that trail at a rapid trot. If

he lost the tracks for a distance he went right on, and he knew where to look for them ahead. There was a vast

difference between the cunning of Creech and the cunning of a wild horse. And there was an equal difference

between the going and staying powers of Creech's mustangs and Wildfire. Yes, Slone divined that Lucy's

salvation would be Wildfire, her horse. The trail grew rougher, steeper, harder, but the stallion kept his

eagerness and his pace. On many an open length of canyon or height of wild upland Slone gazed ahead

hoping to see Creech's mustangs. He hoped for that even when he knew he was still too far behind. And then,

suddenly, in the open, sandy flat of an intersecting canyon he came abruptly on a fresh trail of three horses,

The surprise stunned him. For a moment he gazed stupidly at these strange tracks. Who had made them? Had

Creech met allies? Was that likely when the man had no friends? Pondering the thing, Slone went slowly on,

realizing that a new and disturbing feature confronted him. Then when these new tracks met the trail that

Creech had left Slone found that these strangers were as interested in Creech's tracks as he was. Slone found

their bootmarks in the sandthe handprints where some one had knelt to scrutinize Creech's trail.

Slone led his horse and walked on, more and more disturbed in mind. When he came to a larger, bare, flat

canyon bottom, where the rock had been washed clear of sand, he found no more cedar berries. They had

been picked up. At the other extreme edge of this stony ground he found crumpled bits of cedar and cedar

berries scattered in one spot, as if thrown there by some one who read their meaning.

This discovery unnerved Slone. It meant so much. And if Slone had any hope or reason to doubt that these

strangers had taken up the trail for good, the next few miles dispelled it. They were trailing Creech.

These canyons were the hidingplaces of the horsethief. He and two of his men had chanced upon Creech's

trail; and perhaps their guess at its meaning was like Slone's. If they had not guessed they would soon learn. It

magnified Slone's task a thousandfold. He had a moment of bitter, almost hopeless realization before a more

desperate spirit awoke in him. He had only more men to killthat was all. These upland riders did not pack

rifles, of that Slone was sure. And the sooner he came up with Cordts the better. It was then he let Wildfire

choose his gait and the trail. Sunset, twilight, dusk, and darkness came with Slone keeping on and on. As long

as there were no intersecting canyons or clefts or slopes by which Creech might have swerved from his

course, just so long Slone would travel. And it was late in the night when he had to halt.

Early next day the trail led up out of the red and broken gulches to the cedared uplands. Slone saw a

blackrimmed, looming plateau in the distance. All these winding canyons, and the necks of the high ridges

That day he lost two of the horse tracks. He did not mark the change for a long time after there had been a

split in the party that had been trailing Creech. Then it was too late for him to go back to investigate, even if

that had been wise. He kept on, pondering, trying to decide whether or not he had been discovered and was

now in danger of ambush ahead and pursuit from behind. He thought that possibly Cordts had split his party,

one to trail along after Creech, the others to work around to head him off. Undoubtedly Cordts knew this

broken canyon country and could tell where Creech was going, and knew how to intercept him.

The uncertainty wore heavily upon Slone. He grew desperate. He had no time to steal along cautiously. He

must be the first to get to Creech. So he held to the trail and went as rapidly as the nature of the ground would

permit, expecting to be shot at from any clump of cedars. The trail led down again into a narrow canyon with

Wildfire's sudden break and upflinging of head and his snort preceded the crack of a rifle. Slone knew he had

been shot at, although he neither felt nor heard the bullet. He had no chance to see where the shot came from,

for Wildfire bolted, and needed as much holding and guiding as Slone could give. He ran a mile. Then Slone

was able to look about him. Had he been shot at from above or behind? He could not tell. It did not matter, so

long as the danger was not in front. He kept a sharp lookout, and presently along the right canyon rim, five

hundred feet above him, he saw a bay horse, and a rider with a rifle. He had been wrong, then, about these

riders and their weapons. Slone did not see any wisdom in halting to shoot up at this pursuer, and he spurred

Wildfire just as a sharp crack sounded above. The bullet thudded into the earth a few feet behind him. And

then over bad ground, with the stallion almost unmanageable, Slone ran a gantlet of shots. Evidently the man

on the rim had smooth ground to ride over, for he easily kept abreast of Slone. But he could not get the range.

Fortunately for Slone, broken ramparts above checked the tricks of that pursuer, and Slone saw no more of

It afforded him great relief to find that Creech's trail turned into a canyon on the left; and here, with the sun

already low, Slone began to watch the clumps of cedars and the jumbles of rock. But he was not ambushed.

Darkness set in, and, being tired out, he was about to halt for the night when he caught the flicker of a

campfire. The stallion saw it, too, but did not snort. Slone dismounted and, leading him, went cautiously

The canyon widened at a point where two breaks occurred, and the lessrestricted space was thick with cedar

and pinyon. Slone could tell by the presence of these trees and also by a keener atmosphere that he was

slowly getting to a higher attitude. This campfire must belong to Cordts or the one man who had gone on

ahead. And Slone advanced boldly. He did not have to make up his mind what to do.

But he was amazed to see several dark forms moving to and fro before the bright campfire, and he checked

himself abruptly. Considering a moment, Slone thought he had better have a look at these fellows. So he tied

Wildfire and, taking to the darker side of the canyon, he stole cautiously forward.

The distance was considerable, as he had calculated. Soon, however, he made out the shadowy outlines of

horses feeding in the open. He hugged the canyon wall for fear they might see him. As luck would have it the

night breeze was in his favor. Stealthily he stole on, in the deep shadow of the wall, and under the cedars,

until he came to a point opposite the campfire, and then he turned toward it. He went slowly, carefully,

noiselessly, and at last he crawled through the narrow aisles between thick sagebrush. Another clump of

cedars loomed up, and he saw the flickering of firelight upon the palegreen foliage.

He heard gruff voices before he raised himself to look, and by this he gauged his distance. He was close

enoughalmost too close. But as he crouched in dark shade and there were no horses near, he did not fear

When he peered out from his covert the first thing to strike and hold his rapid glance was the slight figure of a

girl. Slone stifled a gasp in his throat. He thought he recognized Lucy. Stunned, he crouched down again with

his hands clenched round his rifle. And there he remained for a long moment of agony before reason asserted

itself over emotion. Had he really seen Lucy? He had heard of a girl now and then in the camps of these men,

especially Cordts. Maybe Creech had fallen in with comrades. No, he could not have had any comrades there

but horsethieves, and Creech was above that. If Creech was there he had been held up by Cordts; if Lucy

Slone had to force himself to look again. The girl had changed her position. But the light shone upon the

men. Creech was not one of the three, nor Cordts, nor any man Slone had seen before. They were not honest

men, judging from their hard, evil looks. Slone was nonplussed and he was losing selfcontrol. Again he

lowered himself and waited. He caught the word "Durango" and "hosses" and "fer enough in," the meaning of

which was, vague. Then the girl laughed. And Slone found himself trembling with joy. Beyond any doubt

Slone stole back as he had come, reached the shadow of the wall, and drew away until he felt it safe to walk

quickly. When he reached the place where he expected to find Wildfire he did not see him. Slone looked and

looked. Perhaps he had misjudged distance and place in the gloom. Still, he never made mistakes of that

nature. He searched around till he found the cedar stump to which he had tied the lasso. In the gloom he could

not see it, and when he reached out he did not feel it. Wildfire was gone! Slone sank down, overcome. He

cursed what must have been carelessness, though he knew he never was careless with a horse. What had

happened? He did not know. But Wildfire was goneand that meant Lucy's doom and his! Slone shook with

Then, as he leaned against the stump, wet and shaking, familiar sound met his ears. It was made by the teeth

of a grazing horsea slight, keen, tearing cut. Wildfire was close at hand! With a sweep Slone circled the

stump and he found the knot of the lasso. He had missed it. He began to gather in the long rope, and soon felt

the horse. In the black gloom against the wall Slone could not distinguish Wildfire.

"Whew!" he muttered, wiping the sweat off his face. "Good Lord! . . . All for nothin'."

It did not take Slone long to decide to lead the horse and work up the canyon past the campers. He must get

ahead of them, and once there he had no fear of them, either by night or day. He really had no hopes of

getting by undiscovered, and all he wished for was to get far enough so that he could not be intercepted. The

For a wonder Wildfire allowed himself to be led as well as if he had been old, faithful Nagger. Slone could

not keep close in to the wall for very long, on account of the cedars, but he managed to stay in the outer edge

of shadow cast by the wall. Wildfire winded the horses, halted, threw up his head. But for some reason

beyond Slone the horse did not snort or whistle. As he knew Wildfire he could have believed him intelligent

It was one of the other horses that whistled an alarm. This came at a point almost even with the campfire.

Slone, holding Wildfire down, had no time to get into a stirrup, but leaped to the saddle and let the horse go.

There were hoarse yells and then streaks of fire and shots. Slone heard the whizz of heavy bullets, and he

feared for Wildfire. But the horse drew swiftly away into the darkness. Slone could not see whether the

ground was smooth or broken, and he left that to Wildfire. Luck favored them, and presently Slone pulled

him in to a safe gait, and regretted only that he had not had a chance to take a shot at that camp.

Slone walked the horse for an hour, and then decided that he could well risk a halt for the night.

Before dawn he was up, warming his chilled body by violent movements, and forcing himself to eat.

The rim of the west wall changed from gray to pink. A mockingbird burst into song. A coyote sneaked away

from the light of day. Out in the open Slone found the trail made by Creech's mustangs and by the horse of

Cordts's man. The latter could not be very far ahead. In less than an hour Slone came to a clump of cedars

This canyon was open, with a level and narrow floor divided by a deep wash. Slone put Wildfire to a gallop.

The narrow wash was no obstacle to Wildfire; he did not have to be urged or checked. It was not long before

Slone saw a horseman a quarter of a mile ahead, and he was discovered almost at the same time. This fellow

showed both surprise and fear. He ran his horse. But in comparison with Wildfire that horse seemed sluggish.

Slone would have caught up with him very soon but for a change in the lay of the land. The canyon split up

and all of its gorges and ravines and washes headed upon the pinefringed plateau, now only a few miles

distant. The gait of the horses had to be reduced to a trot, and then a walk. The man Slone was after left

Creech's trail and took to a side cleft. Slone, convinced he would soon overhaul him, and then return to take

up Creech's trail, kept on in pursuit. Then Slone was compelled to climb. Wildfire was so superior to the

other's horse, and Slone was so keen at choosing ground and short cuts, that he would have been right upon

him but for a split in the rock which suddenly yawned across his path. It was impassable. After a quick glance

Slone abandoned the direct pursuit, and, turning along this gulch, he gained a point where the horsethief

would pass under the base of the rimwall, and here Slone would have him within easy rifle shot.

And the man, intent on getting out of the canyon, rode into the trap, approaching to within a hundred yards of

Slone, who suddenly showed himself on foot, rifle in hand. The deep gulch was a barrier to Slone's further

"Hold on yerself!" yelled the other, aghast, as he halted his horse. He gazed down and evidently was quick to

Slone had meant to kill this man without even a word, yet now when the moment had come a feeling almost

Slone felt the leap of his blood and the jerk it gave the rifle as his tense finger trembled on the trigger.

"He an' Hutch went round fer some more of the gang, an' to head off Joel Creech when he comes in with

Slone was amazed to find how the horse thieves had calculated; yet, on second thought, the situation, once

Slone scarcely needed to be told all this, but the deliberate words from the lips of one of Cordts's gang bore a

raw, brutal proof of Lucy's peril. And yet Slone could not bring himself to kill this man in cold blood. He

The man stared. Slone saw the color return to his pale face. Then he turned his horse and rode back out of

sight. Slone heard him rolling the stones down the long, rough slope; and when he felt sure the horsethief

But Slone, when that day's hard, deadly pursuit ended, found himself lost in the canyons. How bitterly he

cursed both his weakness in not shooting the man at sight, and his strength in following him with implacable

purpose! For to be fair, to give the horsethief a chance for his life, Slone had lost Lucy's trail. The fact

All next day, like a wild man, he rode and climbed and descended, spurred by one purpose, pursued by

suspense and dread. That night he tied Wildfire near water and grass and fell into the sleep of exhaustion.

Morning came. But with it no hope. He had been desperate. And now he was in a frightful state. It seemed

that days and days had passed, and nights that were hideous with futile nightmares.

He rode down into a canyon with sloping walls, and broken, like all of these canyons under the great plateau.

Every canyon resembled another. The upland was one vast network. The world seemed a labyrinth of

canyons among which he was hopelessly lost. What wouldwhat had become of Lucy? Every thought in his

Thenhe was gazing transfixed down upon the familiar tracks left by Creech's mustangs. Days old, but still

Slone, mindful of his horse, climbed on foot, halting at the zigzag turns to rest. A long, gradually ascending

trail mounted the last slope, which when close at hand was not so precipitous as it appeared from below. Up

At last Slone led Wildfire over the rim and halted for another breathingspell. Before him was a beautiful,

gently sloping stretch of waving grass leading up to the dark pine forest from which came a roar of wind.

Beneath Slone the wild and whorled canyon breaks extended, wonderful in thousands of denuded surfaces,

Wildfire sniffed the wind and snorted. Slone turned, instantly alert. The wild horse had given an alarm. Like a

flash Slone leaped into the saddle. A faint cry, away from the wind, startled Slone. It was like a cry he had

heard in dreams. How overstrained his perceptions! He was not really sure of anything, yet on the instant he

Straggling cedars on his left almost wholly obstructed Slone's view. Wildfire's ears and nose were pointed

that way. Slone trotted him down toward the edge of this cedar clump so that he could see beyond. Before he

"Smoke!" muttered Slone. And he thought more of the danger of fire on that windy height than he did of

Slone saw a line of leaping flame, a line of sweeping smoke, the grass on fire . . . horses!a man!

Wildfire whistled his ringing blast of hate and menace, his desert challenge to another stallion.

Joy, agony, terror in lightningswift turns, paralyzed Slone. But Wildfire lunged out on the run.

Sage King reared in fright, came clown to plunge away. and with a magnificent leap cleared the line of fire.

Slone, more from habit than thought, sat close in the saddle. A few of Wildfire's lengthening strides,

quickened Slone's blood. Then Creech moved, also awaking from a stupefying surprise, and he snatched up a

gun and fired. Slone saw the spurts of red, the puffs of white. But he heard nothing. The torrent of his

He guided the running stallion. In a few tremendous strides Wildfire struck Creech, and Slone had one

glimpse of all awful face. The impact was terrific. Creech went hurtling through the air, limp and broken, to

The horse leaped over the body and the stone, and beyond he leaped the line of burning grass.

Slone saw the King running into the forest. He saw poor Lucy's white body swinging with the horse's motion.

One glance showed the great gray to be running wild. Then the hate and passion cleared away, leaving

Wildfire reached the pines. There down the open aisles between the black trees ran the fleet gray racer.

"Wildfireit's comethe racethe race!" called Slone. But he could not hear his own call. There was a

roar overhead, heavy, almost deafening. The wind! the wind! Yet that roar did not deaden a strange, shrieking

crack somewhere behind. Wildfire leaped in fright. Slone turned. Fire had run up a pinetree, which exploded

In that poignant cry Slone uttered his realization of the strange fate that had waited for the inevitable race

between Wildfire and the King; he uttered his despairing love for Lucy, and his acceptance of death for her

and himself. No horse could outrun winddriven fire in a dry pine forest. Slone had no hope of that. How

perfectly fate and time and place and horses, himself and his sweetheart, had met! Slone damned Joel

Creech's insane soul to everlasting torment. To think to think his idiotic and wild threat had come

trueand come true with a gale in the pinetops! Slone grew old at the thought, and the fact seemed to be a

dream. But the dry, pinescented air made breathing hard; the gray racer, carrying that slender, halfnaked

form, white in the forest shade, lengthened into his fleet and beautiful stride; the motion of Wildfire, so easy,

so smooth, so swift, and the fierce reach of his head shooting forwardall these proved that it was no dream.

Tense questions pierced the dark chaos of Slone's mindwhat could he do? Run the King down! Make 'him

The red horse had not gained a yard on the gray. Slone, keen to judge distance, saw this, and for the first time

he doubted Wildfire's power to ran down the King. Not with such a lead! It was hopeless so hopeless

He turned to look back. He saw no fire, no smokeonly the dark trunks, and the massed green foliage in

violent agitation against the blue sky. That revived a faint hope. If he could get a few miles ahead, before the

fire began to leap across the pinecrests, then it might be possible to run out of the forest if it were not wide.

Then a stronger hope grew. It seemed that foot by foot Wildfire was gaining on the King. Slone studied the

level forest floor sliding toward him. He lost his hopethen regained it again, and then he spurred the horse.

Wildfire hated that as he hated Slone. But apparently he did not quicken his strides. And Slone could not tell

if he lengthened them. He was not running near his limit but, after the nature of such a horse, left to choose

Slone's rider's blood never thrilled to that race, for his blood had curdled. The sickness within rose to his

mind. And that flashed up whenever he dared to look forward at Lucy's white form. Slone could not bear this

sight; it almost made him reel, yet he was driven to look. He saw that the King carried no saddle, so with

Lucy on him he was light. He ought to run all day with only that weight. Wildfire carried a heavy saddle, a

pack, a water bag, and a rifle. Slone untied the pack and let it drop. He almost threw aside the waterbag, but

something withheld his hand, and also he kept his rifle. What were a few more pounds to this desert stallion

Suddenly Slone's ears rang with a terrible oncoming roar. For an instant the unknown sound stiffened him,

robbed him of strength. Only the horn of the saddle, hooking into him, held him on. Then the years of his

He had to race against fire. He must beat the flame to the girl he loved. There were miles of dry forest, like

powder. Fire backed by a heavy gale could rage through dry pine faster than any horse could run. He might

fail to save Lucy. Fate had given him a bitter ride. But he swore a grim oath that he would beat the flame. The

intense and abnormal rider's passion in him, like Bostil's, dammed up, but never fully controlled, burst within

him, and suddenly he awoke to a wild and terrible violence of heart and soul. He had accepted death; he had

no fear. All that he wanted to do, the last thing he wanted to do, was to ride down the King and kill Lucy

mercifully. How he would have gloried to burn there in the forest, and for a million years in the dark beyond,

Through the aisles of the forest he saw a strange, streaky, murky something moving, alive, shifting up and

down, never an instant the same. It must have been the windthe heat before the fire. He seemed to see

through it, but there was nothing beyond, only opaque, dim, mustering clouds. Hot puffs shot forward into his

face. His eyes smarted and stung. His ears hurt and were growing deaf. The tumult was the rear of

avalanches, of maelstroms, of rushing seas, of the wreck of the uplands and the ruin of the earth. It grew to be

And he turned to face ahead. The stallion stretched low on a dead run; the tips of the pines were bending

before the wind; and Wildfire, the terrible thing for which his horse was named, was leaping through the

Ahead of Slone, down the aisles, low under the trees spreading over the running King, floated swiftly some

medium, like a transparent veil. It was neither smoke nor air. It carried faint pin points of light, sparks, that

resembled atoms of dust floating in sunlight. It was a wave of heat driven before the storm of fire. Slone did

not feel pain, but he seemed to be drying up. parching. And Lucy must be suffering now. He goaded the

stallion, raking his flanks. Wildfire answered with a scream and a greater speed. All except Lucy and Sage

King and Wildfire seemed so strange and unrealthe swift rush between the pines, now growing ghostly in

the dimming light, the sense of a pursuing, overpowering force, and yet absolute silence.

Slone fought the desire to look back. But he could not resist it. Some horrible fascination compelled him. All

behind had changed. A hot wind, like a blast from a furnace, blew light, stinging particles into his face. The

fire was racing in the treetops, while below all was yet clear. A lashing, leaping flame engulfed the canopy

of pines. It was white, seething, inconceivably swift, with a thousand flashing tongues. It traveled ahead of

smoke. It was so thin he could see the branches through it, and the fiery clouds behind. It swept onward, a

sublime and an appalling spectacle. Slone could not think of what it looked like. It was fire, liberated, freed

from the bowels of the earth, tremendous, devouring. This, then, was the meaning of fire. This, then, was the

But no! He thought he must be insane not to be overcome in spirit. Yet he was not. He would beat the flame

to Lucy. He felt the loss of something, some kind of a sensation which he ought to have had. Still he rode that

race to kill his sweetheart better than any race he had ever before ridden. He kept his seat; he dodged the

snags; he pulled the maddened horse the shortest way, he kept the King running straight.

No horse had ever run so magnificent a race! Wildfire was outracing wind and fire, and he was overhauling

the most noted racer of the uplands against a tremendous handicap. But now he was no longer racing to kill

the King; he was running in terror. For miles he held that long, swift, wonderful stride without a break. He

was running to his death, whether or not he distanced the fire. Nothing could stop him now but a bursting

Slone untied his lasso and coiled the noose. Almost within reach of the King! One throwone sudden

swerveand the King would go down. Lucy would know only a stunning shock. Slone's heart broke. Could

he kill hercrush that dear golden head? He could not, yet he must! He saw a long, curved, red welt on

Lucy's white shoulders. What was that? Had a branch lashed her? Slone could not see her face. She could not

Closer and closer drew Wildfire. He seemed to go faster and faster as that wind of flame gained upon them.

The air was too thick to breathe. It had an irresistible weight. It pushed horses and riders onward in their

Again Slone looked back and again the spectacle was different. There was a white and golden fury of flame

above, beautiful and blinding; and below, farther back, an inferno of glowing fire, blackstreaked, with

trembling, exploding puffs and streams of yellow smoke. The aisles between the burning pines were smoky,

murky caverns, moving and weird. Slone saw fire shoot from the treetops down the trunks, and he saw fire

shoot up the trunks, like trains of powder. They exploded like huge rockets. And along the forest floor leaped

the little flames. His eyes burned and blurred till all merged into a wide, pursuing storm too awful for the

Wildfire was running down the King. The great gray had not lessened his speed, but he was breaking. Slone

felt a ghastly triumph when he began to whirl the noose of the lasso round his head. Already he was within

range. But he held back his throw which meant the end of all. And as he hesitated Wildfire suddenly whistled

Slone looked. Ahead there was light through the forest! Slone saw a white, open space of grass. A park?

Nothe end of the forest! Wildfire, like a demon, hurtled onward, with his smoothness of action gone,

A cry escaped Slonea cry as silent as if there had been no deafening roaras wild as the race, and as

terrible as the ruthless fire. It was the cry of lifeinstead of death. Both Sage King and Wildfire would beat

Then, with the open just ahead, Slone felt a wave of hot wind rolling over him. He saw the lashing tongues of

flame above him in the pines. The storm had caught him. It forged ahead. He was riding under a canopy of

fire. Burning pine cones, like torches, dropped all around him. He had a terrible blank sense of weight, of

Then Wildfire, with his nose at Sage King's flank, flashed out of the pines into the open. Slone saw a grassy

wide reach inclining gently toward a dark break in the ground with crags rising sheer above it, and to the right

Slone felt that clear air as the breath of deliverance. His reeling sense righted. Therethe King ran, blindly

going to his death. Wildfire was breaking fast. His momentum carried him. He was almost done.

Slone roped the King, and holding hard, waited for the end. They ran on, breaking, breaking. Slone thought

he would have to throw the King, for they were perilously near the deep cleft in the rim. But Sage King went

Slone leaped off just as Wildfire fell. How the blade flashed that released Lucy! She was wet from the horse's

sweat and foam. She slid off into Slone's arms, and he called her name. Could she hear above that roar back

there in the forest? The pieces of rope hung to her wrists and Slone saw dark bruises, raw and bloody. She fell

against him. Was she dead? His heart contracted. How white the face! No; he saw her breast heave against

his! And he cried aloud, incoherently in his joy. She was alive. She was not badly hurt. She stirred. She

plucked at him with nerveless hands. She pressed close to him. He heard a smothered voice, yet so full, so

Slone started violently. Abashed, shamed to realize he had forgotten she was half nude, he blindly tore off his

"He'd killed his fatherjust aminutebefore you came. I fought him! Oh! . . . But I'm all right. . . . Did

"Wildfire ran him downsmashed him. . . . Lucy! this can't be true. . . . Yet I feel you! Thank God!"

With her free hand Lucy returned his clasp. She seemed to be strong. It was a precious moment for Slone, in

She laughed as he released her. She laughed! And Slone thrilled with unutterable sweetness at that laugh.

As he turned away he felt a swift wind, then a strange impact from an invisible force that staggered him, then

Slone fell. He knew he had been shot. Following the rending of his flesh came a hot agony. It was in his

Lucy stood staring down at him, unable to comprehend, slowly paling. Her hands clasped the coat round her.

Slone saw her, saw the edge of streaming clouds of smoke above her, saw on the cliff beyond the gorge two

If Slone had been inattentive to his surroundings before, the sight of Cordts electrified him.

"I've been shot. Drop down, I tell you. Get behind the horse an' pull my rifle."

It was then Lucy Bostil saw Cordts across the gulch. He was not fifty yards distant, plainly recognizable, tall,

gaunt, sardonic. He held the halfleveled gun ready as if waiting. He had waited there in ambush. The clouds

"Hunch down, Lucy!" cried Slone. "Pull my rifle. . . . I'm only wingednot hurt. Hurry! He's goin'"

Another heavy report interrupted Slone. The bullet missed, but Slone made a pretense, a convulsive flop, as if

But Lucy misunderstood his ruse to deceive Cordts. She thought he had been hit again. She ran to the fallen

Cordts had begun to climb round a ledge, evidently a short cut to get down and across. Hutchinson saw the

rifle and yelled to Cordts. The horsethief halted, his dark face gleaming toward Lucy.

When Lucy rose the coat fell from her nude shoulders. And Slone, watching, suddenly lost his agony of terror

She swept up the rifle. It wavered. Hutchinson was above, and Cordts, reaching up, yelled for help.

Hutchinson was reluctant. But the stronger force dominated. He leaned downclasped Cordts's outstretched

hands, and pulled. Hutchinson bawled out hoarsely. Cordts turned what seemed a paler face. He had

Slone tried to call to Lucy to shoot low, but his lips had drawn tight after his one yell. Slone saw her white,

rounded shoulders bent, with cold, white face pressed against the rifle, with slim arms quivering and growing

Slone's glance shifted. He did not see the bullet strike up dust. The figures of the men remained the

sameHutchinson straining, Cordts. . . . No, Cordts was not the same! A strange change seemed manifest in

Hutchinson also was acting strangely, yelling, heaving, wrestling. But he could not help Cordts. He lifted

violently, raised Cordts a little, and then appeared to be in peril of losing his balance.

Cordts leaned against the cliff. Then it dawned upon Slone that Lucy had hit the horsethief. Hard hit! He

would nothe could not let go of Hutchinson. His was a death clutch. The burly Hutchinson slipped from

his kneehold, and as he moved Cordts swayed, his feet left the ledge, he hung, upheld only by the tottering

What a harsh and terrible cry from Hutchinson! He made one last convulsive effort and it doomed him.

Slowly he lost his balance. Cordts's dark, evil, haunting face swung round. Both men became lax and

plunged, and separated. The dust rose from the rough steps. Then the dark forms shot downCordts falling

sheer and straight, Hutchinson headlong, with waving armsdown and down, vanishing in the depths. No

sound came up. A little column of yellow dust curled from the fatal ledge and, catching the wind above,

A darkness, like the streaming clouds overhead, seemed to blot out Slone's sight, and then passed away,

Lucy was bending over him, binding a scarf round his shoulder and under his arm. "Lin! It's nothing!" she

Slone sat up. The smoke was clearing away. Little curves of burning grass were working down along the rim.

He put out a hand to grasp Lucy, remembering in a flash. He pointed to the ledge across the chasm.

"They'regone!" cried Lucy, with a strange and deep note in her voice. She shook violently. But she did not

"Both where they dropped. Oh, I'm afraid toto look. . . . And, Lin, I saw Sarch, Two Face, and Ben and

She had her back to the chasm where the trail led down, and she pointed without looking.

"Sarch will go straight home, and the others will follow him," said Lucy. "They got away here where Joel

came up the trail. The fire chased them out of the woods. Sarch will go home. And that'll fetch the riders."

"We won't need them if only Wildfire and the King" Slone broke off and grimly, with a catch in his breath,

All of Wildfire was white except where he was red, and that red was not now his glossy, flaming skin. A

terrible muscular convulsion as of internal collapse grew slower and slower. Yet choked, blinded, dying,

"He run the King downcarryin' weightwith a long lead to overcome!" Slone muttered, and he put a

Again the rider called to his horse, with a low and piercing cry. But Wildfire did not hear.

The morning sun glanced brightly over the rippling sage which rolled away from the Ford like a gray sea.

Bostil sat on his porch, a stricken man. He faced the blue haze of the north, where days before all that he had

loved had vanished. Every day, from sunrise till sunset, he had been there, waiting and watching. His riders

were grouped near him, silent, awed by his agony, awaiting orders that never came.

From behind a ridge puffed up a thin cloud of dust. Bostil saw it and gave a start. Above the sage appeared a

Then all were intensely quiet, watching the racers come trotting in single file down the ridge. Sarchedon's

shrill neigh, like a whistleblast, pealed in from the sage. From, fields and corrals clamored the answer

Sarchedon and his followers broke from trot to cantercanter to gallopand soon were cracking their hard

hoofs on the stony court. Like a swarm of bees the riders swooped down upon the racers, caught them, and

On Sarchedon's neck showed a dry, dustcaked stain of reddish tinge. Holley, the old hawkeyed rider, had

"He smells of smoke," put in Farlane, who had knelt at the black's legs. "He's been runnin' fire. See thet!

Some of the riders led the horses away toward the corrals. Bostil wheeled to face the north again. His brow

The riders came and went, but Bostil kept his vigil. The hours passed. Afternoon came and wore on. The sun

Again dustclouds, now like reddened smoke, puffed over the ridge. A horse carrying a dark, thick figure

The riders dared not answer. They must be sure. They gazed through narrow slits of eyelids; and the silence

Holley shaded the hawk eyes with his hand. "Gray he isBostilgray as the sage. . . . AN' SO HELP ME

"Yes, it's the King!" cried the riders, excitedly. "Sure! I reckon! No mistake about thet! It's the King!"

Bostil shook his huge frame, and he rubbed his eyes as if they had become dim, and he stared again.

Plain to all keen eyes was the glint of Lucy Bostil's golden hair. But only Holley had courage to speak.

A strange, fleeting light of joy died out of Bostil's face. The change once more silenced his riders. They

watched the King trotting in from the sage. His head drooped. He seemed grayer than ever and he limped.

But he was Sage King, splendid as of old, all the more gladdening to the riders' eyes because he had been

lost. He came on, quickening a little to the clamoring welcome from the corrals.

Holley put out a swift hand. "Bostilthe girl's aliveshe's smilin'!" he called, and the cool voice was

The riders waited for Bostil. Slone rode into the courtyard. He was white and weary, reeling in the saddle. A

bloody scarf was bound round his shoulder. He held Lucy in his arms. She had on his coat. A wan smile

Bostil, cursing deep, like muttering thunder, strode out. "Lucy! You ain't bad hurt?" he implored, in a voice

He kissed the pale face and held her up like a child, and then, carrying her to the door of the house, he roared

When he reappeared the crowd of riders scattered from around Slone. 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

No rider there but felt Bostil's passion of doubt and hope. Had the King been beaten? Bostil's glory and pride

were battling with love. Mighty as that was, it did not at once overcome his fear of defeat.

Slowly the gaze of Bostil moved away from Sage King and roved out to the sage and back, as if he expected

to see another horse. But no other horse was in sight. At last his hard eyes rested upon the whitefaced Slone.

"Been somehard ridin'?" he queried, haltingly. All there knew that had not been the question upon his lips.

"Yes. Joel killed his father, fightin' to get Lucy. . . . An' I ranWildfire over Joelsmashed him!"

"Wal, I'm sorry for the old man," replied Bostil, gruffly. "I meant to make up to him. . . . But thet fool boy! . .

He stepped forward and pulled the scarf aside. He was curious and kindly, as if it was beyond him to be

"Yes, Cordts. . . . His outfit run across Creech's trail an' we bunched. I can't tell now. . . . But we hadhell!

An' Cordts is deadso's Hutchan' that other pard of his. . . . Bostil, they'll never haunt your sleep again!"

Bostil raised both his huge fists. The blood was bulging his thick neck. It was another kind of passion that

obsessed him. Only some violent check to his emotion prevented him from embracing Slone. The huge fists

"You mean to tell me you did fer Cordts an' Hutch what you did fer Sears?" he boomed out.

Holley thrust a quivering, brown hand into Bostil's face. "What did I tell you?" he shouted. "Didn't I say

Bostil threw away all that deep fury of passion, and there seemed only a resistless and speechless admiration

left. Then ensued a moment of silence. The riders watched Slone's weary face as it drooped, and Bostil, as he

"Where's the red stallion?" queried Bostil. That was the question hard to get out.

Slone raised eyes dark with pain, yet they flashed as he looked straight up into Bostil's face. "Wildfire's

Bostil's heavy jaw bulged and quivered. His hand shook as he laid it on Sage King's manethe first touch

"Slonewhatis it?" he said, brokenly, with voice strangely softened. His face became transfigured.

"Sage King killed Wildfire on his feet. . . . A grand race, Bostil! . . . But Wildfire's deadan' here's the King!

Bostil put his arm around the young man's shoulder. "Slone, if I don't know what you feel fer the loss of thet

grand hoss, no rider on earth knows! . . . Go in the house. Boys, take him inall of youan' look after

Bostil wanted to be alone, to welcome the King, to lead him back to the home corral, perhaps to hide from all

eyes the change and the uplift that would forever keep him from wronging another man.

The late rains came and like magic, in a few days, the sage grew green and lustrous and fresh, the gray

Every morning the sun rose white and hot in a blue and cloudless sky. And then soon the horizon line showed

creamy clouds that rose and spread and darkened. Every afternoon storms hung along the ramparts and

rainbows curved down beautiful and ethereal. The dim blackness of the stormclouds was split to the

blinding zigzag of lightning, and the thunder rolled and boomed, like the Colorado in flood.

Slone and Lucy never rode down so far as the stately monuments, though these held memories as hauntingly

sweet as others were poignantly bitter. Lucy never rode the King again. But Slone rode him, learned to love

him. And Lucy did not race any more. When Slone tried to stir in her the old spirit all the response he got was

a wistful shake of head or a laugh that hid the truth or an excuse that the strain on her ankles from Joel

Creech's lasso had never mended. The girl was unutterably happy, but it was possible that she would never

She rode Sarchedon, and she liked to trot or lope along beside Slone while they linked hands and watched the

distance. But her glance shunned the north, that distance which held the wild canyons and the broken

"Won't you ever ride with me, out to the old camp, where I used to wait for you?" asked Slone.

"Whenwhen we come back from Durango," she replied, with averted eyes and scarlet cheek. And Slone

was silent, for that planned trip to Durango, with its wonderful gift to be, made his heart swell.

And so on this rainbow day, with storms all around them, and blue sky above, they rode only as far as the

valley. But from there, before they turned to go back, the monuments appeared close, and they loomed

grandly with the background of purple bank and creamy cloud and shafts of golden lightning. They seemed

like sentinels guardians of a great and beautiful love born under their lofty heights, in the lonely silence of

day, in the starthrown shadow of night. They were like that love. And they held Lucy and Slone, calling

every day, giving a nameless and tranquil content, binding them true to love, true to the sage and the open,