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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。 。 。 。 Hullo！ what's thet shootin' up behind the
ridge？〃
No more 'n Buckles with Lucy makin' him run some；〃 replied Holley； with a dry
laugh。
〃If it ain't！ 。 。 。 Lord！ look at him come！〃
Bostil's anger and anxiety might never have been。 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 pounded the ground and
scattered the pebbles。
〃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 gantleted
fist at Bostil's gray racer。
〃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 known to the riders。
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
horse…hunters； riders； sheep…herders； 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； wild…horse 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 wild…horse 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 sought to drive hard bargains。 Bostil would pay any price
asked for a horse。
Across the Colorado； in a high； red…walled canyon opening upon the river；
lived a poor sheep…herder and horse…trader 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 would see a horse out in front of the King。
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 tender…hearted。 Among the riders；
when they sat around their lonely camp…fires； 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
best…beloved 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 gunshot。
It had always been a fascinating subject； this long…looked…for 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 soon disrupt the peaceful；
sleepy tenor of Bostil's Ford。
In addition to Bostil's growing hatred for the Creeches； he had a great fear
of Cordts； the horse…thief。 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 was Sage King。
Cordts was a bad man； a product of the early gold…fields 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 free…range country； where he had been；
heard to say that a horse…thief was meaner than a poisoned coyote。
Nevertheless； he became a horse…thief。 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 not die； till he owned the King。 So
there was reason for Bostil's great fear。
CHAPTER II
Bostil went toward the house with his daugh