“Bostil, them hosses, the racers special, ought to be brought acrost the river,” said Holley, earnestly.  He loved horses and was thinking of them.

“The boat’s got to be patched up,” replied Bostil, shortly.

It occurred to Lucy that her father was also thinking of Creech’s thoroughbreds, but not like Holley.  She grew grave and listened intently.

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 recently.

“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 to-morrow.”

“Thanks, Bostil.  Sure, thet’ll be all right.  Creech’ll be satisfied,” said the rider, as if relieved.  Then he mounted, and with his companion trotted down the lane.

The lean, gray Holley bent a keen gaze upon Bostil.  But Bostil did not notice that; he appeared preoccupied in thought.

“Bostil, the dry winter an’ spring here ain’t any guarantee thet there wasn’t a lot of snow up in the mountains.”  Holley’s remark startled Bostil.

“No—­it ain’t—­sure,” he replied.

“An’ any mornin’ along now we might wake up to hear the Colorado boomin’,” went on Holley, significantly.

Bostil did not reply to that.

“Creech hain’t lived over there so many years.  What’s he know about the river?  An’ fer that matter, who knows anythin’ sure about thet hell-bent river?”

“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.  He looked somber.  At her greeting he seemed startled.

“What?” he said.

“I just said, ‘Hello, Dad,’” she replied, demurely.  Yet she thoughtfully studied her father’s dark face.

“Hello yourself. . . .  Did you know Van got throwed an’ hurt?”

“Yes.”

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 two-dollar Ute mustang.  An’ hurt so he can’t ride for days!  With them races comin’ soon!  It makes me sick.”

“Dad, weren’t you a rider once?” asked Lucy.

“I never was thet kind.”

“Van will be all right in a few days.”