“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 field—­even 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 horse—­and ride a horse—­out in front of Sage King.  Then suddenly all these flashing ideas coruscated seemingly into a gleam—­a leaping, radiant, wonderful thought.  Irresistibly it burst from her.

“Let me ride your Wildfire in the great race?” she cried, breathlessly.

His response was instantaneous—­a smile that was keen and sweet and strong, and a proffered hand.  Impulsively Lucy clasped that hand with both hers.

“You don’t mean it,” she said.  “Oh, it’s what Auntie would call one of my wild dreams! . . .  And I’m growing up—­they 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 gazed at her with a new-born light in his eyes.

“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 here, girl, Wildfire can beat this gray racer of your father’s.”

“Oh!” cried Lucy.

“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 be that instinct in him.”

“How can we plan it?” went on Lucy, impulsively.  She had forgotten to withdraw her hands from his.  “It must be a surprise—­a complete surprise.  If you came to the Ford we couldn’t keep it secret.  And Dad or Farlane would prevent me, somehow.”

“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 till you come or send for Wildfire.”

“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!”