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, keeping near his employer, had keen eyes for other things than horses.

Suddenly he touched Bostil and pointed down the slope.  “There’s Lucy,” he said.  “She’s ridin’ out to join the bunch.”

“Lucy!  Where?  I’d forgotten my girl! . . .  Where?”

“There,” repeated Holly, and he pointed.  Others of the group spoke up, having seen Lucy riding down.

“She’s on a red hoss,” said one.

“’Pears all-fired big to me—­her hoss,” said another.  “Who’s got a glass?”

Bostil had the only field-glass 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 pulse-beat.  Certainly he had never seen a horse like this one.  But the distance was long, the glass not perfect; he could not trust his sight.  Suddenly that sight dimmed.

“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 troop of racers on her way to the post.  Nothing ever hurried or excited Holley.

“Wal, can’t you see any better ’n me?” queried Bostil, eagerly.

“Come on, Holl, give us a tip before she gits to the post,” spoke up a rider.

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 if the horse was fast Lucy would be dangerous.

Holley at last spoke:  “She’s up on a wild stallion.  He’s red, like fire.  He’s mighty big—­strong.  Looks as if he didn’t want to go near the bunch.  Lord! what action! . . .  Bostil, I’d say—­a great hoss!”

There was a moment’s intense silence in the group round Bostil.  Holley was never known to mistake a horse or to be extravagant in judgment or praise.

“A wild stallion!” echoed Bostil.  “A-huh!  An’ she calls him Wildfire.  Where’d she get him? . . .  Gimme thet glass.”

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 glass—­an’ 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!”