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 devil—­a hoss-killer like all them wild stallions. . . .  He’s plungin’ at the King—­strikin’!  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 back of the post. . . .  Ah! gun-smoke!  They move. . . .  It looks like a go.”

Then Holley was silent, strained, in watching.  So were all the watchers silent.  Bostil saw far down the valley a moving, dark line of horses.

“They’re off!  They’re off!” called Holley, thrillingly.

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.

Holley stood up on the rock with leveled glass.

“Mac’s dropped the flag.  It’s a sure go.  Now! . . .  Van’s out there front—­inside.  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 over—­off the course!  See him plunge!  Lord!  Lucy can’t pull him!  She goes up—­down—­tossed—­but 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’, Bostil—­an’, 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 a Bostil who would win the great race.