“Wal, you did dead wrong to ride out there day after day meetin’ Slone, because—­young woman—­if he ever has the nerve to ask me for you I’ll beat him up bad.”

“Then you’d be a brute!” retorted Lucy.

“Wal, mebbe,” returned Bostil, secretly delighted and surprised at Lucy’s failure to see through him.  But she was looking inward.  He wondered what hid there deep in her.  “But I can’t stand for the nerve of thet.”

“He—­he means to—­to ask you.”

“The h—–. . . .  A-huh!”

Lucy did not catch the slip of tongue.  She was flushing now.  “He said he’d never have let me meet him out there alone—­unless—­he—­he loved me—­and as our neighbors and the riders would learn of it—­and talk—­he wanted you and them to know he’d asked to—­to marry me.”

“Wal, he’s a square young man!” ejaculated Bostil, involuntarily.  It was hard for Bostil to hide his sincerity and impulsiveness; much harder than to hide unworthy attributes.  Then he got back on the other track.  “That’ll make me treat him decent, so when he rides up to ask for you I’ll let him off with, ’No!”

Lucy dropped her head.  Bostil would have given all he had, except his horses, to feel sure she did not care for Slone.

“Dad—­I said—­’No’—­for myself,” she murmured.

This time Bostil did not withhold the profane word of surprise. “. . .  So he’s asked you, then?  Wal, wal!  When?”

“To-day—­out there in the rocks where he waited with Wildfire for me.  He—­he—­”

Lucy slipped into her father’s arms, and her slender form shook.  Bostil instinctively felt what she then needed was her mother.  Her mother was dead, and he was only a rough, old, hard rider.  He did not know what to do—­to say.  His heart softened and he clasped her close.  It hurt him keenly to realize that he might have been a better, kinder father if it were not for the fear that she would find him out.  But that proved he loved her, craved her respect and affection.

“Wal, little girl, tell me,” he said.

“He—­he broke his word to me.”

“A-huh!  Thet’s too bad.  An’ how did he?”

“He—­he—­” Lucy seemed to catch her tongue.

Bostil was positive she had meant to tell him something and suddenly changed her mind.  Subtly the child vanished—­a woman remained.  Lucy sat up self-possessed once more.  Some powerfully impelling thought had transformed her.  Bostil’s keen sense gathered that what she would not tell was not hers to reveal.  For herself, she was the soul of simplicity and frankness.

“Days ago I told him I cared for him,” she went on.  “But I forbade him to speak of it to me.  He promised.  I wanted to wait till after the race—­till after I had found courage to confess to you.  He broke his word. . . .  Today when he put me up on Wildfire he—­he suddenly lost his head.”

The slow scarlet welled into Lucy’s face and her eyes grew shamed, but bravely she kept facing her father.