Bostil turned to look at Wildfire once more, and he looked long.  When he faced around again he was another man.  Slone felt the powerful driving passion of this old horse-trader.

“Slone, I’ll give you pick of a hundred mustangs an’ a thousand dollars for Wildfire!”

So he unmasked his power in the face of a beggarly rider!  Though it struck Slone like a thunderbolt, he felt amused.  But he did not show that.  Bostil had only one possession, among all his uncounted wealth, that could win Wildfire from his owner.

“No,” said Slone, briefly.

“I’ll double it,” returned Bostil, just as briefly.

“No!”

“I’ll—­”

“Save your breath, Bostil,” flashed Slone.  “You don’t know me.  But let me tell you—­you can’t buy my horse!”

The great veins swelled and churned in Bostil’s bull neck; a thick and ugly contortion worked in his face; his eyes reflected a sick rage.

Slone saw that two passions shook Bostil—­one, a bitter, terrible disappointment, and the other, the passion of a man who could not brook being crossed.  It appeared to Slone that the best thing he could do was to get away quickly, and to this end he led Wildfire out of the corral to the stable courtyard, and there quickly saddled him.  Then he went into another corral for his other horse, Nagger, and, bringing him out, returned to find Bostil had followed as far as the court.  The old man’s rage apparently had passed or had been smothered.

“See here,” he began, in thick voice, “don’t be a d—–­ fool an’ ruin your chance in life.  I’ll—­”

“Bostil, my one chance was ruined—­an’ you know who did it,” replied Slone, as he gathered Nagger’s rope and Wildfire’s bridle together.  “I’ve no hard feelin’s. . . .  But I can’t sell you my horse.  An’ I can’t ride for you—­because—­well, because it would breed trouble.”

“An’ what kind?” queried Bostil.

Holley and Farlane and Van, with several other riders, had come up and were standing open-mouthed.  Slone gathered from their manner and expression that anything might happen with Bostil in such a mood.

“We’d be racin’ the King an’ Wildfire, wouldn’t we?” replied Slone.

“An’ supposin’ we would?” returned Bostil, ominously.  His huge frame vibrated with a slight start.

“Wildfire would run off with your favorite—­an’ you wouldn’t like that,” answered Slone.  It was his rider’s hot blood that prompted him to launch this taunt.  He could not help it.

“You wild-hoss chaser,” roared Bostil, “your Wildfire may be a bloody killer, but he can’t beat the King in a race!”

“Excuse me, Bostil, but Wildfire did beat the King!”

This was only adding fuel to the fire.  Slone saw Holley making signs that must have meant silence would be best.  But Slone’s blood was up.  Bostil had rubbed him the wrong way.

“You’re a lair!” declared Bostil, with a tremendous stride forward.  Slone saw then how dangerous the man really was.  “It was no race.  Your wild hoss knocked the King off the track.”