“Sage King had the lead, didn’t he?  Why didn’t he keep it?”

Bostil was like a furious, intractable child whose favorite precious treasure had been broken; and he burst out into a torrent of incoherent speech, apparently reasons why this and that were so.  Slone did not make out what Bostil meant and he did not care.  When Bostil got out of breath Slone said: 

“We’re both wastin’ talk.  An’ I’m not wantin’ you to call me a liar twice. . . .  Put your rider up on the King an’ come on, right now.  I’ll—­”

“Slone, shut up an’ chase yourself,” interrupted Holley

“You go to h—­l!” returned Slone, coolly.

There was a moment’s silence, in which Slone took Holley’s measure.  The hawk-eyed old rider may have been square, but he was then thinking only of Bostil.

“What am I up, against here?” demanded Slone.  “Am I goin’ to be shot because I’m takin’ my own part?  Holley, you an’ the rest of your pards are all afraid of this old devil.  But I’m not—­an’ you stay out of this.”

“Wal, son, you needn’t git riled,” replied Holley, placatingly.  “I was only tryin’ to stave off talk you might be sorry for.”

“Sorry for nothin’!  I’m goin’ to make this great horse-trader, this rich an’ mighty rancher, this judge of grand horses, this Bostil! . . .  I’m goin’ to make him race the King or take water!” Then Slone turned to Bostil.  That worthy evidently had been stunned by the rider who dared call him to his face.  “Come on!  Fetch the King!  Let your own riders judge the race!”

Bostil struggled both to control himself and to speak.  “Naw!  I ain’t goin’ to see thet red hoss-killer jump the King again!”

“Bah! you’re afraid.  You know there’d be no girl on his back.  You know he can outrun the King an’ that’s why you want to buy him.”

Slone caught his breath then.  He realized suddenly, at Bostil’s paling face, that perhaps he had dared too much.  Yet, maybe the truth flung into this hard old rider’s teeth was what he needed more than anything else.  Slone divined, rather than saw, that he had done an unprecedented thing.

“I’ll go now, Bostil.”

Slone nodded a good-by to the riders, and, turning away, he led the two horses down the lane toward the house.  It scarcely needed sight of Lucy under the cottonwoods to still his anger and rouse his regret.  Lucy saw him coming, and, as usual, started to avoid meeting him, when sight of the horses, or something else, caused her to come toward him instead.

Slone halted.  Both Wildfire and Nagger whinnied at sight of the girl.  Lucy took one flashing glance at them, at Slone, and then she evidently guessed what was amiss.

“Lucy, I’ve done it now—­played hob, sure,” said Slone.

“What?” she cried.

“I called your dad—­called him good an’ hard—­an’ he—­he—­”

“Lin!  Oh, don’t say Dad.”  Lucy’s face whitened and she put a swift hand upon his arm—­a touch that thrilled him.  “Lin! there’s blood—­on your face.  Don’t—­don’t tell me Dad hit you?”