“I should say not,” declared Slone, quickly lifting his hand to his face.  “Must be from my cut, that blood.  I barked my hand holdin’ Wildfire.”

“Oh!  I—­I was sick with—­with—­” Lucy faltered and broke off, and then drew back quickly, as if suddenly conscious of her actions and words.

Then Slone began to relate everything that had been said, and before he concluded his story his heart gave a wild throb at the telltale face and eyes of the girl.

“You said that to Dad!” she cried, in amaze and fear and admiration.  “Oh, Dad richly deserved it!  But I wish you hadn’t.  Oh, I wish you hadn’t!”

“Why?” asked Slone.

But she did not answer that.  “Where are you going?” she questioned.

“Come to think of that, I don’t know,” replied Slone, blankly.  “I started back to fetch my things out of my room.  That’s as far as my muddled thoughts got.”

“Your things? . . .  Oh!” Suddenly she grew intensely white.  The little freckles that had been so indistinct stood out markedly, and it was as if she had never had any tan.  One brown hand went to her breast, the other fluttered to his arm again.  “You mean to—­to go away—­for good.”

“Sure.  What else can I do?”

“Lin! . . .  Oh, there comes Dad!  He mustn’t see me.  I must run. . . .  Lin, don’t leave Bostil’s Ford—­don’t go—­don’t!”

Then she flew round the corner of the house, to disappear.  Slone stood there transfixed and thrilling.  Even Bostil’s heavy tread did not break the trance, and a meeting would have been unavoidable had not Bostil turned down the path that led to the back of the house.  Slone, with a start collecting his thoughts, hurried into the little room that had been his and gathered up his few belongings.  He was careful to leave behind the gifts of guns, blankets, gloves, and other rider’s belongings which Bostil had presented to him.  Thus laden, he went outside and, tingling with emotions utterly sweet and bewildering, he led the horses down into the village.

Slone went down to Brackton’s, and put the horses into a large, high-fenced pasture adjoining Brackton’s house.  Slone felt reasonably sure his horses would be safe there, but he meant to keep a mighty close watch on them.  And old Brackton, as if he read Slone’s mind, said this:  “Keep your eye on thet daffy boy, Joel Creech.  He hangs round my place, sleeps out somewheres, an’ he’s crazy about hosses.”

Slone did not need any warning like that, nor any information to make him curious regarding young Creech.  Lucy had seen to that, and, in fact, Slone was anxious to meet this half-witted fellow who had so grievously offended and threatened Lucy.  That morning, however, Creech did not put in an appearance.  The village had nearly returned to its normal state now, and the sleepy tenor of its way.  The Indians, had been the last to go, but now none remained.  The days were hot while the sun stayed high, and only the riders braved its heat.