“It came off just as Lucy told you,” declared Slone.  “I saw every move.”

“Wal, thet’s neither here nor there.  What you’re up ag’in is this.  Bostil is sore since you called him.  But he holds himself in because he hasn’t given up hope of gittin’ Wildfire.  An’, Slone, you’re sure wise, ain’t you, thet if Bostil doesn’t buy him you can’t stay on here?”

“I’m wise.  But I won’t sell Wildfire,” replied Slone, doggedly.

“Wal, I’d never wasted my breath tellin’ you all this if I hadn’t figgered about Lucy.  You’ve got her to think of.”

Slone turned on Holley passionately.  “You keep hintin’ there’s a hope for me, when I know there’s none!”

“You’re only a boy,” replied Holley.  “Son, where there’s life there’s hope.  I ain’t a-goin’ to tell you agin thet I know Lucy Bostil.”

Slone could not stand nor walk nor keep still.  He was shaking from head to foot.

“Wildfire’s not mine to sell.  He’s Lucy’s!” confessed Slone.

“The devil you say!” ejaculated Holley, and he nearly dropped his pipe.

“I gave Wildfire to her.  She accepted him.  It was done.  Then—­then I lost my head an’ made her mad. . . .  An’—­she said she’d ride him in the race, but wouldn’t keep him.  But he is hers.”

“Oho!  I see.  Slone, I was goin’ to advise you to sell Wildfire—­all on account of Lucy.  You’re young an’ you’d have a big start in life if you would.  But Lucy’s your girl an’ you give her the hoss. . . .  Thet settles thet!”

“If I go away from here an’ leave Wildfire for Lucy—­do you think she could keep him?  Wouldn’t Bostil take him from her?”

“Wal, son, if he tried thet on Lucy she’d jump Wildfire an’ hit your trail an’ hang on to it till she found you.”

“What’ll you tell Bostil?” asked Slone, half beside himself.

“I’m consarned if I know,” replied Holley.  “Mebbe I’ll think of some idee.  I’ll go back now.  An’ say, son, I reckon you’d better hang close to home.  If you meet Bostil down in the village you two’d clash sure.  I’ll come up soon, but it’ll be after dark.”

“Holley, all this is—­is good of you,” said Slone.  “I—­I’ll—­”

“Shut up, son,” interrupted the rider, dryly.  “Thet’s your only weakness, so far as I can see.  You say too much.”

Holley started down then, his long, clinking spurs digging into the steep path.  He left Slone a prey to deep thoughts at once anxious and dreamy.

Next day Slone worked hard all day, looking forward to nightfall, expecting that Holley would come up.  He tried to resist the sweet and tantalizing anticipation of a message from Lucy, but in vain.  The rider had immeasurably uplifted Slone’s hope that Lucy, at least, cared for him.  Not for a moment all day could Slone drive away the hope.  At twilight he was too eager to eat—­too obsessed to see the magnificent sunset.  But Holley did not come, and Slone went to bed late, half sick with disappointment.