“We can’t agree on any deal, Bostil,” replied Slone, steadily.  It was not what Bostil said, but the way he said it, the subtle meaning and power behind it, that gave Slone a sense of menace and peril.  These he had been used to for years; he could meet them.  But he was handicapped here because it seemed that, though he could meet Bostil face to face, he could not fight him.  For he was Lucy’s father.  Slone’s position, the impotence of it, rendered him less able to control his temper.

“Why can’t we?” demanded Bostil.  “If you wasn’t so touchy we could.  An’ let me say, young feller, thet there’s more reason now thet you do make a deal with me.”

“Deal?  What about?”

“About your red hoss.”

“Wildfire! . . .  No deals, Bostil,” returned Slone, and made as if to pass him.

The big hand that forced Slone back was far from gentle, and again he felt the quick rush of blood.

“Mebbe I can tell you somethin’ thet’ll make you sell Wildfire,” said Bostil.

“Not if you talked yourself dumb!” flashed Slone.  There was no use to try to keep cool with this Bostil, if he talked horses.  “I’ll race Wildfire against the King.  But no more.”

“Race!  Wal, we don’t run races around here without stakes,” replied Bostil, with deep scorn.  “An’ what can you bet?  Thet little dab of prize money is gone, an’ wouldn’t be enough to meet me.  You’re a strange one in these parts.  I’ve pride an’ reputation to uphold.  You brag of racin’ with me—­an’ you a beggarly rider! . . .  You wouldn’t have them clothes an’ boots if my girl hadn’t fetched them to you.”

The riders behind Bostil laughed.  Wetherby’s face was there in the door, not amused, but hard with scorn and something else.  Slone felt a sickening, terrible gust of passion.  It fairly shook him.  And as the wave subsided the quick cooling of skin and body pained him like a burn made with ice.

“Yes, Bostil, I’m what you say,” responded Slone, and his voice seemed to fill his ears.  “But you’re dead wrong when you say I’ve nothin’ to bet on a race.”

“An’ what’ll you bet?”

“My life an’ my horse!”

The riders suddenly grew silent and intense.  Bostil vibrated to that.  He turned white.  He more than any rider on the uplands must have felt the nature of that offer.

“Ag’in what?” he demanded, hoarsely.

“Your daughter Lucy!”

One instant the surprise held Bostil mute and motionless.  Then he seemed to expand.  His huge bulk jerked into motion and he bellowed like a mad bull.

Slone saw the blow coming, made no move to avoid it.  The big fist took him square on the mouth and chin and laid him flat on the ground.  Sight failed Slone for a little, and likewise ability to move.  But he did not lose consciousness.  His head seemed to have been burst into rays and red mist that blurred his eyes.  Then these cleared away, leaving intense pain.  He started to get up, his brain in a whirl.  Where was his gun?  He had left it at home.  But for that he would have killed Bostil.  He had already killed one man.  The thing was a burning flash—­then all over!  He could do it again.  But Bostil was Lucy’s father!