“Where’s Lucy?” presently asked Bostil.

As he divided his love, so he divided his anxiety.

Some rider had seen Lucy riding off, with her golden hair flying in the wind.  This was an old story.

“She’s up on Buckles?” Bostil queried, turning sharply to the speaker.

“Reckon so,” was the calm reply.

Bostil swore.  He did not have a rider who could equal him in profanity.

“Farlane, you’d orders.  Lucy’s not to ride them hosses, least of all Buckles.  He ain’t safe even for a man.”

“Wal, he’s safe fer Lucy.”

“But didn’t I say no?”

“Boss, it’s likely you did, fer you talk a lot,” replied Farlane.  “Lucy pulled my hat down over my eyes—­told me to go to thunder—­an’ then, zip! she an’ Buckles were dustin’ it fer the sage.”

“She’s got to keep out of the sage,” growled Bostil.  “It ain’t safe for her out there. . . .  Where’s my glass?  I want to take a look at the slope.  Where’s my glass?”

The glass could not be found.

“What’s makin’ them dust-clouds on the sage?  Antelope? . . .  Holley, you used to have eyes better ’n me.  Use them, will you?”

A gray-haired, hawk-eyed rider, lean and worn, approached with clinking spurs.

“Down in there,” said Bostil, pointing.

“Thet’s a bunch of hosses,” replied Holley.

“Wild hosses?”

“I take ’em so, seein’ how they throw thet dust.”

“Huh!  I don’t like it.  Lucy oughtn’t be ridin’ round alone.”

“Wal, boss, who could catch her up on Buckles?  Lucy can ride.  An’ there’s the King an’ Sarch right under your nose—­the only hosses on the sage thet could outrun Buckles.”

Farlane knew how to mollify his master and long habit had made him proficient.  Bostil’s eyes flashed.  He was proud of Lucy’s power over a horse.  The story Bostil first told to any stranger happening by the Ford was how Lucy had been born during a wild ride—­almost, as it were, on the back of a horse.  That, at least, was her fame, and the riders swore she was a worthy daughter of such a mother.  Then, as Farlane well knew, a quick road to Bostil’s good will was to praise one of his favorites.

“Reckon you spoke sense for once, Farlane,” replied Bostil, with relief.  “I wasn’t thinkin’ so much of danger for Lucy. . . .  But she lets thet half-witted Creech go with her.”

“No, boss, you’re wrong,” put in Holley, earnestly.  “I know the girl.  She has no use fer Joel.  But he jest runs after her.”

“An’ he’s harmless,” added Farlane.

“We ain’t agreed,” rejoined Bostil, quickly.  “What do you say, Holley?”

The old rider looked thoughtful and did not speak for long.

“Wal, Yes an’ no,” he answered, finally.  “I reckon Lucy could make a man out of Joel.  But she doesn’t care fer him, an’ thet settles thet. . . .  An’ maybe Joel’s leanin’ toward the bad.”