“If she meets him again I’ll rope her in the house,” declared Bostil.

Another clear-eyed rider drew Bostil’s attention from the gray waste of rolling sage.

“Bostil, look!  Look at the King!  He’s watchin’ fer somethin’. . . .  An’ so’s Sarch.”

The two horses named were facing a ridge some few hundred yards distant, and their heads were aloft and ears straight forward.  Sage King whistled shrilly and Sarchedon began to prance.

“Boys, you’d better drive them in,” said Bostil.  “They’d like nothin’ so well as gettin’ out on the sage. . . .  Hullo! what’s thet shootin’ up behind the ridge?”

“No more ‘n Buckles with Lucy makin’ him run some,” replied Holley, with a dry laugh.

“If it ain’t! . . .  Lord! look at him come!”

Bostil’s anger and anxiety might never have been.  The light of the upland rider’s joy shone in his keen gaze.  The slope before him was open, and almost level, down to the ridge that had hidden the missing girl and horse.  Buckles was running for the love of running, as the girl low down over his neck was riding for the love of riding.  The Sage King whistled again, and shot off with graceful sweep to meet them; Sarchedon plunged after him; Two Face and Plume jealously trooped down, too, but Dusty Ben, after a toss of his head, went on grazing.  The gray and the black met Buckles and could not turn in time to stay with him.  A girl’s gay scream pealed up the slope, and Buckles went lower and faster.  Sarchedon was left behind.  Then the gray King began to run as if before he had been loping.  He was beautiful in action.  This was play—­a game—­a race—­plainly dominated by the spirit of the girl.  Lucy’s hair was a bright stream of gold in the wind.  She rode bareback.  It seemed that she was hunched low over Buckles with her knees high on his back—­scarcely astride him at all.  Yet her motion was one with the horse.  Again that wild, gay scream pealed out—­call or laugh or challenge.  Sage King, with a fleetness that made the eyes of Bostil and his riders glisten, took the lead, and then sheered off to slow down, while Buckles thundered past.  Lucy was pulling him hard, and had him plunging to a halt, when the rider Holley ran out to grasp his bridle.  Buckles was snorting and his ears were laid back.  He pounded the ground and scattered the pebbles.

“No use, Lucy,” said Bostil.  “You can’t beat the King at your own game, even with a runnin’ start.”

Lucy Bostil’s eyes were blue, as keen as her father’s, and now they flashed like his.  She had a hand twisted in the horse’s long mane, and as, lithe and supple, she slipped a knee across his broad back she shook a little gantleted fist at Bostil’s gray racer.

“Sage King, I hate you!” she called, as if the horse were human.  “And I’ll beat you some day!”

Bostil swore by the gods his Sage King was the swiftest horse in all that wild upland country of wonderful horses.  He swore the great gray could look back over his shoulder and run away from any broken horse known to the riders.