“No matter.  It’s bad business.  If I had any other rider who could handle the King I’d let Van go.”

“I can get just as much out of the King as Van can,” said Lucy, spiritedly.

“You!” exclaimed Bostil.  But there was pride in his glance.

“I know I can.”

“You never had any use for Sage King,” said Bostil, as if he had been wronged.

“I love the King a little, and hate him a lot,” laughed Lucy.

“Wal, I might let you ride at thet, if Van ain’t in shape,” rejoined her father.

“I wouldn’t ride him in the race.  But I’ll keep him in fine fettle.”

“I’ll bet you’d like to see Sarch beat him,” said Bostil, jealously.

“Sure I would,” replied Lucy, teasingly.  “But, Dad, I’m afraid Sarch never will beat him.”

Bostil grunted.  “See here.  I don’t want any weight up on the King.  You take him out for a few days.  An’ ride him!  Savvy thet?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Give him miles an’ miles—­an’ then comin’ home, on good trails, ride him for all your worth. . . .  Now, Lucy, keep your eye open.  Don’t let any one get near you on the sage.”

“I won’t. . . .  Dad, do you still worry about poor Joel Creech?”

“Not Joel.  But I’d rather lose all my stock then have Cordts or Dick Sears get within a mile of you.”

“A mile!” exclaimed Lucy, lightly, though a fleeting shade crossed her face.  “Why, I’d run away from him, if I was on the King, even if he got within ten yards of me.”

“A mile is close enough, my daughter,” replied Bostil.  “Don’t ever forget to keep your eye open.  Cordts has sworn thet if he can’t steal the King he’ll get you.”

“Oh! he prefers the horse to me.”

“Wal, Lucy, I’ve a sneakin’ idea thet Cordts will never leave the uplands unless he gets you an’ the King both.”

“And, Dad—­you consented to let that horse-thief come to our races?” exclaimed Lucy, with heat.

“Why not?  He can’t do any harm.  If he or his men get uppish, the worse for them.  Cordts gave his word not to turn a trick till after the races.”

“Do you trust him?”

“Yes.  But his men might break loose, away from his sight.  Especially thet Dick Sears.  He’s a bad man.  So be watchful whenever you ride out.”

As Lucy went down toward the corrals she was thinking deeply.  She could always tell, woman-like, when her father was excited or agitated.  She remembered the conversation between him and Creech’s rider.  She remembered the keen glance old Holley had bent upon him.  And mostly she remembered the somber look upon his face.  She did not like that.  Once, when a little girl, she had seen it and never forgotten it, nor the thing that it was associated with—­something tragical which had happened in the big room.  There had been loud, angry voices of men—­and shots—­and then the men carried out a long form covered with a blanket.  She loved her father, but there was a side to him she