Before she got quite close to the cedars she saw a man.  He took a few slow steps out of the shade.  His back was bent.  Lucy recognized the rider, and in her gladness to see him on his feet she cried out.  Then, when Sage King reached the spot, Lucy rolled the pack off to the ground.

“Oh, that was a job!” she cried.

The rider looked up with eyes that seemed keener, less staring than she remembered.  “You came? . . .  I was afraid you wouldn’t,” he said.

“Sure I came. . . .  You’re better—­not badly hurt?” she said, gravely, “I—­I’m so glad.”

“I’ve got a crimp in my back, that’s all.”

Lucy was quick to see that after the first glance at her he was all eyes for Sage King.  She laughed.  How like a rider!  She watched him, knowing that presently he would realize what a horse she was riding.  She slipped off and threw the bridle, and then, swiftly untying the second pack, she laid it down.

The rider, with slow, painful steps and bent back, approached Sage King and put a lean, strong, brown hand on him, and touched him as if he wished to feel if he were real.  Then he whistled softly.  When he turned to Lucy his eyes shone with a beautiful light.

“It’s Sage King, Bostil’s favorite,” said Lucy.

“Sage King! . . .  He looks it. . . .  But never a wild horse?”

“No.”

“A fine horse,” replied the rider.  “Of course he can run?” This last held a note of a rider’s jealousy.

Lucy laughed.  “Run! . . .  The King is Bostil’s favorite.  He can run away from any horse in the uplands.”

“I’ll bet you Wildfire can beat him,” replied the rider, with a dark glance.

“Come on!” cried Lucy, daringly.

Then the rider and girl looked more earnestly at each other.  He smiled in a way that changed his face—­brightened out the set hardness.

“I reckon I’ll have to crawl,” he said, ruefully.  “But maybe I can ride in a few days—­if you’ll come back again.”

His remark brought to Lucy the idea that of course she would hardly see this rider again after to-day.  Even if he went to the Ford, which event was unlikely, he would not remain there long.  The sensation of blankness puzzled her, and she felt an unfamiliar confusion.

“I—­I’ve brought you—­some things,” she said, pointing to the larger pack.

“Grub, you mean?”

“No.”

“That was all I asked you for, miss,” he said, somewhat stiffly.

“Yes, but—­I—­I thought—­” Lucy became unaccountably embarrassed.  Suppose this strange rider would be offended.  “Your clothes were—­so torn. . . .  And no wonder you were thrown—­in those boots! . . .  So I thought I’d—­”

“You thought I needed clothes as bad as grub,” he said, bitterly.  “I reckon that’s so.”

His look, more than his tone, cut Lucy; and involuntarily she touched his arm.  “Oh, you won’t refuse to take them!  Please don’t!”