At her touch a warmth came into his face.  “Take them?  I should smile I will.”

He tried to reach down to lift the pack, but as it was obviously painful for him to bend, Lucy intercepted him.

“But you’ve had no breakfast,” she protested.  “Why not eat before you open that pack?”

“Nope.  I’m not hungry. . . .  Maybe I’ll eat a little, after I dress up.”  He started to walk away, then turned.  “Miss Bostil, have you been so good to every wanderin’ rider you happened to run across?”

“Good!” she exclaimed, flushing.  She dropped her eyes before his.  “Nonsense. . . .  Anyway, you’re the first wandering rider I ever met—­like this.”

“Well, you’re good,” he replied, with emotion.  Then he walked away with slow, stiff steps and disappeared behind the willows in the little hollow.

Lucy uncoiled the rope on her saddle and haltered Sage King on the best grass near at hand.  Then she opened the pack of supplies, thinking the while that she must not tarry here long.

“But on the King I can run back like the wind,” she mused.

The pack contained dried fruits and meat and staples, also an assortment of good things to eat that were of a perishable nature, already much the worse for the long ride.  She spread all this out in the shade of a cedar.  The utensils were few—­two cups, two pans, and a tiny pot.  She gathered wood, and arranged it for a fire, so that the rider could start as soon as he came back.  He seemed long in coming.  Lucy waited, yet still he did not return.  Finally she thought of the red stallion, and started off down the wash to take a look at him.  He was grazing.  He had lost some of the dirt and dust and the bedraggled appearance.  When he caught sight of her he lifted his head high and whistled.  How wild he looked!  And his whistle was shrill, clear, strong.  Both the other horses answered it.  Lucy went on closer to Wildfire.  She was fascinated now.

“If he doesn’t know me!” she cried.  Never had she been so pleased.  She had expected every sign of savageness on his part, and certainly had not intended to go near him.  But Wildfire did not show fear or hate in his recognition.  Lucy went directly to him and got a hand on him.  Wildfire reared a little and shook a little, but this disappeared presently under her touch.  He held his head very high and watched her with wonderful eyes.  Gradually she drew his head down.  Standing before him, she carefully and slowly changed the set of the hackamore, which had made a welt on his nose.  It seemed to have been her good fortune that every significant move she had made around this stallion had been to mitigate his pain.  Lucy believed he knew this as well as she knew it.  Her theory, an often disputed one, was that horses were as intelligent as human beings and had just the same fears, likes, and dislikes.  Lucy knew she was safe when she untied the lasso from the strong root where she had fastened it, and led the stallion down the wash to a pool of water.  And she stood beside him with a hand on his shoulder while he bent his head to sniff at the water.  He tasted it, plainly with disgust.  It was stagnant water, full of vermin.  But finally he drank.  Lucy led him up the wash to another likely place, and tied him securely.