“I mustn’t stay long,” she said, suddenly remembering.

“Will you come back—­again?” he asked.

The question startled Lucy.  “Why—­I—­I don’t know. . . .  Won’t you ride in to the Ford just as soon as you’re able?”

“I reckon not.”

“But it’s the only place where there’s people in hundreds of miles.  Surely you won’t try to go back the way you came?”

“When Wildfire left that country I left it.  We can’t back.”

“Then you’ve no people—­no one you care for?” she asked, in sweet seriousness.

“There’s no one.  I’m an orphan.  My people were lost in an Indian massacre—­with a wagon-train crossin’ Wyomin’.  A few escaped, an’ I was one of the youngsters.  I had a tough time, like a stray dog, till I grew up.  An’ then I took to the desert.”

“Oh, I see.  I—­I’m sorry,” replied Lucy.  “But that’s not very different from my dad’s story, of his early years. . . .  What will you do now?”

“I’ll stay here till my back straightens out. . . .  Will you ride out again?”

“Yes,” replied Lucy, without looking at him; and she wondered if it were really she who was speaking.

Then he asked her about the Ford, and Bostil, and the ranches and villages north, and the riders and horses.  Lucy told him everything she knew and could think of, and, lastly, after waxing eloquent on the horses of the uplands, particularly Bostil’s, she gave him a graphic account of Cordts and Dick Sears.

“Horse-thieves!” exclaimed the rider, darkly.  There was a grimness as well as fear in his tone.  “I’ve heard of Sears, but not Cordts.  Where does this band hang out?”

“No one knows.  Holley says they hide up in the canyon country.  None of the riders have ever tried to track them far.  It would be useless.  Holley says there are plateaus of rich grass and great forests.  The Ute Indians say that much, too.  But we know little about the wild country.”

“Aren’t there any hunters at Bostil’s Ford?”

“Wild-horse hunters, you mean?”

“No.  Bear an’ deer hunters.”

“There’s none.  And I suppose that’s why we’re not familiar with the wild canyon country.  I’d like to ride in there sometime and camp.  But our people don’t go in for that.  They love the open ranges.  No one I know, except a half-witted boy, ever rode down among these monuments.  And how wonderful a place!  It can’t be more than twenty miles from home. . . .  I must be going soon.  I’m forgetting Sage King.  Did I tell you I was training him for the races?”

“No, you didn’t.  What races?  Tell me,” he replied, with keen interest.

Then Lucy told him about the great passion of her father—­about the long, time-honored custom of free-for-all races, and the great races that had been run in the past; about the Creeches and their swift horses; about the rivalry and speculation and betting; and lastly about the races to be run in a few weeks—­races so wonderful in prospect that even the horse-thief, Cordts, had begged to be allowed to attend.