“I’m goin’ to Bostil after the race an’ ask him.  That’s settled,” declared Slone, stubbornly.

At this Lucy utterly lost her temper.  “Oh! you—­you fool!” she cried.

Slone drew back suddenly as if struck, and a spot of dark blood leaped to his lean face.  “No!  It seems to me the right way.”

“Right or wrong there’s no sense in it—­because—­because.  Oh! can’t you see?”

“I see more than I used to,” he replied.  “I was a fool over a horse.  An’ now I’m a fool over a girl. . . .  I wish you’d never found me that day!”

Lucy whirled in the saddle and made Wildfire jump.  She quieted him, and, leaping off, threw the bridle to Slone.  “I won’t ride your horse in the race!” she declared with sudden passion.  She felt herself shaking all over.

“Lucy Bostil, I wish I was as sure of Heaven as I am you’ll be up on Wildfire in that race,” he said.

“I won’t ride your horse.”

“My horse.  Oh, I see. . . .  But you’ll ride Wildfire.”

“I won’t.”

Slone suddenly turned white, and his eyes flashed dark fire.  “You won’t be able to help ridin’ him any more than I could help it.”

“A lot you know about me, Lin Slone!” returned Lucy, with scorn.  “I can be as—­as bull-headed as you, any day.”

Slone evidently controlled his temper, though his face remained white.  He even smiled at her.

“You are Bostil’s daughter,” he said.

“Yes.”

“You are blood an’ bone, heart an’ soul a rider, if any girl ever was.  You’re a wonder with a horse—­as good as any man I ever saw.  You love Wildfire.  An’ look—­how strange!  That wild stallion—­that killer of horses, why he follows you, he whistles for you, he runs like lightnin’ for you; he loves you.”

Slone had attacked Lucy in her one weak point.  She felt a force rending her.  She dared not look at Wildfire.  Yes—­all, that was true Slone had said.  How desperately hard to think of forfeiting the great race she knew she could win!

“Never!  I’ll never ride your Wildfire again!” she said, very, low.

“Mine! . . .  So that’s the trouble.  Well, Wildfire won’t be mine when you ride the race.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Lucy.  “You’ll sell him to Bostil. . . .  Bah! you couldn’t . . .”

“Sell Wildfire!—­after what it cost me to catch an’ break him? . . .  Not for all your father’s lands an’ horses an’ money!”

Slone’s voice rolled out with deep, ringing scorn.  And Lucy, her temper quelled, began to feel the rider’s strength, his mastery of the situation, and something vague, yet splendid about him that hurt her.

Slone strode toward her.  Lucy backed against the cedar-tree and could go no farther.  How white he was now!  Lucy’s heart gave a great, fearful leap, for she imagined Slone intended to take her in his arms.  But he did not.

“When you ride—­Wildfire in that—­race he’ll be—­yours!” said Slone, huskily.