And now he listened, as if indeed the sullen, low roar, the murmuring hollow gurgle, the sudden strange splash, were spoken words meant for his ears alone.  The river was low.  It seemed tired out.  It was a dirty red in color, and it swirled and flowed along lingeringly.  At times the current was almost imperceptible; and then again it moved at varying speed.  It seemed a petulant, waiting, yet inevitable stream, with some remorseless end before it.  It had a thousand voices, but not the one Bostil listened to hear.

He plodded gloomily up the trail, resting in the quiet, dark places of the canyon, loath to climb out into the clear light of day.  And once in the village, Bostil shook himself as if to cast off an evil, ever-present, pressing spell.

The races were now only a few days off.  Piutes and Navajos were camped out on the sage, and hourly the number grew as more came in.  They were building cedar sunshades.  Columns of blue smoke curled up here and there.  Mustangs and ponies grazed everywhere, and a line of Indians extended along the racecourse, where trials were being held.  The village was full of riders, horse-traders and hunters, and ranchers.  Work on the ranges had practically stopped for the time being, and in another day or so every inhabitant of the country would be in Bostil’s Ford.

Bostil walked into the village, grimly conscious that the presence of the Indians and riders and horses, the action and color and bustle, the near approach of the great race-day—­these things that in former years had brought him keen delight and speculation—­had somehow lost their tang.  He had changed.  Something was wrong in him.  But he must go among these visitors and welcome them as of old; he who had always been the life of these racing-days must be outwardly the same.  And the task was all the harder because of the pleasure shown by old friends among the Indians and the riders at meeting him.  Bostil knew he had been a cunning horse-trader, but he had likewise been a good friend.  Many were the riders and Indians who owed much to him.  So everywhere he was hailed and besieged, until finally the old excitement of betting and bantering took hold of him and he forgot his brooding.

Brackton’s place, as always, was a headquarters for all visitors.  Macomber had just come in full of enthusiasm and pride over the horse he had entered, and he had money to wager.  Two Navajo chiefs, called by white men Old Horse and Silver, were there for the first time in years.  They were ready to gamble horse against horse.  Cal Blinn and his riders of Durango had arrived; likewise Colson, Sticks, and Burthwait, old friends and rivals of Bostil’s.

For a while Brackton’s was merry.  There was some drinking and much betting.  It was characteristic of Bostil that he would give any odds asked on the King in a race; and, furthermore, he would take any end of wagers on other horses.  As far as his own horses were concerned he bet shrewdly, but in races where his horses did not figure he seemed to find fun in the betting, whether or not he won.