“No use, Lucy,” said Bostil. “You can’t beat the King at your own game, even with a runnin’ start.”

  Lucy Bostil’s eyes were blue, as keen as her father’s, and now they flashed like his. She had a hand twisted in the horse’s long mane, and as, lithe and supple, she slipped a knee across his broad back she shook a little gantleted fist at Bostil’s gray racer.

  “Sage King, I hate you!” she called, as if the horse were human. “And I’ll beat you some day!”

  Bostil swore by the gods his Sage King was the swiftest horse in all that wild upland country of wonderful horses. He swore the great gray could look back over his shoulder and run away from any broken horse known to the riders.

  Bostil himself was half horse, and the half of him that was human he divided between love of his fleet racers and his daughter Lucy. He had seen years of hard riding on that wild Utah border where, in those days, a horse meant all the world to a man. A lucky strike of grassy upland and good water south of the Rio Colorado made him rich in all that he cared to own. The Indians, yet unspoiled by white men, were friendly. Bostil built a boat at the Indian crossing of the Colorado and the place became known as Bostil’s Ford. From time to time his personality and his reputation and his need brought horse-hunters, riders, sheep-herders, and men of pioneer spirit, as well as wandering desert travelers, to the Ford, and the lonely, isolated hamlet slowly grew. North of the river it was more than two hundred miles to the nearest little settlement, with only a few lonely ranches on the road; to the west were several villages, equally distant, but cut off for two months at a time by the raging Colorado, flooded by melting snow up in the mountains. Eastward from the Ford stretched a ghastly, broken, unknown desert of canyons. Southward rolled the beautiful uplands, with valleys of sage and grass, and plateaus of pine and cedar, until this rich rolling gray and green range broke sharply on a purple horizon line of upflung rocky ramparts and walls and monuments, wild, dim, and mysterious.

  Bostil’s cattle and horses were numberless, and many as were his riders, he always could use more. But most riders did not abide long with Bostil, first because some of them were of a wandering breed, wild-horse hunters themselves; and secondly, Bostil had two great faults: he seldom paid a rider in money, and he never permitted one to own a fleet horse. He wanted to own all the fast horses himself. And in those days every rider, especially a wild-horse hunter, loved his steed as part of himself. If there was a difference between Bostil and any rider of the sage, it was that, as he had more horses, so he had more love.

  Whenever Bostil could not get possession of a horse he coveted, either by purchase or trade, he invariably acquired a grievance toward the owner. This happened often, for riders were loath to part with their favorites. And he had made more than one enemy by his persistent nagging. It could not be said, however, that he sought to drive hard bargains. Bostil would pay any price asked for a horse.

  Across the Colorado, in a high, red-walled canyon opening upon the river, lived a poor sheep-herder and horse-trader named Creech. This man owned a number of thoroughbreds, two of which he would not part with for all the gold in the uplands. These racers, Blue Roan and Peg, had been captured wild on the ranges by Ute Indians and broken to racing. They were still young and getting faster every year. Bostil wanted them because he coveted them and because he feared them. It would have been a terrible blow to him if any horse ever beat the gray. But Creech laughed at all offers and taunted Bostil with a boast that in another summer he would see a horse out in front of the King.

  To complicate matters and lead rivalry into hatred young Joel Creech, a great horseman, but worthless in the eyes of all save his father, had been heard to say that some day he would force a race between the King and Blue Roan. And that threat had been taken in various ways. It alienated Bostil beyond all hope of reconciliation. It made Lucy Bostil laugh and look sweetly mysterious. She had no enemies and she liked everybody. It was even gossiped by the women of Bostil’s Ford that she had more than liking for the idle Joel. But the husbands of these gossips said Lucy was only tender-hearted. Among the riders, when they sat around their lonely camp-fires, or lounged at the corrals of the Ford, there was speculation in regard to this race hinted by Joel Creech. There never had been a race between the King and Blue Roan, and there never would be, unless Joel were to ride off with Lucy. In that case there would be the grandest race ever run on the uplands, with the odds against Blue Roan only if he carried double. If Joel put Lucy up on the Roan and he rode Peg there would be another story. Lucy Bostil was a slip of a girl, born on a horse, as strong and supple as an Indian, and she could ride like a burr sticking in a horse’s mane. With Blue Roan carrying her light weight she might run away from any one up on the King — which for Bostil would be a double tragedy, equally in the loss of his daughter and the beating of his best-beloved racer. But with Joel on Peg, such a race would end in heartbreak for all concerned, for the King would outrun Peg, and that would bring riders within gunshot.

  It had always been a fascinating subject, this long-looked-for race. It grew more so when Joel’s infatuation for Lucy became known. There were fewer riders who believed Lucy might elope with Joel than there were who believed Joel might steal his father’s horses. But all the riders who loved horses and all the women who loved gossip were united in at least one thing, and that was that something like a race or a romance would soon disrupt the peaceful, sleepy tenor of Bostil’s Ford.

  In addition to Bostil’s growing hatred for the Creeches, he had a great fear of Cordts, the horse-thief. A fear ever restless, ever watchful. Cordts hid back in the untrodden ways. He had secret friends among the riders of the ranges, faithful followers back in the canyon camps, gold for the digging, cattle by the thousand, and fast horses. He had always gotten what he wanted — except one thing. That was a certain horse. And the horse was Sage King.

  Cordts was a bad man, a product of the early gold-fields of California and Idaho, an outcast from that evil wave of wanderers retreating back over the trails so madly traveled westward. He became a lord over the free ranges. But more than all else he was a rider. He knew a horse. He was as much horse as Bostil. Cordts rode into this wild free-range country, where he had been heard to say that a horse-thief was meaner than a poisoned coyote. Nevertheless, he became a horse-thief. The passion he had conceived for the Sage King was the passion of a man for an unattainable woman. Cordts swore that he would never rest, that he would not die, till he owned the King. So there was reason for Bostil’s great fear.

  CHAPTER II

  BOSTIL WENT TOWARD the house with his daughter, turning at the door to call a last word to his riders about the care of his horses.

  The house was a low, flat, wide structure, with a corridor running through the middle, from which doors led into the adobe-walled rooms. The windows were small openings high up, evidently intended for defense as well as light, and they had rude wooden shutters. The floor was clay, covered everywhere by Indian blankets. A pioneer’s home it was, simple and crude, yet comfortable, and having the rare quality peculiar to desert homes it was cool in summer and warm in winter.

  As Bostil entered with his arm round Lucy a big hound rose from the hearth. This room was immense, running the length of the house, and it contained a huge stone fireplace, where a kettle smoked fragrantly, and rude home-made chairs with blanket coverings, and tables to match, and walls covered with bridles, guns, pistols, Indian weapons and ornaments, and trophies of the chase. In a far corner stood a work-bench, with tools upon it and horse trappings under it. In the opposite corner a door led into the kitchen. This room was Bostil’s famous living-room, in which many things had happened, some of which had helped make desert history and were never mentioned by Bostil.

  Bostil’s sister came in from the kitchen. She was a huge person with a severe yet motherly face. She had her hands on her hips, and she cast a rather disapproving glance at father and daughter.

  “So you’re back again?” she queried, severely.

  “Sure, Auntie,” replied the girl, complacently.

  “You ran off to get out of seeing Wetherby, didn’t you?”

  Lucy stared sweetly at her aunt.

  “He was waiting for hours,” went on the worthy woman. “I never saw a man in such a stew.... No wonder, playing fast and loose with him the way you do.”

  “I told him No!” flashed Lucy.

  “But Wetherby’s not the kind to take no. And I’m not satisfied to let you mean it. Lucy Bostil, you don’t know your mind an hour straight running. You’ve fooled enough with these riders of your Dad’s. If you’re not careful you’ll marry one of them.... One of these wild riders! As bad as a Ute Indian! ... Wetherby is young and he idolizes you. In all common sense why don’t you take him?”

  “I don’t care for him,” replied Lucy.

  “You like him as well as anybody.... John Bostil, what do you say? You approved of Wetherby. I heard you tell him Lucy was like an unbroken colt and that you’d—”

  “Sure, I like Jim,” interrupted Bostil; and he avoided Lucy’s swift look.

  “Well?” demanded his sister.

  Evidently Bostil found himself in a corner between two fires. He looked sheepish, then disgusted.

  “Dad!” exclaimed Lucy, reproachfully.

  “See here, Jane,” said Bostil, with an air of finality, “the girl is of age to-day — an’ she can do what she damn pleases!”

  “That’s a fine thing for you to say,” retorted Aunt Jane. “Like as not she’ll be fetching that hang-dog Joel Creech up here for you to support.”

  “Auntie!” cried Lucy, her eyes blazing.

  “Oh, child, you torment me — worry me so,” said the disappointed woman. “It’s all for your sake.... Look at you, Lucy Bostil! A girl of eighteen who comes of a family! And you riding around and going around as you are now — in a man’s clothes!”

  “But, you dear old goose, I can’t ride in a woman’s skirt,” expostulated Lucy. “Mind you, Auntie, I can RIDE!”

  “Lucy, if I live here forever I’d never get reconciled to a Bostil woman in leather pants. We Bostils were somebody once, back in Missouri.”

  Bostil laughed. “Yes, an’ if I hadn’t hit the trail west we’d be starvin’ yet. Jane, you’re a sentimental old fool. Let the girl alone an’ reconcile yourself to this wilderness.”

  Aunt Jane’s eyes were wet with tears. Lucy, seeing them, ran to her and hugged and kissed her.

  “Auntie, I will promise — from to-day — to have some dignity. I’ve been free as a boy in these rider clothes. As I am now the men never seem to regard me as a girl. Somehow that’s better. I can’t explain, but I like it. My dresses are what have caused all the trouble. I know that. But if I’m grown up — if it’s so tremendous — then I’ll wear a dress all the time, except just WHEN I ride. Will that do, Auntie?”

  “Maybe you will grow up, after all,” replied Aunt Jane, evidently surprised and pleased.

  Then Lucy with clinking spurs ran away to her room.

  “Jane, what’s this nonsense about young Joel Creech?” asked Bostil, gruffly.

  “I don’t know any more than is gossiped. That I told you. Have you ever asked Lucy about him?”

  “I sure haven’t,” said Bostil, bluntly.

  “Well, ask her. If she tells you at all she’ll tell the truth. Lucy’d never sleep at night if she lied.”

  Aunt Jane returned to her housewifely tasks, leaving Bostil thoughtfully stroking the hound and watching the fire. Presently Lucy returned — a different Lucy — one that did not rouse his rider’s pride, but thrilled his father’s heart. She had been a slim, lithe, supple, disheveled boy, breathing the wild spirit of the open and the horse she rode. She was now a girl in the graceful roundness of her slender form, with hair the gold of the sage at sunset, and eyes the blue of the deep haze of distance, and lips the sweet red of the upland rose. And all about her seemed different.

  “Lucy — you look — like — like she used to be,” said Bostil, unsteadily.

  “My mother!” murmured Lucy.

  But these two, so keen, so strong, so alive, did not abide long with sad memories.

  “Lucy, I want to ask you somethin’,” said Bostil, presently. “What about this young Joel Creech?”

  Lucy started as if suddenly recalled, then she laughed merrily. “Dad, you old fox, did you see him ride out after me?”

  “No. I was just askin’ on — on general principles.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lucy, is there anythin’ between you an’ Joel?” he asked, gravely.

  “No,” she replied, with her clear eyes up to his.

  Bostil thought of a bluebell. “I’m beggin’ your pardon,” he said, hastily.

  “Dad, you know how Joel runs after me. I’ve told you. I let him till lately. I liked him. But that wasn’t why. I felt sorry for him — pitied him.”

  “You did? Seems an awful waste,” replied Bostil.

  “Dad, I don’t believe Joel is — perfectly right in his mind,” Lucy said, solemnly.

  “Haw! haw! Fine compliments you’re payin’ yourself.”

  “Listen. I’m serious. I mean I’ve grown to see — looking back — that a slow, gradual change has come over Joel since he was kicked in the head by a mustang. I’m sure no one else has noticed it.”

  “Goin’ batty over you. That’s no unusual sign round this here camp. Look at—”

  “We’re talking about Joel Creech. Lately he has done some queer things. To-day, for instance. I thought I gave him the slip. But he must have been watching. Anyway, to my surprise he showed up on Peg. He doesn’t often get Peg across the river. He said the feed was getting scarce over there. I was dying to race Buckles against Peg, but I remembered you wouldn’t like that.”

  “I should say not,” said Bostil, darkly.

  “Well, Joel caught up to me — and he wasn’t nice at all. He was worse to-day. We quarreled. I said I’d bet he’d never follow me again and he said he’d bet he would. Then he got sulky and hung back. I rode away, glad to be rid of him, and I climbed to a favorite place of mine. On my way home I saw Peg grazing on the rim of the creek, near that big spring-hole where the water’s so deep and clear. And what do you think? There was Joel’s head above the water. I remembered in our quarrel I had told him to go wash his dirty face. He was doing it. I had to laugh. When he saw me — he — then — then he—” Lucy faltered, blushing with anger and shame.

  “Well, what then?” demanded Bostil, quietly.

  “He called, ‘Hey, Luce — take off your clothes and come in for a swim!’”

  Bostil swore.

  “I tell you I was mad,” continued Lucy, “and just as surprised. That was one of the queer things. But never before had he dared to — to-”

  “Insult you. Then what ‘d you do?” interrupted Bostil, curiously.

  “I yelled, ‘I’ll fix you, Joel Creech!’... His clothes were in a pile on the bank. At first I thought I’d throw them in the water, but when I got to them I thought of something better. I took up all but his shoes, for I remembered the ten miles of rock and cactus between him and home, and I climbed up on Buckles. Joel screamed and swore something fearful. But I didn’t look back. And Peg, you know — maybe you don’t know — but Peg is fond of me, and he followed me, straddling his bridle all the way in. I dropped Joel’s clothes down the ridge a ways, right in the trail, so he can’t miss them. And that’s all.... Dad, was it — was it very bad?”

  “Bad! Why, you ought to have thrown your gun on him. At least bounced a rock off his head! But say, Lucy, after all, maybe you’ve done enough. I guess you never thought of it.”

  “What?”

  “The sun is hot to-day. Hot! An’ if Joel’s as crazy an’ mad as you say he’ll not have sense enough to stay in the water or shade till the sun’s gone down. An’ if he tackles that ten miles before he’ll sunburn himself within an inch of his life.”

  “Sunburn? Oh, Dad! I’m sorry,” burst out Lucy, contritely. “I never thought of that. I’ll ride back with his clothes.”

  “You will not,” said Bostil.

  “Let me send some one, then,” she entreated.

  “Girl, haven’t you the nerve to play your own game? Let Creech get his lesson. He deserves it.... An’ now, Lucy, I’ve two more questions to ask.”

  “Only two?” she queried, archly. “Dad, don’t scold me with questions.”

  “What shall I say to Wetherby for good an’ all?”

  Lucy’s eyes shaded dreamily, and she seemed to look beyond the room, out over the ranges.

  “Tell him to go back to Durango and forget the foolish girl who can care only for the desert and a horse.”

  “All right. That is straight talk, like an Indian’s. An’ now the last question — what do you want for a birthday present?”

  “Oh, of course,” she cried, gleefully clapping her hands. “I’d forgotten that. I’m eighteen!”