Wildfire | Page 5

you?"
A gray-haired, hawk-eyed rider, lean and worn, approached with
clinking spurs.
"Down in there," said Bostil, pointing.
"Thet's a bunch of hosses," replied Holley.
"Wild hosses?"

"I take 'em so, seein' how they throw thet dust."
"Huh! I don't like it. Lucy oughtn't be ridin' round alone."
"Wal, boss, who could catch her up on Buckles? Lucy can ride. An'
there's the King an' Sarch right under your nose--the only hosses on the
sage thet could outrun Buckles."
Farlane knew how to mollify his master and long habit had made him
proficient. Bostil's eyes flashed. He was proud of Lucy's power over a
horse. The story Bostil first told to any stranger happening by the Ford
was how Lucy had been born during a wild ride--almost, as it were, on
the back of a horse. That, at least, was her fame, and the riders swore
she was a worthy daughter of such a mother. Then, as Farlane well
knew, a quick road to Bostil's good will was to praise one of his
favorites.
"Reckon you spoke sense for once, Farlane," replied Bostil, with relief.
"I wasn't thinkin' so much of danger for Lucy. . . . But she lets thet
half-witted Creech go with her."
"No, boss, you're wrong," put in Holley, earnestly. "I know the girl. She
has no use fer Joel. But he jest runs after her."
"An' he's harmless," added Farlane.
"We ain't agreed," rejoined Bostil, quickly. "What do you say, Holley?"
The old rider looked thoughtful and did not speak for long.
"Wal, Yes an' no," he answered, finally. "I reckon Lucy could make a
man out of Joel. But she doesn't care fer him, an' thet settles thet. . . .
An' maybe Joel's leanin' toward the bad."
"If she meets him again I'll rope her in the house," declared Bostil.
Another clear-eyed rider drew Bostil's attention from the gray waste of
rolling sage.

"Bostil, look! Look at the King! He's watchin' fer somethin'. . . . An'
so's Sarch."
The two horses named were facing a ridge some few hundred yards
distant, and their heads were aloft and ears straight forward. Sage King
whistled shrilly and Sarchedon began to prance.
"Boys, you'd better drive them in," said Bostil. "They'd like nothin' so
well as gettin' out on the sage. . . . Hullo! what's thet shootin' up behind
the ridge?"
No more 'n Buckles with Lucy makin' him run some," replied Holley,
with a dry laugh.
"If it ain't! . . . Lord! look at him come!"
Bostil's anger and anxiety might never have been. The light of the
upland rider's joy shone in his keen gaze. The slope before him was
open, and almost level, down to the ridge that had hidden the missing
girl and horse. Buckles was running for the love of running, as the girl
low down over his neck was riding for the love of riding. The Sage
King whistled again, and shot off with graceful sweep to meet them;
Sarchedon plunged after him; Two Face and Plume jealously trooped
down, too, but Dusty Ben, after a toss of his head, went on grazing. The
gray and the black met Buckles and could not turn in time to stay with
him. A girl's gay scream pealed up the slope, and Buckles went lower
and faster. Sarchedon was left behind. Then the gray King began to run
as if before he had been loping. He was beautiful in action. This was
play--a game--a race--plainly dominated by the spirit of the girl. Lucy's
hair was a bright stream of gold in the wind. She rode bareback. It
seemed that she was hunched low over Buckles with her knees high on
his back-- scarcely astride him at all. Yet her motion was one with the
horse. Again that wild, gay scream pealed out--call or laugh or
challenge. Sage King, with a fleetness that made the eyes of Bostil and
his riders glisten, took the lead, and then sheered off to slow down,
while Buckles thundered past. Lucy was pulling him hard, and had him
plunging to a halt, when the rider Holley ran out to grasp his bridle.
Buckles was snorting and his ears were laid back. He pounded the

ground and scattered the pebbles.
"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