Wildfire | Page 7

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 comer 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