← catalogue

Wildfire

by Zane Grey · English · Gutenberg #2066 · 576,207 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Wildfire
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Wildfire

Author: Zane Grey


        
Release date: February 1, 2000 [eBook #2066]
                Most recently updated: December 31, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2066

Credits: Produced by Daniel Wentzell.  HTML version by Al Haines.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILDFIRE ***




Produced by Daniel Wentzell.  HTML version by Al Haines.









WILDFIRE


by

ZANE GREY




CHAPTER I

For some reason the desert scene before Lucy Bostil awoke varying
emotions--a sweet gratitude for the fullness of her life there at the
Ford, yet a haunting remorse that she could not be wholly content--a
vague loneliness of soul--a thrill and a fear for the strangely calling
future, glorious, unknown.

She longed for something to happen. It might be terrible, so long as it
was wonderful. This day, when Lucy had stolen away on a forbidden
horse, she was eighteen years old. The thought of her mother, who had
died long ago on their way into this wilderness, was the one drop of
sadness in her joy. Lucy loved everybody at Bostil's Ford and everybody
loved her. She loved all the horses except her father's favorite racer,
that perverse devil of a horse, the great Sage King.

Lucy was glowing and rapt with love for all she beheld from her lofty
perch: the green-and-pink blossoming hamlet beneath her, set between
the beauty of the gray sage expanse and the ghastliness of the barren
heights; the swift Colorado sullenly thundering below in the abyss; the
Indians in their bright colors, riding up the river trail; the eagle
poised like a feather on the air, and a beneath him the grazing cattle
making black dots on the sage; the deep velvet azure of the sky; the
golden lights on the bare peaks and the lilac veils in the far ravines;
the silky rustle of a canyon swallow as he shot downward in the sweep
of the wind; the fragrance of cedar, the flowers of the spear-pointed
mescal; the brooding silence, the beckoning range, the purple distance.

Whatever it was Lucy longed for, whatever was whispered by the wind and
written in the mystery of the waste of sage and stone, she wanted it to
happen there at Bostil's Ford. She had no desire for civilization, she
flouted the idea of marrying the rich rancher of Durango. Bostil's
sister, that stern but lovable woman who had brought her up and taught
her, would never persuade her to marry against her will. Lucy imagined
herself like a wild horse--free, proud, untamed, meant for the desert;
and here she would live her life. The desert and her life seemed as
one, yet in what did they resemble each other--in what of this scene
could she read the nature of her future?

Shudderingly she rejected the red, sullen, thundering river, with its
swift, changeful, endless, contending strife--for that was tragic. And
she rejected the frowning mass of red rock, upreared, riven and split
and canyoned, so grim and aloof--for that was barren. But she accepted
the vast sloping valley of sage, rolling gray and soft and beautiful,
down to the dim mountains and purple ramparts of the horizon. Lucy did
not know what she yearned for, she did not know why the desert called
to her, she did not know in what it resembled her spirit, but she did
know that these three feelings were as one, deep in her heart. For ten
years, every day of her life, she had watched this desert scene, and
never had there been an hour that it was not different, yet the same.
Ten years--and she grew up watching, feeling--till from the desert's
thousand moods she assimilated its nature, loved her bonds, and could
never have been happy away from the open, the color, the freedom, the
wildness. On this birthday, when those who loved her said she had
become her own mistress, she acknowledged the claim of the desert
forever. And she experienced a deep, rich, strange happiness.

Hers always then the mutable and immutable desert, the leagues and
leagues of slope and sage and rolling ridge, the great canyons and the
giant cliffs, the dark river with its mystic thunder of waters, the
pine-fringed plateaus, the endless stretch of horizon, with its lofty,
isolated, noble monuments, and the bold ramparts with their beckoning
beyond! Hers always the desert seasons: the shrill, icy blast, the
intense cold, the steely skies, the fading snows; the gray old sage and
the bleached grass under the pall of the spring sand-storms; the hot
furnace breath of summer, with its magnificent cloud pageants in the
sky, with the black tempests hanging here and there over the peaks,
dark veils floating down and rainbows everywhere, and the lacy
waterfalls upon the glistening cliffs and the thunder of the red
floods; and the glorious golden autumn when it was always afternoon and
time stood still! Hers always the rides in the open, with the sun at
her back and the wind in her face! And hers surely, sooner or later,
the nameless adventure which had its inception in the strange yearning
of her heart and presaged its fulfilment somewhere down that trailless
sage-slope she loved so well!

Bostil's house was a crude but picturesque structure of red stone and
white clay and bleached cottonwoods, and it stood at the outskirts of
the cluster of green-inclosed cabins which composed the hamlet. Bostil
was wont to say that in all the world there could hardly be a grander
view than the outlook down that gray sea of rolling sage, down to the
black-fringed plateaus and the wild, blue-rimmed and gold-spired
horizon.

One morning in early spring, as was Bostil's custom, he ordered the
racers to be brought from the corrals and turned loose on the slope. He
loved to sit there and watch his horses graze, but ever he saw that the
riders were close at hand, and that the horses did not get out on the
slope of sage. He sat back and gloried in the sight. He owned bands of
mustangs; near by was a field of them, fine and mettlesome and racy;
yet Bostil had eyes only for the blooded favorites. Strange it was that
not one of these was a mustang or a broken wild horse, for many of the
riders' best mounts had been captured by them or the Indians. And it
was Bostil's supreme ambition to own a great wild stallion. There was
Plume, a superb mare that got her name from the way her mane swept in
the wind when she was on the ran; and there was Two Face, like a
coquette, sleek and glossy and running and the huge, rangy bay, Dusty
Ben; and the black stallion Sarchedon; and lastly Sage King, the color
of the upland sage, a racer in build, a horse splendid and proud and
beautiful.

"Where's Lucy?" presently asked Bostil.

As he divided his love, so he divided his anxiety.

Some rider had seen Lucy riding off, with her golden hair flying in the
wind. This was an old story.

"She's up on Buckles?" Bostil queried, turning sharply to the speaker.

"Reckon so," was the calm reply.

Bostil swore. He did not have a rider who could equal him in profanity.

"Farlane, you'd orders. Lucy's not to ride them hosses, least of all
Buckles. He ain't safe even for a man."

"Wal, he's safe fer Lucy."

"But didn't I say no?"

"Boss, it's likely you did, fer you talk a lot," replied Farlane. "Lucy
pulled my hat down over my eyes--told me to go to thunder--an' then,
zip! she an' Buckles were dustin' it fer the sage."

"She's got to keep out of the sage," growled Bostil. "It ain't safe for
her out there.... Where's my glass? I want to take a look at the slope.
Where's my glass?"

The glass could not be found.

"What's makin' them dust-clouds on the sage? Antelope? ... Holley, you
used to have eyes better 'n me. Use them, will 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 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!"

"You get that old chest of your mother's. But what from me?"

"Dad, will you give me anything I ask for?"

"Yes, my girl."

"Anything--any HORSE?"

Lucy knew his weakness, for she had inherited it.

"Sure; any horse but the King."

"How about Sarchedon?"

"Why, Lucy, what'd you do with that big black devil? He's too high.
Seventeen hands high! You couldn't mount him."

"Pooh! Sarch KNEELS for me."

"Child, listen to reason. Sarch would pull your arms out of their
sockets."

"He has got an iron jaw," agreed Lucy. "Well, then--how about Dusty
Ben?" She was tormenting her father and she did it with glee.

"No--not Ben. He's the faithfulest hoss I ever owned. It wouldn't be
fair to part with him, even to you. Old associations ... a rider's
loyalty ... now, Lucy, you know--"

"Dad, you're afraid I'd train and love Ben into beating the King. Some
day I'll ride some horse out in front of the gray. Remember, Dad! ...
Then give me Two Face."

"Sure not her, Lucy. Thet mare can't be trusted. Look why we named her
Two Face."

"Buckles, then, dear generous Daddy who longs to give his grown-up girl
ANYTHING!"

"Lucy, can't you be satisfied an' happy with your mustangs? You've got
a dozen. You can have any others on the range. Buckles ain't safe for
you to ride."

Bostil was notably the most generous of men, the kindest of fathers. It
was an indication of his strange obsession, in regard to horses, that
he never would see that Lucy was teasing him. As far as horses were
concerned he lacked a sense of humor. Anything connected with his
horses was of intense interest.

"I'd dearly love to own Plume," said Lucy, demurely.

Bostil had grown red in the face and now he was on the rack. The
monstrous selfishness of a rider who had been supreme in his day could
not be changed.

"Girl, I--I thought you hadn't no use for Plume," he stammered.

"I haven't--the jade! She threw me once. I've never forgiven her ....
Dad, I'm only teasing you. Don't I know you couldn't give one of those
racers away? You couldn't!"

"Lucy, I reckon you're right," Bostil burst out in immense relief.

"Dad, I'll bet if Cordts gets me and holds me as ransom for the
King--as he's threatened--you'll let him have me!"

"Lucy, now thet ain't funny!" complained the father.

"Dear Dad, keep your old racers! But, remember, I'm my father's
daughter. I can love a horse, too. Oh, if I ever get the one I want to
love! A wild horse--a desert stallion--pure Arabian--broken right by an
Indian! If I ever get him, Dad, you look out! For I'll run away from
Sarch and Ben--and I'll beat the King!"

The hamlet of Bostil's Ford had a singular situation, though,
considering the wonderful nature of that desert country, it was not
exceptional. It lay under the protecting red bluff that only Lucy
Bostil cared to climb. A hard-trodden road wound down through rough
breaks in the canyon wall to the river. Bostil's house, at the head of
the village, looked in the opposite direction, down the sage slope that
widened like a colossal fan. There was one wide street bordered by
cottonwoods and cabins, and a number of gardens and orchards, beginning
to burst into green and pink and white. A brook ran out of a ravine in
the huge bluff, and from this led irrigation ditches. The red earth
seemed to blossom at the touch of water.

The place resembled an Indian encampment--quiet, sleepy, colorful, with
the tiny-streams of water running everywhere, and lazy columns of blue
wood-smoke rising. Bostil's Ford was the opposite of a busy village,
yet its few inhabitants, as a whole, were prosperous. The wants of
pioneers were few. Perhaps once a month the big, clumsy flatboat was
rowed across the river with horses or cattle or sheep. And the season
was now close at hand when for weeks, sometimes months, the river was
unfordable. There were a score of permanent families, a host of merry,
sturdy children, a number of idle young men, and only one girl--Lucy
Bostil. But the village always had transient inhabitants--friendly Utes
and Navajos in to trade, and sheep-herders with a scraggy, woolly
flock, and travelers of the strange religious sect identified with Utah
going on into the wilderness. Then there were always riders passing to
and fro, and sometimes unknown ones regarded with caution.
Horse-thieves sometimes boldly rode in, and sometimes were able to sell
or trade. In the matter of horse-dealing Bostil's Ford was as bold as
the thieves.

Old Brackton, a man of varied Western experience, kept the one store,
which was tavern, trading-post, freighter's headquarters, blacksmith's
shop, and any thing else needful. Brackton employed riders, teamsters,
sometimes Indians, to freight supplies in once a month from Durango.
And that was over two hundred miles away. Sometimes the supplies did
not arrive on time--occasionally not at all. News from the outside
world, except that elicited from the taciturn travelers marching into
Utah, drifted in at intervals. But it was not missed. These wilderness
spirits were the forerunners of a great, movement, and as such were
big, strong, stern, sufficient unto themselves. Life there was made
possible by horses. The distant future, that looked bright to
far-seeing men, must be and could only be fulfilled through the
endurance and faithfulness of horses. And then, from these men, horses
received the meed due them, and the love they were truly worth. The
Navajo was a nomad horseman, an Arab of the Painted Desert, and the Ute
Indian was close to him. It was they who developed the white riders of
the uplands as well as the wild-horse wrangler or hunter.

Brackton's ramshackle establishment stood down at the end of the
village street. There was not a sawed board in all that structure, and
some of the pine logs showed how they had been dropped from the bluff.
Brackton, a little old gray man, with scant beard, and eyes like those
of a bird, came briskly out to meet an incoming freighter. The wagon
was minus a hind wheel, but the teamster had come in on three wheels
and a pole. The sweaty, dust-caked, weary, thin-ribbed mustangs, and
the gray-and-red-stained wagon, and the huge jumble of dusty packs,
showed something of what the journey had been.

"Hi thar, Red Wilson, you air some late gettin' in," greeted old
Brackton.

Red Wilson had red eyes from fighting the flying sand, and red dust
pasted in his scraggy beard, and as he gave his belt an upward hitch
little red clouds flew from his gun-sheath.

"Yep. An' I left a wheel an' part of the load on the trail," he said.

With him were Indians who began to unhitch the teams. Riders lounging
in the shade greeted Wilson and inquired for news. The teamster replied
that travel was dry, the water-holes were dry, and he was dry. And his
reply gave both concern and amusement.

"One more trip out an' back--thet's all, till it rains," concluded
Wilson.

Brackton led him inside, evidently to alleviate part of that dryness.

Water and grass, next to horses, were the stock subject of all riders.

"It's got oncommon hot early," said one.

"Yes, an' them northeast winds--hard this spring," said another.

"No snow on the uplands."

"Holley seen a dry spell comin'. Wal, we can drift along without
freighters. There's grass an' water enough here, even if it doesn't
rain."

"Sure, but there ain't none across the river."

"Never was, in early season. An' if there was it'd be sheeped off."

"Creech'll be fetchin' his hosses across soon, I reckon."

"You bet he will. He's trainin' for the races next month."

"An' when air they comin' off?"

"You got me. Mebbe Van knows."

Some one prodded a sleepy rider who lay all his splendid lithe length,
hat over his eyes. Then he sat up and blinked, a lean-faced, gray-eyed
fellow, half good-natured and half resentful.

"Did somebody punch me?"

"Naw, you got nightmare! Say, Van, when will the races come off?"

"Huh! An' you woke me for thet? ... Bostil says in a few weeks, soon as
he hears from the Indians. Plans to have eight hundred Indians here,
an' the biggest purses an' best races ever had at the Ford."

"You'll ride the King again?"

"Reckon so. But Bostil is kickin' because I'm heavier than I was,"
replied the rider.

"You're skin an' bones at thet."

"Mebbe you'll need to work a little off, Van. Some one said Creech's
Blue Roan was comin' fast this year."

"Bill, your mind ain't operatin'," replied Van, scornfully. "Didn't I
beat Creech's hosses last year without the King turnin' a hair?"

"Not if I recollect, you didn't. The Blue Roan wasn't runnin'."

Then they argued, after the manner of friendly riders, but all earnest,
an eloquent in their convictions. The prevailing opinion was that
Creech's horse had a chance, depending upon condition and luck.

The argument shifted upon the arrival of two new-comers, leading
mustangs and apparently talking trade. It was manifest that these
arrivals were not loath to get the opinions of others.

"Van, there's a hoss!" exclaimed one.

"No, he ain't," replied Van.

And that diverse judgment appeared to be characteristic throughout. The
strange thing was that Macomber, the rancher, had already traded his
mustang and money to boot for the sorrel. The deal, whether wise or
not, had been consummated. Brackton came out with Red Wilson, and they
had to have their say.

"Wal, durned if some of you fellers ain't kind an' complimentary,"
remarked Macomber, scratching his head. "But then every feller can't
have hoss sense." Then, looking up to see Lucy Bostil coming along the
road, he brightened as if with inspiration.

Lucy was at home among them, and the shy eyes of the younger riders,
especially Van, were nothing if not revealing. She greeted them with a
bright smile, and when she saw Brackton she burst out:

"Oh, Mr. Brackton, the wagon's in, and did my box come? ... To-day's my
birthday."

"'Deed it did, Lucy; an' many more happy ones to you!" he replied,
delighted in her delight. "But it's too heavy for you. I'll send it
up--or mebbe one of the boys--"

Five riders in unison eagerly offered their services and looked as if
each had spoken first. Then Macomber addressed her:

"Miss Lucy, you see this here sorrel?"

"Ah! the same lazy crowd and the same old story--a horse trade!"
laughed Lucy.

"There's a little difference of opinion," said Macomber, politely
indicating the riders. "Now, Miss Lucy, we-all know you're a judge of a
hoss. And as good as thet you tell the truth. Thet ain't in some
hoss-traders I know.... What do you think of this mustang?"

Macomber had eyes of enthusiasm for his latest acquisition, but some of
the cock-sureness had been knocked out of him by the blunt riders.

"Macomber, aren't you a great one to talk?" queried Lucy, severely.
"Didn't you get around Dad and trade him an old, blind, knock-kneed bag
of bones for a perfectly good pony--one I liked to ride?"

The riders shouted with laughter while the rancher struggled with
confusion.

"'Pon my word, Miss Lucy, I'm surprised you could think thet of such an
old friend of yours--an' your Dad's, too. I'm hopin' he doesn't side
altogether with you."

"Dad and I never agree about a horse. He thinks he got the best of you.
But you know, Macomber, what a horse-thief you are. Worse than Cordts!"

"Wal, if I got the best of Bostil I'm willin' to be thought bad. I'm
the first feller to take him in.... An' now, Miss Lucy, look over my
sorrel."

Lucy Bostil did indeed have an eye for a horse. She walked straight up
to the wild, shaggy mustang with a confidence born of intuition and
experience, and reached a hand for his head, not slowly, nor yet
swiftly. The mustang looked as if he was about to jump, but he did not.
His eyes showed that he was not used to women.

"He's not well broken," said Lucy. "Some Navajo has beaten his head in
breaking him."

Then she carefully studied the mustang point by point.

"He's deceiving at first because he's good to look at," said Lucy. "But
I wouldn't own him. A saddle will turn on him. He's not vicious, but
he'll never get over his scare. He's narrow between the eyes--a bad
sign. His ears are stiff--and too close. I don't see anything more
wrong with him."

"You seen enough," declared Macomber. "An' so you wouldn't own him?"

"You couldn't make me a present of him--even on my birthday."

"Wal, now I'm sorry, for I was thinkin' of thet," replied Macomber,
ruefully. It was plain that the sorrel had fallen irremediably in his
estimation.

"Macomber, I often tell Dad all you horse-traders get your deserts now
and then. It's vanity and desire to beat the other man that's your
downfall."

Lucy went away, with Van shouldering her box, leaving Macomber trying
to return the banter of the riders. The good-natured raillery was
interrupted by a sharp word from one of them.

"Look! Darn me if thet ain't a naked Indian comin'!"

The riders whirled to see an apparently nude savage approaching, almost
on a run.

"Take a shot at thet, Bill," said another rider. "Miss Lucy might
see--No, she's out of sight. But, mebbe some other woman is around."

"Hold on, Bill," called Macomber. "You never saw an Indian run like
thet."

Some of the riders swore, others laughed, and all suddenly became keen
with interest.

"Sure his face is white, if his body's red!"

The strange figure neared them. It was indeed red up to the face, which
seemed white in contrast. Yet only in general shape and action did it
resemble a man.

"Damned if it ain't Joel Creech!" sang out Bill Stark.

The other riders accorded their wondering assent.

"Gone crazy, sure!"

"I always seen it comin'."

"Say, but ain't he wild? Foamin' at the mouth like a winded hoss!"

Young Creech was headed down the road toward the ford across which he
had to go to reach home. He saw the curious group, slowed his pace, and
halted. His face seemed convulsed with rage and pain and fatigue. His
body, even to his hands, was incased in a thick, heavy coating of red
adobe that had caked hard.

"God's sake--fellers--" he panted, with eyes rolling, "take this--'dobe
mud off me! ... I'm dyin'!"

Then he staggered into Brackton's place. A howl went up from the riders
and they surged after him.

That evening after supper Bostil stamped in the big room, roaring with
laughter, red in the face; and he astonished Lucy and her aunt to the
point of consternation.

"Now--you've--done--it--Lucy Bostil!" he roared.

"Oh dear! Oh dear!" exclaimed Aunt Jane.

"Done what?" asked Lucy, blankly.

Bostil conquered his paroxysm, and, wiping his moist red face, he eyed
Lucy in mock solemnity.

"Joel!" whispered Lucy, who had a guilty conscience.

"Lucy, I never heard the beat of it.... Joel's smarter in some ways
than we thought, an' crazier in others. He had the sun figgered, but
what'd he want to run through town for? Why, never in my life have I
seen such tickled riders."

"Dad!" almost screamed Lucy. "What did Joel do?"

"Wal, I see it this way. He couldn't or wouldn't wait for sundown. An'
he wasn't hankerin' to be burned. So he wallows in a 'dobe mud-hole an'
covers himself thick with mud. You know that 'dobe mud! Then he starts
home. But he hadn't figgered on the 'dobe gettin' hard, which it
did--harder 'n rock. An' thet must have hurt more 'n sunburn. Late this
afternoon he came runnin' down the road, yellin' thet he was dyin'. The
boys had conniption fits. Joel ain't over-liked, you know, an' here
they had one on him. Mebbe they didn't try hard to clean him off. But
the fact is not for hours did they get thet 'dobe off him. They washed
an' scrubbed an' curried him, while he yelled an' cussed. Finally they
peeled it off, with his skin I guess. He was raw, an' they say, the
maddest feller ever seen in Bostil's Ford!"

Lucy was struggling between fear and mirth. She did not look sorry.
"Oh! Oh! Oh, Dad!"

"Wasn't it great, Lucy?"

"But what--will he--do?" choked Lucy.

"Lord only knows. Thet worries me some. Because he never said a word
about how he come to lose his clothes or why he had the 'dobe on him.
An' sure I never told. Nobody knows but us."

"Dad, he'll do something terrible to me!" cried Lucy, aghast at her
premonition.



CHAPTER III

The days did not pass swiftly at Bostil's Ford. And except in winter,
and during the spring sand-storms, the lagging time passed pleasantly.
Lucy rode every day, sometimes with Van, and sometimes alone. She was
not over-keen about riding with Van--first, because he was in love with
her; and secondly, in spite of that, she could not beat him when he
rode the King. They were training Bostil's horses for the
much-anticipated races.

At last word arrived from the Utes and Navajos that they accepted
Bostil's invitation and would come in force, which meant, according to
Holley and other old riders, that the Indians would attend about eight
hundred strong.

"Thet old chief, Hawk, is comin'," Holley informed Bostil. "He hasn't
been here fer several years. Recollect thet bunch of colts he had?
They're hosses, not mustangs.... So you look out, Bostil!"

No rider or rancher or sheepman, in fact, no one, ever lost a chance to
warn Bostil. Some of it was in fun, but most of it was earnest. The
nature of events was that sooner or later a horse would beat the King.
Bostil knew that as well as anybody, though he would not admit it.
Holley's hint made Bostil look worried. Most of Bostil's gray hairs
might have been traced to his years of worry about horses.

The day he received word from the Indians he sent for Brackton,
Williams, Muncie, and Creech to come to his house that night. These
men, with Bostil, had for years formed in a way a club, which gave the
Ford distinction. Creech was no longer a friend of Bostil's, but Bostil
had always been fair-minded, and now he did not allow his animosities
to influence him. Holley, the veteran rider, made the sixth member of
the club.

Bostil had a cedar log blazing cheerily in the wide fireplace, for
these early spring nights in the desert were cold.

Brackton was the last guest to arrive. He shuffled in without answering
the laconic greetings accorded him, and his usually mild eyes seemed
keen and hard.

"John, I reckon you won't love me fer this here I've got to tell you,
to-night specially," he said, seriously.

"You old robber, I couldn't love you anyhow," retorted Bostil. But his
humor did not harmonize with the sudden gravity of his look. "What's
up?"

"Who do you suppose I jest sold whisky to?"

"I've no idea," replied Bostil. Yet he looked as if he was perfectly
sure.

"Cordts! ... Cordts, an' four of his outfit. Two of them I didn't know.
Bad men, judgin' from appearances, let alone company. The others was
Hutchinson an'--Dick Sears."

"DICK SEARS!" exclaimed Bostil.

Muncie and Williams echoed Bostil. Holley appeared suddenly interested.
Creech alone showed no surprise.

"But Sears is dead," added Bostil.

"He was dead--we thought," replied Brackton, with a grim laugh. "But
he's alive again. He told me he'd been in Idaho fer two years, in the
gold-fields. Said the work was too hard, so he'd come back here.
Laughed when he said it, the little devil! I'll bet he was thinkin' of
thet wagon-train of mine he stole."

Bostil gazed at his chief rider.

"Wal, I reckon we didn't kill Sears, after all," replied Holley. "I
wasn't never sure."

"Lord! Cordts an' Sears in camp," ejaculated Bostil, and he began to
pace the room.

"No, they're gone now," said Brackton.

"Take it easy, boss. Sit down," drawled Holley. "The King is safe, an'
all the racers. I swear to thet. Why, Cordts couldn't chop into thet
log-an'-wire corral if he an' his gang chopped all night! They hate
work. Besides, Farlane is there, an' the boys."

This reassured Bostil, and he resumed his chair. But his hand shook a
little.

"Did Cordts have anythin' to say?" he asked.

"Sure. He was friendly an' talkative," replied Brackton. "He came in
just after dark. Left a man I didn't see out with the hosses. He bought
two big packs of supplies, an' some leather stuff, an', of course,
ammunition. Then some whisky. Had plenty of gold an' wouldn't take no
change. Then while his men, except Sears, was carryin' out the stuff,
he talked."

"Go on. Tell me," said Bostil.

"Wal, he'd been out north of Durango an' fetched news. There's wild
talk back there of a railroad goin' to be built some day, joinin' east
an' west. It's interestin', but no sense to it. How could they build a
railroad through thet country?"

"North it ain't so cut up an' lumpy as here," put in Holley.

"Grandest idea ever thought of for the West," avowed Bostil. "If thet
railroad ever starts we'll all get rich....  Go on, Brack."

"Then Cordts said water an' grass was peterin' out back on the trail,
same as Red Wilson said last week. Finally he asked, 'How's my friend
Bostil?' I told him you was well. He looked kind of thoughtful then,
an' I knew what was comin'....'How's the King?' 'Grand' I told
him--'grand.' 'When is them races comin' off?' I said we hadn't planned
the time yet, but it would be soon--inside of a month or two.
'Brackton,' he said, sharp-like, 'is Bostil goin' to pull a gun on me
at sight?' 'Reckon he is,' I told him. 'Wal, I'm not powerful glad to
know thet.... I hear Creech's blue hoss will race the King this time.
How about it?' 'Sure an' certain this year. I've Creech's an' Bostil's
word for thet.' Cordts put his hand on my shoulder. You ought to 've
seen his eyes!...'I want to see thet race.... I'm goin' to.' 'Wal,' I
said, 'you'll have to stop bein'--You'll need to change your bizness.'
Then, Bostil, what do you think? Cordts was sort of eager an' wild. He
said thet was a race he jest couldn't miss. He swore he wouldn't turn a
trick or let a man of his gang stir a hand till after thet race, if
you'd let him come."

A light flitted across Bostil's face.

"I know how Cordts feels," he said.

"Wal, it's a queer deal," went on Brackton. "Fer a long time you've
meant to draw on Cordts when you meet. We all know thet."

"Yes, I'll kill him!" The light left Bostil's face. His voice sounded
differently. His mouth opened, drooped strangely at the corners, then
shut in a grim, tense line. Bostil had killed more than one man. The
memory, no doubt, was haunting and ghastly.

"Cordts seemed to think his word was guarantee of his good faith. He
said he'd send an Indian in here to find out if he can come to the
races. I reckon, Bostil, thet it wouldn't hurt none to let him come.
An' hold your gun hand fer the time he swears he'll be honest. Queer
deal, ain't it, men? A hoss-thief turnin' honest jest to see a race!
Beats me! Bostil, it's a cheap way to get at least a little honesty
from Cordts. An' refusin' might rile him bad. When all's said Cordts
ain't as bad as he could be."

"I'll let him come," replied Bostil, breathing deep. "But it'll be hard
to see him, rememberin' how he's robbed me, an' what he's threatened.
An' I ain't lettin' him come to bribe a few weeks' decency from him.
I'm doin' it for only one reason.... Because I know how he loves the
King--how he wants to see the King run away from the field thet day!
Thet's why!"

There was a moment of silence, during which all turned to Creech. He
was a stalwart man, no longer young, with a lined face, deep-set,
troubled eyes, and white, thin beard.

"Bostil, if Cordts loves the King thet well, he's in fer heartbreak,"
said Creech, with a ring in his voice.

Down crashed Bostil's heavy boots and fire flamed in his gaze. The
other men laughed, and Brackton interposed:

"Hold on, you boy riders!" he yelled. "We ain't a-goin' to have any
arguments like thet.... Now, Bostil, it's settled, then? You'll let
Cordts come?"

"Glad to have him," replied Bostil.

"Good. An' now mebbe we'd better get down to the bizness of this here
meetin'."

They seated themselves around the table, upon which Bostil laid an old
and much-soiled ledger and a stub of a lead-pencil.

"First well set the time," he said, with animation, "an' then pitch
into details.... What's the date?"

No one answered, and presently they all looked blankly from one to the
other.

"It's April, ain't it?" queried Holley.

That assurance was as close as they could get to the time of year.

"Lucy!" called Bostil, in a loud voice.

She came running in, anxious, almost alarmed.

"Goodness! you made us jump! What on earth is the matter?"

"Lucy, we want to know the date," replied Bostil.

"Date! Did you have to scare Auntie and me out of our wits just for
that?"

"Who scared you? This is important, Lucy. What's the date?"

"It's a week to-day since last Tuesday," answered Lucy, sweetly.

"Huh! Then it's Tuesday again," said Bostil, laboriously writing it
down. "Now, what's the date?"

"Don't you remember?"

"Remember? I never knew."

"Dad! ... Last Tuesday was my birthday--the day you DID NOT give me a
horse!"

"Aw, so it was," rejoined Bostil, confused at her reproach. "An' thet
date was--let's see--April sixth.... Then this is April thirteenth.
Much obliged, Lucy. Run back to your aunt now. This hoss talk won't
interest you."

Lucy tossed her head. "I'll bet I'll have to straighten out the whole
thing." Then with a laugh she disappeared.

"Three days beginnin--say June first. June first--second, an' third.
How about thet for the races?"

Everybody agreed, and Bostil laboriously wrote that down. Then they
planned the details. Purses and prizes, largely donated by Bostil and
Muncie, the rich members of the community, were recorded. The old rules
were adhered to. Any rider or any Indian could enter any horse in any
race, or as many horses as he liked in as many races. But by winning
one race he excluded himself from the others. Bostil argued for a
certain weight in riders, but the others ruled out this suggestion.
Special races were arranged for the Indians, with saddles, bridles,
blankets, guns as prizes.

All this appeared of absorbing interest to Bostil. He perspired freely.
There was a gleam in his eye, betraying excitement. When it came to
arranging the details of the big race between the high-class racers,
then he grew intense and harder to deal with. Many points had to go by
vote. Muncie and Williams both had fleet horses to enter in this race;
Holley had one; Creech had two; there were sure to be several Indians
enter fast mustangs; and Bostil had the King and four others to choose
from. Bostil held out stubbornly for a long race. It was well known
that Sage King was unbeatable in a long race. If there were any chance
to beat him it must be at short distance. The vote went against Bostil,
much to his chagrin, and the great race was set down for two miles.

"But two miles! ... Two miles!" he kept repeating. "Thet's Blue Roan's
distance. Thet's his distance. An' it ain't fair to the King!"

His guests, excepting Creech, argued with him, explained, reasoned,
showed him that it was fair to all concerned. Bostil finally
acquiesced, but he was not happy. The plain fact was that he was
frightened.

When the men were departing Bostil called Creech back into the
sitting-room. Creech appeared surprised, yet it was evident that he
would have been glad to make friends with Bostil.

"What'll you take for the roan?" Bostil asked, tersely,' as if he had
never asked that before.

"Bostil, didn't we thresh thet out before--an' FELL out over it?"
queried Creech, with a deprecating spread of his hands.

"Wal, we can fall in again, if you'll sell or trade the hoss."

"I'm sorry, but I can't."

"You need money an' hosses, don't you?" demanded Bostil, brutally. He
had no conscience in a matter of horse-dealing.

"Lord knows, I do," replied Creech.

"Wal, then, here's your chance. I'll give you five hundred in gold an'
Sarchedon to boot."

Creech looked as if he had not heard aright. Bostil repeated the offer.

"No," replied Creech.

"I'll make it a thousand an' throw Plume in with Sarch," flashed Bostil.

"No!" Creech turned pale and swallowed hard.

"Two thousand an' Dusty Ben along with the others?" This was an
unheard-of price to pay for any horse. Creech saw that Bostil was
desperate. It was an almost overpowering temptation. Evidently Creech
resisted it only by applying all his mind to the thought of his
clean-limbed, soft-eyed, noble horse.

Bostil did not give Creech time to speak. "Twenty-five hundred an' Two
Face along with the rest!"

"My God, Bostil--stop it! I can't PART with Blue Roan. You're rich an'
you've no heart. Thet I always knew. At least to me you never had,
since I owned them two racers. Didn't I beg you, a little time back, to
lend me a few hundred? To meet thet debt? An' you wouldn't, unless I'd
sell the hosses. An' I had to lose my sheep. Now I'm a poor
man--gettin' poorer all the time. But I won't sell or trade Blue Roan,
not for all you've got!"

Creech seemed to gain strength with his speech and passion with the
strength. His eyes glinted at the hard, paling face of his rival. He
raised a clenching fist.

"An' by G--d, I'm goin' to win thet race!"

During that week Lucy had heard many things about Joel Creech, and some
of them were disquieting.

Some rider had not only found Joel's clothes on the trail, but he had
recognized the track of the horse Lucy rode, and at once connected her
with the singular discovery. Coupling that with Joel's appearance in
the village incased in a heaving armor of adobe, the riders guessed
pretty close to the truth. For them the joke was tremendous. And Joel
Creech was exceedingly sensitive to ridicule. The riders made life
unbearable for him. They had fun out of it as long as Joel showed signs
of taking the joke manfully, which was not long, and then his
resentment won their contempt. That led to sarcasm on their part and
bitter anger on his. It came to Lucy's ears that Joel began to act and
talk strangely. She found out that the rider Van had knocked Joel down
in Brackton's store and had kicked a gun out of his hand. Van laughed
off the rumor and Brackton gave her no satisfaction. Moreover, she
heard no other rumors. The channels of gossip had suddenly closed to
her. Bostil, when questioned by Lucy, swore in a way that amazed her,
and all he told her was to leave Creech alone. Finally, when Muncie
discharged Joel, who worked now and then, Lucy realized that something
was wrong with Joel and that she was to blame for it.

She grew worried and anxious and sorry, but she held her peace, and
determined to find out for herself what was wrong. Every day when she
rode out into the sage she expected to meet him, or at least see him
somewhere; nevertheless days went by and there was no sign of him.

One afternoon she saw some Indians driving sheep down the river road
toward the ford, and, acting upon impulse, she turned her horse after
them.

Lucy seldom went down the river road. Riding down and up was merely
work, and a horse has as little liking for it as she had. Usually it
was a hot, dusty trip, and the great, dark, overhanging walls had a
depressing effect, upon her. She always felt awe at the gloomy canyon
and fear at the strange, murmuring red river. But she started down this
afternoon in the hope of meeting Joel. She had a hazy idea of telling
him she was sorry for what she had done, and of asking him to forget it
and pay no more heed to the riders.

The sheep raised a dust-cloud in the sandy wash where the road wound
down, and Lucy hung back to let them get farther ahead. Gradually the
tiny roar of pattering hoofs and the blended bleating and baaing died
away. The dust-cloud, however, hung over the head of the ravine, and
Lucy had to force Sarchedon through it. Sarchedon did not mind sand and
dust, but he surely hated the smell of sheep. Lucy seldom put a spur to
Sarchedon; still, she gave him a lash with her quirt, and then he went
on obediently, if disgustedly. He carried his head like a horse that
wondered why his mistress preferred to drive him down into an
unpleasant hole when she might have been cutting the sweet, cool sage
wind up on the slope.

The wash, with its sand and clay walls, dropped into a gulch, and there
was an end of green growths. The road led down over solid rock.
Gradually the rims of the gorge rose, shutting out the light and the
cliffs. It was a winding road and one not safe to tarry on in a stormy
season. Lucy had seen boulders weighing a ton go booming down that
gorge during one of the sudden fierce desert storms, when a torrent of
water and mud and stone went plunging on to the river. The ride through
here was short, though slow. Lucy always had time to adjust her
faculties for the overpowering contrast these lower regions presented.
Long before she reached the end of the gorge she heard the sullen
thunder of the river. The river was low, too, for otherwise there would
have been a deafening roar.

Presently she came out upon a lower branch of the canyon, into a great
red-walled space, with the river still a thousand feet below, and the
cliffs towering as high above her. The road led down along this rim
where to the left all was open, across to the split and peaked wall
opposite. The river appeared to sweep round a bold, bulging corner a
mile above. It was a wide, swift, muddy, turbulent stream. A great bar
of sand stretched out from the shore. Beyond it, through the mouth of
an intersecting canyon, could be seen a clump of cottonwoods and
willows that marked the home of the Creeches. Lucy could not see the
shore nearest her, as it was almost directly under her. Besides, in
this narrow road, on a spirited horse, she was not inclined to watch
the scenery. She hurried Sarchedon down and down, under the overhanging
brows of rock, to where the rim sloped out and failed. Here was a
half-acre of sand, with a few scant willows, set down seemingly in a
dent at the base of the giant, beetling cliffs. The place was light,
though the light seemed a kind of veiled red, and to Lucy always
ghastly. She could not have been joyous with that river moaning before
her, even if it had been up on a level, in the clear and open day. As a
little girl eight years old she had conceived a terror and hatred of
this huge, jagged rent so full of red haze and purple smoke and the
thunder of rushing waters. And she had never wholly outgrown it. The
joy of the sun and wind, the rapture in the boundless open, the
sweetness in the sage--these were not possible here. Something mighty
and ponderous, heavy as those colossal cliffs, weighted down her
spirit. The voice of the river drove out any dream. Here was the
incessant frowning presence of destructive forces of nature. And the
ford was associated with catastrophe--to sheep, to horses and to men.

Lucy rode across the bar to the shore where the Indians were loading
the sheep into an immense rude flatboat. As the sheep were frightened,
the loading was no easy task. Their bleating could be heard above the
roar of the river. Bostil's boatmen, Shugrue and Somers, stood
knee-deep in the quicksand of the bar, and their efforts to keep
free-footed were as strenuous as their handling of the sheep. Presently
the flock was all crowded on board, the Indians followed, and then the
boatmen slid the unwieldy craft off the sand-bar. Then, each manning a
clumsy oar, they pulled up-stream. Along shore were whirling, slow
eddies, and there rowing was possible. Out in that swift current it
would have been folly to try to contend with it, let alone make
progress. The method of crossing was to row up along the shore as far
as a great cape of rock jutting out, and there make into the current,
and while drifting down pull hard to reach the landing opposite.
Heavily laden as the boat was, the chances were not wholly in favor of
a successful crossing.

Lucy watched the slow, laborious struggle of the boatmen with the heavy
oars until she suddenly remembered the object of her visit down to the
ford. She appeared to be alone on her side of the river. At the landing
opposite, however, were two men; and presently Lucy recognized Joel
Creech and his father. A second glance showed Indians with burros,
evidently waiting for the boat. Joel Creech jumped into a skiff and
shoved off. The elder man, judging by his motions, seemed to be trying
to prevent his son from leaving the shore. But Joel began to row
up-stream, keeping close to the shore. Lucy watched him. No doubt he
had seen her and was coming across. Either the prospect of meeting him
or the idea of meeting him there in the place where she was never
herself made her want to turn at once and ride back home. But her
stubborn sense of fairness overruled that. She would hold her ground
solely in the hope of persuading Joel to be reasonable. She saw the big
flatboat sweep into line of sight at the same time Joel turned into the
current. But while the larger craft drifted slowly the other way, the
smaller one came swiftly down and across. Joel swept out of the current
into the eddy, rowed across that, and slid the skiff up on the
sand-bar. Then he stepped out. He was bareheaded and barefooted, but it
was not that which made him seem a stranger to Lucy.

"Are you lookin' fer me?" he shouted.

Lucy waved a hand for him to come up.

Then he approached. He was a tall, lean young man, stoop-shouldered and
bow-legged from much riding, with sallow, freckled face, a thin fuzz of
beard, weak mouth and chin, and eyes remarkable for their small size
and piercing quality and different color. For one was gray and the
other was hazel. There was no scar on his face, but the irregularity of
his features reminded one who knew that he had once been kicked in the
face by a horse.

Creech came up hurriedly, in an eager, wild way that made Lucy suddenly
pity him. He did not seem to remember that the stallion had an
antipathy for him. But Lucy, if she had forgotten, would have been
reminded by Sarchedon's action.

"Look out, Joel!" she called, and she gave the black's head a jerk.
Sarchedon went up with a snort and came down pounding the sand. Quick
as an Indian Lucy was out of the saddle.

"Lemme your quirt," said Joel, showing his teeth like a wolf.

"No. I wouldn't let you hit Sarch. You beat him once, and he's never
forgotten," replied Lucy.

The eye of the horse and the man met and clashed, and there was a
hostile tension in their attitudes. Then Lucy dropped the bridle and
drew Joel over to a huge drift-log, half buried in the sand. Here she
sat down, but Joel remained standing. His gaze was now all the stranger
for its wistfulness. Lucy was quick to catch a subtle difference in
him, but she could not tell wherein it lay.

"What'd you want?" asked Joel.

"I've heard a lot of things, Joel," replied Lucy, trying to think of
just what she wanted to say.

"Reckon you have," said Joel, dejectedly, and then he sat down on the
log and dug holes in the sand with his bare feet.

Lucy had never before seen him look tired, and it seemed that some of
the healthy brown of his cheeks had thinned out. Then Lucy told him,
guardedly, a few of the rumors she had heard.

"All thet you say is nothin' to what's happened," he replied, bitterly.
"Them riders mocked the life an' soul out of me."

"But, Joel, you shouldn't be so--so touchy," said Lucy, earnestly.
"After all, the joke WAS on you. Why didn't you take it like a man?"

"But they knew you stole my clothes," he protested.

"Suppose they did. That wasn't much to care about. If you hadn't taken
it so hard they'd have let up on you."

"Mebbe I might have stood that. But they taunted me with bein'--loony
about you."

Joel spoke huskily. There was no doubt that he had been deeply hurt.
Lucy saw tears in his eyes, and her first impulse was to put a hand on
his and tell him how sorry she was. But she desisted. She did not feel
at her ease with Joel.

"What'd you and Van fight about?" she asked, presently. Joel hung his
head. "I reckon I ain't a-goin' to tell you."

"You're ashamed of it?"

Joel's silence answered that.

"You said something about me?" Lucy could not resist her curiosity,
back of which was a little heat. "It must have been--bad--else Van
wouldn't have struck you."

"He hit me--he knocked me flat," passionately said Joel.

"And you drew a gun on him?"

"I did, an' like a fool I didn't wait till I got up. Then he kicked me!
... Bostil's Ford will never be big enough fer me an' Van now."

"Don't talk foolish. You won't fight with Van.... Joel, maybe you
deserved what you got. You say some--some rude things."

"I only said I'd pay you back," burst out Joel.

"How?"

"I swore I'd lay fer you--an' steal your clothes--so you'd have to run
home naked."

There was indeed something lacking in Joel, but it was not sincerity.
His hurt had rankled deep and his voice trembled with indignation.

"But, Joel, I don't go swimming in spring-holes," protested Lucy,
divided between amusement and annoyance.

"I meant it, anyhow," said Joel, doggedly.

"Are you absolutely honest? Is that all you said to provoke Van?"

"It's all, Lucy, I swear."

She believed him, and saw the unfortunate circumstance more than ever
her fault. "I'm sorry, Joel. I'm much to blame. I shouldn't have lost
my temper and played that trick with your clothes.... If you'd only had
sense enough to stay out till after dark! But no use crying over spilt
milk. Now, if you'll do your share I'll do mine. I'll tell the boys I
was to blame. I'll persuade them to let you alone. I'll go to Muncie--"

"No you won't go cryin' small fer me!" blurted out Joel.

Lucy was surprised to see pride in him. "Joel, I'll not make it
appear--"

"You'll not say one word about me to any one," he went on, with the
blood beginning to darken his face. And now he faced her. How strange
the blaze in his differently colored eyes! "Lucy Bostil, there's been
thet done an' said to me which I'll never forgive. I'm no good in
Bostil's Ford. Mebbe I never was much. But I could get a job when I
wanted it an' credit when I needed it. Now I can't get nothin'. I'm no
good! ... I'm no good! An' it's your fault!"

"Oh, Joel, what can I do?" cried Lucy.

"I reckon there's only one way you can square me," he replied, suddenly
growing pale. But his eyes were like flint. He certainly looked to be
in possession of all his wits.

"How?" queried Lucy, sharply.

"You can marry me. Thet'll show thet gang! An' it'll square me. Then
I'll go back to work an' I'll stick. Thet's all, Lucy Bostil."

Manifestly he was laboring under strong suppressed agitation. That
moment was the last of real strength and dignity ever shown by Joel
Creech.

"But, Joel, I can't marry you--even if I am to blame for your ruin,"
said Lucy, simply.

"Why?"

"Because I don't love you."

"I reckon thet won't make any difference, if you don't love some one
else."

Lucy gazed blankly at him. He began to shake, and his eyes grew wild.
She rose from the log.

"Do you love anybody else?" he asked, passionately.

"None of your business!" retorted Lucy. Then, at a strange darkening of
his face, an aspect unfamiliar to her, she grew suddenly frightened.

"It's Van!" he said, thickly.

"Joel, you're a fool!"

That only infuriated him.

"So they all say. An' they got my old man believin' it, too. Mebbe I
am.... But I'm a-goin' to kill Van!"

"No! No! Joel, what are you saying? I don't love Van. I don't care any
more for him than for any other rider--or--or you."

"Thet's a lie, Lucy Bostil!"

"How dare you say I lie?" demanded Lucy. "I've a mind to turn my back
on you. I'm trying to make up for my blunder and you--you insult me!"

"You talk sweet ... but talk isn't enough. You made me no-good ....
Will you marry me?"

"I will not!" And Lucy, with her blood up, could not keep contempt out
of voice and look, and she did not care. That was the first time she
had ever shown anything, approaching ridicule for Joel. The effect was
remarkable. Like a lash upon a raw wound it made him writhe; but more
significant to Lucy was the sudden convulsive working of his features
and the wildness of his eyes. Then she turned her back, not from
contempt, but to hurry away from him.

He leaped after her and grasped her with rude hands.

"Let me go!" cried Lucy, standing perfectly motionless. The hard clutch
of his fingers roused a fierce, hot anger.

Joel did not heed her command. He was forcing her back. He talked
incoherently. One glimpse of his face added terror to Lucy's fury.

"Joel, you're out of your head!" she cried, and she began to wrench and
writhe out of his grasp. Then ensued a short, sharp struggle. Joel
could not hold Lucy, but he tore her blouse into shreds. It seemed to
Lucy that he did that savagely. She broke free from him, and he lunged
at her again. With all her strength she lashed his face with the heavy
leather quirt. That staggered him. He almost fell.

Lucy bounded to Sarchedon. In a rush she was up in the saddle. Joel was
running toward her. Blood on his face! Blood on his hands! He was not
the Joel Creech she knew.

"Stop!" cried Lucy, fiercely. "I'll run you down!"

The big black plunged at a touch of spur and came down quivering, ready
to bolt.

Creech swerved to one side. His face was lividly white except where the
bloody welts crossed it. His jaw seemed to hang loosely, making speech
difficult.

"Jest fer--thet--" he panted, hoarsely, "I'll lay fer you--an' I'll
strip you---an' I'll tie you on a hoss--an' I'll drive you naked
through Bostil's Ford!"

Lucy saw the utter futility of all her good intentions. Something had
snapped in Joel Creech's mind. And in hers kindness had given
precedence to a fury she did not know was in her. For the second time
she touched a spur to Sarchedon. He leaped out, flashed past Creech,
and thundered up the road. It was all Lucy could do to break his gait
at the first steep rise.



CHAPTER IV

Three wild-horse hunters made camp one night beside a little stream in
the Sevier Valley, five hundred miles, as a crow flies, from Bostil's
Ford.

These hunters had a poor outfit, excepting, of course, their horses.
They were young men, rangy in build, lean and hard from life in the
saddle, bronzed like Indians, still-faced, and keen-eyed. Two of them
appeared to be tired out, and lagged at the camp-fire duties. When the
meager meal was prepared they sat, cross-legged, before a ragged
tarpaulin, eating and drinking in silence.

The sky in the west was rosy, slowly darkening. The valley floor
billowed away, ridged and cut, growing gray and purple and dark. Walls
of stone, pink with the last rays of the setting sun, inclosed the
valley, stretching away toward a long, low, black mountain range.

The place was wild, beautiful, open, with something nameless that made
the desert different from any other country. It was, perhaps, a
loneliness of vast stretches of valley and stone, clear to the eye,
even after sunset. That black mountain range, which looked close enough
to ride to before dark, was a hundred miles distant.

The shades of night fell swiftly, and it was dark by the time the
hunters finished the meal. Then the campfire had burned low. One of the
three dragged branches of dead cedars and replenished the fire. Quickly
it flared up, with the white flame and crackle characteristic of dry
cedar. The night wind had risen, moaning through the gnarled, stunted
cedars near by, and it blew the fragrant wood-smoke into the faces of
the two hunters, who seemed too tired to move.

"I reckon a pipe would help me make up my mind," said one.

"Wal, Bill," replied the other, dryly, "your mind's made up, else you'd
not say smoke."

"Why?"

"Because there ain't three pipefuls of thet precious tobacco left."

"Thet's one apiece, then.... Lin, come an' smoke the last pipe with us."

The tallest of the three, he who had brought the firewood, stood in the
bright light of the blaze. He looked the born rider, light, lithe,
powerful.

"Sure, I'll smoke," he replied.

Then, presently, he accepted the pipe tendered him, and, sitting down
beside the fire, he composed himself to the enjoyment which his
companions evidently considered worthy of a decision they had reached.

"So this smokin' means you both want to turn back?" queried Lin, his
sharp gaze glancing darkly bright in the glow of the fire.

"Yep, we'll turn back. An', Lordy! the relief I feel!" replied one.

"We've been long comin' to it, Lin, an' thet was for your sake,"
replied the other.

Lin slowly pulled at his pipe and blew out the smoke as if reluctant to
part with it. "Let's go on," he said, quietly.

"No. I've had all I want of chasin' thet damn wild stallion," returned
Bill, shortly.

The other spread wide his hands and bent an expostulating look upon the
one called Lin. "We're two hundred miles out," he said. "There's only a
little flour left in the bag. No coffee! Only a little salt! All the
hosses except your big Nagger are played out. We're already in strange
country. An' you know what we've heerd of this an' all to the south.
It's all canyons, an' somewheres down there is thet awful canyon none
of our people ever seen. But we've heerd of it. An awful cut-up
country."

He finished with a conviction that no one could say a word against the
common sense of his argument. Lin was silent, as if impressed.

Bill raised a strong, lean, brown hand in a forcible gesture. "We can't
ketch Wildfire!"

That seemed to him, evidently, a more convincing argument than his
comrade's.

"Bill is sure right, if I'm wrong, which I ain't," went on the other.
"Lin, we've trailed thet wild stallion for six weeks. Thet's the
longest chase he ever had. He's left his old range. He's cut out his
band, an' left them, one by one. We've tried every trick we know on
him. An' he's too smart for us. There's a hoss! Why, Lin, we're all but
gone to the dogs chasin' Wildfire. An' now I'm done, an' I'm glad of
it."

There was another short silence, which presently Bill opened his lips
to break.

"Lin, it makes me sick to quit. I ain't denyin' thet for a long time
I've had hopes of ketchin' Wildfire. He's the grandest hoss I ever laid
eyes on. I reckon no man, onless he was an Arab, ever seen as good a
one. But now, thet's neither here nor there.... We've got to hit the
back trail."

"Boys, I reckon I'll stick to Wildfire's tracks," said Lin, in the same
quiet tone.

Bill swore at him, and the other hunter grew excited and concerned.

"Lin Slone, are you gone plumb crazy over thet red hoss?"

"I--reckon," replied Slone. The working of his throat as he swallowed
could be plainly seen by his companions.

Bill looked at his ally as if to confirm some sudden understanding
between them. They took Slone's attitude gravely and they wagged their
heads doubtfully, as they might have done had Slone just acquainted
them with a hopeless and deathless passion for a woman. It was
significant of the nature of riders that they accepted his attitude and
had consideration for his feelings. For them the situation subtly
changed. For weeks they had been three wild-horse wranglers on a hard
chase after a valuable stallion. They had failed to get even close to
him. They had gone to the limit of their endurance and of the outfit,
and it was time to turn back. But Slone had conceived that strange and
rare longing for a horse--a passion understood, if not shared, by all
riders. And they knew that he would catch Wildfire or die in the
attempt. From that moment their attitude toward Slone changed as subtly
as had come the knowledge of his feeling. The gravity and gloom left
their faces. It seemed they might have regretted what they had said
about the futility of catching Wildfire. They did not want Slone to see
or feel the hopelessness of his task.

"I tell you, Lin," said Bill, "your hoss Nagger's as good as when we
started."

"Aw, he's better," vouchsafed the other rider. "Nagger needed to lose
some weight. Lin, have you got an extra set of shoes for him?"

"No full set. Only three left," replied Lin, soberly.

"Wal, thet's enough. You can keep Nagger shod. An' MEBBE thet red
stallion will get sore feet an' go lame. Then you'd stand a chance."

"But Wildfire keeps travelin' the valleys--the soft ground," said Slone.

"No matter. He's leavin' the country, an' he's bound to strike
sandstone sooner or later. Then, by gosh! mebbe he'll wear off them
hoofs."

"Say, can't he ring bells offen the rocks?" exclaimed Bill. "Oh, Lordy!
what a hoss!"

"Boys, do you think he's leavin' the country?" inquired Slone,
anxiously.

"Sure he is," replied Bill. "He ain't the first stallion I've chased
off the Sevier range. An' I know. It's a stallion thet makes for new
country, when you push him hard."

"Yep, Lin, he's sure leavin'," added the other comrade. "Why, he's
traveled a bee-line for days! I'll bet he's seen us many a time.
Wildfire's about as smart as any man. He was born wild, an' his dam was
born wild, an' there you have it. The wildest of all wild creatures--a
wild stallion, with the intelligence of a man! A grand hoss, Lin, but
one thet'll be hell, if you ever ketch him. He has killed stallions all
over the Sevier range. A wild stallion thet's a killer! I never liked
him for thet. Could he be broke?"

"I'll break him," said Lin Slone, grimly. "It's gettin' him thet's the
job. I've got patience to break a hoss. But patience can't catch a
streak of lightnin'."

"Nope; you're right," replied Bill. "If you have some luck you'll get
him--mebbe. If he wears out his feet, or if you crowd him into a narrow
canyon, or ran him into a bad place where he can't get by you. Thet
might happen. An' then, with Nagger, you stand a chance. Did you ever
tire thet hoss?"

"Not yet."

"An' how fur did you ever run him without a break? Why, when we ketched
thet sorrel last year I rode Nagger myself--thirty miles, most at a
hard gallop. An' he never turned a hair!"

"I've beat thet," replied Lin. "He could run hard fifty miles--mebbe
more. Honestly, I never seen him tired yet. If only he was fast!"

"Wal, Nagger ain't so durned slow, come to think of thet," replied
Bill, with a grunt. "He's good enough for you not to want another hoss."

"Lin, you're goin' to wear out Wildfire, an' then trap him somehow--is
thet the plan?" asked the other comrade.

"I haven't any plan. I'll just trail him, like a cougar trails a deer."

"Lin, if Wildfire gives you the slip he'll have to fly. You've got the
best eyes for tracks of any wrangler in Utah."

Slone accepted the compliment with a fleeting, doubtful smile on his
dark face. He did not reply, and no more was said by his comrades. They
rolled with backs to the fire. Slone put on more wood, for the keen
wind was cold and cutting; and then he lay down, his head in his
saddle, with a goatskin under him and a saddle-blanket over him.

All three were soon asleep. The wind whipped the sand and ashes and
smoke over the sleepers. Coyotes barked from near in darkness, and from
the valley ridge came the faint mourn of a hunting wolf. The desert
night grew darker and colder.

The Stewart brothers were wild-horse hunters for the sake of trades and
occasional sales. But Lin Slone never traded nor sold a horse he had
captured. The excitement of the game, and the lure of the desert, and
the love of a horse were what kept him at the profitless work. His type
was rare in the uplands.

These were the early days of the settlement of Utah, and only a few of
the hardiest and most adventurous pioneers had penetrated the desert in
the southern part of that vast upland. And with them came some of that
wild breed of riders to which Slone and the Stewarts belonged. Horses
were really more important and necessary than men; and this singular
fact gave these lonely riders a calling.

Before the Spaniards came there were no horses in the West. Those
explorers left or lost horses all over the southwest. Many of them were
Arabian horses of purest blood. American explorers and travelers, at
the outset of the nineteenth century, encountered countless droves of
wild horses all over the plains. Across the Grand Canyon, however, wild
horses were comparatively few in number in the early days; and these
had probably come in by way of California.

The Stewarts and Slone had no established mode of catching wild horses.
The game had not developed fast enough for that. Every chase of horse
or drove was different; and once in many attempts they met with success.

A favorite method originated by the Stewarts was to find a water-hole
frequented by the band of horses or the stallion wanted, and to build
round this hole a corral with an opening for the horses to get in. Then
the hunters would watch the trap at night, and if the horses went in to
drink, a gate was closed across the opening. Another method of the
Stewarts was to trail a coveted horse up on a mesa or highland, places
which seldom had more than one trail of ascent and descent, and there
block the escape, and cut lines of cedars, into which the quarry was
ran till captured. Still another method, discovered by accident, was to
shoot a horse lightly in the neck and sting him. This last, called
creasing, was seldom successful, and for that matter in any method ten
times as many horses were killed as captured.

Lin Slone helped the Stewarts in their own way, but he had no especial
liking for their tricks. Perhaps a few remarkable captures of
remarkable horses had spoiled Slone. He was always trying what the
brothers claimed to be impossible. He was a fearless rider, but he had
the fault of saving his mount, and to kill a wild horse was a tragedy
for him. He would much rather have hunted alone, and he had been alone
on the trail of the stallion Wildfire when the Stewarts had joined him.

Lin Slone awoke next morning and rolled out of his blanket at his usual
early hour. But he was not early enough to say good-by to the Stewarts.
They were gone.

The fact surprised him and somehow relieved him. They had left him more
than his share of the outfit, and perhaps that was why they had slipped
off before dawn. They knew him well enough to know that he would not
have accepted it. Besides, perhaps they felt a little humiliation at
abandoning a chase which he chose to keep up. Anyway, they were gone,
apparently without breakfast.

The morning was clear, cool, with the air dark like that before a
storm, and in the east, over the steely wall of stone, shone a redness
growing brighter.

Slone looked away to the west, down the trail taken by his comrades,
but he saw nothing moving against that cedar-dotted waste.

"Good-by," he said, and he spoke as if he was saying good-by to more
than comrades.

"I reckon I won't see Sevier Village soon again--an' maybe never," he
soliloquized.

There was no one to regret him, unless it was old Mother Hall, who had
been kind to him on those rare occasions when he got out of the
wilderness. Still, it was with regret that he gazed away across the red
valley to the west. Slone had no home. His father and mother had been
lost in the massacre of a wagon-train by Indians, and he had been one
of the few saved and brought to Salt Lake. That had happened when he
was ten years old. His life thereafter had been hard, and but for his
sturdy Texas training he might not have survived. The last five years
he had been a horse-hunter in the wild uplands of Nevada and Utah.

Slone turned his attention to the pack of supplies. The Stewarts had
divided the flour and the parched corn equally, and unless he was
greatly mistaken they had left him most of the coffee and all of the
salt.

"Now I hold that decent of Bill an' Abe," said Slone, regretfully. "But
I could have got along without it better 'n they could."

Then he swiftly set about kindling a fire and getting a meal. In the
midst of his task a sudden ruddy brightness fell around him. Lin Slone
paused in his work to look up.

The sun had risen over the eastern wall.

"Ah!" he said, and drew a deep breath.

The cold, steely, darkling sweep of desert had been transformed. It was
now a world of red earth and gold rocks and purple sage, with
everywhere the endless straggling green cedars. A breeze whipped in,
making the fire roar softly. The sun felt warm on his cheek. And at the
moment he heard the whistle of his horse.

"Good old Nagger!" he said. "I shore won't have to track you this
mornin'."

Presently he went off into the cedars to find Nagger and the mustang
that he used to carry a pack. Nagger was grazing in a little open patch
among the trees, but the pack-horse was missing. Slone seemed to know
in what direction to go to find the trail, for he came upon it very
soon. The pack-horse wore hobbles, but he belonged to the class that
could cover a great deal of ground when hobbled. Slone did not expect
the horse to go far, considering that the grass thereabouts was good.
But in a wild-horse country it was not safe to give any horse a chance.
The call of his wild brethren was irresistible. Slone, however, found
the mustang standing quietly in a clump of cedars, and, removing the
hobbles, he mounted and rode back to camp. Nagger caught sight of him
and came at his call.

This horse Nagger appeared as unique in his class as Slone was rare
among riders. Nagger seemed of several colors, though black
predominated. His coat was shaggy, almost woolly, like that of a sheep.
He was huge, raw-boned, knotty, long of body and long of leg, with the
head of a war charger. His build did not suggest speed. There appeared
to be something slow and ponderous about him, similar to an elephant,
with the same suggestion of power and endurance.   Slone discarded the
pack-saddle and bags. The latter were almost empty. He roped the
tarpaulin on the back of the mustang, and, making a small bundle of his
few supplies, he tied that to the tarpaulin. His blanket he used for a
saddle-blanket on Nagger. Of the utensils left by the Stewarts he chose
a couple of small iron pans, with long handles. The rest he left. In
his saddle-bags he had a few extra horseshoes, some nails, bullets for
his rifle, and a knife with a heavy blade.

"Not a rich outfit for a far country," he mused. Slone did not talk
very much, and when he did he addressed Nagger and himself
simultaneously. Evidently he expected a long chase, one from which he
would not return, and light as his outfit was it would grow too heavy.

Then he mounted and rode down the gradual slope, facing the valley and
the black, bold, flat mountain to the southeast. Some few hundred yards
from camp he halted Nagger and bent over in the saddle to scrutinize
the ground.

The clean-cut track of a horse showed in the bare, hard sand. The
hoof-marks were large, almost oval, perfect in shape, and manifestly
they were beautiful to Lin Slone. He gazed at them for a long time, and
then he looked across the dotted red valley up the vast ridgy steps,
toward the black plateau and beyond. It was the look that an Indian
gives to a strange country. Then Slone slipped off the saddle and knelt
to scrutinize the horse tracks. A little sand had blown into the
depressions, and some of it was wet and some of it was dry. He took his
time about examining it, and he even tried gently blowing other sand
into the tracks, to compare that with what was already there. Finally
he stood up and addressed Nagger.

"Reckon we won't have to argue with Abe an' Bill this mornin'," he
said, with satisfaction. "Wildfire made that track yesterday, before
sun-up."

Thereupon Slone remounted and put Nagger to a trot. The pack-horse
followed with an alacrity that showed he had no desire for loneliness.

As straight as a bee-line Wildfire had left a trail down into the floor
of the valley. He had not stopped to graze, and he had not looked for
water. Slone had hoped to find a water-hole in one of the deep washes
in the red earth, but if there had been any water there Wildfire would
have scented it. He had not had a drink for three days that Slone knew
of. And Nagger had not drunk for forty hours. Slone had a canvas
water-bag hanging over the pommel, but it was a habit of his to deny
himself, as far as possible, till his horse could drink also. Like an
Indian, Slone ate and drank but little.

It took four hours of steady trotting to reach the middle and bottom of
that wide, flat valley. A network of washes cut up the whole center of
it, and they were all as dry as bleached bone. To cross these Slone had
only to keep Wildfire's trail. And it was proof of Nagger's quality
that he did not have to veer from the stallion's course.

It was hot down in the lowland. The heat struck up, reflected from the
sand. But it was a March sun, and no more than pleasant to Slone. The
wind rose, however, and blew dust and sand in the faces of horse and
rider. Except lizards, Slone did not see any living things.

Miles of low greasewood and sparse yellow sage led to the first almost
imperceptible rise of the valley floor on that side. The distant cedars
beckoned to Slone. He was not patient, because he was on the trail of
Wildfire; but, nevertheless, the hours seemed short.

Slone had no past to think about, and the future held nothing except a
horse, and so his thoughts revolved the possibilities connected with
this chase of Wildfire. The chase was hopeless in such country as he
was traversing, and if Wildfire chose to roam around valleys like this
one Slone would fail utterly. But the stallion had long ago left his
band of horses, and then, one by one his favorite consorts, and now he
was alone, headed with unerring instinct for wild, untrammeled ranges.
He had been used to the pure, cold water and the succulent grass of the
cold desert uplands. Assuredly he would not tarry in such barren lands
as these.

For Slone an ever-present and growing fascination lay in Wildfire's
clear, sharply defined tracks. It was as if every hoof-mark told him
something. Once, far up the interminable ascent, he found on a
ridge-top tracks showing where Wildfire had halted and turned.

"Ha, Nagger!" cried Slone, exultingly. "Look there! He's begun facin'
about. He's wonderin' if we're still after him. He's worried.... But
we'll keep out of sight--a day behind."

When Slone reached the cedars the sun was low down in the west. He
looked back across the fifty miles of valley to the colored cliffs and
walls. He seemed to be above them now, and the cool air, with tang of
cedar and juniper, strengthened the impression that he had climbed high.

A mile or more ahead of him rose a gray cliff with breaks in it and a
line of dark cedars or pinyons on the level rims. He believed these
breaks to be the mouths of canyons, and so it turned out. Wildfire's
trail led into the mouth of a narrow canyon with very steep and high
walls. Nagger snorted his perception of water, and the mustang
whistled. Wildfire's tracks led to a point under the wall where a
spring gushed forth. There were mountain-lion and deer tracks also, as
well as those of smaller game.

Slone made camp here. The mustang was tired. But Nagger, upon taking a
long drink, rolled in the grass as if he had just begun the trip. After
eating, Slone took his rifle and went out to look for deer. But there
appeared to be none at hand. He came across many lion tracks and saw,
with apprehension, where one had taken Wildfire's trail. Wildfire had
grazed up the canyon, keeping on and on, and he was likely to go miles
in a night. Slone reflected that as small as were his own chances of
getting Wildfire, they were still better than those of a mountain-lion.
Wildfire was the most cunning of all animals--a wild stallion; his
speed and endurance were incomparable; his scent as keen as those
animals that relied wholly upon scent to warn them of danger, and as
for sight, it was Slone's belief that no hoofed creature, except the
mountain-sheep used to high altitudes, could see as far as a wild horse.

It bothered Slone a little that he was getting into a lion country.
Nagger showed nervousness, something unusual for him. Slone tied both
horses with long halters and stationed them on patches of thick grass.
Then he put a cedar stump on the fire and went to sleep. Upon awakening
and going to the spring he was somewhat chagrined to see that deer had
come down to drink early. Evidently they were numerous. A lion country
was always a deer country, for the lions followed the deer.

Slone was packed and saddled and on his way before the sun reddened the
canyon wall. He walked the horses. From time to time he saw signs of
Wildfire's consistent progress. The canyon narrowed and the walls grew
lower and the grass increased. There was a decided ascent all the time.
Slone could find no evidence that the canyon had ever been traveled by
hunters or Indians. The day was pleasant and warm and still. Every once
in a while a little breath of wind would bring a fragrance of cedar and
pinyon, and a sweet hint of pine and sage. At every turn he looked
ahead, expecting to see the green of pine and the gray of sage. Toward
the middle of the afternoon, coming to a place where Wildfire had taken
to a trot, he put Nagger to that gait, and by sundown had worked up to
where the canyon was only a shallow ravine. And finally it turned once
more, to lose itself in a level where straggling pines stood high above
the cedars, and great, dark-green silver spruces stood above the pines.
And here were patches of sage, fresh and pungent, and long reaches of
bleached grass. It was the edge of a forest. Wildfire's trail went on.
Slone came at length to a group of pines, and here he found the remains
of a camp-fire, and some flint arrow-heads. Indians had been in there,
probably having come from the opposite direction to Slone's. This
encouraged him, for where Indians could hunt so could he. Soon he was
entering a forest where cedars and pinyons and pines began to grow
thickly. Presently he came upon a faintly defined trail, just a dim,
dark line even to an experienced eye. But it was a trail, and Wildfire
had taken it.

Slone halted for the night. The air was cold. And the dampness of it
gave him an idea there were snow-banks somewhere not far distant. The
dew was already heavy on the grass. He hobbled the horses and put a
bell on Nagger. A bell might frighten lions that had never heard one.
Then he built a fire and cooked his meal.

It had been long since he had camped high up among the pines. The sough
of the wind pleased him, like music. There had begun to be prospects of
pleasant experience along with the toil of chasing Wildfire. He was
entering new and strange and beautiful country. How far might the chase
take him? He did not care. He was not sleepy, but even if he had been
it developed that he must wait till the coyotes ceased their barking
round his camp-fire. They came so close that he saw their gray shadows
in the gloom. But presently they wearied of yelping at him and went
away. After that the silence, broken only by the wind as it roared and
lulled, seemed beautiful to Slone. He lost completely that sense of
vague regret which had remained with him, and he forgot the Stewarts.
And suddenly he felt absolutely free, alone, with nothing behind to
remember, with wild, thrilling, nameless life before him. Just then the
long mourn of a timber wolf wailed in with the wind. Seldom had he
heard the cry of one of those night wanderers. There was nothing like
it--no sound like it to fix in the lone camper's heart the great
solitude and the wild.



CHAPTER V

In the early morning when all was gray and the big, dark pines were
shadowy specters, Slone was awakened by the cold. His hands were so
numb that he had difficulty starting a fire. He stood over the blaze,
warming them. The air was nipping, clear and thin, and sweet with
frosty fragrance.

Daylight came while he was in the midst of his morning meal. A white
frost covered the ground and crackled under his feet as he went out to
bring in the horses. He saw fresh deer tracks. Then he went back to
camp for his rifle. Keeping a sharp lookout for game, he continued his
search for the horses.

The forest was open and park-like. There were no fallen trees or
evidences of fire. Presently he came to a wide glade in the midst of
which Nagger and the pack-mustang were grazing with a herd of deer. The
size of the latter amazed Slone. The deer he had hunted back on the
Sevier range were much smaller than these. Evidently these were mule
deer, closely allied to the elk. They were so tame they stood facing
him curiously, with long ears erect. It was sheer murder to kill a deer
standing and watching like that, but Slone was out of meat and hungry
and facing a long, hard trip. He shot a buck, which leaped
spasmodically away, trying to follow the herd, and fell at the edge of
the glade. Slone cut out a haunch, and then, catching the horses, he
returned to camp, where he packed and saddled, and at once rode out on
the dim trail.

The wildness of the country he was entering was evident in the fact
that as he passed the glade where he had shot the deer a few minutes
before, there were coyotes quarreling over the carcass.

Stone could see ahead and on each side several hundred yards, and
presently he ascertained that the forest floor was not so level as he
had supposed. He had entered a valley or was traversing a wide, gently
sloping pass. He went through thickets of juniper, and had to go around
clumps of quaking aspen. The pines grew larger and farther apart.
Cedars and pinyons had been left behind, and he had met with no silver
spruces after leaving camp. Probably that point was the height of a
divide. There were banks of snow in some of the hollows on the north
side. Evidently the snow had very recently melted, and it was evident
also that the depth of snow through here had been fully ten feet,
judging from the mutilation of the juniper-trees where the deer,
standing on the hard, frozen crust, had browsed upon the branches.

The quiet of the forest thrilled Slone. And the only movement was the
occasional gray flash of a deer or coyote across a glade. No birds of
any species crossed Stone's sight. He came, presently, upon a lion
track in the trail, made probably a day before. Slone grew curious
about it, seeing how it held, as he was holding, to Wildfire's tracks.
After a mile or so he made sure the lion had been trailing the
stallion, and for a second he felt a cold contraction of his heart.
Already he loved Wildfire, and by virtue of all this toil of travel
considered the wild horse his property.

"No lion could ever get close to Wildfire," he soliloquized, with a
short laugh. Of that he was absolutely certain.

The sun rose, melting the frost, and a breath of warm air, laden with
the scent of pine, moved heavily under the huge, yellow trees. Slone
passed a point where the remains of an old camp-fire and a pile of deer
antlers were further proof that Indians visited this plateau to hunt.
From this camp broader, more deeply defined trails led away to the
south and east. Slone kept to the east trail, in which Wildfire's
tracks and those of the lion showed clearly. It was about the middle of
the forenoon when the tracks of the stallion and lion left the trail to
lead up a little draw where grass grew thick. Slone followed, reading
the signs of Wildfire's progress, and the action of his pursuer, as
well as if he had seen them. Here the stallion had plowed into a
snow-bank, eating a hole two feet deep; then he had grazed around a
little; then on and on; there his splendid tracks were deep in the soft
earth. Slone knew what to expect when the track of the lion veered from
those of the horse, and he followed the lion tracks. The ground was
soft from the late melting of snow, and Nagger sunk deep. The lion left
a plain track. Here he stole steadily along; there he left many tracks
at a point where he might have halted to make sure of his scent. He was
circling on the trail of the stallion, with cunning intent of ambush.
The end of this slow, careful stalk of the lion, as told in his tracks,
came upon the edge of a knoll where he had crouched to watch and wait.

From this perch he had made a magnificent spring--Slone estimating it
to be forty feet--but he had missed the stallion. There were Wildfire's
tracks again, slow and short, and then deep and sharp where in the
impetus of fright he had sprung out of reach. A second leap of the
lion, and then lessening bounds, and finally an abrupt turn from
Wildfire's trail told the futility of that stalk. Slone made certain
that Wildfire was so keen that as he grazed along he had kept to open
ground.

Wildfire had run for a mile, then slowed down to a trot, and he had
circled to get back to the trail he had left. Slone believed the horse
was just so intelligent. At any rate, Wildfire struck the trail again,
and turned at right angles to follow it.

Here the forest floor appeared perfectly level. Patches of snow became
frequent, and larger as Slone went on. At length the patches closed up,
and soon extended as far as he could see. It was soft, affording
difficult travel. Slone crossed hundreds of deer tracks, and the trail
he was on eventually became a deer runway.

Presently, far down one of the aisles between the great pines Slone saw
what appeared to be a yellow cliff, far away. It puzzled him. And as he
went on he received the impression that the forest dropped out of sight
ahead. Then the trees grew thicker, obstructing his view. Presently the
trail became soggy and he had to help his horse. The mustang floundered
in the soft snow and earth. Cedars and pinyons appeared again, making
travel still more laborious.

All at once there came to Slone a strange consciousness of light and
wind and space and void. On the instant his horse halted with a snort.
Slone quickly looked up. Had he come to the end of the world? An abyss,
a canyon, yawned beneath him, beyond all comparison in its greatness.
His keen eye, educated to desert distance and dimension, swept down and
across, taking in the tremendous truth, before it staggered his
comprehension. But a second sweeping glance, slower, becoming
intoxicated with what it beheld, saw gigantic cliff-steps and yellow
slopes dotted with cedars, leading down to clefts filled with purple
smoke, and these led on and on to a ragged red world of rock, bare,
shining, bold, uplifted in mesa, dome, peak, and crag, clear and
strange in the morning light, still and sleeping like death.

This, then, was the great canyon, which had seemed like a hunter's
fable rather than truth. Slone's sight dimmed, blurring the spectacle,
and he found that his eyes had filled with tears. He wiped them away
and looked again and again, until he was confounded by the vastness and
the grandeur and the vague sadness of the scene. Nothing he had ever
looked at had affected him like this canyon, although the Stewarts had
tried to prepare him for it.

It was the horse-hunter's passion that reminded him of his pursuit. The
deer trail led down through a break in the wall. Only a few rods of it
could be seen. This trail was passable, even though choked with snow.
But the depth beyond this wall seemed to fascinate Slone and hold him
back, used as he was to desert trails. Then the clean mark of
Wildfire's hoof brought back the old thrill.

"This place fits you, Wildfire," muttered Slone, dismounting.

He started down, leading Nagger. The mustang followed. Slone kept to
the wall side of the trail, fearing the horses might slip. The snow
held firmly at first and Slone had no trouble. The gap in the rim-rock
widened to a slope thickly grown over with cedars and pinyons and
manzanita. This growth made the descent more laborious, yet afforded
means at least for Slone to go down with less danger. There was no
stopping. Once started, the horses had to keep on. Slone saw the
impossibility of ever climbing out while that snow was there. The trail
zigzagged down and down. Very soon the yellow wall hung tremendously
over him, straight up. The snow became thinner and softer. The horses
began to slip. They slid on their haunches. Fortunately the slope grew
less steep, and Slone could see below where it reached out to
comparatively level ground. Still, a mishap might yet occur. Slone kept
as close to Nagger as possible, helping him whenever he could do it.
The mustang slipped, rolled over, and then slipped past Slone, went
down the slope to bring up in a cedar. Slone worked down to him and
extricated him. Then the huge Nagger began to slide. Snow and loose
rock slid with him, and so did Slone. The little avalanche stopped of
its own accord, and then Slone dragged Nagger on down and down,
presently to come to the end of the steep descent. Slone looked up to
see that he had made short work of a thousand-foot slope. Here cedars
and pinyons grew thickly enough to make a forest. The snow thinned out
to patches, and then failed. But the going remained bad for a while as
the horses sank deep in a soft red earth. This eventually grew more
solid and finally dry. Slone worked out of the cedars to what appeared
a grassy plateau inclosed by the great green-and-white slope with its
yellow wall over hanging, and distant mesas and cliffs. Here his view
was restricted. He was down on the first bench of the great canyon. And
there was the deer trail, a well-worn path keeping to the edge of the
slope. Slone came to a deep cut in the earth, and the trail headed it,
where it began at the last descent of the slope. It was the source of a
canyon. He could look down to see the bare, worn rock, and a hundred
yards from where he stood the earth was washed from its rims and it
began to show depth and something of that ragged outline which told of
violence of flood. The trail headed many canyons like this, all running
down across this bench, disappearing, dropping invisibly. The trail
swung to the left under the great slope, and then presently it climbed
to a higher bench. Here were brush and grass and huge patches of sage,
so pungent that it stung Slone's nostrils. Then he went down again,
this time to come to a clear brook lined by willows. Here the horses
drank long and Slone refreshed himself. The sun had grown hot. There
was fragrance of flowers he could not see and a low murmur of a
waterfall that was likewise invisible. For most of the time his view
was shut off, but occasionally he reached a point where through some
break he saw towers gleaming red in the sun. A strange place, a place
of silence, and smoky veils in the distance. Time passed swiftly.
Toward the waning of the afternoon he began to climb to what appeared
to be a saddle of land, connecting the canyon wall on the left with a
great plateau, gold-rimmed and pine-fringed, rising more and more in
his way as he advanced. At sunset Slone was more shut in than for
several hours. He could tell the time was sunset by the golden light on
the cliff wall again overhanging him. The slope was gradual up to this
pass to the saddle, and upon coming to a spring, and the first
pine-trees, he decided to halt for a camp. The mustang was almost
exhausted.

Thereupon he hobbled the horses in the luxuriant grass round the
spring, and then unrolled his pack. Once as dusk came stealing down,
while he was eating his meal, Nagger whistled in fright. Slone saw a
gray, pantherish form gliding away into the shadows. He took a quick
shot at it, but missed.

"It's a lion country, all right," he said. And then he set about
building a big fire on the other side of the grassy plot, so to have
the horses between fires. He cut all the venison into thin strips, and
spent an hour roasting them. Then he lay down to rest, and he said:
"Wonder where Wildfire is to-night? Am I closer to him? Where's he
headin' for?"

The night was warm and still. It was black near the huge cliff, and
overhead velvety blue, with stars of white fire. It seemed to him that
he had become more thoughtful and observing of the aspects of his wild
environment, and he felt a welcome consciousness of loneliness. Then
sleep came to him and the night seemed short. In the gray dawn he arose
refreshed.

The horses were restive. Nagger snorted a welcome. Evidently they had
passed an uneasy night. Slone found lion tracks at the spring and in
sandy places. Presently he was on his way up to the notch between the
great wall and the plateau. A growth of thick scrub-oak made travel
difficult. It had not appeared far up to that saddle, but it was far.
There were straggling pine-trees and huge rocks that obstructed his
gaze. But once up he saw that the saddle was only a narrow ridge,
curved to slope up on both sides.

Straight before Slone and under him opened the canyon, blazing and
glorious along the peaks and ramparts, where the rising sun struck,
misty and smoky and shadowy down in those mysterious depths.

It took an effort not to keep on gazing. But Slone turned to the grim
business of his pursuit. The trail he saw leading down had been made by
Indians. It was used probably once a year by them; and also by wild
animals, and it was exceedingly steep and rough. Wildfire had paced to
and fro along the narrow ridge of that saddle, making many tracks,
before he had headed down again. Slone imagined that the great stallion
had been daunted by the tremendous chasm, but had finally faced it,
meaning to put this obstacle between him and his pursuers. It never
occurred to Slone to attribute less intelligence to Wildfire than that.
So, dismounting, Slone took Nagger's bridle and started down. The
mustang with the pack was reluctant. He snorted and whistled and pawed
the earth. But he would not be left alone, so he followed.

The trail led down under cedars that fringed a precipice. Slone was
aware of this without looking. He attended only to the trail and to his
horse. Only an Indian could have picked out that course, and it was
cruel to put a horse to it. But Nagger was powerful, sure-footed, and
he would go anywhere that Slone led him. Gradually Slone worked down
and away from the bulging rim-wall. It was hard, rough work, and risky
because it could not be accomplished slowly. Brush and rocks, loose
shale and weathered slope, long, dusty inclines of yellow earth, and
jumbles of stone--these made bad going for miles of slow, zigzag trail
down out of the cedars. Then the trail entered what appeared to be a
ravine.

That ravine became a canyon. At its head it was a dry wash, full of
gravel and rocks. It began to cut deep into the bowels of the earth. It
shut out sight of the surrounding walls and peaks. Water appeared from
under a cliff and, augmented by other springs, became a brook. Hot,
dry, and barren at its beginning, this cleft became cool and shady and
luxuriant with grass and flowers and amber moss with silver blossoms.
The rocks had changed color from yellow to deep red. Four hours of
turning and twisting, endlessly down and down, over boulders and banks
and every conceivable roughness of earth and rock, finished the
pack-mustang; and Slone mercifully left him in a long reach of canyon
where grass and water never failed. In this place Slone halted for the
noon hour, letting Nagger have his fill of the rich grazing. Nagger's
three days in grassy upland, despite the continuous travel by day, had
improved him. He looked fat, and Slone had not yet caught the horse
resting. Nagger was iron to endure. Here Slone left all the outfit
except what was on his saddle, and the sack containing the few pounds
of meat and supplies, and the two utensils. This sack he tied on the
back of his saddle, and resumed his journey.

Presently he came to a place where Wildfire had doubled on his trail
and had turned up a side canyon. The climb out was hard on Slone, if
not on Nagger. Once up, Slone found himself upon a wide, barren plateau
of glaring red rock and clumps of greasewood and cactus. The plateau
was miles wide, shut in by great walls and mesas of colored rock. The
afternoon sun beat down fiercely. A blast of wind, as if from a
furnace, swept across the plateau, and it was laden with red dust.
Slone walked here, where he could have ridden. And he made several
miles of up-and-down progress over this rough plateau. The great walls
of the opposite side of the canyon loomed appreciably closer. What,
Slone wondered, was at the bottom of this rent in the earth? The great
desert river was down there, of course, but he knew nothing of it.
Would that turn back Wildfire? Slone thought grimly how he had always
claimed Nagger to be part fish and part bird. Wildfire was not going to
escape.

By and by only isolated mescal plants with long, yellow-plumed spears
broke the bare monotony of the plateau. And Slone passed from red sand
and gravel to a red, soft shale, and from that to hard, red rock. Here
Wildfire's tracks were lost, the first time in seven weeks. But Slone
had his direction down that plateau with the cleavage lines of canyons
to right and left. At times Slone found a vestige of the old Indian
trail, and this made him doubly sure of being right. He did not need to
have Wildfire's tracks. He let Nagger pick the way, and the horse made
no mistake in finding the line of least resistance. But that grew
harder and harder. This bare rock, like a file, would soon wear
Wildfire's hoofs thin. And Slone rejoiced. Perhaps somewhere down in
this awful chasm he and Nagger would have it out with the stallion.
Slone began to look far ahead, beginning to believe that he might see
Wildfire. Twice he had seen Wildfire, but only at a distance. Then he
had resembled a running streak of fire, whence his name, which Slone
had given him.

This bare region of rock began to be cut up into gullies. It was
necessary to head them or to climb in and out. Miles of travel really
meant little progress straight ahead. But Slone kept on. He was hot and
Nagger was hot, and that made hard work easier. Sometimes on the wind
came a low thunder. Was it a storm or an avalanche slipping or falling
water? He could not tell. The sound was significant and haunting.

Of one thing he was sure--that he could not have found his back-trail.
But he divined he was never to retrace his steps on this journey. The
stretch of broken plateau before him grew wilder and bolder of outline,
darker in color, weirder in aspect, and progress across it grew slower,
more dangerous. There were many places Nagger should not have been put
to--where a slip meant a broken leg. But Slone could not turn back. And
something besides an indomitable spirit kept him going. Again the sound
resembling thunder assailed his ears, louder this time. The plateau
appeared to be ending in a series of great capes or promontories. Slone
feared he would soon come out upon a promontory from which he might see
the impossibility of further travel. He felt relieved down in the
gullies, where he could not see far. He climbed out of one, presently,
from which there extended a narrow ledge with a slant too perilous for
any horse. He stepped out upon that with far less confidence than
Nagger. To the right was a bulge of low wall, and a few feet to the
left a dark precipice. The trail here was faintly outlined, and it was
six inches wide and slanting as well. It seemed endless to Slone, that
ledge. He looked only down at his feet and listened to Nagger's steps.
The big horse trod carefully, but naturally, and he did not slip. That
ledge extended in a long curve, turning slowly away from the precipice,
and ascending a little at the further end. Slone, drew a deep breath of
relief when he led Nagger up on level rock.

Suddenly a strange yet familiar sound halted Slone, as if he had been
struck. The wild, shrill, high-pitched, piercing whistle of a stallion!
Nagger neighed a blast in reply and pounded the rock with his iron-shod
hoofs. With a thrill Slone looked ahead.

There, some few hundred yards distant, on a promontory, stood a red
horse.

"My Lord! ... It's Wildfire!" breathed Slone, tensely.

He could not believe his sight. He imagined he was dreaming. But as
Nagger stamped and snorted defiance Slone looked with fixed and keen
gaze, and knew that beautiful picture was no lie.

Wildfire was as red as fire. His long mane, wild in the wind, was like
a whipping, black-streaked flame. Silhouetted there against that canyon
background he seemed gigantic, a demon horse, ready to plunge into
fiery depths. He was looking back over his shoulder, his head very
high, and every line of him was instinct with wildness. Again he sent
out that shrill, air-splitting whistle. Slone understood it to be a
clarion call to Nagger. If Nagger had been alone Wildfire would have
killed him. The red stallion was a killer of horses. All over the Utah
ranges he had left the trail of a murderer. Nagger understood this,
too, for he whistled back in rage and terror. It took an iron arm to
hold him. Then Wildfire plunged, apparently down, and vanished from
Slone's sight.

Slone hurried onward, to be blocked by a huge crack in the rocky
plateau. This he had to head. And then another and like obstacle
checked his haste to reach that promontory. He was forced to go more
slowly. Wildfire had been close only as to sight. And this was the
great canyon that dwarfed distance and magnified proximity. Climbing
down and up, toiling on, he at last learned patience. He had seen
Wildfire at close range. That was enough. So he plodded on, once more
returning to careful regard of Nagger. It took an hour of work to reach
the point where Wildfire had disappeared.

A promontory indeed it was, overhanging a valley a thousand feet below.
A white torrent of a stream wound through it. There were lines of green
cottonwoods following the winding course. Then Slone saw Wildfire
slowly crossing the flat toward the stream. He had gone down that
cliff, which to Slone looked perpendicular.

Wildfire appeared to be walking lame. Slone, making sure of this,
suffered a pang. Then, when the significance of such lameness dawned
upon him he whooped his wild joy and waved his hat. The red stallion
must have heard, for he looked up. Then he went on again and waded into
the stream, where he drank long. When he started to cross, the swift
current drove him back in several places. The water wreathed white
around him. But evidently it was not deep, and finally he crossed. From
the other side he looked up again at Nagger and Slone, and, going on,
he soon was out of sight in the cottonwoods.

"How to get down!" muttered Slone.

There was a break in the cliff wall, a bare stone slant where horses
had gone down and come up. That was enough for Slone to know. He would
have attempted the descent if he were sure no other horse but Wildfire
had ever gone down there. But Slone's hair began to rise stiff on his
head. A horse like Wildfire, and mountain sheep and Indian ponies, were
all very different from Nagger. The chances were against Nagger.

"Come on, old boy. If I can do it, you can," he said.

Slone had never seen a trail as perilous as this. He was afraid for his
horse. A slip there meant death. The way Nagger trembled in every
muscle showed his feelings. But he never flinched. He would follow
Slone anywhere, providing Slone rode him or led him. And here, as
riding was impossible, Slone went before. If the horse slipped there
would be a double tragedy, for Nagger would knock his master off the
cliff. Slone set his teeth and stepped down. He did not let Nagger see
his fear. He was taking the greatest risk he had ever run.

The break in the wall led to a ledge, and the ledge dropped from step
to step, and these had bare, slippery slants between. Nagger was
splendid on a bad trail. He had methods peculiar to his huge build and
great weight. He crashed down over the stone steps, both front hoofs at
once. The slants he slid down on his haunches with his forelegs stiff
and the iron shoes scraping. He snorted and heaved and grew wet with
sweat. He tossed his head at some of the places. But he never hesitated
and it was impossible for him to go slowly. Whenever Slone came to
corrugated stretches in the trail he felt grateful. But these were few.
The rock was like smooth red iron. Slone had never seen such hard rock.
It took him long to realize that it was marble. His heart seemed a
tense, painful knot in his breast, as if it could not beat, holding
back in the strained suspense. But Nagger never jerked on the bridle.
He never faltered. Many times he slipped, often with both front feet,
but never with all four feet. So he did not fall. And the red wall
began to loom above Slone. Then suddenly he seemed brought to a point
where it was impossible to descend. It was a round bulge, slanting
fearfully, with only a few little rough surfaces to hold a foot.
Wildfire had left a broad, clear-swept mark at that place, and red
hairs on some of the sharp points. He had slid down. Below was an
offset that fortunately prevented further sliding, Slone started to
walk down this place, but when Nagger began to slide Slone had to let
go the bridle and jump. Both he and the horse landed safely. Luck was
with them. And they went on, down and down, to reach the base of the
great wall, scraped and exhausted, wet with sweat, but unhurt. As Slone
gazed upward he felt the impossibility of believing what he knew to be
true. He hugged and petted the horse. Then he led on to the roaring
stream.

It was green water white with foam. Slone waded in and found the water
cool and shallow and very swift. He had to hold to Nagger to keep from
being swept downstream. They crossed in safety. There in the sand
showed Wildfire's tracks. And here were signs of another Indian camp,
half a year old.

The shade of the cottonwoods was pleasant. Slone found this valley
oppressively hot. There was no wind and the sand blistered his feet
through his boots. Wildfire held to the Indian trail that had guided
him down into this wilderness of worn rock. And that trail crossed the
stream at every turn of the twisting, narrow valley. Slone enjoyed
getting into the water. He hung his gun over the pommel and let the
water roll him. A dozen times he and Nagger forded the rushing torrent.
Then they came to a box-like closing of the valley to canyon walls, and
here the trail evidently followed the stream bed. There was no other
way. Slone waded in, and stumbled, rolled, and floated ahead of the
sturdy horse. Nagger was wet to his breast, but he did not fall. This
gulch seemed full of a hollow rushing roar. It opened out into a wide
valley. And Wildfire's tracks took to the left side and began to climb
the slope.

Here the traveling was good, considering what had been passed. Once up
out of the valley floor Slone saw Wildfire far ahead, high on the
slope. He did not appear to be limping, but he was not going fast.
Slone watched as he climbed. What and where would be the end of this
chase?

Sometimes Wildfire was plain in his sight for a moment, but usually he
was hidden by rocks. The slope was one great talus, a jumble of
weathered rock, fallen from what appeared a mountain of red and yellow
wall. Here the heat of the sun fell upon him like fire. The rocks were
so hot Slone could not touch them with bare hand. The close of the
afternoon was approaching, and this slope was interminably long. Still,
it was not steep, and the trail was good.

At last from the height of slope Wildfire appeared, looking back and
down. Then he was gone. Slone plodded upward. Long before he reached
that summit be heard the dull rumble of the river. It grew to be a
roar, yet it seemed distant. Would the great desert river stop Wildfire
in his flight? Slone doubted it. He surmounted the ridge, to find the
canyon opening in a tremendous gap, and to see down, far down, a
glittering, sun-blasted slope merging into a deep, black gulch where a
red river swept and chafed and roared.

Somehow the river was what he had expected to see. A force that had cut
and ground this canyon could have been nothing but a river like that.
The trail led down, and Slone had no doubt that it crossed the river
and led up out of the canyon. He wanted to stay there and gaze
endlessly and listen. At length he began the descent. As he proceeded
it seemed that the roar of the river lessened. He could not understand
why this was so. It took half an hour to reach the last level, a
ghastly, black, and iron-ribbed canyon bed, with the river splitting
it. He had not had a glimpse of Wildfire on this side of the divide,
but he found his tracks, and they led down off the last level, through
a notch in the black bank of marble to a sand-bar and the river.

Wildfire had walked straight off the sand into the water. Slone studied
the river and shore. The water ran slow, heavily, in sluggish eddies.
From far up the canyon came the roar of a rapid, and from below the
roar of another, heavier and closer. The river appeared tremendous, in
ways Slone felt rather than realized, yet it was not swift. Studying
the black, rough wall of rock above him, he saw marks where the river
had been sixty feet higher than where he stood on the sand. It was low,
then. How lucky for him that he had gotten there before flood season!
He believed Wildfire had crossed easily, and he knew Nagger could make
it. Then he piled and tied his supplies and weapons high on the saddle,
to keep them dry, and looked for a place to take to the water.

Wildfire had sunk deep before reaching the edge. Manifestly he had
lunged the last few feet. Slone found a better place, and waded in,
urging Nagger. The big horse plunged, almost going under, and began to
swim. Slone kept up-stream beside him. He found, presently, that the
water was thick and made him tired, so it was necessary to grasp a
stirrup and be towed. The river appeared only a few hundred feet wide,
but probably it was wider than it looked. Nagger labored heavily near
the opposite shore; still, he landed safely upon a rocky bank. There
were patches of sand in which Wildfire's tracks showed so fresh that
the water had not yet dried out of them.

Slone rested his horse before attempting to climb out of that split in
the rock. However, Wildfire had found an easy ascent. On this side of
the canyon the bare rock did not predominate. A clear trail led up a
dusty, gravelly slope, upon which scant greasewood and cactus appeared.
Half an hour's climbing brought Slone to where he could see that he was
entering a vast valley, sloping up and narrowing to a notch in the dark
cliffs, above which towered the great red wall and about that the
slopes of cedar and the yellow rim-rock.

And scarcely a mile distant, bright in the westering sunlight, shone
the red stallion, moving slowly.

Slone pressed on steadily. Just before dark he came to an ideal spot to
camp. The valley had closed up, so that the lofty walls cast shadows
that met. A clump of cottonwoods surrounding a spring, abundance of
rich grass, willows and flowers lining the banks, formed an oasis in
the bare valley. Slone was tired out from the day of ceaseless toil
down and up, and he could scarcely keep his eyes open. But he tried to
stay awake. The dead silence of the valley, the dry fragrance, the
dreaming walls, the advent of night low down, when up on the ramparts
the last red rays of the sun lingered, the strange loneliness--these
were sweet and comforting to him.

And that night's sleep was as a moment. He opened his eyes to see the
crags and towers and peaks and domes, and the lofty walls of that vast,
broken chaos of canyons across the river. They were now emerging from
the misty gray of dawn, growing pink and lilac and purple under the
rising sun.

He arose and set about his few tasks, which, being soon finished,
allowed him an early start.

Wildfire had grazed along no more than a mile in the lead. Slone looked
eagerly up the narrowing canyon, but he was not rewarded by a sight of
the stallion. As he progressed up a gradually ascending trail he became
aware of the fact that the notch he had long looked up to was where the
great red walls closed in and almost met. And the trail zigzagged up
this narrow vent, so steep that only a few steps could be taken without
rest. Slone toiled up for an hour--an age--till he was wet, burning,
choked, with a great weight on his chest. Yet still he was only
half-way up that awful break between the walls. Sometimes he could have
tossed a stone down upon a part of the trail, only a few rods below,
yet many, many weary steps of actual toil. As he got farther up the
notch widened. What had been scarcely visible from the valley below was
now colossal in actual dimensions. The trail was like a twisted mile of
thread between two bulging mountain walls leaning their ledges and
fronts over this tilted pass.

Slone rested often. Nagger appreciated this and heaved gratefully at
every halt. In this monotonous toil Slone forgot the zest of his
pursuit. And when Nagger suddenly snorted in fright Slone was not
prepared for what he saw.

Above him ran a low, red wall, around which evidently the trail led. At
the curve, which was a promontory, scarcely a hundred feet in an
airline above him, he saw something red moving, bobbing, coming out
into view. It was a horse.

Wildfire--no farther away than the length of three lassoes!

There he stood looking down. He fulfilled all of Slone's dreams. Only
he was bigger. But he was so magnificently proportioned that he did not
seem heavy. His coat was shaggy and red. It was not glossy. The color
was what made him shine. His mane was like a crest, mounting, then
failing low. Slone had never seen so much muscle on a horse. Yet his
outline was graceful, beautiful. The head was indeed that of the
wildest of all wild creatures--a stallion born wild--and it was
beautiful, savage, splendid, everything but noble. Whatever Wildfire
was, he was a devil, a murderer--he had no noble attributes. Slone
thought that if a horse could express hate, surely Wildfire did then.
It was certain that he did express curiosity and fury.

Slone shook a gantleted fist at the stallion, as if the horse were
human. That was a natural action for a rider of his kind. Wildfire
turned away, showed bright against the dark background, and then
disappeared.



CHAPTER VI

That was the last Slone saw of Wildfire for three days.

It took all of this day to climb out of the canyon. The second was a
slow march of thirty miles into a scrub cedar and pinyon forest,
through which the great red and yellow walls of the canyon could be
seen. That night Slone found a water-hole in a rocky pocket and a
little grass for Nagger. The third day's travel consisted of forty
miles or more through level pine forest, dry and odorous, but lacking
the freshness and beauty of the forest on the north side of the canyon.
On this south side a strange feature was that all the water, when there
was any, ran away from the rim. Slone camped this night at a muddy pond
in the woods, where Wildfire's tracks showed plainly.

On the following day Slone rode out of the forest into a country of
scanty cedars, bleached and stunted, and out of this to the edge of a
plateau, from which the shimmering desert flung its vast and desolate
distances, forbidding and menacing. This was not the desert upland
country of Utah, but a naked and bony world of colored rock and sand--a
painted desert of heat and wind and flying sand and waterless wastes
and barren ranges. But it did not daunt Slone. For far down on the
bare, billowing ridges moved a red speck, at a snail's pace, a slowly
moving dot of color which was Wildfire.

On open ground like this, Nagger, carrying two hundred and fifty
pounds, showed his wonderful quality. He did not mind the heat nor the
sand nor the glare nor the distance nor his burden. He did not tire. He
was an engine of tremendous power.

Slone gained upon Wildfire, and toward evening of that day he reached
to within half a mile of the stallion. And he chose to keep that far
behind. That night he camped where there was dry grass, but no water.

Next day he followed Wildfire down and down, over the endless swell of
rolling red ridges, bare of all but bleached white grass and meager
greasewood, always descending in the face of that painted desert of
bold and ragged steps. Slone made fifty miles that day, and gained the
valley bed, where a slender stream ran thin and spread over a wide
sandy bottom. It was salty water, but it was welcome to both man and
beast.

The following day he crossed, and the tracks of Wildfire were still wet
on the sand-bars. The stallion was slowing down. Slone saw him, limping
along, not far in advance. There was a ten-mile stretch of level
ground, blown hard as rock, from which the sustenance had been
bleached, for not a spear of grass grew there. And following that was a
tortuous passage through a weird region of clay dunes, blue and violet
and heliotrope and lavender, all worn smooth by rain and wind. Wildfire
favored the soft ground now. He had deviated from his straight course.
And he was partial to washes and dips in the earth where water might
have lodged. And he was not now scornful of a green-scummed water-hole
with its white margin of alkali. That night Slone made camp with
Wildfire in plain sight. The stallion stopped when his pursuers
stopped. And he began to graze on the same stretch with Nagger. How
strange this seemed to Slone!

Here at this camp was evidence of Indians. Wildfire had swung round to
the north in his course. Like any pursued wild animal, he had began to
circle. And he had pointed his nose toward the Utah he had left.

Next morning Wildfire was not in sight, but he had left his tracks in
the sand. Slone trailed him with Nagger at a trot. Toward the head of
this sandy flat Slone came upon old corn-fields, and a broken dam where
the water had been stored, and well-defined trails leading away to the
right. Somewhere over there in the desert lived Indians. At this point
Wildfire abandoned the trail he had followed for many days and cut out
more to the north. It took all the morning hours to climb three great
steps and benches that led up to the summit of a mesa, vast in extent.
It turned out to be a sandy waste. The wind rose and everywhere were
moving sheets of sand, and in the distance circular yellow dust-devils,
rising high like waterspouts, and back down in the sun-scorched valley
a sandstorm moved along majestically, burying the desert in its yellow
pall.

Then two more days of sand and another day of a slowly rising ground
growing from bare to gray and gray to green, and then to the purple of
sage and cedar--these three grinding days were toiled out with only one
water-hole.

And Wildfire was lame and in distress and Nagger was growing gaunt and
showing strain; and Slone, haggard and black and worn, plodded miles
and miles on foot to save his horse.

Slone felt that it would be futile to put the chase to a test of speed.
Nagger could never head that stallion. Slone meant to go on and on,
always pushing Wildfire, keeping him tired, wearied, and worrying him,
till a section of the country was reached where he could drive Wildfire
into some kind of a natural trap. The pursuit seemed endless. Wildfire
kept to open country where he could not be surprised.

There came a morning when Slone climbed to a cedared plateau that rose
for a whole day's travel, and then split into a labyrinthine maze of
canyons. There were trees, grass, water. It was a high country, cool
and wild, like the uplands he had left. For days he camped on
Wildfire's trail, always relentlessly driving him, always watching for
the trap he hoped to find. And the red stallion spent much of this time
of flight in looking backward. Whenever Slone came in sight of him he
had his head over his shoulder, watching. And on the soft ground of
these canyons he had begun to recover from his lameness. But this did
not worry Slone. Sooner or later Wildfire would go down into a
high-walled wash, from which there would be no outlet; or he would
wander into a box-canyon; or he would climb out on a mesa with no place
to descend, unless he passed Slone; or he would get cornered on a soft,
steep slope where his hoofs would sink deep and make him slow. The
nature of the desert had changed. Slone had entered a wonderful region,
the like of which he had not seen--a high plateau crisscrossed in every
direction by narrow canyons with red walls a thousand feet high.

And one of the strange turning canyons opened into a vast valley of
monuments.

The plateau had weathered and washed away, leaving huge sections of
stone walls, all standing isolated, different in size and shape, but
all clean-cut, bold, with straight lines. They stood up everywhere,
monumental, towering, many-colored, lending a singular and beautiful
aspect to the great green-and-gray valley, billowing away to the north,
where dim, broken battlements mounted to the clouds.

The only living thing in Slone's sight was Wildfire. He shone red down
on the green slope.

Slone's heart swelled. This was the setting for that grand horse--a
perfect wild range. But also it seemed the last place where there might
be any chance to trap the stallion. Still that did not alter Slone's
purpose, though it lost to him the joy of former hopes. He rode down
the slope, out upon the billowing floor of the valley. Wildfire looked
back to see his pursuers, and then the solemn stillness broke to a
wild, piercing whistle.

Day after day, camping where night found him, Slone followed the
stallion, never losing sight of him till darkness had fallen. The
valley was immense and the monuments miles apart. But they always
seemed close together and near him. The air magnified everything. Slone
lost track of time. The strange, solemn, lonely days and the silent,
lonely nights, and the endless pursuit, and the wild, weird
valley--these completed the work of years on Slone and he became
satisfied, unthinking, almost savage.

The toil and privation had worn him down and he was like iron. His
garments hung in tatters; his boots were ripped and soleless. Long
since his flour had been used up, and all his supplies except the salt.
He lived on the meat of rabbits, but they were scarce, and the time
came when there were none. Some days he did not eat. Hunger did not
make him suffer. He killed a desert bird now and then, and once a
wildcat crossing the valley. Eventually he felt his strength
diminishing, and then he took to digging out the pack-rats and cooking
them. But these, too, were scarce. At length starvation faced Slone.
But he knew he would not starve. Many times he had been within
rifle-shot of Wildfire. And the grim, forbidding thought grew upon him
that he must kill the stallion. The thought seemed involuntary, but his
mind rejected it. Nevertheless, he knew that if he could not catch the
stallion he would kill him. That had been the end of many a desperate
rider's pursuit of a coveted horse.

While Slone kept on his merciless pursuit, never letting Wildfire rest
by day, time went on just as relentlessly. Spring gave way to early
summer. The hot sun bleached the grass; water-holes failed out in the
valley, and water could be found only in the canyons; and the dry winds
began to blow the sand. It was a sandy valley, green and gray only at a
distance, and out toward the north there were no monuments, and the
slow heave of sand lifted toward the dim walls.

Wildfire worked away from this open valley, back to the south end,
where the great monuments loomed, and still farther back, where they
grew closer, till at length some of them were joined by weathered
ridges to the walls of the surrounding plateau. For all that Slone
could see, Wildfire was in perfect condition. But Nagger was not the
horse he had been. Slone realized that in one way or another the
pursuit was narrowing down to the end.

He found a water-hole at the head of a wash in a split in the walls,
and here he let Nagger rest and graze one whole day--the first day for
a long time that he had not kept the red stallion in sight. That day
was marked by the good fortune of killing a rabbit, and while eating it
his gloomy, fixed mind admitted that he was starving. He dreaded the
next sunrise. But he could not hold it back. There, behind the dark
monuments, standing sentinel-like, the sky lightened and reddened and
burst into gold and pink, till out of the golden glare the sun rose
glorious. And Slone, facing the league-long shadows of the monuments,
rode out again into the silent, solemn day, on his hopeless quest.

For a change Wildfire had climbed high up a slope of talus, through a
narrow pass, rounded over with drifting sand. And Slone gazed down into
a huge amphitheater full of monuments, like all that strange country. A
basin three miles across lay beneath him. Walls and weathered slants of
rock and steep slopes of reddish-yellow sand inclosed this oval
depression. The floor was white, and it seemed to move gently or
radiate with heat-waves. Studying it, Slone made out that the motion
was caused by wind in long bleached grass. He had crossed small areas
of this grass in different parts of the region.

Wildfire's tracks led down into this basin, and presently Slone, by
straining his eyes, made out the red spot that was the stallion.

"He's lookin' to quit the country," soliloquized Slone, as he surveyed
the scene.

With keen, slow gaze Slone studied the lay of wall and slope, and when
he had circled the huge depression he made sure that Wildfire could not
get out except by the narrow pass through which he had gone in. Slone
sat astride Nagger in the mouth of this pass--a wash a few yards wide,
walled by broken, rough rock on one side and an insurmountable slope on
the other.

"If this hole was only little, now," sighed Slone, as he gazed at the
sweeping, shimmering oval floor, "I might have a chance. But down
there--we couldn't get near him."

There was no water in that dry bowl. Slone reflected on the uselessness
of keeping Wildfire down there, because Nagger could not go without
water as long as Wildfire. For the first time Slone hesitated. It
seemed merciless to Nagger to drive him down into this hot, windy hole.
The wind blew from the west, and it swooped up the slope, hot, with the
odor of dry, dead grass.

But that hot wind stirred Slone with an idea, and suddenly he was
tense, excited, glowing, yet grim and hard.

"Wildfire, I'll make you run with your namesake in that high grass,"
called Slone. The speech was full of bitter failure, of regret, of the
hardness of a rider who could not give up the horse to freedom.

Slone meant to ride down there and fire the long grass. In that wind
there would indeed be wildfire to race with the red stallion. It would
perhaps mean his death; at least it would chase him out of that hole,
where to follow him would be useless.

"I'd make you hump now to get away if I could get behind you," muttered
Slone. He saw that if he could fire the grass on the other side the
wind of flame would drive Wildfire straight toward him. The slopes and
walls narrowed up to the pass, but high grass grew to within a few rods
of where Slone stood. But it seemed impossible to get behind Wildfire.

"At night--then--I could get round him," said Slone, thinking hard and
narrowing his gaze to scan the circle of wall and slope. "Why not? ...
No wind at night. That grass would burn slow till mornin'--till the
wind came up--an' it's been west for days."

Suddenly Slone began to pound the patient Nagger and to cry out to him
in wild exultance.

"Old horse, we've got him! ... We've got him! ... We'll put a rope on
him before this time to-morrow!"

Slone yielded to his strange, wild joy, but it did not last long, soon
succeeding to sober, keen thought. He rode down into the bowl a mile,
making absolutely certain that Wildfire could not climb out on that
side. The far end, beyond the monuments, was a sheer wall of rock. Then
he crossed to the left side. Here the sandy slope was almost too steep
for even him to go up. And there was grass that would burn. He returned
to the pass assured that Wildfire had at last fallen into a trap the
like Slone had never dreamed of. The great horse was doomed to run into
living flame or the whirling noose of a lasso.

Then Slone reflected. Nagger had that very morning had his fill of good
water--the first really satisfying drink for days. If he was rested
that day, on the morrow he would be fit for the grueling work possibly
in store for him. Slone unsaddled the horse and turned him loose, and
with a snort he made down the gentle slope for the grass. Then Slone
carried his saddle to a shady spot afforded by a slab of rock and a
dwarf cedar, and here he composed himself to rest and watch and think
and wait.

Wildfire was plainly in sight no more than two miles away. Gradually he
was grazing along toward the monuments and the far end of the great
basin. Slone believed, because the place was so large, that Wildfire
thought there was a way out on the other side or over the slopes or
through the walls. Never before had the far-sighted stallion made a
mistake. Slone suddenly felt the keen, stabbing fear of an outlet
somewhere. But it left him quickly. He had studied those slopes and
walls. Wildfire could not get out, except by the pass he had entered,
unless he could fly.

Slone lay in the shade, his head propped on his saddle, and while
gazing down into the shimmering hollow he began to plan. He calculated
that he must be able to carry fire swiftly across the far end of the
basin, so that he would not be absent long from the mouth of the pass.
Fire was always a difficult matter, since he must depend only on flint
and steel. He decided to wait till dark, build a fire with dead cedar
sticks, and carry a bundle of them with burning ends. He felt assured
that the wind caused by riding would keep them burning. After he had
lighted the grass all he had to do was to hurry back to his station and
there await developments.

The day passed slowly, and it was hot. The heat-waves rose in dark,
wavering lines and veils from the valley. The wind blew almost a gale.
Thin, curling sheets of sand blew up over the crests of the slopes, and
the sound it made was a soft, silken rustling, very low. The sky was a
steely blue above and copper close over the distant walls.

That afternoon, toward the close, Slone ate the last of the meat. At
sunset the wind died away and the air cooled. There was a strip of red
along the wall of rock and on the tips of the monuments, and it
lingered there for long, a strange, bright crown. Nagger was not far
away, but Wildfire had disappeared, probably behind one of the
monuments.

When twilight fell Slone went down after Nagger and, returning with
him, put on bridle and saddle. Then he began to search for suitable
sticks of wood. Farther back in the pass he found stunted dead cedars,
and from these secured enough for his purpose. He kindled a fire and
burnt the ends of the sticks into red embers. Making a bundle of these,
he put them under his arm, the dull, glowing ends backward, and then
mounted his horse.

It was just about dark when he faced down into the valley. When he
reached level ground he kept to the edge of the left slope and put
Nagger to a good trot. The grass and brush were scant here, and the
color of the sand was light, so he had no difficulty in traveling.

From time to time his horse went through grass, and its dry, crackling
rustle, showing how it would burn, was music to Slone. Gradually the
monuments began to loom up, bold and black against the blue sky, with
stars seemingly hanging close over them. Slone had calculated that the
basin was smaller than it really was, in both length and breadth. This
worried him. Wildfire might see or hear or scent him, and make a break
back to the pass and thus escape. Slone was glad when the huge, dark
monuments were indistinguishable from the black, frowning wall. He had
to go slower here, because of the darkness. But at last he reached the
slow rise of jumbled rock that evidently marked the extent of
weathering on that side. Here he turned to the right and rode out into
the valley. The floor was level and thickly overgrown with long, dead
grass and dead greasewood, as dry as tinder. It was easy to account for
the dryness; neither snow nor rain had visited that valley for many
months. Slone whipped one of the sticks in the wind and soon had the
smoldering end red and showering sparks. Then he dropped the stick in
the grass, with curious intent and a strange feeling of regret.

Instantly the grass blazed with a little sputtering roar. Nagger
snorted. "Wildfire!" exclaimed Slone. That word was a favorite one with
riders, and now Slone used it both to call out his menace to the
stallion and to express his feeling for that blaze, already running
wild.

Without looking back Slone rode across the valley, dropping a glowing
stick every quarter of a mile. When he reached the other side there
were a dozen fires behind him, burning slowly, with white smoke rising
lazily. Then he loped Nagger along the side back to the sandy ascent,
and on up to the mouth of the pass. There he searched for tracks.
Wildfire had not gone out, and Slone experienced relief and exultation.
He took up a position in the middle of the narrowest part of the pass,
and there, with Nagger ready for anything, he once more composed
himself to watch and wait.

Far across the darkness of the valley, low down, twelve lines of fire,
widely separated, crept toward one another. They appeared thin and
slow, with only an occasional leaping flame. And some of the black
spaces must have been monuments, blotting out the creeping snail-lines
of red. Slone watched, strangely fascinated.

"What do you think of that?" he said, aloud, and he meant his query for
Wildfire.

As he watched the lines perceptibly lengthened and brightened and pale
shadows of smoke began to appear. Over at the left of the valley the
two brightest fires, the first he had started, crept closer and closer
together. They seemed long in covering distance. But not a breath of
wind stirred, and besides they really might move swiftly, without
looking so to Slone. When the two lines met a sudden and larger blaze
rose.

"Ah!" said the rider, and then he watched the other lines creeping
together. How slowly fire moved, he thought. The red stallion would
have every chance to run between those lines, if he dared. But a wild
horse feared nothing like fire. This one would not run the gantlet of
flames. Nevertheless, Slone felt more and more relieved as the lines
closed. The hours of the night dragged past until at length one long,
continuous line of fire spread level across the valley, its bright, red
line broken only where the monuments of stone were silhouetted against
it.

The darkness of the valley changed. The light of the moon changed. The
radiance of the stars changed. Either the line of fire was finding
denser fuel to consume or it was growing appreciably closer, for the
flames began to grow, to leap, and to flare.

Slone strained his ears for the thud of hoofs on sand.

The time seemed endless in its futility of results, but fleeting after
it had passed; and he could tell how the hours fled by the
ever-recurring need to replenish the little fire he kept burning in the
pass.

A broad belt of valley grew bright in the light, and behind it loomed
the monuments, weird and dark, with columns of yellow and white smoke
wreathing them.

Suddenly Slone's sensitive ear vibrated to a thrilling sound. He leaned
down to place his ear to the sand. Rapid, rhythmic beat of hoofs made
him leap to his feet, reaching for his lasso with right hand and a gun
with his left.

Nagger lifted his head, sniffed the air, and snorted. Slone peered into
the black belt of gloom that lay below him. It would be hard to see a
horse there, unless he got high enough to be silhouetted against that
line of fire now flaring to the sky. But he heard the beat of hoofs,
swift, sharp, louder--louder. The night shadows were deceptive. That
wonderful light confused him, made the place unreal. Was he dreaming?
Or had the long chase and his privations unhinged his mind? He reached
for Nagger. No! The big black was real, alive, quivering, pounding the
sand. He scented an enemy.

Once more Slone peered down into the void or what seemed a void. But
it, too, had changed, lightened. The whole valley was brightening.
Great palls of curling smoke rose white and yellow, to turn back as the
monuments met their crests, and then to roll upward, blotting out the
stars. It was such a light as he had never seen, except in dreams. Pale
moonlight and dimmed starlight and wan dawn all vague and strange and
shadowy under the wild and vivid light of burning grass.

In the pale path before Slone, that fanlike slope of sand which opened
down into the valley, appeared a swiftly moving black object, like a
fleeting phantom. It was a phantom horse. Slone felt that his eyes,
deceived by his mind, saw racing images. Many a wild chase he had lived
in dreams on some far desert. But what was that beating in his
ears--sharp, swift, even, rhythmic? Never had his ears played him
false. Never had he heard things in his dreams. That running object was
a horse and he was coming like the wind. Slone felt something grip his
heart. All the time and endurance and pain and thirst and suspense and
longing and hopelessness--the agony of the whole endless chase--closed
tight on his heart in that instant.

The running horse halted just in the belt of light cast by the burning
grass. There he stood sharply defined, clear as a cameo, not a hundred
paces from Slone. It was Wildfire.

Slone uttered an involuntary cry. Thrill on thrill shot through him.
Delight and hope and fear and despair claimed him in swift, successive
flashes. And then again the ruling passion of a rider held him--the
sheer glory of a grand and unattainable horse. For Slone gave up
Wildfire in that splendid moment. How had he ever dared to believe he
could capture that wild stallion? Slone looked and looked, filling his
mind, regretting nothing, sure that the moment was reward for all he
had endured.

The weird lights magnified Wildfire and showed him clearly. He seemed
gigantic. He shone black against the fire. His head was high, his mane
flying. Behind him the fire flared and the valley-wide column of smoke
rolled majestically upward, and the great monuments seemed to retreat
darkly and mysteriously as the flames advanced beyond them. It was a
beautiful, unearthly spectacle, with its silence the strangest feature.

But suddenly Wildfire broke that silence with a whistle which to
Slone's overstrained faculties seemed a blast as piercing as the
splitting sound of lightning. And with the whistle Wildfire plunged up
toward the pass. Slone yelled at the top of his lungs and fired his gun
before he could terrorize the stallion and drive him back down the
slope. Soon Wildfire became again a running black object, and then he
disappeared.

The great line of fire had gotten beyond the monuments and now
stretched unbroken across the valley from wall to slope. Wildfire could
never pierce that line of flames. And now Slone saw, in the paling sky
to the east, that dawn was at hand.



CHAPTER VII

Slone looked grimly glad when simultaneously with the first red flash
of sunrise a breeze fanned his cheek. All that was needed now was a
west wind. And here came the assurance of it.

The valley appeared hazy and smoky, with slow, rolling clouds low down
where the line of fire moved. The coming of daylight paled the blaze of
the grass, though here and there Slone caught flickering glimpses of
dull red flame. The wild stallion kept to the center of the valley,
restlessly facing this way and that, but never toward the smoke. Slone
made sure that Wildfire gradually gave ground as the line of smoke
slowly worked toward him.

Every moment the breeze freshened, grew steadier and stronger, until
Slone saw that it began to clear the valley of the low-hanging smoke.
There came a time when once more the blazing line extended across from
slope to slope.

Wildfire was cornered, trapped. Many times Slone nervously uncoiled and
recoiled his lasso. Presently the great chance of his life would
come--the hardest and most important throw he would ever have with a
rope. He did not miss often, but then he missed sometimes, and here he
must be swift and sure. It annoyed him that his hands perspired and
trembled and that something weighty seemed to obstruct his breathing.
He muttered that he was pretty much worn out, not in the best of
condition for a hard fight with a wild horse. Still he would capture
Wildfire; his mind was unalterably set there. He anticipated that the
stallion would make a final and desperate rush past him; and he had his
plan of action all outlined. What worried him was the possibility of
Wildfire doing some unforeseen feat at the very last. Slone was
prepared for hours of strained watching, and then a desperate effort,
and then a shock that might kill Wildfire and cripple Nagger, or a long
race and fight.

But he soon discovered that he was wrong about the long watch and wait.
The wind had grown strong and was driving the fire swiftly. The flames,
fanned by the breeze, leaped to a formidable barrier. In less than an
hour, though the time seemed only a few moments to the excited Slone,
Wildfire had been driven down toward the narrowing neck of the valley,
and he had begun to run, to and fro, back and forth. Any moment, then,
Slone expected him to grow terrorized and to come tearing up toward the
pass.

Wildfire showed evidence of terror, but he did not attempt to make the
pass. Instead he went at the right-hand slope of the valley and began
to climb. The slope was steep and soft, yet the stallion climbed up and
up. The dust flew in clouds; the gravel rolled down, and the sand
followed in long streams. Wildfire showed his keenness by zigzagging up
the slope.

"Go ahead, you red devil!" yelled Slone. He was much elated. In that
soft bank Wildfire would tire out while not hurting himself.

Slone watched the stallion in admiration and pity and exultation.
Wildfire did not make much headway, for he slipped back almost as much
as he gained. He attempted one place after another where he failed.
There was a bank of clay, some few feet high, and he could not round it
at either end or surmount it in the middle. Finally he literally pawed
and cut a path, much as if he were digging in the sand for water. When
he got over that he was not much better off. The slope above was
endless and grew steeper, more difficult toward the top. Slone knew
absolutely that no horse could climb over it. He grew apprehensive,
however, for Wildfire might stick up there on the slope until the line
of fire passed. The horse apparently shunned any near proximity to the
fire, and performed prodigious efforts to escape.

"He'll be ridin' an avalanche pretty soon," muttered Slone.

Long sheets of sand and gravel slid down to spill thinly over the low
bank. Wildfire, now sinking to his knees, worked steadily upward till
he had reached a point halfway up the slope, at the head of a long,
yellow bank of treacherous-looking sand. Here he was halted by a low
bulge, which he might have surmounted had his feet been free. But he
stood deep in the sand. For the first time he looked down at the
sweeping fire, and then at Slone.

Suddenly the bank of sand began to slide with him. He snorted in
fright. The avalanche started slowly and was evidently no mere surface
slide. It was deep. It stopped--then started again--and again stopped.
Wildfire appeared to be sinking deeper and deeper. His struggles only
embedded him more firmly. Then the bank of sand, with an ominous, low
roar, began to move once more. This time it slipped swiftly. The dust
rose in a cloud, almost obscuring the horse. Long streams of gravel
rattled down, and waterfalls of sand waved over the steps of the slope.

Just as suddenly the avalanche stopped again. Slone saw, from the great
oval hole it had left above, that it was indeed deep. That was the
reason it did not slide readily. When the dust cleared away Slone saw
the stallion, sunk to his flanks in the sand, utterly helpless.

With a wild whoop Slone leaped off Nagger, and, a lasso in each hand,
he ran down the long bank. The fire was perhaps a quarter of a mile
distant, and, since the grass was thinning out, it was not coming so
fast as it had been. The position of the stallion was half-way between
the fire and Slone, and a hundred yards up the slope.

Like a madman Slone climbed up through the dragging, loose sand. He was
beside himself with a fury of excitement. He fancied his eyes were
failing him, that it was not possible the great horse really was up
there, helpless in the sand. Yet every huge stride Slone took brought
him closer to a fact he could not deny. In his eagerness he slipped,
and fell, and crawled, and leaped, until he reached the slide which
held Wildfire prisoner.

The stallion might have been fast in quicksand, up to his body, for all
the movement he could make. He could move only his head. He held that
up, his eyes wild, showing the whites, his foaming mouth wide open, his
teeth gleaming. A sound like a scream rent the air. Terrible fear and
hate were expressed in that piercing neigh. And shaggy, wet, dusty red,
with all of brute savageness in the look and action of his head, he
appeared hideous.

As Slone leaped within roping distance the avalanche slipped a foot or
two, halted, slipped once more, and slowly started again with that low
roar. He did not care whether it slipped or stopped. Like a wolf he
leaped closer, whirling his rope. The loop hissed round his head and
whistled as he flung it. And when fiercely he jerked back on the rope,
the noose closed tight round Wildfire's neck.

"By G--d--I--got--a rope--on him!" cried Slone, in hoarse pants.

He stared, unbelieving. It was unreal, that sight--unreal like the
slow, grinding movement of the avalanche under him. Wildfire's head
seemed a demon head of hate. It reached out, mouth agape, to bite, to
rend. That horrible scream could not be the scream of a horse.

Slone was a wild-horse hunter, a rider, and when that second of
incredulity flashed by, then came the moment of triumph. No moment
could ever equal that one, when he realized he stood there with a rope
around that grand stallion's neck. All the days and the miles and the
toil and the endurance and the hopelessness and the hunger were paid
for in that moment. His heart seemed too large for his breast.

"I tracked--you!" he cried, savagely. "I stayed--with you! ... An' I
got a rope--on you! An'--I'll ride you--you red devil!"

The passion of the man was intense. That endless, racking pursuit had
brought out all the hardness the desert had engendered in him. Almost
hate, instead of love, spoke in Slone's words. He hauled on the lasso,
pulling the stallion's head down and down. The action was the lust of
capture as well as the rider's instinctive motive to make the horse
fear him. Life was unquenchably wild and strong in that stallion; it
showed in the terror which made him hideous. And man and beast somehow
resembled each other in that moment which was inimical to noble life.

The avalanche slipped with little jerks, as if treacherously loosing
its hold for a long plunge. The line of fire below ate at the bleached
grass and the long column of smoke curled away on the wind.

Slone held the taut lasso with his left hand, and with the right he
swung the other rope, catching the noose round Wildfire's nose. Then
letting go of the first rope he hauled on the other, pulling the head
of the stallion far down. Hand over hand Slone closed in on the horse.
He leaped on Wildfire's head, pressed it down, and, holding it down on
the sand with his knees, with swift fingers he tied the noose in a
hackamore--an improvised halter. Then, just as swiftly, he bound his
scarf tight round Wildfire's head, blindfolding him.

"All so easy!" exclaimed Slone, under his breath. "Lord! who would
believe it! ... Is it a dream?"

He rose and let the stallion have a free head.

"Wildfire, I got a rope on you--an' a hackamore--an' a blinder," said
Slone. "An' if I had a bridle I'd put that on you.... Who'd ever
believe you'd catch yourself, draggin' in the sand?"

Slone, finding himself failing on the sand, grew alive to the augmented
movement of the avalanche. It had begun to slide, to heave and bulge
and crack. Dust rose in clouds from all around. The sand appeared to
open and let him sink to his knees. The rattle of gravel was drowned in
a soft roar. Then he shot down swiftly, holding the lassoes, keeping
himself erect, and riding as if in a boat. He felt the successive steps
of the slope, and then the long incline below, and then the checking
and rising and spreading of the avalanche as it slowed down on the
level. All movement then was checked violently. He appeared to be half
buried in sand. While he struggled to extricate himself the thick dust
blew away and settled so that he could see. Wildfire lay before him, at
the edge of the slide, and now he was not so deeply embedded as he had
been up on the slope. He was struggling and probably soon would have
been able to get out. The line of fire was close now, but Slone did not
fear that.

At his shrill whistle Nagger bounded toward him, obedient, but
snorting, with ears laid back. He halted. A second whistle started him
again. Slone finally dug himself out of the sand, pulled the lassoes
out, and ran the length of them toward Nagger. The black showed both
fear and fight. His eyes roiled and he half shied away.

"Come on!" called Slone, harshly.

He got a hand on the horse, pulled him round, and, mounting in a flash,
wound both lassoes round the pommel of the saddle.

"Haul him out, Nagger, old boy!" cried Slone, and he dug spurs into the
black.

One plunge of Nagger's slid the stallion out of the sand. Snorting,
wild, blinded, Wildfire got up, shaking in every limb. He could not see
his enemies. The blowing smoke, right in his nose, made scent
impossible. But in the taut lassoes he sensed the direction of his
captors. He plunged, rearing at the end of the plunge, and struck out
viciously with his hoofs. Slone, quick with spur and bridle, swerved
Nagger aside and Wildfire, off his balance, went down with a crash.
Slone dragged him, stretched him out, pulled him over twice before he
got forefeet planted. Once up, he reared again, screeching his rage,
striking wildly with his hoofs. Slone wheeled aside and toppled him
over again.

"Wildfire, it's no fair fight," he called, grimly. "But you led me a
chase.... An' you learn right now I'm boss!"

Again he dragged the stallion. He was ruthless. He would have to be so,
stopping just short of maiming or killing the horse, else he would
never break him. But Wildfire was nimble. He got to his feet and this
time he lunged out. Nagger, powerful as he was, could not sustain the
tremendous shock, and went down. Slone saved himself with a rider's
supple skill, falling clear of the horse, and he leaped again into the
saddle as Nagger pounded up. Nagger braced his huge frame and held the
plunging stallion. But the saddle slipped a little, the cinches
cracked. Slone eased the strain by wheeling after Wildfire.

The horses had worked away from the fire, and Wildfire, free of the
stifling smoke, began to break and lunge and pitch, plunging round
Nagger in a circle, running blindly, but with unerring scent. Slone, by
masterly horsemanship, easily avoided the rushes, and made a pivot of
Nagger, round which the wild horse dashed in his frenzy. It seemed that
he no longer tried to free himself. He lunged to kill.

"Steady, Nagger, old boy!" Slone kept calling. "He'll never get at
you.... If he slips that blinder I'll kill him!"

The stallion was a fiend in his fury, quicker than a panther, wonderful
on his feet, and powerful as an ox. But he was at a disadvantage. He
could not see. And Slone, in his spoken intention to kill Wildfire
should the scarf slip, acknowledged that he never would have a chance
to master the stallion. Wildfire was bigger, faster, stronger than
Slone had believed, and as for spirit, that was a grand and fearful
thing to see.

The soft sand in the pass was plowed deep before Wildfire paused in his
mad plunges. He was wet and heaving. His red coat seemed to blaze. His
mane stood up and his ears lay flat.

Slone uncoiled the lassoes from the pommel and slacked them a little.
Wildfire stood up, striking at the air, snorting fiercely. Slone tried
to wheel Nagger in close behind the stallion. Both horse and man
narrowly escaped the vicious hoofs. But Slone had closed in. He took a
desperate chance and spurred Nagger in a single leap as Wildfire reared
again. The horses collided. Slone hauled the lassoes tight. The impact
threw Wildfire off his balance, just as Slone had calculated, and as
the stallion plunged down on four feet Slone spurred Nagger close
against him. Wildfire was a little in the lead. He could only half rear
now, for the heaving, moving Nagger, always against him, jostled him
down, and Slone's iron arm hauled on the short ropes. When Wildfire
turned to bite, Slone knocked the vicious nose back with a long swing
of his fist.

Up the pass the horses plunged. With a rider's wild joy Slone saw the
long green-and-gray valley, and the isolated monuments in the distance.
There, on that wide stretch, he would break Wildfire. How marvelously
luck had favored him at the last!

"Run, you red devil!" Slone called. "Drag us around now till you're
done!"

They left the pass and swept out upon the waste of sage. Slone
realized, from the stinging of the sweet wind in his face, that Nagger
was being pulled along at a tremendous pace. The faithful black could
never have made the wind cut so. Lower the wild stallion stretched and
swifter he ran, till it seemed to Slone that death must end that
thunderbolt race.



CHAPTER VIII

Lucy Bostil had called twice to her father and he had not answered. He
was out at the hitching-rail, with Holley, the rider, and two other
men. If he heard Lucy he gave no sign of it. She had on her chaps and
did not care to go any farther than the door where she stood.

"Somers has gone to Durango an' Shugrue is out huntin' hosses," Lucy
heard Bostil say, gruffly.

"Wal now, I reckon I could handle the boat an' fetch Creech's hosses
over," said Holley.

Bostil raised an impatient hand, as if to wave aside Holley's
assumption.

Then one of the other two men spoke up. Lucy had seen him before, but
did not know his name.

"Sure there ain't any need to rustle the job. The river hain't showed
any signs of risin' yet. But Creech is worryin'. He allus is worryin'
over them hosses. No wonder! Thet Blue Roan is sure a hoss. Yesterday
at two miles he showed Creech he was a sight faster than last year. The
grass is gone over there. Creech is grainin' his stock these last few
days. An' thet's expensive."

"How about the flat up the canyon?" queried Bostil. "Ain't there any
grass there?"

"Reckon not. It's the dryest spell Creech ever had," replied the other.
"An' if there was grass it wouldn't do him no good. A landslide blocked
the only trail up."

"Bostil, them hosses, the racers special, ought to be brought acrost
the river," said Holley, earnestly. He loved horses and was thinking of
them.

"The boat's got to be patched up," replied Bostil, shortly.

It occurred to Lucy that her father was also thinking of Creech's
thoroughbreds, but not like Holley. She grew grave and listened
intently.

There was an awkward pause. Creech's rider, whoever he was, evidently
tried to conceal his anxiety. He flicked his boots with a quirt. The
boots were covered with wet mud. Probably he had crossed the river very
recently.

"Wal, when will you have the hosses fetched over?" he asked,
deliberately. "Creech'll want to know."

"Just as soon as the boat's mended," replied Bostil. "I'll put Shugrue
on the job to-morrow."

"Thanks, Bostil. Sure, thet'll be all right. Creech'll be satisfied,"
said the rider, as if relieved. Then he mounted, and with his companion
trotted down the lane.

The lean, gray Holley bent a keen gaze upon Bostil. But Bostil did not
notice that; he appeared preoccupied in thought.

"Bostil, the dry winter an' spring here ain't any guarantee thet there
wasn't a lot of snow up in the mountains." Holley's remark startled
Bostil.

"No--it ain't--sure," he replied.

"An' any mornin' along now we might wake up to hear the Colorado
boomin'," went on Holley, significantly.

Bostil did not reply to that.

"Creech hain't lived over there so many years. What's he know about the
river? An' fer that matter, who knows anythin' sure about thet
hell-bent river?"

"It ain't my business thet Creech lives over there riskin' his stock
every spring," replied Bostil, darkly.

Holley opened his lips to speak, hesitated, looked away from Bostil,
and finally said, "No, it sure ain't." Then he turned and walked away,
head bent in sober thought. Bostil came toward the open door where Lucy
stood. He looked somber. At her greeting he seemed startled.

"What?" he said.

"I just said, 'Hello, Dad,'" she replied, demurely. Yet she
thoughtfully studied her father's dark face.

"Hello yourself.... Did you know Van got throwed an' hurt?"

"Yes."

Bostil swore under his breath. "There ain't any riders on the range
thet can be trusted," he said, disgustedly. "They're all the same. They
like to get in a bunch an' jeer each other an' bet. They want MEAN
hosses. They make good hosses buck. They haven't any use for a hoss
thet won't buck. They all want to give a hoss a rakin' over.... Think
of thet fool Van gettin' throwed by a two-dollar Ute mustang. An' hurt
so he can't ride for days! With them races comin' soon! It makes me
sick."

"Dad, weren't you a rider once?" asked Lucy.

"I never was thet kind."

"Van will be all right in a few days."

"No matter. It's bad business. If I had any other rider who could
handle the King I'd let Van go."

"I can get just as much out of the King as Van can," said Lucy,
spiritedly.

"You!" exclaimed Bostil. But there was pride in his glance.

"I know I can."

"You never had any use for Sage King," said Bostil, as if he had been
wronged.

"I love the King a little, and hate him a lot," laughed Lucy.

"Wal, I might let you ride at thet, if Van ain't in shape," rejoined
her father.

"I wouldn't ride him in the race. But I'll keep him in fine fettle."

"I'll bet you'd like to see Sarch beat him," said Bostil, jealously.

"Sure I would," replied Lucy, teasingly. "But, Dad, I'm afraid Sarch
never will beat him."

Bostil grunted. "See here. I don't want any weight up on the King. You
take him out for a few days. An' ride him! Savvy thet?"

"Yes, Dad."

"Give him miles an' miles--an' then comin' home, on good trails, ride
him for all your worth.... Now, Lucy, keep your eye open. Don't let any
one get near you on the sage."

"I won't.... Dad, do you still worry about poor Joel Creech?"

"Not Joel. But I'd rather lose all my stock then have Cordts or Dick
Sears get within a mile of you."

"A mile!" exclaimed Lucy, lightly, though a fleeting shade crossed her
face. "Why, I'd run away from him, if I was on the King, even if he got
within ten yards of me."

"A mile is close enough, my daughter," replied Bostil. "Don't ever
forget to keep your eye open. Cordts has sworn thet if he can't steal
the King he'll get you."

"Oh! he prefers the horse to me."

"Wal, Lucy, I've a sneakin' idea thet Cordts will never leave the
uplands unless he gets you an' the King both."

"And, Dad--you consented to let that horse-thief come to our races?"
exclaimed Lucy, with heat.

"Why not? He can't do any harm. If he or his men get uppish, the worse
for them. Cordts gave his word not to turn a trick till after the
races."

"Do you trust him?"

"Yes. But his men might break loose, away from his sight. Especially
thet Dick Sears. He's a bad man. So be watchful whenever you ride out."

As Lucy went down toward the corrals she was thinking deeply. She could
always tell, woman-like, when her father was excited or agitated. She
remembered the conversation between him and Creech's rider. She
remembered the keen glance old Holley had bent upon him. And mostly she
remembered the somber look upon his face. She did not like that. Once,
when a little girl, she had seen it and never forgotten it, nor the
thing that it was associated with--something tragical which had
happened in the big room. There had been loud, angry voices of men--and
shots--and then the men carried out a long form covered with a blanket.
She loved her father, but there was a side to him she feared. And
somehow related to that side was his hardness toward Creech and his
intolerance of any rider owning a fast horse and his obsession in
regard to his own racers. Lucy had often tantalized her father with the
joke that if it ever came to a choice between her and his favorites
they would come first. But was it any longer a joke? Lucy felt that she
had left childhood behind with its fun and fancies, and she had begun
to look at life thoughtfully.

Sight of the corrals, however, and of the King prancing around, drove
serious thoughts away. There were riders there, among them Farlane, and
they all had pleasant greetings for her.

"Farlane, Dad says I'm to take out Sage King," announced Lucy.

"No!" ejaculated Farlane, as he pocketed his pipe.

"Sure. And I'm to RIDE him. You know how Dad means that."

"Wal, now, I'm doggoned!" added Farlane, looking worried and pleased at
once. "I reckon, Miss Lucy, you--you wouldn't fool me?"

"Why, Farlane!" returned Lucy, reproachfully. "Did I ever do a single
thing around horses that you didn't want me to?"

Farlane rubbed his chin beard somewhat dubiously. "Wal, Miss Lucy, not
exactly while you was around the hosses. But I reckon when you onct got
up, you've sorta forgot a few times."

All the riders laughed, and Lucy joined them.

"I'm safe when I'm up, you know that," she replied.

They brought out the gray, and after the manner of riders who had the
care of a great horse and loved him, they curried and combed and rubbed
him before saddling him.

"Reckon you'd better ride Van's saddle," suggested Farlane. "Them races
is close now, an' a strange saddle--"

"Of course. Don't change anything he's used to, except the stirrups,"
replied Lucy.

Despite her antipathy toward Sage King, Lucy could not gaze at him
without all a rider's glory in a horse. He was sleek, so graceful, so
racy, so near the soft gray of the sage, so beautiful in build and
action. Then he was the kind of a horse that did not have to be
eternally watched. He was spirited and full of life, eager to run, but
when Farlane called for him to stand still he obeyed. He was the kind
of a horse that a child could have played around in safety. He never
kicked. He never bit. He never bolted. It was splendid to see him with
Farlane or with Bostil. He did not like Lucy very well, a fact that
perhaps accounted for Lucy's antipathy. For that matter, he did not
like any woman. If he had a bad trait, it came out when Van rode him,
but all the riders, and Bostil, too, claimed that Van was to blame for
that.

"Thar, I reckon them stirrups is right," declared Farlane. "Now, Miss
Lucy, hold him tight till he wears off thet edge. He needs work."

Sage King would not kneel for Lucy as Sarchedon did, and he was too
high for her to mount from the ground, so she mounted from a rock. She
took to the road, and then the first trail into the sage, intending to
trot him ten or fifteen miles down into the valley, and give him some
fast, warm work on the return.

The day was early in May and promised to grow hot. There was not a
cloud in the blue sky. The wind, laden with the breath of sage, blew
briskly from the west. All before Lucy lay the vast valley, gray and
dusky gray, then blue, then purple where the monuments stood, and,
farther still, dark ramparts of rock. Lucy had a habit of dreaming
while on horseback, a habit all the riders had tried to break, but she
did not give it rein while she rode Sarchedon, and assuredly now, up on
the King, she never forgot him for an instant. He shied at mockingbirds
and pack-rats and blowing blossoms and even at butterflies; and he did
it, Lucy thought, just because he was full of mischief. Sage King had
been known to go steady when there had been reason to shy. He did not
like Lucy and he chose to torment her. Finally he earned a good dig
from a spur, and then, with swift pounding of hoofs, he plunged and
veered and danced in the sage. Lucy kept her temper, which was what
most riders did not do, and by patience and firmness pulled Sage King
out of his prancing back into the trail. He was not the least
cross-grained, and, having had his little spurt, he settled down into
easy going.

In an hour Lucy was ten miles or more from home, and farther down in
the valley than she had ever been. In fact, she had never before been
down the long slope to the valley floor. How changed the horizon
became! The monuments loomed up now, dark, sentinel-like, and strange.
The first one, a great red rock, seemed to her some five miles away. It
was lofty, straight-sided, with a green slope at its base. And beyond
that the other monuments stretched out down the valley. Lucy decided to
ride as far as the first one before turning back. Always these
monuments had fascinated her, and this was her opportunity to ride near
one. How lofty they were, how wonderfully colored, and how comely!

Presently, over the left, where the monuments were thicker, and
gradually merged their slopes and lines and bulk into the yellow walls,
she saw low, drifting clouds of smoke.

"Well, what's that, I wonder?" she mused. To see smoke on the horizon
in that direction was unusual, though out toward Durango the grassy
benches would often burn over. And these low clouds of smoke resembled
those she had seen before.

"It's a long way off," she added.

So she kept on, now and then gazing at the smoke. As she grew nearer to
the first monument she was surprised, then amazed, at its height and
surpassing size. It was mountain-high--a grand tower--smooth, worn,
glistening, yellow and red. The trail she had followed petered out in a
deep wash, and beyond that she crossed no more trails. The sage had
grown meager and the greasewoods stunted and dead; and cacti appeared
on barren places. The grass had not failed, but it was not rich grass
such as the horses and cattle grazed upon miles back on the slope. The
air was hot down here. The breeze was heavy and smelled of fire, and
the sand was blowing here and there. She had a sense of the bigness,
the openness of this valley, and then she realized its wildness and
strangeness. These lonely, isolated monuments made the place different
from any she had visited. They did not seem mere standing rocks. They
seemed to retreat all the time as she approached, and they watched her.
They interested her, made her curious. What had formed all these
strange monuments? Here the ground was level for miles and miles, to
slope gently up to the bases of these huge rocks. In an old book she
had seen pictures of the Egyptian pyramids, but these appeared vaster,
higher, and stranger, and they were sheerly perpendicular.

Suddenly Sage King halted sharply, shot up his ears, and whistled. Lucy
was startled. That from the King meant something. Hastily, with keen
glance she swept the foreground. A mile on, near the monument, was a
small black spot. It seemed motionless. But the King's whistle had
proved it to be a horse. When Lucy had covered a quarter of the
intervening distance she could distinguish the horse and that there
appeared some thing strange about his position. Lucy urged Sage King
into a lope and soon drew nearer. The black horse had his head down,
yet he did not appear to be grazing. He was as still as a statue. He
stood just outside a clump of greasewood and cactus.

Suddenly a sound pierced the stillness. The King jumped and snorted in
fright. For an instant Lucy's blood ran cold, for it was a horrible
cry. Then she recognized it as the neigh of a horse in agony. She had
heard crippled and dying horses utter that long-drawn and
blood-curdling neigh. The black horse had not moved, so the sound could
not have come from him. Lucy thought Sage King acted more excited than
the occasion called for. Then remembering her father's warning, she
reined in on top of a little knoll, perhaps a hundred yards from where
the black horse stood, and she bent her keen gaze forward.

It was a huge, gaunt, shaggy black horse she saw, with the saddle
farther up on his shoulders than it should have been. He stood
motionless, as if utterly exhausted. His forelegs were braced, so that
he leaned slightly back. Then Lucy saw a rope. It was fast to the
saddle and stretched down into the cactus. There was no other horse in
sight, nor any living thing. The immense monument dominated the scene.
It seemed stupendous to Lucy, sublime, almost frightful.

She hesitated. She knew there was another horse, very likely at the
other end of that lasso. Probably a rider had been thrown, perhaps
killed. Certainly a horse had been hurt. Then on the moment rang out
the same neigh of agony, only weaker and shorter. Lucy no longer feared
an ambush. That was a cry which could not be imitated by a man or
forced from a horse. There was probably death, certainly suffering,
near at hand. She spurred the King on.

There was a little slope to descend, a wash to cross, a bench to
climb--and then she rode up to the black horse. Sage King needed harder
treatment than Lucy had ever given him.

"What's wrong with you?" she demanded, pulling him down. Suddenly, as
she felt him tremble, she realized that he was frightened. "That's
funny!" Then when she got him quiet she looked around.

The black horse was indeed huge. His mane, his shaggy flanks, were
lathered as if he had been smeared with heavy soap-suds. He raised his
head to look at her. Lucy, accustomed to horses all her life, saw that
this one welcomed her arrival. But he was almost ready to drop.

Two taut lassoes stretched from the pommel of his saddle down a little
into a depression full of brush and cactus and rocks. Then Lucy saw a
red horse. He was down in a bad position. She heard his low, choking
heaves. Probably he had broken legs or back. She could not bear to see
a horse in pain. She would do what was possible, even to the extent of
putting him out of his misery, if nothing else could be done. Yet she
scanned the surroundings closely, and peered into the bushes and behind
the rocks before she tried to urge Sage King closer. He refused to go
nearer, and Lucy dismounted.

The red horse was partly hidden by overbending brush. He had plunged
into a hole full of cactus. There was a hackamore round his nose and a
tight noose round his neck. The one round his neck was also round his
forelegs. And both lassoes were held taut by the black horse. A torn
and soiled rider's scarf hung limp round the red horse's nose, kept
from falling off by the hackamore.

"A wild horse, a stallion, being broken!" exclaimed Lucy, instantly
grasping the situation. "Oh! where's the rider?"

She gazed around, ran to and fro, glanced down the little slope, and
beyond, but she did not see anything resembling the form of a man. Then
she ran back.

Lucy took another quick look at the red stallion. She did not believe
either his legs or back were hurt. He was just played out and tangled
and tied in the ropes, and could not get up. The shaggy black horse
stood there braced and indomitable. But he, likewise, was almost ready
to drop. Looking at the condition of both horses and the saddle and
ropes, Lucy saw what a fight there had been, and a race! Where was the
rider? Thrown, surely, and back on the trail, perhaps dead or maimed.

Lucy went closer to the stallion so that she could almost touch him. He
saw her. He was nearly choked. Foam and blood wheezed out with his
heaves. She must do something quickly. And in her haste she pricked her
arms and shoulders on the cactus.

She led the black horse closer in, letting the ropes go, slack. The
black seemed as glad of that release as she was. What a faithful brute
he looked! Lucy liked his eyes.

Then she edged down in among the cactus and brush. The red horse no
longer lay in a strained position. He could lift his head. Lucy saw
that the noose still held tight round his neck. Fearlessly she jerked
it loose. Then she backed away, but not quite out of his reach. He
coughed and breathed slowly, with great heaves. Then he snorted.

"You're all right now," said Lucy, soothingly. Slowly she reached a
hand toward his head. He drew it back as far as he could. She stepped
around, closer, and more back of him, and put a hand on him, gently,
for an instant. Then she slipped out of the brush and, untying one
lasso from the pommel, she returned to the horse and pulled it from
round his legs. He was free now, except the hackamore, and that rope
was slack. Lucy stood near him, watching him, talking to him, waiting
for him to get up. She could not be sure he was not badly hurt till he
stood up. At first he made no efforts to rise. He watched Lucy, less
fearfully, she imagined. And she never made a move. She wanted him to
see, to understand that she had not hurt him and would not hurt him. It
began to dawn upon her that he was magnificent.

Finally, with a long, slow heave he got to his feet. Lucy led him out
of the hole to open ground. She seemed somehow confident. There
occurred to her only one way to act.

"A little horse sense, as Dad would say," she soliloquized, and then,
when she got him out of the brush, she stood thrilled and amazed.

"Oh, what a wild, beautiful horse! What a giant! He's bigger than the
King. Oh, if Dad could see him!"

The red stallion did not appear to be hurt. The twitching of his
muscles must have been caused by the cactus spikes embedded in him.
There were drops of blood all over one side. Lucy thought she dared to
try to pull these thorns out. She had never in her life been afraid of
any horse. Farlane, Holley, all the riders, and her father, too, had
tried to make her realize the danger in a horse, sooner or later. But
Lucy could not help it; she was not afraid; she believed that the
meanest horse was actuated by natural fear of a man; she was not a man
and she had never handled a horse like a man. This red stallion showed
hate of the black horse and the rope that connected them; he showed
some spirit at the repeated blasts of Sage King. But he showed less
fear of her.

"He has been a proud, wild stallion," mused Lucy. "And he's now
broken--terribly broken--all but ruined."

Then she walked up to him naturally and spoke softly, and reached a
hand for his shoulder.

"Whoa, Reddy. Whoa now.... There. That's a good fellow. Why, I wouldn't
rope you or hit you. I'm only a girl."

He drew up, made a single effort to jump, which she prevented, and then
he stood quivering, eying her, while she talked soothingly, and patted
him and looked at him in the way she had found infallible with most
horses. Lucy believed horses were like people, or easier to get along
with. Presently she gently pulled out one of the cactus spikes. The
horse flinched, but he stood. Lucy was slow, careful, patient, and
dexterous. The cactus needles were loose and easily removed or brushed
off. At length she got him free of them, and was almost as proud as she
was glad. The horse had gradually dropped his head; he was tired and
his spirit was broken.

"Now, what shall I do?" she queried. "I'll take the back trail of these
horses. They certainly hadn't been here long before I saw them. And the
rider may be close. If not I'll take the horses home."

She slipped the noose from the stallion's head, leaving the hackamore,
and, coiling the loose lasso, she hung it over the pommel of the
black's saddle. Then she took up his bridle.

"Come on," she called.

The black followed her, and the stallion, still fast to him by the
lasso Lucy had left tied, trooped behind with bowed head. Lucy was
elated. But Sage King did not like the matter at all. Lucy had to drop
the black's bridle and catch the King, and then ride back to lead the
other again.

A broad trail marked the way the two horses had come, and it led off to
the left, toward where the monuments were thickest, and where the great
sections of wall stood, broken and battlemented. Lucy was hard put to
it to hold Sage King, but the horses behind plodded along. The black
horse struck Lucy as being an ugly, but a faithful and wonderful
animal. He understood everything. Presently she tied the bridle she was
leading him by to the end of her own lasso, and thus let him drop back
a few yards, which lessened the King's fretting.

Intent on the trail, Lucy failed to note time or distance till the
looming and frowning monuments stood aloft before her. What weird
effect they had! Each might have been a colossal statue left there to
mark the work of the ages. Lucy realized that the whole vast valley had
once been solid rock, just like the monuments, and through the millions
of years the softer parts had eroded and weathered and blown away--gone
with the great sea that had once been there. But the beauty, the
solemnity, the majesty of these monuments fascinated her most. She
passed the first one, a huge square butte, and then the second, a
ragged, thin, double shaft, and then went between two much alike,
reaching skyward in the shape of monstrous mittens. She watched and
watched them, sparing a moment now and then to attend to the trail. She
noticed that she was coming into a region of grass, and faint signs of
water in the draws. She was getting high again, not many miles now from
the wall of rock.

All at once Sage King shied, and Lucy looked down to see a man lying on
the ground. He lay inert. But his eyes were open--dark, staring eyes.
They moved. And he called. But Lucy could not understand him.

In a flash she leaped off the King. She ran to the prostrate
man--dropped to her knees.

"Oh!" she cried. His face was ghastly. "Oh! are you--you badly hurt?"

"Lift me--my head," he said, faintly.

She raised his head. What a strained, passionate, terrible gaze he bent
upon the horses.

"Boy, they're mine--the black an' the red!" he cried.

"They surely must be," replied Lucy. "Oh! tell me. Are you hurt?"

"Boy! did you catch them--fetch them back--lookin' for me?"

"I sure did."

"You caught-that red devil--an' fetched him--back to me?" went on the
wondering, faint voice. "Boy--oh--boy!"

He lifted a long, ragged arm and pulled Lucy down. The action amazed
her equally as his passion of gratitude. He might have been injured,
but he had an arm of iron. Lucy was powerless. She felt her face
against his--and her breast against his. The pounding of his heart was
like blows. The first instant she wanted to laugh, despite her pity.
Then the powerful arm--the contact affected her as nothing ever before.
Suppose this crippled rider had taken her for a boy--She was not a boy!
She could not help being herself. And no man had ever put a hand on
her. Consciousness of this brought shame and anger. She struggled so
violently that she freed herself. And he lay back.

"See here--that's no way to act--to hug--a person," she cried, with
flaming cheeks.

"Boy, I--"

"I'm N

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/2066