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
