“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.