“Dad, I’m going to ride a horse.”

“But, Lucy, ain’t it a risk you’ll be takin’—­all for fun?”

“Fun! ...  I’m in dead earnest.”

Bostil liked the look of her then.  She had paled a little; her eyes blazed; she was intense.  His question had brought out her earnestness, and straightway Bostil became thoughtful.  If Lucy had been a boy she would have been the greatest rider on the uplands; and even girl as she was, superbly mounted, she would have been dangerous in any race.

“Wal, I ain’t afraid of your handlin’ of a hoss,” he said, soberly.  “An’ as long as you’re in earnest I won’t stop you.  But, Lucy, no bettin’.  I won’t let you gamble.”

“Not even with you?” she coaxed.

Bostil stared at the girl.  What had gotten into her?  “What’ll you bet?” he, queried, with blunt curiosity.

“Dad, I’ll go you a hundred dollars in gold that I finish one—­two—­three.”

Bostil threw back his head to laugh heartily.  What a chip of the old block she was!  “Child, there’s some fast hosses that’ll be back of the King.  You’d be throwin’ away money.”

Blue fire shone in his daughter’s eyes.  She meant business, all right, and Bostil thrilled with pride in her.

“Dad, I’ll bet you two hundred, even, that I beat the King!” she flashed.

“Wal, of all the nerve!” ejaculated Bostil.  “No, I won’t take you up.  Reckon I never before turned down an even bet.  Understand, Lucy, ridin’ in the race is enough for you.”

“All right, Dad,” replied Lucy, obediently.

At that juncture Bostil suddenly shoved back his plate and turned his face to the open door.  “Don’t I hear a runnin’ hoss?”

Aunt Jane stopped the noise she was making, and Lucy darted to the door.  Then Bostil heard the sharp, rhythmic hoof-beats he recognized.  They shortened to clatter and pound—­then ceased somewhere out in front of the house.

“It’s the King with Van up,” said Lucy, from the door.  “Dad, Van’s jumped off—­he’s coming in . . . he’s running.  Something has happened. . . .  There are other horses coming—­riders—­Indians.”

Bostil knew what was coming and prepared himself.  Rapid footsteps sounded without.

“Hello, Miss Lucy!  Where’s Bostil?”

A lean, supple rider appeared before the door.  It was Van, greatly excited.

“Come in, boy,” said Bostil.  “What’re you flustered about?”

Van strode in, spurs jangling, cap in hand.  “Boss, there’s—­a sixty-foot raise—­in the river!” Van panted.

“Oh!” cried Lucy, wheeling toward her father.

“Wal, Van, I reckon I knowed thet,” replied Bostil.  “Mebbe I’m gettin’ old, but I can still hear. . . .  Listen.”

Lucy tiptoed to the door and turned her head sidewise and slowly bowed it till she stiffened.  Outside were, sounds of birds and horses and men, but when a lull came it quickly filled with a sullen, low boom.