Bostil fondled his daughter a moment, the first time in many a day, and then he turned to his rider at the door.  “Van, how’s the King?”

“Wild to run, Bostil, jest plumb wild.  There won’t be any hoss with the ghost of a show to-morrow.”

Lucy raised her drooping head.  “Is that so, Van Sickle? . . .  Listen here.  If you and Sage King don’t get more wild running to-morrow than you ever had I’ll never ride again!” With this retort Lucy left the room.

Van stared at the door and then at Bostil.  “What’d I say, Bostil?” he asked, plaintively.  “I’m always r’ilin’ her.”

“Cheer up, Van.  You didn’t say much.  Lucy is fiery these days.  She’s got a hoss somewhere an’ she’s goin’ to ride him in the race.  She offered to bet on him—­against the King!  It certainly beat me all hollow.  But see here, Van.  I’ve a hunch there’s a dark hoss goin’ to show up in this race.  So don’t underrate Lucy an’ her mount, whatever he is.  She calls him Wildfire.  Ever see him?”

“I sure haven’t.  Fact is, I haven’t seen Lucy for days an’ days.  As for the hunch you gave, I’ll say I was figurin’ Lucy for some real race.  Bostil, she doesn’t make a hoss run.  He’ll run jest to please her.  An’ Lucy’s lighter ’n a feather.  Why, Bostil, if she happened to ride out there on Blue Roan or some other hoss as fast I’d—­I’d jest wilt.”

Bostil uttered a laugh full of pride in his daughter.  “Wal, she won’t show up on Blue Roan,” he replied, with grim gruffness.  “Thet’s sure as death. . . .  Come on out now.  I want a look at the King.”

Bostil went into the village.  All day long he was so busy with a thousand and one things referred to him, put on him, undertaken by him, that he had no time to think.  Back in his mind, however, there was a burden of which he was vaguely conscious all the time.  He worked late into the night and slept late the next morning.

Never in his life had Bostil been gloomy or retrospective on the day of a race.  In the press of matters he had only a word for Lucy, but that earned a saucy, dauntless look.  He was glad when he was able to join the procession of villagers, visitors, and Indians moving out toward the sage.

The racecourse lay at the foot of the slope, and now the gray and purple sage was dotted with more horses and Indians, more moving things and colors, than Bostil had ever seen there before.  It was a spectacle that stirred him.  Many fires sent up blue columns of smoke from before the hastily built brush huts where the Indians cooked and ate.  Blankets shone bright in the sun; burros grazed and brayed; horses whistled piercingly across the slope; Indians lolled before the huts or talked in groups, sitting and lounging on their ponies; down in the valley, here and there, were Indians racing, and others were chasing the wiry mustangs.  Beyond this gay and colorful spectacle stretched the valley, merging into the desert marked so strikingly and beautifully by the monuments.