He made Bostil think of a dusty, scaly, hard, desert rattlesnake.  Bostil eyed this right-hand man of Cordts’s and certainly felt no fear of him, though Sears had the fame of swift and deadly skill with a gun.  Bostil felt that he was neither afraid nor loath to face Sears in gun-play, and he gazed at the little horse-thief in a manner that no one could mistake.  Sears was not drunk, neither was he wholly free from the unsteadiness caused by the bottle.  Assuredly he had no fear of Bostil and eyed him insolently.  Bostil turned away to the group of his riders and friends, and he asked for his daughter.

“Lucy’s over there,” said Farlane, pointing to a merry crowd.

Bostil waved a hand to her, and Lucy, evidently mistaking his action, came forward, leading one of her ponies.  She wore a gray blouse with a red scarf, and a skirt over overalls and boots.  She looked pale, but she was smiling, and there was a dark gleam of excitement in her blue eyes.  She did not have on her sombrero.  She wore her hair in a braid, and had a red band tight above her forehead.  Bostil took her in all at a glance.  She meant business and she looked dangerous.  Bostil knew once she slipped out of that skirt she could ride with any rider there.  He saw that she had become the center toward which all eyes shifted.  It pleased him.  She was his, like her mother, and as beautiful and thoroughbred as any rider could wish his daughter.

“Lucy, where’s your hoss?” he asked, curiously.

“Never you mind, Dad.  I’ll be there at the finish,” she replied.

“Red’s your color for to-day, then?” he questioned, as he put a big hand on the bright-banded head.

She nodded archly.

“Lucy, I never thought you’d flaunt red in your old Dad’s face.  Red, when the color of the King is like the sage out yonder.  You’ve gone back on the King.”

“No, Dad, I never was for Sage King, else I wouldn’t wear red to-day.”

“Child, you sure mean to run in this race—­the big one?”

“Sure and certain.”

“Wal, the only bitter drop in my cup to-day will be seein’ you get beat.  But if you ran second I’ll give you a present thet’ll make the purse look sick.”

Even the Indian chiefs were smiling.  Old Horse, the Navajo, beamed benignly upon this daughter of the friend of the Indians.  Silver, his brother chieftain, nodded as if he understood Bostil’s pride and regret.  Some of the young riders showed their hearts in their eyes.  Farlane tried to look mysterious, to pretend he was in Lucy’s confidence.

“Lucy, if you are really goin’ to race I’ll withdraw my hoss so you can win,” said Wetherby, gallantly.

Bostil’s sonorous laugh rolled down the slope.

“Miss Lucy, I sure hate to run a hoss against yours,” said old Cal Blinn.  Then Colson, Sticks, Burthwait, the other principals, paid laughing compliments to the bright-haired girl.