Bostil enjoyed this hugely until he caught the strange intensity of regard in the cavernous eyes of Cordts.  That gave him a shock.  Cordts had long wanted this girl as much probably as he wanted Sage King.  There were dark and terrible stories that stained the name of Cordts.  Bostil regretted his impulse in granting the horse-thief permission to attend the races.  Sight of Lucy’s fair, sweet face might inflame this Cordts—­this Kentuckian who had boasted of his love of horses and women.  Behind Cordts hung the little dust-colored Sears, like a coiled snake, ready to strike.  Bostil felt stir in him a long-dormant fire—­a stealing along his veins, a passion he hated.

“Lucy, go back to the women till you’re ready to come out on your hoss,” he said.  “An’ mind you, be careful to-day!”

He gave her a meaning glance, which she understood perfectly, he saw, and then he turned to start the day’s sport.

The Indian races run in twos and threes, and on up to a number that crowded the racecourse; the betting and yelling and running; the wild and plunging mustangs; the heat and dust and pounding of hoofs; the excited betting; the surprises and defeats and victories, the trial tests of the principals, jealously keeping off to themselves in the sage; the endless moving, colorful procession, gaudy and swift and thrilling—­all these Bostil loved tremendously.

But they were as nothing to what they gradually worked up to—­the climax—­the great race.

It was afternoon when all was ready for this race, and the sage was bright gray in the westering sun.  Everybody was resting, waiting.  The tense quiet of the riders seemed to settle upon the whole assemblage.  Only the thoroughbreds were restless.  They quivered and stamped and tossed their small, fine heads.  They knew what was going to happen.  They wanted to run.  Blacks, bays, and whites were the predominating colors; and the horses and mustangs were alike in those points of race and speed and spirit that proclaimed them thoroughbreds.

Bostil himself took the covering off his favorite.  Sage King was on edge.  He stood out strikingly in contrast with the other horses.  His sage-gray body was as sleek and shiny as satin.  He had been trained to the hour.  He tossed his head as he champed the bit, and every moment his muscles rippled under his fine skin.  Proud, mettlesome, beautiful!

Sage King was the favorite in the betting, the Indians, who were ardent gamblers, plunging heavily on him.

Bostil saddled the horse and was long at the task.

Van stood watching.  He was pale and nervous.  Bostil saw this.

“Van,” he said, “it’s your race.”

The rider reached a quick hand for bridle and horn, and when his foot touched the stirrup Sage King was in the air.  He came down, springy-quick, graceful, and then he pranced into line with the other horses.

Bostil waved his hand.  Then the troop of riders and racers headed for the starting-point, two miles up the valley.  Macomber and Blinn, with a rider and a Navajo, were up there as the official starters of the day.