Then Bostil whirled to see where Van was with the King.  Most of the crowd surged down to surround the racers, and the yells gave way to the buzz of many voices.  Some of the ranchers and riders remained near Bostil, all apparently talking at once.  Bostil gathered that Holley’s Whitefoot had ran second, and the Navajo’s mustang third.  It was Holley himself who verified what Bostil had heard.  The old rider’s hawk eyes were warm with delight.

“Boss, he run second!” Holley kept repeating.

Bostil had the heart to shake hands with Holley and say he was glad, when it was on his lips to blurt out there had been no race.  Then Bostil’s nerves tingled at sight of Van trotting the King up the course toward the slope.  Bostil watched with searching eyes.  Sage King did not appear to be injured.  Van rode straight up the slope and leaped off.  He was white and shaking.

The King’s glossy hide was dirty with dust and bits of cactus and brush.  He was not even hot.  There did not appear to be a bruise or mark on him.  He whinnied and rubbed his face against Bostil, and then, flinching, he swept up his head, ears high.  Both fear and fire shone in his eyes.

“Wal, Van, get it out of your system,” said Bostil, kindly.  He was a harder loser before a race was run than after he had lost it.

“Thet red hoss run in on the King before the start an’ scared the race out of him,” replied Van, swiftly.  “We had a hunch, you know, but at thet Lucy’s hoss was a surprise.  I’ll say, sir, thet Lucy rode her wild hoss an’ handled him.  Twice she pulled him off the King.  He meant to kill the King! . . .  Ask any of the boys. . . .  We got started.  I took the lead, sir.  The King was in the lead.  I never looked back till I heard Lucy scream.  She couldn’t pull Wildfire.  He was rushin’ the King—­meant to kill him.  An’ Sage King wanted to fight.  If I could only have kept him runnin’!  Thet would have been a race! . . .  But Wildfire got in closer an’ closer.  He crowded us.  He bit at the King’s flank an’ shoulder an’ neck.  Lucy pulled till I yelled she’d throw the hoss an’ kill us both.  Then Wildfire jumped for us.  Runnin’ an’ strikin’ with both feet at once!  Bostil, thet hoss’s hell!  Then he hit us an’ down we went.  I had a bad spill.  But the King’s not hurt an’ thet’s a blessed wonder.”

“No race, Van!  It was hard luck.  Take him home,” said Bostil.

Van’s story of the accident vindicated Bostil’s doubts.  A new horse had appeared on the scene, wild and swift and grand, but Sage King was still unbeaten in a fair race.  There would come a reckoning, Bostil grimly muttered.  Who owned this Wildfire?

Holley might as well have read his mind.  “Reckon this feller ridin’ up will take down the prize money,” remarked Holley, and he pointed to a man who rode a huge, shaggy, black horse and was leading Lucy’s pony.

“A-huh!” exclaimed Bostil.  “A strange rider.”