“Dad!” called Lucy, faintly.

Bostil went forward, close, while the rider held Wildfire.  Lucy was as wan-faced as a flower by moonlight.  Her eyes were dark with emotions, fear predominating.  Then for Bostil the half of his heart that was human reasserted itself.  Lucy was only a girl now, and weakening.  Her fear, her pitiful little smile, as if she dared not hope for her father’s approval yet could not help it, touched Bostil to the quick, and he opened his arms.  Lucy slid down into them.

“Lucy, girl, you’ve won the King’s race an’ double-crossed your poor old dad!”

“Oh, Dad, I never knew—­I never dreamed Wildfire—­would jump the King,” Lucy faltered.  “I couldn’t hold him.  He was terrible. . . .  It made me sick. . . .  Daddy, tell me Van wasn’t hurt—­or the King!”

“The hoss’s all right an’ so’s Van,” replied Bostil.  “Don’t cry, Lucy.  It was a fool trick you pulled off, but you did it great.  By Gad! you sure was ridin’ thet red devil. . . .  An’ say, it’s all right with me!”

Lucy did not faint then, but she came near it.  Bostil put her down and led her through the lines of admiring Indians and applauding riders, and left her with the women.

When he turned again he was in time to see the strange rider mount Wildfire.  It was a swift and hazardous mount, the stallion being in the air.  When he came down he tore the turf and sent it flying, and when he shot up again he was doubled in a red knot, bristling with fiery hair, a furious wild beast, mad to throw the rider.  Bostil never heard as wild a scream uttered by a horse.  Likewise he had never seen so incomparable a horseman as this stranger.  Indians and riders alike thrilled at a sight which was after their own hearts.  The rider had hooked his long spurs under the horse and now appeared a part of him.  He could not be dislodged.  This was not a bucking mustang, but a fierce, powerful, fighting stallion.  No doubt, thought Bostil, this fight took place every time the rider mounted his horse.  It was the sort of thing riders loved.  Most of them would not own a horse that would not pitch.  Bostil presently decided, however, that in the case of this red stallion no rider in his right senses would care for such a fight, simply because of the extraordinary strengths, activity, and ferocity of the stallion.

The riders were all betting the horse would throw the stranger.  And Bostil, seeing the gathering might of Wildfire’s momentum, agreed with them.  No horseman could stick on that horse.  Suddenly Wildfire tripped in the sage, and went sprawling in the dust, throwing his rider ahead.  Both man and beast were quick to rise, but the rider had a foot in the stirrup before Wildfire was under way.  Then the horse plunged, ran free, came circling back, and slowly gave way to the rider’s control.  Those few moments of frenzied activity had brought out the foam and the sweat—­Wildfire was wet.  The man pulled him in before Bostil and dismounted.