“Sometimes I ride him, then sometimes I don’t,” he said, with a smile.

Bostil held out his hand.  He liked this rider.  He would have liked the frank face, less hard than that of most riders, and the fine, dark eyes, straight and steady, even if their possessor had not come with the open sesame to Bostil’s regard—­a grand, wild horse, and the nerve to ride him.

“Wal, you rode him longer ’n any of us figgered,” said Bostil, heartily shaking the man’s hand.  “I’m Bostil.  Glad to meet you.”

“My name’s Slone—­Lin Slone,” replied the rider, frankly.  “I’m a wild-horse hunter an’ hail from Utah.”

“Utah?  How’d you ever get over?  Wal, you’ve got a grand hoss—­an’ you put a grand rider up on him in the race. . . .  My girl Lucy—­”

Bostil hesitated.  His mind was running swiftly.  Back of his thoughts gathered the desire and the determination to get possession of this horse Wildfire.  He had forgotten what he might have said to this stranger under different circumstances.  He looked keenly into Slone’s face and saw no fear, no subterfuge.  The young man was honest.

“Bostil, I chased this wild horse days an’ weeks an’ months, hundreds of miles—­across the canyon an’ the river—­”

“No!” interrupted Bostil, blankly.

“Yes.  I’ll tell you how later. . . .  Out here somewhere I caught Wildfire, broke him as much as he’ll ever be broken.  He played me out an’ got away.  Your girl rode along—­saved my horse—­an’ saved my life, too.  I was in bad shape for days.  But I got well—­an’—­an’ then she wanted me to let her run Wildfire in the big race.  I couldn’t refuse. . . .  An’ it would have been a great race but for the unlucky accident to Sage King.  I’m sorry, sir.”

“Slone, it jarred me some, thet disappointment.  But it’s over,” replied Bostil.  “An’ so thet’s how Lucy found her hoss.  She sure was mysterious. . . .  Wal, wal.”  Bostil became aware of others behind him.  “Holley, shake hands with Slone, hoss-wrangler out of Utah. . . .  You, too, Cal Blinn. . . .  An’ Macomber—­an’ Wetherby, meet my friend here—­young Slone. . . .  An’, Cordts, shake hands with a feller thet owns a grand hoss!”

Bostil laughed as he introduced the horse-thief to Slone.  The others laughed, too, even Cordts joining in.  There was much of the old rider daredevil spirit left in Bostil, and it interested and amused him to see Cordts and Slone meet.  Assuredly Slone had heard of the noted stealer of horses.  The advantage was certainly on Cordts’s side, for he was good-natured and pleasant while Slone stiffened, paling slightly as he faced about to acknowledge the introduction.

“Howdy, Slone,” drawled Cordts, with hand outstretched.  “I sure am glad to meet yuh.  I’d like to trade the Sage King for this red stallion!”

A roar of laughter greeted this sally, all but Bostil and Slone joining in.  The joke was on Bostil, and he showed it.  Slone did not even smile.