“Howdy, Cordts,” he replied.  “I’m glad to meet you—­so I’ll know you when I see you again.”

“Wal, we’re all good fellers to-day,” interposed Bostil.  “An’ now let’s ride home an’ eat.  Slone, you come with me.”

The group slowly mounted the slope where the horses waited.  Macomber, Wetherby, Burthwait, Blinn—­all Bostil’s friends proffered their felicitations to the young rider, and all were evidently prepossessed with him.

The sun was low in the west; purple shades were blotting out the gold lights down the valley; the day of the great races was almost done.  Indians were still scattered here and there in groups; others were turning out the mustangs; and the majority were riding and walking with the crowd toward the village.

Bostil observed that Cordts had hurried ahead of the group and now appeared to be saying something emphatic to Dick Sears and Hutchinson.  Bostil heard Cordts curse.  Probably he was arraigning the sullen Sears.  Cordts had acted first rate—­had lived up to his word, as Bostil thought he would do.  Cordts and Hutchinson mounted their horses and rode off, somewhat to the left of the scattered crowd.  But Sears remained behind.  Bostil thought this strange and put it down to the surliness of the fellow, who had lost on the races.  Bostil, wishing Sears would get out of his sight, resolved never to make another blunder like inviting horse-thieves to a race.

All the horses except Wildfire stood in a bunch back on the bench.  Sears appeared to be fussing with the straps on his saddle.  And Bostil could not keep his glance from wandering back to gloat over Wildfire’s savage grace and striking size.

Suddenly there came a halt in the conversation of the men, a curse in Holley’s deep voice, a violent split in the group.  Bostil wheeled to see Sears in a menacing position with two guns leveled low.

“Don’t holler!” he called.  “An’ don’t move!”

“What ’n the h—­l now, Sears?” demanded Bostil.

“I’ll bore you if you move—­thet’s what!” replied Sears.  His eyes, bold, steely, with a glint that Bostil knew, vibrated as he held in sight all points before him.  A vicious little sand-rattlesnake about to strike!

“Holley, turn yer back!” ordered Sears.

The old rider, who stood foremost of the group’ instantly obeyed, with hands up.  He took no chances here, for he alone packed a gun.  With swift steps Sears moved, pulled Holley’s gun, flung it aside into the sage.

“Sears, it ain’t a hold-up!” expostulated Bostil.  The act seemed too bold, too wild even for Dick Sears.

“Ain’t it?” scoffed Sears, malignantly.  “Bostil, I was after the King.  But I reckon I’ll git the hoss thet beat him!”

Bostil’s face turned dark-blood color and his neck swelled.  “By Gawd, Sears!  You ain’t a-goin’ to steal this boy’s hoss!”

“Shut up!” hissed the horse-thief.  He pushed a gun close to Bostil.  “I’ve always laid fer you!  I’m achin’ to bore you now.  I would but fer scarin’ this hoss.  If you yap again I’ll kill you, anyhow, an’ take a chance!”