“I reckon we couldn’t get inside Brack’s place now,” remarked Bostil.  “But in a case like this I can scare up a drink.”  Lights from the windows shone bright through the darkness under the cottonwoods.  Bostil halted at the door, as if suddenly remembering, and he whispered, huskily:  “Let’s keep the women from learnin’ about Sears—­to-night, anyway.”

Then he led the way through the big door into the huge living-room.  There were hanging-lights on the walls and blazing sticks on the hearth.  Lucy came running in to meet them.  It did not escape Bostil’s keen eyes that she was dressed in her best white dress.  He had never seen her look so sweet and pretty, and, for that matter, so strange.  The flush, the darkness of her eyes, the added something in her face, tender, thoughtful, strong—­these were new.  Bostil pondered while she welcomed his guests.  Slone, who had hung back, was last in turn.  Lucy greeted him as she had the others.  Slone met her with awkward constraint.  The gray had not left his face.  Lucy looked up at him again, and differently.

“What—­what has happened?” she asked.

It annoyed Bostil that Slone and all the men suddenly looked blank.

“Why, nothin’,” replied Slone, slowly, “’cept I’m fagged out.”

Lucy, or any other girl, could have seen that he, was evading the truth.  She flashed a look from Slone to her father.

“Until to-day we never had a big race that something dreadful didn’t happen,” said Lucy.  “This was my day—­my race.  And, oh!  I wanted it to pass without—­without—­”

“Wal, Lucy dear,” replied Bostil, as she faltered.  “Nothin’ came off thet’d make you feel bad.  Young Slone had a scare about his hoss.  Wildfire’s safe out there in the corral, an’ he’ll be guarded like the King an’ Sarch.  Slone needs a drink an’ somethin’ to eat, same as all of us.”

Lucy’s color returned and her smile, but Bostil noted that, while she was serving them and brightly responsive to compliments, she gave more than one steady glance at Slone.  She was deep, thought Bostil, and it angered him a little that she showed interest in what concerned this strange rider.

Then they had dinner, with twelve at table.  The wives of Bostil’s three friends had been helping Aunt Jane prepare the feast, and they added to the merriment.  Bostil was not much given to social intercourse—­he would have preferred to be with his horses and riders—­but this night he outdid himself as host, amazed his sister Jane, who evidently thought he drank too much, and delighted Lucy.  Bostil’s outward appearance and his speech and action never reflected all the workings of his mind.  No one would ever know the depth of his bitter disappointment at the outcome of the race.  With Creech’s Blue Roan out of the way, another horse, swifter and more dangerous, had come along to spoil the King’s chance.  Bostil felt a subtly increasing covetousness in regard to Wildfire, and this colored all his talk and action.