“He—­he pulled me off—­he hugged me—­he k-kissed me. . . .  Oh, it was dreadful—­shameful! . . .  Then I gave him back—­some—­something he had given me.  And I told him I—­I hated him—­and I told him, ‘No!’”

“But you rode his hoss in the race,” said Bostil.

Lucy bowed her head at that.  “I—­I couldn’t resist!”

Bostil stroked the bright head.  What a quandary for a thick-skulled old horseman!  “Wal, it seems to me Slone didn’t act so bad, considerin’.  You’d told him you cared for him.  If it wasn’t for thet! . . .  I remember I did much the same to your mother.  She raised the devil, but I never seen as she cared any less for me.”

“I’ll never forgive him,” Lucy cried, passionately.  “I hate him.  A man who breaks his word in one thing will do it in another.”

Bostil sadly realized that his little girl had reached womanhood and love, and with them the sweet, bitter pangs of life.  He realized also that here was a crisis when a word—­an unjust or lying word from him would forever ruin any hope that might still exist for Slone.  Bostil realized this acutely, but the realization was not even a temptation.

“Wal, listen.  I’m bound to confess your new rider is sure swift.  An’, Lucy, to-day if he hadn’t been as swift with a rope as he is in love—­wal, your old daddy might be dead!”

She grew as white as her dress.  “Oh, Dad!  I knew something had happened,” she cried, reaching for him.

Then Bostil told her how Dick Sears had menaced him—­how Slone had foiled the horse-thief.  He told the story bluntly, but eloquently, with all a rider’s praise.  Lucy rose with hands pressed against her breast.  When had Bostil seen eyes like those—­dark, shining, wonderful?  Ah! he remembered her mother’s once—­only once, as a girl.

Then Lucy kissed him and without a word fled from the room.

Bostil stared after her.  “D—­n me!” he swore, as he threw a boot against the wall.  “I reckon I’ll never let her marry Slone, but I just had to tell her what I think of him!”

CHAPTER XIV

Slone lay wide awake under an open window, watching the stars glimmer through the rustling foliage of the cottonwoods.  Somewhere a lonesome hound bayed.  Very faintly came the silvery tinkle of running water.

For five days Slone had been a guest of Bostil’s, and the whole five days had been torment.

On the morning of the day after the races Lucy had confronted him.  Would he ever forget her eyes—­her voice?  “Bless you for saving my dad!” she had said.  “It was brave. . . .  But don’t let dad fool you.  Don’t believe in his kindness.  Above all, don’t ride for him!  He only wants Wildfire, and if he doesn’t get him he’ll hate you!”

That speech of Lucy’s had made the succeeding days hard for Slone.  Bostil loaded him with gifts and kindnesses, and never ceased importuning him to accept his offers.  But for Lucy, Slone would have accepted.  It was she who cast the first doubt of Bostil into his mind.  Lucy averred that her father was splendid and good in every way except in what pertained to fast horses; there he was impossible.