“Sure, but there ain’t none across the river.”

“Never was, in early season.  An’ if there was it’d be sheeped off.”

“Creech’ll be fetchin’ his hosses across soon, I reckon.”

“You bet he will.  He’s trainin’ for the races next month.”

“An’ when air they comin’ off?”

“You got me.  Mebbe Van knows.”

Some one prodded a sleepy rider who lay all his splendid lithe length, hat over his eyes.  Then he sat up and blinked, a lean-faced, gray-eyed fellow, half good-natured and half resentful.

“Did somebody punch me?”

“Naw, you got nightmare!  Say, Van, when will the races come off?”

“Huh!  An, you woke me for thet? . . .  Bostil says in a few weeks, soon as he hears from the Indians.  Plans to have eight hundred Indians here, an’ the biggest purses an’ best races ever had at the Ford.”

“You’ll ride the King again?”

“Reckon so.  But Bostil is kickin’ because I’m heavier than I was,” replied the rider.

“You’re skin an’ bones at thet.”

“Mebbe you’ll need to work a little off, Van.  Some one said Creech’s Blue Roan was comin’ fast this year.”

“Bill, your mind ain’t operatin’,” replied Van, scornfully.  “Didn’t I beat Creech’s hosses last year without the King turnin’ a hair?”

“Not if I recollect, you didn’t.  The Blue Roan wasn’t runnin’.”

Then they argued, after the manner of friendly riders, but all earnest, an eloquent in their convictions.  The prevailing opinion was that Creech’s horse had a chance, depending upon condition and luck.

The argument shifted upon the arrival of two new-comers, leading mustangs and apparently talking trade.  It was manifest that these arrivals were not loath to get the opinions of others.

“Van, there’s a hoss!” exclaimed one.

“No, he ain’t,” replied Van.

And that diverse judgment appeared to be characteristic throughout.  The strange thing was that Macomber, the rancher, had already traded his mustang and money to boot for the sorrel.  The deal, whether wise or not, had been consummated.  Brackton came out with Red Wilson, and they had to have their say.

“Wal, durned if some of you fellers ain’t kind an’ complimentary,” remarked Macomber, scratching his head.  “But then every feller can’t have hoss sense.”  Then, looking up to see Lucy Bostil coming along the road, he brightened as if with inspiration.

Lucy was at home among them, and the shy eyes of the younger riders, especially Van, were nothing if not revealing.  She greeted them with a bright smile, and when she saw Brackton she burst out: 

“Oh, Mr. Brackton, the wagon’s in, and did my box come? . . .  To-day’s my birthday.”

“‘Deed it did, Lucy; an’ many more happy ones to you!” he replied, delighted in her delight.  “But it’s too heavy for you.  I’ll send it up—­or mebbe one of the boys—­”