By and by the riders came for him, got him up, and led him out.  He shook them off and stood breathing slowly.  The air felt refreshing; it cooled his hot, tired brain.  It did not surprise him to see Joel Creech there, cringing behind Holley.

Bostil lifted a hand for some one to speak.  And Holley came a step forward.  His face was haggard, but its white tenseness was gone.  He seemed as if he were reluctant to speak, to inflict more pain.

“Bostil,” he began, huskily, “you’re to send the King—­an’ Sarch—­an’ Ben an’ Two Face an’ Plume to ransom Lucy! . . .  If you won’t—­then Creech’ll sell her to Cordts!”

What a strange look came into the faces of the riders!  Did, they think he cared more for horseflesh than for his own flesh and blood?

“Send the King—­an’ all he wants. . . .  An’ send word fer Creech to come back to the Ford. . . .  Tell him I said—­my sin found me out!”

Bostil watched Joel Creech ride the King out upon the slope, driving the others ahead.  Sage King wanted to run.  Sarchedon was wild and unruly.  They passed out of sight.  Then Bostil turned to his silent riders.

“Boys, seein’ the King go thet way wasn’t nothin’. . . .  But what crucifies me is—­will thet fetch her back?”

“God only knows!” replied Holley.  “Mebbe not—­I reckon not! . . .  But, Bostil, you forget Slone is out there on Lucy’s trail.  Out there ahead of Joel!  Slone he’s a wild-hoss hunter—­the keenest I ever seen.  Do you think Creech can shake him on a trail?  He’ll kill Creech, an’ he’ll lay fer Joel goin’ back—­an’ he’ll kill him. . . .  An’ I’ll bet my all he’ll ride in here with Lucy an’ the King!”

“Holley, you ain’t figurin’ on thet red hoss of Slone’s ridin’ down the King?”

Holley laughed as if Bostil’s query was the strangest thing of all that poignant day.  “Naw.  Slone’ll lay fer Joel an’ rope him like he roped Dick Sears.”

“Holley, I reckon you see—­clearer ’n me,” said Bostil, plaintively. “’Pears as if I never had a hard knock before.  Fer my nerve’s broke.  I can’t hope. . . . Lucy’s gone! . . .  Ain’t there anythin’ to do but wait?”

“Thet’s all.  Jest wait.  If we went out on Joel’s trail we’d queer the chance of Creech’s bein’ honest.  An’ we’d queer Slone’s game.  I’d hate to have him trailin’ me.”

CHAPTER XVIII

On the day that old Creech repudiated his son, Slone with immeasurable relief left Brackton’s without even a word to the rejoicing Holley, and plodded up the path to his cabin.

After the first flush of elation had passed he found a peculiar mood settling down upon him.  It was as if all was not so well as he had impulsively conceived.  He began to ponder over this strange depression, to think back.  What had happened to dash the cup from his lips?  Did he regret being freed from guilt in the simple minds of the villagers—­regret it because suspicion would fall upon Lucy’s father?  No; he was sorry for the girl, but not for Bostil.  It was not this new aspect of the situation at the Ford that oppressed him.