He trailed his vague feelings back to a subtle shock he had sustained in a last look at Creech’s dark, somber face.  It had been the face of a Nemesis.  All about Creech breathed silent, revengeful force.  Slone worked out in his plodding thought why that fact should oppress him; and it was because in striking Bostil old Creech must strike through Bostil’s horses and his daughter.

Slone divined it—­divined it by the subtle, intuitive power of his love for Lucy.  He did not reconsider what had been his supposition before Creech’s return—­that Creech would kill Bostil.  Death would be no revenge.  Creech had it in him to steal the King and starve him or to do the same and worse with Lucy.  So Slone imagined, remembering Creech’s face.

Before twilight set in Slone saw the Creeches riding out of the lane into the sage, evidently leaving the Ford.  This occasioned Slone great relief, but only for a moment.  What the Creeches appeared to be doing might not be significant.  And he knew if they had stayed in the village that he would have watched them as closely as if he thought they were trying to steal Wildfire.

He got his evening meal, cared for his horses, and just as darkness came on he slipped down into the grove for his rendezvous with Lucy.  Always this made his heart beat and his nerves thrill, but to-night he was excited.  The grove seemed full of moving shadows, all of which he fancied were Lucy.  Reaching the big cottonwood, he tried to compose himself on the bench to wait.  But composure seemed unattainable.  The night was still, only the crickets and the soft rustle of leaves breaking a dead silence.  Slone had the ears of a wild horse in that he imagined sounds he did not really hear.  Many a lonely night while he lay watching and waiting in the dark, ambushing a water-hole where wild horses drank, he had heard soft treads that were only the substance of dreams.  That was why, on this night when he was overstrained, he fancied he saw Lucy coming, a silent, moving shadow, when in reality she did not come.  That was why he thought he heard very stealthy steps.

He waited.  Lucy did not come.  She had never failed before and he knew she would come.  Waiting became hard.  He wanted to go back toward the house—­to intercept her on the way.  Still he kept to his post, watchful, listening, his heart full.  And he tried to reason away his strange dread, his sense of a need of hurry.  For a time he succeeded by dreaming of Lucy’s sweetness, of her courage, of what a wonderful girl she was.  Hours and hours he had passed in such dreams.  One dream in particular always fascinated him, and it was one in which he saw the girl riding Wildfire, winning a great race for her life.  Another, just as fascinating, but so haunting that he always dispelled it, was a dream where Lucy, alone and in peril, fought with Cordts or Joel Creech for more than her life.  These vague dreams were Slone’s acceptance of the blood and spirit in Lucy.  She was Bostil’s daughter.  She had no sense of fear.  She would fight.  And though Slone always thrilled with pride, he also trembled with dread.