From behind a ridge puffed up a thin cloud of dust.  Bostil saw it and gave a start.  Above the sage appeared a bobbing, black object—­the head of a horse.  Then the big black body followed.

“Sarch!” exclaimed Bostil.

With spurs clinking the riders ran and trooped behind him.

“More hosses back,” said Holley, quietly.

“Thar’s Plume!” exclaimed Farlane.

“An’ Two Face!” added Van.

“Dusty Ben!” said another.

“Riderless!” finished Bostil.

Then all were intensely quiet, watching the racers come trotting in single file down the ridge.  Sarchedon’s shrill neigh, like a whistle-blast, pealed in from the sage.  From, fields and corrals clamored the answer attended by the clattering of hundreds of hoofs.

Sarchedon and his followers broke from trot to canter—­canter to gallop—­and soon were cracking their hard hoofs on the stony court.  Like a swarm of bees the riders swooped down upon the racers, caught them, and led them up to Bostil.

On Sarchedon’s neck showed a dry, dust-caked stain of reddish tinge.  Holley, the old hawk-eyed rider, had precedence in the examination.

“Wal, thet’s a bullet-mark, plain as day,” said Holley.

“Who shot him?” demanded Bostil.

Holley shook his gray head.

“He smells of smoke,” put in Farlane, who had knelt at the black’s legs.  “He’s been runnin’ fire.  See thet!  Fetlocks all singed!”

All the riders looked, and then with grave, questioning eyes at one another.

“Reckon thar’s been hell!” muttered Holley, darkly.

Some of the riders led the horses away toward the corrals.  Bostil wheeled to face the north again.  His brow was lowering; his cheek was pale and sunken; his jaw was set.

The riders came and went, but Bostil kept his vigil.  The hours passed. 
Afternoon came and wore on.  The sun lost its brightness and burned red.

Again dust-clouds, now like reddened smoke, puffed over the ridge.  A horse carrying a dark, thick figure appeared above the sage.

Bostil leaped up.  “Is thet a gray hoss—­or am—­I blind?” he called, unsteadily.

The riders dared not answer.  They must be sure.  They gazed through narrow slits of eyelids; and the silence grew intense.

Holley shaded the hawk eyes with his hand.  “Gray he is—­Bostil—­gray as the sage. . . .  An’ so help me god if he ain’t the King!”

“Yes, it’s the King!” cried the riders, excitedly.  “Sure!  I reckon!  No mistake about thet!  It’s the King!”

Bostil shook his huge frame, and he rubbed his eyes as if they had become dim, and he stared again.

“Who’s thet up on him?”

“Slone.  I never seen his like on a hoss,” replied Holley.

“An’ what’s—­he packin’?” queried Bostil, huskily.