Plain to all keen eyes was the glint of Lucy Bostil’s golden hair.  But only Holley had courage to speak.

“It’s Lucy!  I seen thet long ago.”

A strange, fleeting light of joy died out of Bostil’s face.  The change once more silenced his riders.  They watched the King trotting in from the sage.  His head drooped.  He seemed grayer than ever and he limped.  But he was Sage King, splendid as of old, all the more gladdening to the riders’ eyes because he had been lost.  He came on, quickening a little to the clamoring welcome from the corrals.

Holley put out a swift hand.  “Bostil—­the girl’s alive—­she’s smilin’!” he called, and the cool voice was strangely different.

The riders waited for Bostil.  Slone rode into the courtyard.  He was white and weary, reeling in the saddle.  A bloody scarf was bound round his shoulder.  He held Lucy in his arms.  She had on his coat.  A wan smile lighted her haggard face.

Bostil, cursing deep, like muttering thunder, strode out.  “Lucy!  You ain’t bad hurt?” he implored, in a voice no one had ever heard before.

“I’m—­all right—­Dad,” she said, and slipped down into his arms.

He kissed the pale face and held her up like a child, and then, carrying her to the door of the house, he roared for Aunt Jane.

When he reappeared the crowd of riders scattered from around Slone.  But it seemed that Bostil saw only the King.  The horse was caked with dusty lather, scratched and disheveled, weary and broken, yet he was still beautiful.  He raised his drooping head and reached for his master with a look as soft and dark and eloquent as a woman’s.

No rider there but felt Bostil’s passion of doubt and hope.  Had the King been beaten?  Bostil’s glory and pride were battling with love.  Mighty as that was, it did not at once overcome his fear of defeat.

Slowly the gaze of Bostil moved away from Sage King and roved out to the sage and back, as if he expected to see another horse.  But no other horse was in sight.  At last his hard eyes rested upon the white-faced Slone.

“Been some—­hard ridin’?” he queried, haltingly.  All there knew that had not been the question upon his lips.

“Pretty hard—­yes,” replied Slone.  He was weary, yet tight-lipped, intense.

“Now—­them Creeches?” slowly continued Bostil.

“Dead.”

A murmur ran through the listening riders, and they drew closer.

“Both of them?”

“Yes.  Joel killed his father, fightin’ to get Lucy. . . .  An’ I ran—­Wildfire over Joel—­smashed him!”

“Wal, I’m sorry for the old man,” replied Bostil, gruffly.  “I meant to make up to him. . . .  But thet fool boy! . . .  An’ Slone—­you’re all bloody.”

He stepped forward and pulled the scarf aside.  He was curious and kindly, as if it was beyond him to be otherwise.  Yet that dark cold something, almost sullen clung round him.