“It’s April, ain’t it?” queried Holley.

That assurance was as close as they could get to the time of year.

“Lucy!” called Bostil, in a loud voice.

She came running in, anxious, almost alarmed.

“Goodness! you made us jump!  What on earth is the matter?”

“Lucy, we want to know the date,” replied Bostil.

“Date!  Did you have to scare Auntie and me out of our wits just for that?”

“Who scared you?  This is important, Lucy.  What’s the date?”

“It’s a week to-day since last Tuesday,” answered Lucy, sweetly.

“Huh!  Then it’s Tuesday again,” said Bostil, laboriously writing it down.  “Now, what’s the date?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“Remember?  I never knew.”

“Dad! . . .  Last Tuesday was my birthday—­the day you did not give me a horse!”

“Aw, so it was,” rejoined Bostil, confused at her reproach.  “An’ thet date was—­let’s see—­April sixth. . . .  Then this is April thirteenth.  Much obliged, Lucy.  Run back to your aunt now.  This hoss talk won’t interest you.”

Lucy tossed her head.  “I’ll bet I’ll have to straighten out the whole thing.”  Then with a laugh she disappeared.

“Three days beginnin—­say June first.  June first—­second, an’ third.  How about thet for the races?”

Everybody agreed, and Bostil laboriously wrote that down.  Then they planned the details.  Purses and prizes, largely donated by Bostil and Muncie, the rich members of the community, were recorded.  The old rules were adhered to.  Any rider or any Indian could enter any horse in any race, or as many horses as he liked in as many races.  But by winning one race he excluded himself from the others.  Bostil argued for a certain weight in riders, but the others ruled out this suggestion.  Special races were arranged for the Indians, with saddles, bridles, blankets, guns as prizes.

All this appeared of absorbing interest to Bostil.  He perspired freely.  There was a gleam in his eye, betraying excitement.  When it came to arranging the details of the big race between the high-class racers, then he grew intense and harder to deal with.  Many points had to go by vote.  Muncie and Williams both had fleet horses to enter in this race; Holley had one; Creech had two; there were sure to be several Indians enter fast mustangs; and Bostil had the King and four others to choose from.  Bostil held out stubbornly for a long race.  It was well known that Sage King was unbeatable in a long race.  If there were any chance to beat him it must be at short distance.  The vote went against Bostil, much to his chagrin, and the great race was set down for two miles.

“But two miles! . . .  Two miles!” he kept repeating.  “Thet’s Blue Roan’s distance.  Thet’s his distance.  An’ it ain’t fair to the King!”

His guests, excepting Creech, argued with him, explained, reasoned, showed him that it was fair to all concerned.  Bostil finally acquiesced, but he was not happy.  The plain fact was that he was frightened.