“I want to know what she said,” spoke up the rider, deliberately.

Lucy blushed, and it was a consciousness of confusion as well as Slone’s tone that made her half-angry.

“She said when I was found out there’d be a—­a great fuss at the Ford.  There would be talk.  Auntie said I’m now a grown-up girl. . . .  Oh, she carried on! . . .  Bostil would likely shoot you.  And if he didn’t some of the riders would. . . .  Oh, Lin, it was perfectly ridiculous the way Auntie talked.”

“I reckon not,” replied Slone.  “I’m afraid I’ve done wrong to let you come out here. . . .  But I never thought.  I’m not used to girls.  I’ll—­I’ll deserve what I get for lettin’ you came.”

“It’s my own business,” declared Lucy, spiritedly.  “And I guess they’d better let you alone.”

Slone shook his head mournfully.  He was getting one of those gloomy spells that Lucy hated.  Nevertheless, she felt a stir of her pulses.

“Lucy, there won’t be any doubt about my stand—­when I meet Bostil,” said Slone.  Some thought had animated him.

“What do you mean?” Lucy trembled a little.

There was a sternness about Slone, a dignity that seemed new.  “I’ll ask him to—­to let you marry me.”

Lucy stared aghast.  Slone appeared in dead earnest.

“Nonsense!” she exclaimed, shortly.

“I reckon the possibility is—­that,” replied Slone, bitterly, “but my motive isn’t.”

“It is.  Why, you’ve known me only a few days. . . .  Dad would be mad.  Like as not he’d knock you down. . . .  I tell you, Lin, my dad is—­is pretty rough.  And just at this time of the races. . . .  And if Wildfire beats the King! . . .  Whew!”

“When Wildfire beats the King, not if,” corrected Slone.

“Dad will be dangerous,” warned Lucy.  “Please don’t—–­don’t ask him that.  Then everybody would know I—­I—­you—–­you—­”

“That’s it.  I want everybody at your home to know.”

“But it’s a little place,” flashed Lucy.  “Every one knows me.  I’m the only girl.  There have been—­other fellows who. . . .  And oh!  I don’t want you made fun of!”

“Why?” he asked.

Lucy turned away her head without answering.  Something deep within her was softening her anger.  She must fight to keep angry; and that was easy enough, she thought, if she could only keep in mind Slone’s opposition to her.  Strangely, she discovered that it had been sweet to find him always governed by her desire or will.

“Maybe you misunderstand,” he began, presently.  And his voice was not steady.  “I don’t forget I’m only—­a beggarly rider.  I couldn’t have gone into the Ford at all—­I was such a ragamuffin—­”

“Don’t talk like that!” interrupted Lucy, impatiently.

“Listen,” he replied.  “My askin’ Bostil for you doesn’t mean I’ve any hope. . . .  It’s just I want him an’ everybody to know that I asked.”

“But Dad—­everybody will think that you think there’s reason—­why—­I—­why, you ought to ask,” burst out Lucy, with scarlet face.