WILDFIRE 
 
 ZANE G REY 
 
 i 
 
 
 i 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
[AfOP 
 
 m 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Don Holbert 
 
 WlDERGRAnr[ATf [,r^.?A„„ 
 
 % 
 
DATE DUE 
 
 m^c'V^St 
 
 miNTEDINU.t.A. 
 
 Cornell University Library 
 PS3513.R45W6 1917 
 
 Wildfire / 
 
 3 1924 012 925 396 
 
ii 
 
 Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924012925396 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
[See page 182 
 
 'an', bostil — an', gentlemen, there ain't anythin' more to 
 this race but a red hoss!" 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 BY 
 
 ZANE GREY 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE RAINBOW TRAIL, THE BORDER LEGION, 
 
 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE, E;tc.' 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 FRANK TENNEY JOHNSON 
 
 URIS LIBRARY 
 
 FEB 2 3 1988 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP 
 
 'PUBLISHERS 
 
Von H^ibdrL 
 
 WiLDFIRB 
 
 Coinrtighti 1916, by Harper & Brothers 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
 Publistied January, 1917 
 
 L-Q 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 "An*, Bostil — an'. Gentlemen, There Ain't Any- 
 thin' More to This Race but a Red Ho'ss!" Frmiistiece 
 
 "Oh, IF I Could Ride WaDFiRE Against the Field 
 
 IN That Race. ... If I Only Could!" . . . Facing t. 132 
 
 Lucy Pondered. She Divined Some Fineness of 
 Feeling in ■ This Coarse Man. He Wanted 
 TO Spare Her Not Only Pain, but the Neces- 
 sity of Watchful Eyes on Her Every Move- 
 ment " 254- 
 
 -Slone Felt a Ghastly Triumph When He Began 
 to Whirl the Noose of the Lasso Round His 
 Head. . . . And as ' He Hesitated Wildfire 
 Suddenly Whistled One Shrieking Blast . . " 308 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 FOR some reason the desert scene before Lucy Bostil 
 awoke varjdng emotions — a sweet gratitude for the 
 fullness of her life there at the Ford, yet a hatmting remorse 
 that she could not be whoUy content — a vague loneliness 
 of soul — a, thrill and a fear for the strangely calling future, 
 glorious, tinknown. 
 
 She longed for something to happen. It might be 
 terrible, so long as it was wonderful. This day, when Lucy 
 had stolen away on a forbidden horse, she was eighteen 
 years old. The thought of her mother, who had died long 
 ago on their way into this wilderness, was the one drop of 
 sadness in her joy. Lucy loved everybody at Bostil's 
 Ford and everybody loved her. She loved aU the horses 
 except her father's favorite racer, that perverse /devil of 
 a horse, t5ie great Sage King. 
 
 Lucy was glowing and rapt with love for all she beheld 
 from her lofty perch: the green-and-pink blossoming ham- 
 let beneath her, set between the beauty of the gray 
 sage expanse and the ghastliness of the barren heights; 
 the swift Colorado sullenly thundering below in the 
 abyss; the Indians in their bright colors, riding up the 
 river trail; the eagle poised like a feather on the air, and 
 a mile beneath him the grazing cattle making black dots 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 on the sage; the deep velvet azure of the sky; the golden' 
 lights on the bare peaks and the lilac veils in the far 
 ravines; the sUky rustle of a canon swallow as he shot 
 downward in the sweep of the wind; the fragrance of 
 cedar, the flowers of the spear-pointed mescal; the 
 brooding silence, the beckoning range, the pttrple distance. 
 
 Whatever it was Lucy longed for, whatever was whis- 
 pered by the wind and written in the mystery of the waste 
 of sage and stone, she wanted it to happen there at Bostil's 
 Ford. She had no desire for civilization, she flouted the 
 idea of marrying the rich rancher of Dturango. Bostil's 
 sister, that stem but lovable woman who had brought 
 her up and taught her, would never persuade her to marry 
 against her wih. Lucy imagined herself Uke a wild horse — 
 free, proud, untamed, meant for the desert; and here she 
 would live her life. The desert and her life seemed as one, 
 yet in what did they resemble each other — ^in what part 
 of this scene could she read the nature of her futiu-e? 
 
 Shudderingly she rejected the red, sullen, thundering 
 river, with its swift, changef-ul, endless, contending strife — 
 for that was tragic. And she rejected the frowning mass 
 of red rock, upreared, riven and split and cafioned, so 
 grim and aloof — ^for that was barren. But she accepted 
 the vast sloping valley of sage, rolling gray and soft and 
 beautiful, down to the dim mountains and purple ramparts 
 of the horizon. Lucy did not know what she yearned for, 
 she did not know why the desert called to her, she did not 
 know in what it resembled her spirit, but she did know that 
 these three feelings were as one, deep in her heart. For 
 ten years, every day of her life, she had watched this 
 desert scene, and never had there been an hour that it 
 was not different, yet the same. Ten years — and she 
 grew up watching, feeling— tiU from the desert's thousand 
 moods she assimilated its nature, loved her bonds, and 
 could never have been happy away from the open, the 
 color, the freedom, the wildness. On this birthday, when 
 those who loved her said she had become her own mis- 
 
 2 
 
WiLUl^iKt 
 
 tress, she acknowledged the claim of the desert forever, 
 And she experienced a deep, rich, strange happiness. 
 
 Hers always then the mutable and immutable desert, 
 the leagues and leagues of slope and sage and rolUng ridge, 
 the great canons and the giant cliffs, the dark river with 
 its mystic thunder of waters, the pine-fringed plateaus, 
 the endless stretch of horizon, with its lofty, isolated, noble 
 monuments, and the bold ramparts with their beckoning 
 beyond! Hers always the desert seasons: the shrill, icy 
 blast, the intense cold, the steely skies, the fading snows; 
 the gray old sage and the bleached grass under the pall of 
 the spring sand-storms ; the hot furnace breath of summer, 
 with its noagnificent cloud pageants in the sky, with the 
 black tempests hanging here and there over the peaks, 
 dark veils floating down and rainbows everywhere, and 
 the lacy waterfalls upon the glistening cliffs and the 
 thtmder of the red floods; and the glorious golden autumn 
 when it was always afternoon and time stood stiU ! Hers 
 always the rides in the open, with the sun at her back 
 and the wind in her face! And hers surely, sooner or 
 later, the nameless adventure which had its inception in 
 the strange yearning of her heart and presaged its ful- 
 filment somewhere down that trailless sage-slope she 
 loved so well! 
 
 Bostil's house was a crude but picturesque structure 
 of red stone and white clay and bleached cottonwoods, 
 and it stood at the outskirts of the cluster of green- 
 inclosed cabins which composed the hamlet. Bostil 
 was wont to say that in all the world there could hardly 
 be a grander view than the outlook down that gray sea 
 of rolling sage, down to the black-fringed plateaus and 
 the wild, blue-rimmed and gold-spired horizon. 
 
 One morning in early spring, as was Bostil's custom, 
 he ordered the racers to be brought from' the corrals and 
 turned loose on the slope. He loved to sit there and 
 watch his horses graze, but ever he saw that the riders 
 
 2 3 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 were dose at hand, and that the horses did not get out 
 on the slope of sage. He sat back and gloried in the 
 sight. He owned bands of mustangs; near by was a 
 field of them, fine and mettlesome and racy; yet Bostil 
 had eyes only for the blooded favorites. Strange it was 
 that not one of these was a mustang or a broken wild 
 horse, for many of the riders' best mounts had been 
 captured by them or the Indians. And it was Bostil's 
 supreme ambition to own a great wild stalUon. There 
 was Plume, a superb mare that got her name from the way 
 her mane swept in the wind when she was on the run; 
 and there was Two Face, like a coquette, sleek and glossy 
 and cunning; and the huge, rangy bay. Dusty Ben; and 
 the black stallion Sarchedon; and lastly Sage King, the 
 color of the upland sage, a racer in buUd, a horse splendid 
 and proud and beautifxil. 
 
 "Where's Lucy?" presently asked Bostil. 
 
 As he divided his love, so he divided his anxiety. 
 
 Some rider had seen Lucy riding off, with her golden 
 hair flying in the wind. This was an old story. 
 
 "She's up on Buckles?" Bostil queried, turning sharply 
 to the speaker. 
 
 "Reckon so," was the calm reply. 
 
 Bostil swore. He did not have a rider who could equal 
 him in profanity. 
 
 ' ' Farlane, you'd orders. Lucy's not to ride them bosses, '' 
 least of all Buckles. He ain't safe even for a man." 
 
 "Wal, he's safe fer Lucy." 
 
 "But didn't I say no?" 
 
 "Boss, it's likely you did, fer you talk a lot," replied 
 Farlane. "Lucy ptdled my hat down over my eyes — 
 told ms-to go to thunder — an' then, zip! she an' Buckles 
 were dustin' it fer the sage." 
 
 "She's got to keep out of the sage," growled Bostil. 
 "It ain't safe for her out there. . . , Where's my 
 glass? I want to take a look at the slope. Where's my 
 glass?" 
 
 4 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 The glass could not be found. 
 
 "What's makdn' them dust-clouds on the sage? An- 
 telope? . . . Holley, you used to have eyes better 'n me. 
 Use them, will you?" 
 
 A gray-haired, hawk-eyed rider, lean and worn, ap- 
 proached with clinking spurs. 
 
 "Down in there," said BostU, pointing. 
 
 "Thet's a bunch of hosses," replied Holley. 
 
 "Wildhosses?" 
 
 "I take 'em so, seein' how they throw thet dust." 
 
 "Huh! I don't like it. Lucy oughtn't be ridin' round 
 alone." 
 
 "Wal, boss, who could catch her up on Buckles? Lucy 
 can ride. An' there's the King an' Sarch right under 
 yotir nose — ^the only hosses on the sage thet could outrun 
 Buckles." 
 
 Farlane knew how to moUify his master and long habit 
 had made him proficient. Bostil's eyes flashed. He was 
 proud of Lucy's power over a horse. The story Bostil 
 first told to any stranger happening by the Ford was how 
 Lucy had been bom during a wUd ride — almost, as it 
 were, on the back of a horse. That, at least, was her 
 fame, and the riders swore she was a worthy daughter 
 of such a mother. Then, as Farlane weU knew, a quick 
 road to Bostil's good will was to praise one of his favorites. 
 
 "Reckon you spoke sense for once, Farlane," replied 
 Bostil, with relief. "I wasn't thinkin' so much of danger 
 for Lucy. . . . But she lets thet half-witted Creech go 
 with her." 
 
 "No, boss, you're wrong," put in HoUey, earnestly. 
 "I know the girl. She has no use fer Joel. But he jest 
 nms after her." 
 
 "An' he's harmless," added Farlane. 
 
 "We ain't agreed," rejoined Bostil, quickly. "What. 
 do you say, HoUey?" 
 
 The old rider looked thoughtful and did not speak for 
 long. 
 
 5 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Wal, yes an' no," he answered, finally. "I reckon 
 Lucy could make a man out of Joel. But she doesn't 
 care fer him, an' thet settles thet. . . . 4^' maybe Joel's 
 leanin' toward the bad." 
 
 "If she meets him again I'U rope her in the house," 
 declared BostU. 
 
 Another clear-eyed rider drew BostU's attention from 
 the gray waste of rolling sage. 
 
 "Bostil, look! Look at the King! He's watchin' fer 
 somethin'. . . . An' so's Sarch." 
 
 The two horses named were facing a ridge some few 
 hundred yards distant, and their heads were aloft and ears 
 straight forward. Sage King whistled shrilly and Sarche- 
 don began to prance. 
 
 "Boys, you'd better drive them in," said Bostil. 
 "They'd like nothin' so weU. as gettin' out on the sage, 
 . . . Hullo! what's thet shootin' up behind the ridge?" 
 
 "No more 'n Buckles with Lucy makin' him run some," 
 replied HoUey, with a dry laugh. 
 
 "If it ain't! . . . Lord! look at him come!" 
 
 BostU's anger and anxiety might never have been. 
 The light of the upland rider's joy shone in his keen gaze. 
 The slope before him was open, and almost level, down to 
 the ridge that had hidden the missing girl and horse. 
 Buckles was running for the love of running, as the girl 
 low down over his neck was riding for the love of riding. 
 The Sage King whistled again, and shot off with graceful 
 sweep to meet them; Sarchedon plunged after him; Two 
 Face and Plume jealously trooped down, too, but Dusty 
 Ben, after a toss of his head, went on grazing. The 
 gray and the black met Buckles and could not turn in 
 time to stay with him. A girl's gay scream pealed up the 
 slope, and Buckles went lower and faster. Sarchedon was 
 left behind. Then the gray King began to run as if before 
 he had been loping. He was beautiful in action. This 
 was play — a game^-a raige — ^plainly dominated by the 
 spirit of the girl. Lucy's hair was a bright stream of gold 
 
 6 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 m the wind. She rode bareback. It seemed that she 
 was hunched low over Buckles with her knees high on his 
 back — scarcely astride him at all. Yet her motion was 
 one with the horse. Again thg,t wild, gay scream pealed 
 out — call or laugh or challenge. Sage King, with a fleet- 
 ness that made the eyes of Bostil and his riders glisten, 
 took the lead, and then sheered off to slow down, while 
 Buckles thundered past. Lucy was pulhng him hard, and 
 had him plunging to a halt, when the rider Holley ran out 
 to grasp his bridle. Buckles was snorting and his ears 
 were laid back. He pounded the ground and scattered the 
 pebbles. 
 
 "No use, Lucy," said Bostil. "You can't beat the 
 King at your own game, even with a runnin' start." 
 
 Lucy Bostil's eyes were blue, as keen as her father's, 
 and now they flashed like his. She had a hand twisted 
 in the horse's long mane,- and as, lithe and supple, she 
 sUpped a knee across his broad back she shook a little 
 gantleted fist at Bostil's gray racer. 
 
 "Sage King, I hate you!" she called, as if the horse 
 were human. "And I'll beat you some day!" 
 
 Bostil swore by the gods his Sage King was the swiftest 
 horse in all that wUd uplapd country of wonderful horses. 
 He swore the great gray could look back over his shoulder 
 and nm away from any broken horse known to the 
 riders. 
 
 Bostil himself was half horse, and the half of him that 
 was hiraian he divided between love of his fleet racerg 
 and his daughter Lucy. He had seen years of hard riding 
 on that wUd Utah border where, in those days, a horse 
 meant all the world to a man. A lucky strike of grassy 
 upland and good water south of the Rio Colorado made 
 him rich in aU that he cared to own. The Indians, yet 
 unspoiled by white men, were friendly. Bostil buUt a 
 boat at the Indian crossing of the Colorado and the place 
 became known as Bostil's Ford. From time to time his 
 
 7 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 personality and his reputation and his need brotight horse- 
 hunters, riders, sheep-herders, and men of pioneer spirit, 
 as well as wandering desert travelers, to the Ford, and 
 the lonely, isolated hamlet slowly grew. North of the 
 river it was more than two hundred miles to the nearest 
 little settlement, with only a few lonely ranches on the 
 road; to the west were several villages, equally distant, 
 but cut off for two months at a time by the raging Colo- 
 rado, flooded by melting snow up in the mountains. 
 Eastward from the Ford Stretched a ghastly, broken, 
 unknown desert of canons. Southward rolled the beauti- 
 ful uplands, with vaEeys of sage and grass, and plateaus 
 of pine and cedar, irntU this rich roUing gray and green 
 range broke sharply on a purple horizon line of upflting 
 rocky ramparts and walls and monuments, wild, dim, 
 and mysterious. 
 
 Bostil's cattle and horses were numberless, and many 
 as were his riders, he always could use more. But most 
 riders did not abide long with Bostil, first because some 
 of them were of a wandering breed, wild-horse htinters 
 themselves; and secondly, Bostil had two great faults: 
 he seldom paid a rider in money, and he never permitted 
 one to own a fleet horse. He wanted to own all the fast 
 horses himself. And in those days every rider, especially 
 a wild-horse hunter, loved his steed as part of himself. 
 If there was a difference between BostU and any rider 
 of the sage, it was that, as he had more horses, so he had 
 more love. 
 
 Whenever Bostil could not get possession of a horse he 
 coveted, either by purchase or trade, he invariably ac- , 
 quired a grievance toward the owner. This happened 
 often, for riders were loath to part with their favorites. 
 And he had made more than one enemy by his persistent 
 nagging. It could not be said, however, that he sought 
 to drive hard bargains. Bostil would pay any price asked 
 for a horse. 
 
 Across the Colorado, in a high, red-walled canon open- 
 
 8 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 ing upon the river, lived a poor sheep-herder and horse- 
 trader named Creech. This man owned a number of 
 thoroughbreds, two of which he would not part with for 
 all the gold in the uplands. These racers, Blue Roan and 
 Peg, had been captured wild on the ranges by Ute Indians 
 and broken to racing. They were still young and, getting 
 I faster every year. Bostil wanted them because he 
 coveted them and because he feared them. It wovild 
 have beea a terrible blow to him if any horse ever beat 
 the gray. But Creech laughed at aU offers and taunted 
 Bostil with a boast that in another summer he would see 
 a horse out in front of the King. 
 
 To complicate matters and lead rivalry into hatred 
 yoving Joel Creech, a great horseman, but worthless in the 
 eyes of aU save his father, had been heard to say that 
 some day he would force a race between the King and 
 Blue Roan. And that threat had been taken in various 
 ways. It alienated Bostil beyond gH hope of recon- 
 ciliation. It made Lucy Bostil laugh and look sweetly 
 mysterious. She had no enemies, and she liked every- 
 body. It was even gossiped by the women of Bostil's 
 Ford that she had more than liking for the idle Joel. 
 But the husbands of these gossips said Lucy was only 
 tender-hearted. Among the riders, when they sat around 
 their lonely camp-fires, or lounged at the corrals of the 
 Ford, there was spectilation in regard to this race hinted 
 by Joel Creech. There never had been a race between 
 the King and Blue Roan, and there never would be, 
 unless Joel were to ride off with Lucy. In that case 
 there would be the grandest race ever run on the up- 
 lands, with the odds against Blue Roan only if he carried 
 double. If Joel put Lucy up on the Roan and he rode 
 Peg there would be another story. Lucy Bostil was a slip 
 of a girl, bom on a horse, as strong and supple as an Ind- 
 ian, and she could ride Uke a burr sticking in a horse's 
 mane. With Blue Roan canying her light weight she 
 might run away from any one up on the King — which 
 
 9 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 for Bostil would be a double tragedy, equally in the loss 
 of his daughter and the beating of his best-beloved racer. 
 But with Joel on Peg, such a race would end in heart- 
 break for all concerned, for the King would outrun Peg, 
 and that would bring riders within gunshot. 
 
 It had always been a fascinating subject, this long- 
 looked-for race. It grew more so when Joel's infatuation 
 for Lucy became known. There were fewer riders who 
 believed Lucy might elope with .Joel than there were 
 who believed Joel might steal his father's horses. But all 
 the riders who loved horses and all the women who 
 loved gossip were united in at least one thing, and that 
 was that something Uke a race or a romance would soon 
 disrupt the peaceful, sleepy tenor of Bostil's Ford. 
 
 In addition to Bostil's growing hatred for the Creeches, 
 he had a great fear of Cordts, the horse-thief. A fear ever 
 restless, ever watchful. Cordts hid back in the untrodden 
 ways. He had; secret friends among the riders of the 
 ranges, faithful followers back in the canon camps, gold 
 for the digging, cattle by the thousand, and fast horses. 
 He had always gotten what he wanted — except one thing. 
 That was a certain horse. And the horse was Sage King. 
 
 Cordts was a bad man, a product of the early gold-fields 
 of California and Idaho, an outcast from that evil wave 
 oi wanderers retreating back over the trails so madly 
 traveled westward. He became a lord over the free 
 ranges. But more than .all else he was a rider. He 
 knew a horse. He was as much horse as Bostil. Cordts 
 rode into this wUd free-range country, where he had been 
 heard to say that a horse-thief was meaner than a poisoned 
 coyote. Nevertheless, he became a horse -thief. The 
 passion he had conceived for the Sage King was the 
 passion of a man for an unattainable woman. Cordts 
 swore that he would never rest, that he would not die, 
 tiU he owned the King. So there was reason for Bostil's 
 great fear. 
 
CHAPTER n 
 
 BOSTIL went toward the house with his daughter, 
 turning at the door to call a last word to his riders 
 about the care of his horses. 
 
 The house was a low, flat, wide structure, with a cor- 
 ridor running through the middle, from which doors led 
 iato the adobe-waUed rooms. The windows were small 
 openings high up, evidently intended for defense as weQ 
 as light, and they had rude wooden shutters. The floor 
 was clay, covered everywhere by Indian blankets. A 
 pioneer's home it was, simple and crude, yet comfortable, 
 and having the rare quality peculiar to desert homes — 
 it was cool in summer and warm in winter. 
 
 As Bostil entered with his arm round Lucy a big hotmd 
 rose from the hearth. This room was immense, running 
 the length of the house, and it contained a huge stone fire- 
 place, where a kettle smoked fragrantly, and rude home- 
 made chairs with blanket coverings, and tables to match, 
 and walls covered with bridles, guns, pistols, Indian 
 weapons and ornaments, and trophies of the chase. In a 
 far comer stood a work-bench, with tools upon it and 
 horse trappings under it. In the opposite comer a door 
 led into the kitchen. This room was Bostil's famous 
 living-room, in which many things had happened, some 
 of which had helped make desert history and were never 
 mentioned by Bostil. 
 
 Bostil's sister came in from the kitchen. She was a 
 huge person with a severe yet motherly face. She had 
 her hands on her hips, and she cast a rather disaj^oving 
 glance at father and daughter. 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "So you're back again?" she queried, severely. 
 
 "Sure, Auntie," replied the girl, complacently. 
 
 "You ran off to get out of seeing Wetherby, didii't you?" 
 
 Lucy stared sweetly at her aunt. 
 
 "He was waiting for hours," went on the worthy woman. 
 "I never saw a man in such a stew. . . . No wonder, play- 
 ing fast and loose with him the way you do." 
 
 "I told him No!" flashed Lucy. 
 
 "But Wetherby's not the kind to take no. And I'm 
 not satisfied to let you mean it. Lucy BostU, you don't 
 know yottr mind an hoiu: straight running. You've fooled 
 enough with these riders of your Dad's. If you're not 
 careful you'U marry one of them. . . . One of these wild 
 riders! As bad as a Ute Indian! . . . Wetherby is young 
 and he idolizes you. In all common sense why don't 
 you take him?" 
 
 "I don't care for him," replied Lucy. 
 
 "You like him as well as anybody. . . . John Bostil, 
 what do you say? You approved of Wetherby. I heard 
 you tell him Lucy was like an unbroken colt and that 
 you'd — " 
 
 "Sure, I like Jim," interrupted Bostil; and he avoided 
 Lucy's swift look. 
 
 "Well?" demanded his sister. 
 
 Evidently Bostil found himself in a comer between two 
 fires. He looked sheepish, then disgusted. 
 
 "Dad!" exclaimed Lucy, reproachfully. 
 
 "See here, Jane," said Bostil, with an air of finality, 
 "the girl is of age to-day — ^an' she can do what she damn 
 I pleases!" 
 
 "That's a fine thing for you to say," retorted Aunt 
 Jane. "Like as not she'll be fetching that hang-dog 
 Joel Creech up here for you to support." 
 
 "Auntie!" cried Lucy, her eyes blazing. 
 
 "Oh, child, you torment me — ^worry me so," said th^ 
 disappointed woman. "It's aU for your sake. . . . Look 
 at you, Lucy Bostil! A girl of eighteen who comes of a 
 
 12 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 family! And you riding around and going around as you 
 are now — ^in-a man's clothes!" 
 
 "But, you dear old goose, I can't ride in a woman's 
 skirt," expostulated Lucy. "Mind you. Auntie, I can 
 ride!" 
 
 "Lucy, if I live here forever I'd never get reconciled 
 to a Bostil woman in leather pants. We Bostils were 
 somebody once, back in Missouri." 
 
 Bostil laughed. "Yes, an' if I hadn't hit the trail 
 west we'd be starvin' yet. Jane, you're a sentimental old 
 fool. Let the girl alone an' reconcile yourself to this 
 wilderness." 
 
 Aunt Jane's eyes were wet with tears. Lucy, seeing 
 them, ran to her and hugged and kissed her. 
 
 "Auntie, I will promise — ^from to-day — ^to have some 
 digmty. I've been free as a boy in these rider clothes. 
 As I am now the men never seem to regard me as a girl. 
 Somehow that's better. I can't explain, but I like it. 
 My dresses are what have caused aU the trouble. I 
 know that. But if I'm grown up — if it's so tremendous 
 — ^then I'U wear a dress all the time, except just when I 
 ride. Win that do. Auntie?" 
 
 "Maybe you will grow up, after all," repUed Aunt 
 Jane, evidently surprised and pleased. 
 
 Then Lucy with clinking spurs ran away to her room. 
 
 "Jane, what's this nonsense about young Joel Creech?" 
 asked Bostil, gruffly. 
 
 " I don't know any more than is gossiped. That I told 
 you. Have you ever a^ked Lucy about him?" 
 
 "I sure haven't," said Bostil, bluntly. 
 
 "Well, ask her. If she tells you at aU she'll teU the 
 truth. Lucy'd never sleep at night if she lied." 
 
 Aunt Jane returned to her housewifely tasks, leaving 
 BostU thoughtfully stroking the hound and watching 
 the fire. Presently Lucy returned — a different Lucy — 
 one that did not rouse his rider's pride, but thrilled his 
 father's heart. She had been a slim, lithe, supple, dishev- 
 
 13 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 eled boy, breathing the wild spirit of the open and thi 
 horse she rode. She was now a girl in the graceful round- 
 ness of her slender form, with hair the gold of the sage 
 at sunset, and eyes the blue of the deep haze of distance, 
 and lips the sweet red of the upland rose. And all 
 about her seemed different. 
 
 "Lucy — ^you look — ^Uke — ^like she used to be," said 
 Bostn, vinsteadily. 
 
 "My mother!" murmured Lucy. 
 
 But these two, so keen, so strong, so alive, did not 
 abide long with sad memories. 
 
 "Lucy, I want to ask you somethin'," said Bostil, 
 presently. "What about this young Joel Creech?" 
 
 Lucy started as if suddenly recalled, then she laughed 
 merrily. "Dad, you old fox, did you see him ride out 
 after me?" 
 
 "No. I was just askin' on — on general principles." 
 
 "What do you mean?" , 
 
 "Lucy, is there anythin' between you an' Joel?" he 
 asked, gravely. 
 
 "No," she replied, with her clear eyes up to his. 
 
 BostU thought of a bluebell. "I'm beggin' your par- 
 don," he said, hastily. 
 
 "Dad, you know how Joel rtms after me. I've told 
 you. I let him till lately. I liked him. But that wasn't 
 why. I felt sorry for him — pitied him." 
 
 "You did? Seems an awftil waste," replied Bostil. 
 
 "Dad, I don't believe Joel is — perfectly right in his 
 mind," Lucy said, solemnly. 
 
 "Haw! haw! Fine compliments you're payin' your- 
 self." 
 
 ' ' Listen. I'm serious. I mean I've grown to see — ^look- 
 ing back — that a slow, gradual change has come over 
 Joel since he was kicked in the head by a mustang. I'm 
 sure no one else has noticed it." 
 
 "Goin' batty over you. That's no tmusual sign round 
 this here camp. Look at—" 
 
 14 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "We're talking about Joel Creech. Lately he has 
 done some queer things. To-day, for instance. I thought 
 I gave him the slip. But he must have been watching. 
 Anyway, to my surprise he showed up on Peg. He doesn't 
 often get Peg across the river. He said the feed was 
 getting scarce over there. I was dying to race Buckles 
 against Peg, but I remembered you wouldn't like that." 
 
 "I should say not," said Bostil, darkly. 
 
 "Well, Joel caught up to me — and he wasn't nice at aU. 
 He was worse to-day. We quarreled. I said I'd bet he'd 
 never follow me again and he said he'd bet he would. 
 Then he got sulky and hung back. I rode away, glad to 
 be rid of him, and I climbed to a favorite place of mine. 
 On my way home I saw Peg grazing on the rim of the 
 creek, near that big spring-hole where the water's so deep 
 and clear. And what do you think? There was Joel's 
 head above the water. I remembered in our quarrel 
 I had told him to go wash his dirty face. He was doing 
 it. I had to laugh. When he saw me — ^he — ^then — then 
 he — " Lucy faltered, blushing with anger and shame. 
 
 "Well, what then?" demanded Bostil, quietly. 
 
 "He called, 'Hey, Luce — ^take oflE your dothes and 
 come in for a swim!'" 
 
 Bostil swore. 
 
 "I teU you I was mad," continued Lucy, "and just as 
 surprised. That was one of the queer things. But never 
 before had he dared to — ^to — " 
 
 "Insult you. Then what 'd you do?" interrupted Bostil, 
 curiously. 
 
 "I yeUed, 'I'U fix you, Joel Creech!' ... His clothes were 
 in a pile on the bank. At first I thought I'd throw them 
 in the water, but when I got to them I thought of some- 
 thing better. I took up aU but his shoes, for I remembered 
 the ten miles of rock and cactus between him and home, 
 and I climbed up on Buckles. Joel screamed and swore 
 something fearful. But I didn't look back. And Peg, 
 you know — maybe you don't know — ^but Peg is fond of 
 
 IS 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 me, and he followed me, straddling his bridle aU the way 
 in. I dropped Joel's clothes down the ridge a ways, right 
 in the trail, so he can't miss them. And that's all. . . . 
 Dad, was it — was it very bad?" 
 
 "Bad! Why, you ought to have thrown your gun on 
 him. At least ^otmced a rock off his head! But say, 
 Lucy, after all, maybe you've done enough. I guess you 
 never thought of it." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "The sun is hot to-day. Hot! An' if Joel's as crazy 
 an' mad as you say he'll not have sense enough to stay 
 in the water or shade till the sun's. gone down. An' if 
 he tackles that ten miles before he'll sunburn himself 
 within an inch of his life." 
 
 "Sunburn? Oh, Dad! I'm sorry," burst out Lucy, 
 contritely. "I never thought of that. I'll ride back 
 with his clothes." 
 
 "You will not," said Bostil. 
 
 "Let me send some one, then," she entreated. 
 
 "Girl, haven't you the nerve to play your own game? 
 Let Creech get his lesson. He deserves it. . . . An' now, 
 ■Lucy, I've two more questions to ask." 
 
 "Only two?" she queried, archly. "Dad, don't scold 
 me with questions." 
 
 "What shall I say to Wetherby for good an' all?" 
 
 Lucy's eyes shaded dreamily, and she seemed to look 
 beyond the room, out over the ranges. 
 
 "Tell him to go back to Durango and forget the foolish 
 girl who can care only for the desert and a horse." 
 
 "All right. That is straight talk, like an Indian's. 
 An' now the last question — ^what do you want for a birth- 
 day present?" 
 
 "Oh, of course," she cried, gleefully clapping her hands. 
 "I'd forgotten that. I'm eighteen!" 
 
 "You get that old chest of your mother's. But what 
 from me?" 
 
 "Dad, will you give me anything I ask for?" 
 
 i6 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Yes, my girl." 
 
 "Anything — any horsef" 
 
 Lucy knew his weakness, for she had inherited it, 
 
 "Stire; any horse but the King." 
 
 "How about Sarchedon?" 
 
 "Why, Lucy, what 'd you do with that big black devil? 
 He's too high. Seventeen hands highl You couldn't 
 mount him." 
 
 "Pooh! Sarch kneels for me." 
 
 "Child, listen to reason. Sarch would pull your arms 
 out of their sockets." 
 
 "He has got an iron jaw," agreed Lucy. "Well, then 
 — how about Dusty Ben?" She was tormenting her father 
 and. she did it with glee. 
 
 "No — not Ben. He's the faithfulest hoss I ever 
 owned. It wouldn't be fair to part with him, even to 
 you. Old associations ... a rider's loyalty . . . now, 
 Lucy, you know — " 
 
 "Dad, you're afraid I'd train and love Ben into beat- 
 ing the King. Some day I'U ride some horse out in 
 front of the gray. Remember, Dad! . . . Then give 
 me Two Face." 
 
 "Sure not her, Lucy. Thet mare can't be trusted. 
 Look why we named her Two Face." 
 
 "Buckles, then, dear generous Daddy who longs to 
 give his grown-up girl anything!" 
 
 "Lucy, can't you be satisfied an' happy with your 
 mustangs? You've got a dozen. You can have any 
 others on the range. Buckles ain't safe for you to ride." 
 
 Bostil was notably the most generous of men, the 
 kindest of fathers. It was an indication of his strange 
 obsession, in regard to horses, that he never would see 
 that Lucy was teasing him. As far as horses were con- 
 cerned he lacked a sense of humor. Anything connected 
 with his horses was of intense interest. 
 
 "I'd dearly love to own Plume," said Lucy, demurely. 
 
 Bostil had grown red in the face and now he was on 
 
 17 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 the rack. The monstrous selfishness of a rider who had 
 been supreme in his day could not be changed. 
 
 "Girl, I— I thought you hadn't no use for Plume," he 
 stammered. 
 
 ' ' I haven't— the jade ! She threw me once. I've never 
 forgiven her. . . . Dad, I'm only teasing you. Don't I 
 know you couldn't give one of those racers away? You 
 couldn't!" 
 
 "Lucy, I reckon you're right," Bostil burst out in im- 
 mense relief. 
 
 "Dad, I'll bet if Cordts gets me and holds me as ran- 
 som for the King — as he's threatened — ^you'll let him 
 have me!" 
 
 "Lucy, now thet ain't funny!" complained the father. 
 
 "Dear Dad, keep your old racers! But, remember, 
 I'm my father's daughter. I can love a horse, too. Oh, 
 if I ever get the one I want to love! A wild horse — a 
 desert stallion — ^pure Arabian — ^broken right by an Ind- 
 ian! If I ever get him. Dad, you look out! For I'll 
 run away from Sarch and Ben — and I'll beat the King!" 
 
 The hamlet of Bostil's Ford had a singular situation, 
 though, considering the wonderful nature of that desert 
 country, it was not exceptional. It lay under the pro- 
 tecting red bluff that only Lucy Bostil cared to climb. 
 A hard-trodden road wound down through rough breaks 
 in the canon wall to the river. Bostil's house, at the 
 head of the village, looked in the opposite direction, down 
 the sage slope that widened like a colossal fan. There 
 was one wide street bordered by cottonwopds and cabins, 
 and a number of gardens and orchards, beginning to burst 
 into green and pink and white. A brook ran out of a 
 ravine in the huge bluff, and from this led irrigation 
 ditches. The red earth seemed to blossom at the touch 
 of water. 
 
 The place resembled an Indian encampment — quiet, 
 sleepy, colorful, with the tiny streams of water running 
 
 i8 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 everjrwhere, and lazy columns of blue wood-smoke rising, 
 Bostil's Ford was the opposite of a busy village, yet its 
 few inhabitants, as a whole, were prosperous. The wants 
 of pioneers were few. Perhaps once a month the big, 
 clumsy flatboat was rowed across the river with horses or 
 cattle or sheep. And the season was now dose at hand 
 when for weeks, sometimes months, the river was unford- 
 able. There were a score of permanent families, a host of 
 merry, sturdy children, a number of idle young men, and 
 only one girl — Lucy Bostil. But the village always had 
 transient inhabitants — ^friendly Utes and Navajos in to 
 trade, and sheep-herders with a scraggy, woolly flock, and 
 travelers of the strange religious sect identified with Utah 
 going on iiito the wild6mess. Then there were always 
 riders passing to and fro, and sometimes unknown ones 
 regarded with caution. Horse-thieves sometimes boldly 
 rode in, and sometimes were able to sell or trade. In the 
 matter of horse-dealing Bostil's Ford was as bold as the 
 thieves. 
 
 Old Brackton, a man of varied Western experience, 
 kept the one store, which was tavern, trading-post, 
 freighter's headquarters, blacksmith's shop, and any- 
 thing else needful. Brackton employed riders, teamsters, 
 sometimes Indians, to freight supplies in once a month 
 from Durango. And that was over two hundred miles 
 away. Sometimes the supplies did not arrive on time — 
 occasionally not at all. News from the outside world, 
 except that elicited from the taciturn travelers marching 
 into Utah, drifted in at intervals, But it was not missed. 
 These wildemess spirits were the forerunners of a great 
 movement, and as such were big, strong, stem, sufficient 
 imto themselves. Life there was made possible by horses. 
 The distant future, that looked bright to far-seeing men, 
 must be and could only be fulfilled through the endurance 
 and faithfulness of horses. And then, from these men, 
 horses received the meed due them, and the love they were 
 truly worth. The Navajo was a nomad horseman, an 
 
 3 19 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Arab of the Painted Desert, and the Ute Indian was 
 close to him. It was they who developed the white' 
 riders of the uplands as well as the wild-horse wrangler 
 or hunter. 
 
 Brackton's ramshackle establishment stood down at the 
 end of the village street. There was not a sawed board 
 in aU that structtire, and some of the pine logs showed how 
 they had been dropped from the bluff. Brackton, a little 
 old gray man, with scant beard, and eyes like those of a 
 bird, came briskly out to meet an incoming freighter. 
 The wagon was minus a hind wheel, but the teamster had 
 come in on three wheels and a pole. The sweaty, diist- 
 caked, weary, thin-ribbed mustangs, and the gray-and- 
 red-stained wagon, and the huge jumble of dusty packs, 
 showed something of what the journey had been. 
 
 "Hi thar. Red Wilson, you air some late gettin' in," 
 greeted old Brackton. 
 
 Red Wilson had red eyes from fighting the flying sand, 
 and red dust pasted in his scraggy beard, and as he gave 
 his belt an upward hitch little red clouds flew from his 
 gun-sheath. 
 
 "Yep. An' I left a wheel an' part of the load on the 
 trail," he said. 
 
 With him were Indians who began to unhitch the 
 teams. Riders lounging in the shade greeted Wilson 
 and inquired for news. The teamster replied that travel 
 was dry, the water-noles were dry, and he was dry. And 
 his reply gave both concern and amusement. 
 
 "One more trip out an' back — ^thet's all, tUl it rains," 
 concluded Wilson. 
 
 Brackton led him inside, evidently to alleviate part 
 of that dryness. [ 
 
 Water and grass, next to horses, were the stock subject' 
 of all riders. 
 
 "It's got oncommon hot early," said one. 
 
 "Yes, an' them northeast winds — hard this spring," 
 said another. 
 
 20 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 '"No snow on the uplands." 
 
 "Holley seen a dry spell comin'. Wal, we can drift 
 along without freighters. There's grass an' water enough 
 here, even if it doesn't rain." 
 
 "Stire, but there ain't none across the river." 
 
 "Never was, in early season. An' if there was it 'd 
 be sheeped off." 
 
 "Creech 'U be fetchin' his bosses across soon, I reckon." 
 
 "You bet he wiH. He's trainin' for the races next 
 naonth." , 
 
 "An' when air they comin' off?" 
 
 "You got me. Mebbe Van knows." 
 
 Some one prodded a sleepy rider who lay all his splen- 
 did, lithe length, hat over his eyes. Then he sat up and 
 blinked, a lean-faced, gray-eyed fellow, half good-natured 
 and half resentful. 
 
 "Did somebody punch me?" 
 
 "Naw, you got nightmare! Say, Van, when will the 
 races come off?" 
 
 "Huh! An' you woke me for tbet? . . . Bostil says in 
 a few weeks, soon as he hears from the Indians. Plans 
 to have eight hundred Indians here, an' the biggest 
 purses an' best races ever had at the Ford." 
 
 "You'U ride the King again?" 
 
 "Reckon so. But Bostil is kickin' because I'm heavier 
 than I was," replied the rider. 
 
 "You're skin an' bones at thet." 
 
 "Mebbe you'll need to work a little off. Van. Some 
 one said Creech's Blue Roan was comin' fast this 
 year." 
 
 "Bin, your mind ain't operatin'," replied Van, scorn- 
 fully. "Didn't I beat Creech's bosses last year without 
 the King tumin' a hair?" 
 
 "Not if I recoUect, you didn't. The Blue Roan wasn't 
 runnin'." 
 
 Then they argued, after the maimer of friendly riders, 
 but all earnest, all eloquent in their convictions. The 
 
 21 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 prevailing opinion was that Creech's horse had a chance,- 
 depending upon condition and luck. 
 
 The argument shifted upon the arrival of two new- 
 comers, leading mustangs and apparently talking trade. 
 It was manifest that these arrivals were not loath to get 
 the opinions of others. 
 
 "Van, there's a hoss!" exclaimed one. 
 
 "No, he ain't," replied Van. 
 
 And that diverse judgment appeared to be character- 
 istic throughout. The strange thing was that Macomber, 
 the rancher, had already traded his mustang and money 
 to boot for the sorrel. The deal, whether wise or not, 
 had been consummated. Brackton came out with Red 
 WUson, and they had to have their say. 
 
 "Wal, dumed if some of you fellers ain't kind an' 
 complknentary," remarked Macomber, scratching hig 
 head. "But then every feller can't have hoss sense." 
 Then, • looking up to see Lucy Bostil coming along the 
 road, he brightened as if with inspiration. 
 
 Lucy was at home among them, and the shy eyes of 
 the younger riders, especially Van, were nothing if not 
 ■ revealing. , She greeted them with a bright smUe, and 
 when she saw Brackton she burst out: 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Brackton, the wagon's in, and did my box 
 come? . . . To-day's my birthday." 
 
 "'Deed it did, Lucy; an' many more happy ones to 
 you!" he replied, delighted in her delight. "But it's too 
 heavy for you. I'll send it up — or mebbe one of the 
 boys—" 
 
 Five riders in unison eagerly offered their services and 
 looked as if each had spoken first. Then Macomber ad- 
 dressed her: 
 
 "Miss Lucy, you see this here sorrel?" 
 
 "Ah! the same lazy crowd and the same old story — a 
 horse trade!" laughed Lucy. 
 
 "There's a little difference of opinion," said Macomber, 
 "politely indicating the riders. "Now, Miss Lucy, we-afl 
 
 22 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 know you're a judge of a boss. And as good as thet yoq 
 tell the truth. Thet ain't in some hoss-traders I know. 
 . , . What do you think of this mustang?" 
 
 Macomber had eyes of enthusiasm for his latest acquisi- 
 tion, but some of the cock-sureness had been knocked out 
 of him by the blunt riders. 
 
 "Macomber, aren't you a great one to talk?" queried 
 Lucy, severely. "Didn't you get around Dad and trade 
 him an old, blind, knock-kneed bag of bones for a per- 
 fectly good pony — one I liked to ride?" 
 
 The riders shouted with laughter while the rancher 
 struggled with confusicin. 
 
 " 'Pon my word. Miss Lucy, I'm surprised you could 
 think thet of such an old friend of yours — an' your 
 Dad's, too. I'm hopin' he doesn't side altogethsr with 
 you." 
 
 "Dad and I never agree about a horse. He thinks he 
 got the best of you. But you know, Macomber, what a 
 horse-thief you are. Worse than Cordts!" 
 
 " Wal, if I got the best of Bostil I'm willin' to be thought 
 bad. I'm the first feller to take him in. . . . An' now, 
 Miss Lucy, look over my sorrel." 
 
 Lucy Bostil did indeed have an eye for a horse. She 
 walked straight up to the wild, shaggy mustang with a 
 confidence bom of intuition and experience, and reached 
 a hand for his head, not slowly, nor yet swiftly. The 
 mustang looked as if he was about to jump, but he did 
 not. His eyes showed that he was not used to women. 
 
 "He's not well broken," said Lucy. "Some Navajo 
 has beaten his head in breaking him." 
 
 Then she carefully studied the mustang point by point. 
 
 "He's deceiving at first because he's good to look at," 
 said Lucy. "But I wotddn't own him. A saddle will 
 turn on him. He's not vicious, but he'U never get over 
 his scare. He's narrow between the eyes — a bad sign. 
 His ears are stiff — and too close. I don't see anything 
 more wrong with him." 
 
 23 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "You seen enough," declared Macomber. "An' so you 
 wouldn't own him?" 
 
 "You couldn't make me a present of him — even on my 
 birthday." 
 
 "Wal, now I'm sorry, for I was thitiktn' of thet," re- 
 plied Macomber, ruefully. It was plain that the sorrel 
 had fallen irremediably in his estimation. 
 
 "Macomber, I often tell Dad aU. you horse-traders get 
 your deserts now and then. It's vanity and desire to 
 beat the other, man that's your downfall." 
 
 Lucy went away, with Van shouldering her box, leaving 
 Macomber trying to return the banter of the riders. The 
 good-natured raillery was interrupted by a sharp word 
 from one of them. 
 
 "Look ! Dam me If thet ain't a naked Indian comin' !" 
 
 The riders whirled to see an apparently nude savage 
 approaching, almost on a run. 
 
 "Take a shot at thet. Bill," said another rider. "Miss 
 Lucy might see — No, she's out of sight. But, mebbe 
 some other woman is around." 
 
 "Hold on, Bill," called Macomber. "You never saw 
 an Indian run like thet." 
 
 Some of the riders swore, others laughed, and all sud- 
 denly became keen with interest. 
 
 "Sure his face is white, if his body's red!" 
 
 The strange figure neared them. It was indeed red 
 up to the face, which seemed white in contrast. Yet 
 only in general shape and action did it resemble a man. 
 
 "Damned if it ain't Joel Creech!" sang out Bill Stark. 
 
 The other riders accorded their wondering assent.^ 
 
 "Gone crazy, sure!" 
 
 "I always seen it comin'." 
 
 "Say, but ain't he wild? Foamin' at the mouth like a 
 winded hoss!" 
 
 Young Creech was headed down the road toward the 
 ford across which he had to go to reach home. He saw 
 the curious group, slowed his pace, and halted. His face 
 
 24 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 seemed convtdsed with rage and pain and fatigue. His 
 body, even to his hands, was incased in a thick, heavy- 
 coating of red adobe that had caJked hard. 
 
 "God's sake — fellers — " he panted, with eyes rolling, 
 -'take this — [dobe mud off me! . . . I'm dyin'!" 
 
 Then he staggered into Brackton's place. A howl went 
 up from the riders and they surged after him. 
 
 That evening after supper Bostil stamped in the big 
 room, roaring with laughter, red in the face; and he 
 astonished Lucy and her aunt to the point of consternation. 
 
 "Now — you've— done — it — ^Lucy Bostil!" he roared. 
 
 "Oh dear! Oh dear!" exclaimed Aunt Jane. 
 
 "Done what?" asked Lucy, blankly. 
 
 Bostil conquered his paroxysm, and, wiping his moist 
 red face, he eyed Lucy in mock solemnity. 
 
 "Joel!" whispered Lucy, who had a gtoilty conscience. 
 
 "Lucy, I never heard the beat of it. . . . Joel's smarter 
 in some ways than we thought, an' crazier in others. 
 He had the sun figgered,butwhat'dhe want to run through 
 town for? Why, never in my Ufe have I seen such tickled 
 riders." 
 
 "Dad!" almost screamed Lucy. "What did Joel do?" 
 
 "Wal, I see it this way. He couldn't or wouldn't wait j 
 for sundown. An' he wasn't hankerin' to be burned. > 
 So he wallows in a 'dobe mud-hole an' covers himself 
 thick with mud. You know that 'dobe mud! Then he 
 starts home. But he hadn't figgered on the 'dobe gettin' 
 hard, which it did — ^harder 'n rock. An' thet must have 
 hurt more 'n stmbtun. Late this afternoon he came run- 
 nin' down the road, yellin' thet he was dyin'. The boys 
 had conniption fits. Joel ain't over-liked, you know, 
 an' here they had one on him. Mebbe they didn't try 
 hard to clean him off. But the fact is not for hours did 
 they get thet 'dobe off him. They washed an' scrubbed 
 an' curried him, while he yelled an' cussed. Finally 
 they peeled it off, with his skin I guess. He was raw, 
 
 25 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 an', they say, the maddest feller ever seen in Bostil's 
 Ford!" 
 
 Lucy was struggling between fear and mirth. She did 
 not look sorry. "Oh! Oh! Oh, Dad!" 
 "Wasn't it great, Lucy?" 
 "But what — ^wiU he— do?" choked Lucy. 
 "Lord only knows. Thet worries me some. Because 
 he never said a word about how he come to lose his 
 I dothes or why he had the 'dobe on him. An' siure I never 
 ^told. Nobody knows but us." 
 
 "Dad, he'U do something tarible to me!" cried Lucy, 
 [aghast at her pranonition. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE days did not pass swiftly at Bostil's Ford. And 
 except in winter, and during the spring sand-storms, 
 the lagging time passed pleasantly. Lucy rode every 
 day, sometimes with Van, and sometimes alone. She 
 was not over-keen about riding with Van — first, because 
 he was in love with her; and secondly, in spite of that, 
 she could not beat him when he rode the King. They 
 were training Bostil's horses for the much -anticipated 
 races. 
 
 At last word arrived from the Utes and Navajos that 
 they accepted Bostil's invitation and would come in 
 force, which meant, according to Holley and other old 
 riders, that the Indians would attend about eight hundred 
 strong. 
 
 "Thet old chief. Hawk, is comin'," Holley informed 
 Bostil. " He hasn't been here fer several years. Recollect 
 thet bunch of colts he had? They're bosses, not mus- 
 tangs. ... So you look out, Bostil!" 
 
 No rider or rancher or sheepman, in fact, no one, ever 
 lost a chance to warn Bostil. Some of it was in fim, but 
 most of it was earnest. The nature of events was that 
 sooner or later a horse would beat the King. Bostil 
 knew that as well as anybody, though he wotild not admit 
 it. Holley's hint made BostH look worried. Most of 
 Bostil's gray hairs might have been traced to his years of 
 worry about horses. 
 
 The day he received word from the Indians he sent 
 for Brackton, Williams, Muncie, and Creech to come to 
 his house that night. These men, with Bostil, had for^ 
 
 27 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 years formed in a way a club, which gave the Ford dis- 
 tinction. Creech was no longer a friend of Bostil's, but 
 Bostil had always been fair-minded, and now he did not 
 allow his animosities to influence him. Holley, the vet- 
 eran rider, made the sixth member of the club. 
 
 Bostil had a cedar log blazing cheerily in the wide fire- 
 I place, for these early spring nights in the desert were cold. 
 
 Brackton was the last guest to arrive. He shuffled in 
 without answering the laconic greetings accorded him, 
 and his usually mild eyes seemed keen and hard. 
 
 "John, I reckon you won't love me fer this here I've 
 got to tell you, to-night specially," he said, seriously. 
 
 "You old robber, I couldn't love you anyhow," re- 
 torted Bostil. But his humor did not harmonize with 
 the sudden gravity of his look. "What's up?" 
 
 "Who do you suppose I jest sold whisky to?" 
 
 "I've no idea," repUed Bostil. Yet he looked as if he 
 was perfectly sure. 
 
 "Cordts! . . . CordtsJ an' four of his outfit. Two of 
 them I didn't know. Bad men, judgin' from appearances, 
 let alone company. The others was Hutchinson an' — 
 Dick Sears." 
 
 "Dick Sears!" exclaimed Bostil. 
 
 Muncie and Williams echoed Bostil. Holley appeared 
 suddenly interested. Creech alone showed no surprise. 
 
 "But Sears is dead," added Bostil. 
 
 "He was dead — ^we thought," replied Brackton, with a 
 grim laugh. "But he's alive again. He told me he'd 
 been in Idaho fer two years, in the gold-fields. Said the 
 work was too hard, so he'd come back here. Laughed 
 when he said it, the little devil! I'll bet he was thinkin' 
 of thet wagon-train of mine he stole." 
 
 Bostil gazed at his chief rider. 
 
 "Wal, I reckon we didn't kill Sears, after all," replied 
 Holley. "I wasn't never sure." 
 
 "Lord! Cordts an' Sears in camp; ejaculated Bostil, 
 and he began to pace the room. 
 
 28 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "No, they're gone now," said Brackton, 
 
 "Take it easy, boss. Sit down," drawled HoUey„ 
 "The King is safe, an' all the racers. I swear to thet. 
 Why, Cordts couldn't chop into thet log-an'-wire corral 
 if he an' his gang chopped all night! They hate work. 
 Besides, Farlane is there, an' the boys." 
 
 This reassured Bostil, and he resumed his chair. But 
 his hand shook a little. 
 
 "Did Cordts have anythin' to say?" he asked. 
 
 "Sure. He was friendly an' talkative," replied Brack- 
 ton. " He came in just after dark. Left a man I didn't 
 see out with the hosses. He bought two big packs of 
 supplies, an' some leather stuff, an', of course, ammu- 
 nition. Then some whisky. Had plenty of gold an' 
 wouldn't take no change. Then while his men, except 
 Sears, was carryin' out the stuff, he talked." 
 
 "Go on. Tell me," said Bostil. 
 
 "Wal, he'd been out north of Durango an' fetched 
 news. There's wild talk back there of a railroad goin' 
 to be built some day, joinin' east an' west. It's interestin', 
 but no sense to it. How could they build a railroad 
 through thet country?" 
 
 "North it ain't so cut up an' Itimpy as here," put in 
 Holley. 
 
 "Grandest idea ever thought of for the West," avowed 
 Bostil. "If thet railroad ever starts we'll aU get rich. 
 . . . Go on, Brack." 
 
 "Then Cordts said water an' grass was peterin' out 
 back on the trail, same as Red Wilson said last week. 
 Finally he asked, 'How's my friend Bostil?' I told him 
 you was well. He looked kind of thoughtful then, an' 
 I knew what was comin'. . . . 'How's the King?' 'Grand' 
 I told him — 'grand.' 'When is them races comin' off?' 
 I said we hadn't planned the time yet, but it would be 
 soon — ^inside of a month or two. 'Brackton,' he said, 
 sharp-hke, ' is BostU goin' to pull a gun on me at sight ?' 
 'Reckon he is,' I told him. 'Wal, I'm not powerful glad 
 
 29 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 to know thet. ... I hear Creech's blue boss will race the 
 King this time. How about it?' 'Sure an' certain this 
 year. I've Creech's an' Bostil's word for thet.' Cordts 
 put his hand on my shoulder. You ought to 've seen his 
 eyes! . . . 'I want to see thet race. . . . I'm goin' to.' 'Wal,' 
 I sa.id, ' you'll have to stop bein'-^ You'll need to change 
 your bizness.' Then, Bostil, what do you think? Cordts 
 was sort of eager an' wild. He said thet was a race he 
 jest couldn't miss. He swore he wouldn't turn a trick 
 or let a man of his gang stir a hand till after thet race, 
 if you'd let him come." 
 
 A light flitted across Bostil's face. 
 
 "I know how Cordts feels," he said. 
 
 "Wal, it's a queer deal," went on Brackton. "Fer a 
 long time you've meant to draw on Cordts when you 
 meet. We all know thet." 
 
 "Yes, I'll kill him!" The light left Bostil's face. His 
 voice sounded differently. His mouth opened, drooped 
 strangely at the comers, then shut in a grim, tense line. 
 Bostil had killed more than one man. The memory, no 
 doubt, was haunting and ghastly. 
 
 "Cordts seemed to think his word was guarantee of his 
 good faith. He said he'd send an Indian in here to find 
 out if he can come to the races. I reckon, Bostil, thet it 
 wouldn't hurt none to let him come. An' hold your 
 gun hand fer the time he swears he'U be honest. Queer 
 deal, ain't it, men? A hoss-thief tumin' honest jest to see 
 a race ! Beats me ! Bostil, it's a cheap way to get at least 
 a little honesty from Cordts. An' refusin' might rile him 
 bad. When all's said Cordts ain't as bad as he could be." 
 
 "I'll let him come," replied Bostil, breathing deep. 
 "But it'll be hard to see him, rememberin' how he's 
 robbed me, an' what he's threatened. An' I ain't lettin' 
 him come to bribe a few weeks' decency from him. I'm 
 doin' it for only one reason. . . . Because I know how he 
 loves the King — ^how he wants to see the King run away 
 from the field thet day! Thet's why!" 
 
 30 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 There was a moment of silence, during which all turned 
 to Creech. He was a stalwart man, no longer youngs 
 with a lined face, deep-set, troubled eyes, and white, 
 thin beard. 
 
 "Bostil, if Cordts loves the King thet well, he's in fer 
 heartbreak," said Creech, with a ring in his voice. 
 
 Down crashed Bostil's heavy boots and fire flamed in his 
 gaze. The other men laughed, and Brackton interposed: 
 
 " Held on, you boy riders!" he yelled. "We ain't a-goin' 
 to have any arguments like thet. . . . Now, Bostil, it's 
 settled, then? You'll let Cordts come?" 
 
 "Glad to have him," replied Bostil. 
 
 "Good. An' now mebbe we'd better get down to the 
 bizness of this here meetin'." 
 
 They seated themselves around the table, upon which 
 Bostil laid an old and much-soiled ledger and a stub of 
 a lead-pencil. 
 
 "First we'll set the time," he said, with animation, "an' 
 then pitch into details. . . . What's the date?" 
 
 No one answered, and presently they aJl looked blankly 
 from one to the other. 
 
 "It's April, ain't it?" queried HoUey., 
 
 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, labori- 
 ously writing it down. "Now, what's the date?" 
 
 31 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "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 re- 
 proach. "An' thet date was — let's see — ^April sixth. . . . 
 ' Then this is April thirteenth. Much obliged, Lucy. Run 
 back to your aunt now. This boss talk won't interest 
 you." , 
 
 Lucy tossed her head. "I'U bet I'll have to straighten 
 out the whole thing." Then with a laugh she disap- 
 peared. 
 
 "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 him- 
 self 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, betray- 
 ing excitement. When it came to arranging the details 
 I 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 WiUiams both had fleet horses 
 to enter in this race; HoUey 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 
 
 32 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 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, ex- 
 plained, reasoned, showed him that it was fair to aU con- 
 cerned. Bostil finally acquiesced, but he was not happy. 
 The i^ain fact was that he was frightened. 
 
 When, the men were departing Bostil called Creech 
 back into the sitting-room. Creech appeared surprised, 
 yet it was evident that he would have been glad to make 
 friends with Bostil. 
 
 "What '11 you take for the roan?" Bostil asked, tersely, 
 as if he had never asked that before. 
 
 "Bostil, (iidn't we thresh thet out before — an' fell out 
 over it?" queried Creech, with a deprecating spread of 
 his hands. 
 
 "Wal, we can fall in again, if you'll sell or trade the 
 boss." 
 
 "I'm sorry, but I can't." 
 
 VYou need money an' bosses, don't you?" demanded 
 Bostil, brutally. He had no conscience in a matter of 
 bofse-dealing. 
 
 "Lord knows, I do," replied Creech. 
 
 "Wal,. then, here's your chance. I'U give you five hun- 
 dred in gold an' Sarchedon to boot." 
 
 Creech looked as if he had not heard aright. BostU 
 repeated the offer. 
 
 "No," replied Creech. ii 
 
 "I'll make it a thousand an' throw Plume in with 
 Sarch," flashed Bostil. 
 
 "No!" Creech turned pale and swallowed hard. 
 
 "Two thousand an' Dusty Ben along with the others?" J 
 
 This was an unheard-of price to pay for any horse. i 
 Creech saw that Bostil was desperate. It was an almost ■ 
 overpowering temptation. Evidently Creech resisted it j 
 
 33 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 only by applying all his mind to the thought of his 
 clean-limbed, soft-eyed, noble horse. 
 
 Bostil did not give Creech time to speak. "Twenty- 
 five htindred an' Two Face along with the rest!" 
 
 "My God, Bostil — stop it! I can't part with Blue 
 Roan. You're rich an' you've no heart. Thet I always 
 knew. At least to me you never had, since I owned them 
 two racers. Didn't I beg you, a little time back, to lend 
 me a few htmdred? To meet thet debt? An' you 
 wouldn't, unless I'd sell the bosses. An' I had to lose 
 my sheep. Now I'm a poor man — gettin' poorer all the 
 time. But I won't seE or trade Blue Roan, not for all 
 you've got!" 
 
 Creech seemed, to gain strength with his speech and 
 passion with the strength. His eyes glinted at the hard, 
 paling face of his rival. He -raised a clenching fist. 
 
 "An' by G — d, I'm goin' to win thet race!" 
 
 During that week Lucy had heard many things about 
 Joel Creech, and some of them were disquieting. 
 
 Some rider had not only found Joel's clothes on the 
 trail, but he had recognized the track of the horse Lucy 
 rode, and at once connected her with the singtilar dis- 
 covery. Coupling that with Joel's appearance in the 
 village incased in a heaving armor of adcbe, the riders 
 guessed pretty close to the truth. For them the joke was 
 tremendous. And Joel Creech was exceedingly sensitive 
 to ridicule. The riders made life unbearable for him. 
 They had fun out of it as long as Joel showed signs 
 of taking the joke manfully, which was not long, and 
 then his resentment won their contempt. That led to 
 sarcasm on their part and bitter anger on his. It came to 
 Lucy's ears that Joel began to act and talk strangely. 
 She fotmd out that the rider Van had knocked Joel down 
 in Brackton's store and had kicked a gun out of his hand. 
 Van laughed off the rumor and Brackton gave her no 
 satisfaction. Moreover, she heard no other nmiors. The 
 
 34 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 channels of gossip had suddenly closed to her. Bostil, 
 when questioned by Lucy, swore in a way that amazed 
 her, and all he told her was to leave Creech alone. Final- 
 ly, when Muncie discharged Joel, who worked now and 
 then, Lucy realized that something was wrong with Joel 
 and that she was to blame for it. 
 
 She grew worried and anxious and sorry, but she held 
 iher peace, and determined to find out for herself what 
 was wrong. Every day when she rode out into the sage 
 she expected to meet him, or at least see him some- 
 where; nevertheless days went by and there was no sign 
 of him. 
 
 One afternoon she saw some Indians driving sheep down 
 the river road toward the ford, and, acting upon impulse, 
 she turned her horse after them. 
 
 Lucy seldom went down the river road. Riding down 
 and up was merely work, and a horse has as little liking 
 for it as she had. Usually it was a hot, dusty trip, and 
 the great, dark, overhanging walls had a depressing effect 
 upon her. She always felt awe at the gloomy canon 
 and fear at the strange, murmuring red river. But she 
 started down this afternoon in the hope of meeting Joel. 
 She had a hazy idea of telling him she was sorry for what 
 she had done, and of asking him to forget it and pay no 
 more heed to the riders. 
 
 The sheep raised a dust-cloud in the sandy wash where 
 the road wound down, and Lucy hung back to let them 
 get farther ahead. Gradually the tiny roar of pattering 
 hoofs and the blended bleating and baaing died away. 
 The dust -cloud, however, hung over the head of the 
 ravine, and Lucy had to force Sarchedon through it. 
 Sarchedon did not mind sand and dust, but he surely 
 hated the smell of sheep. Lucy seldom put a spur to 
 Sarchedon; still, she gave him a lash with her quirt, and 
 then he went on obediently, if disgustedly. He carried 
 his head like a horse that wondered why his mistress pre- 
 ferred to drive him down into an unpleasant hole when 
 
 4 35 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 she might have been cutting the sweet, cool sage wind 
 up on the slope. 
 
 The wash, with its sand and clay walls, dropped into 
 a gulch, and there was an end of green growths. The 
 road led down over solid rock. Gradually the rims of 
 the gorge rose, shutting out the light and the cliffs. It 
 was a winding road and one not safe to tarry on in a 
 stormy season. Lucy had seen boulders weighing a ton 
 go booming down that gorge during one of the sudden 
 fierce desert storms, when a torrent of water and mud 
 and stone went plunging on to the river. The ride through 
 here was short, though slow. Lucy always had time to 
 adjust her faculties for the overpowering contrast these 
 lower regions presented. Long before she reached the end 
 of the gorge she heard the sullen thunder of the river. 
 The river was low, too, for otherwise there would have 
 been a deafening roar. 
 
 Presently she came out upon a lower branch of the 
 canon, into a great red-walled space, with the river still a 
 thousand feet below, and the cliffs towering as high above 
 her. The road led down along this rim where to the left 
 all was open, across to the split and peaked waU. opposite. 
 The river appeared to sweep round a bold, bulging comer 
 a mile above. It was a wide, swift, muddy, turbulent 
 stream. A great bar of sand stretched out from the 
 shore. Beyond it, through the mouth of an intersecting 
 canon, coxdd be seen a climip of cottonwoods and wUlows 
 that marked the home of the Creeches. Lucy could not 
 see the shore nearest her, as it was almost directly under 
 her. Besides, in this narrow road, on a spirited horse, 
 she was not inclined to watch the scenery. She hurried 
 Sarchedon down and down, un(ier the overhanging brows 
 of rock, to where the rim sloped out and failed. Here was 
 a half-acre of sand, with a few scant willows, set down 
 seemingly in a dent at the base of the giant, beetling clifEs. 
 The place was light, though the light seemed a kind of 
 veiled red, and to Lucy always ghastly. She could not 
 
 36 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 have been joyous with that river moaning before her, 
 even if it had been up on a level, in the clear and open day. 
 As a little girl eight years old she had conceived a terror 
 and hatred of this huge, jagged rent so full of red haze 
 and ptuple smoke and the thunder of rushing waters. 
 And she had never wholly outgrown it. The joy of the 
 sun and wind, the rapture in the boundless open, the 
 sweetness in the sage — ^these were not possible here. 
 Something mighty and ponderous, heavy as those colossal 
 cliffs, weighted down her spirit. The voice of the river 
 drove out any dream. Here was the incessant frowning 
 presence of destructive forces of nature. And the ford 
 was associated with catastrophe — to sheep, to horses 
 and to men. 
 
 Lucy rode across the bar to the shore where the Indians 
 were loading the sheep into an immense rude flatboat. 
 As the sheep were frightened, the loading was no easy task. 
 Their bleating could be heard above the roar of the river. 
 Bostil's boatmen, Shugrue and Somers, stood knee-deep 
 in the quicksand of the bar, and their efforts to keep free- 
 footed were as strenuous as their handling of the sheep. 
 Presently the flock was all crowded on board, the Indians 
 followed, and then the boatmen slid the unwieldy craft 
 ofiE the sand-bar. Then, each manning a clumsy oar, 
 they pulled up-stream. Along shore were whirling, slow 
 eddies, and there rowing was possible. Out in that swift 
 current it would have been folly to try to contend with 
 it, let alone make progress. The method of crossing was 
 to row up along the shore as far as a great cape of rock 
 jutting out, and there make into the current, and while 
 drifting down puU hard to reach the landing opposite. 
 Heavily laden as the boat was, the chances were not 
 wholly in favor of a successful crossing. 
 
 Lucy watched the slow, laborious struggle of the boat- 
 men with the heavy oars until she suddenly remembered 
 the object of her visit down to the ford. She appeared 
 to be alone on her side of the river. At the landing op- 
 
 37 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 posite, however, were two men; and presently Lucy recog- 
 nized Joel Creel and his father. A second glance showed 
 Indians with bxirros, evidently waiting for the boat. 
 Joel Creech jumped into a skiff and shoved off. The elder 
 man, judging by his motions, seemed to be trying to pre- 
 vent his son from leaving the shore. But Joel began 
 to row up-stream, keeping close to the shore. Lucy 
 watched him. No doubt he l^d seen her and was coming 
 across. Either the prospect of meeting him or the idea 
 of meeting him there in the place where she was never 
 herself made her want to ttim at once and ride back 
 home. But her stubborn sense of fairness overruled that. 
 She would hold her groimd solely in the hope of persuad- 
 ing Joel to be reasonable. She saw the big flatboat sweep 
 into line of sight at the same time Joel turned into the 
 current. But while the larger craft drifted slowly the 
 other way, the smaller one came swiftly down and across. 
 Joel swept out of the current into the eddy, rowed across 
 that, and slid the skiff up on the sand-bar. Then he 
 stepped out. He was bareheaded and barefooted, but 
 it was not that which made him seem a stranger to Lucy. 
 
 "Are you lookin' fer me?" he shouted. 
 
 Lucy waved a hand for him to come up. 
 
 Then he approached. He was a tall, lean young man, 
 stoop-shoToldered and bow-legged from much riding, with 
 sallow, freckled face, a thin fuzz of beard, weak mouth arid 
 chin, and eyes remarkable for their small size and pierc- 
 ing quality and different color. For one was gray and 
 the other was hazel. There was no scar on his face, but 
 the irregularity of his features reminded one who knew 
 that he had once been kicked in the face by a horse. 
 
 Creech came up hurriedly, in an eager, wild way that 
 made Lucy suddenly pity him. He did not seem to 
 remember that the staUion had an antipathy for him. 
 But Lucy, if she had forgotten, would have been reminded 
 by Sarchedon's action. 
 
 "Look out, Joel!" she called,' and she gave the black's 
 
 38 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 head a jerk. Sarchedon went up with a snort and came 
 down pounding the sand. Quick as an Indian Lucy was 
 out of the saddle. 
 
 "Lemme'yottr quirt," said Joel, showing his teeth like 
 a wolf. 
 
 "No. I wouldn't let you hit Sarch. You beat him 
 once, and he's never forgotten," replied Lucy. 
 
 The eye of the horse and the noan met and clashed, 
 and there was a hostile tension in their attitudes. Then 
 Lucy dropped the bridle and drew Joel over to a huge 
 drift-log, half buried in the sand. Here she sat down, but 
 Joel remained standing. His gaze was now all the 
 stranger for its wistfulness. Lucy was quick to catch 
 a subtle difEerence in him, but she could not teU wherein 
 it lay. 
 
 "What 'd you want?" asked Joel. 
 
 "I've heard a lot of things, Joel," replied Lucy, trpng 
 to think of just what she wanted to say. 
 
 "Reckon you have," said Joel, dejectedly, and then he 
 sat down on the log and dug holes in the sand with his 
 bare feet. 
 
 Lucy had never before seen him look tired, and it seemed 
 that some of the healthy brown of his cheeks had thinned 
 out. Then Lucy told him, guardedly, a few of the rumors 
 she had heard. 
 
 "AH thet you say is nothin' to what's happened," he 
 replied, bitterly. "Them riders mocked the Ufe an' soul 
 out of me." 
 
 "But, Joel, you shouldn't be so — so touchy," said 
 Lucy, earnestly. "After all, the joke was on you. Why 
 didn't you take it like a man?" 
 
 "But they knew you stole my clothes," he protested. 
 
 " Suppose they did. That wasn't much to care about. 
 If you hadn't taken it so hard they'd have let up on 
 you." 
 
 ".Mebbe I might have stood that. But they taunted 
 me with bein' — ^loony about you." 
 
 39 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Joel spoke huskily. There was no doubt that he had 
 been deeply hurt, Lucy saw tears in his eyes, and her 
 first impulse was to put a hand on his and tell him how 
 sorry she was. But she desisted. She did not feel at 
 her ease with Joel. 
 
 "What'd you and Van fight about?" she asked, pres- 
 ently. 
 
 Joel htmg his head. "I reckon I ain't a-goin' to tell 
 you." 
 
 "You're ashamed of it?" 
 
 Joel's silence answered that. 
 
 "You said something about me?" Lucy could not re- 
 sist her curiosity, back of which was a little heat. "It 
 must have been — bad — else Van wouldn't have struck 
 you." 
 
 "He hit me — ^he knocked me flat," passionately said 
 Joel. 
 
 "And you drew a gun on him?" 
 
 " I did, an' like a fool I didn't wait tiU I gpt up. Then 
 he kicked me! . . . Bostil's Ford will never be big enough 
 fer me an' Van now." 
 
 "Don't talk foolish. You won't fight with Van. . . . 
 Joel, maybe you deserved what you got. You say some 
 — ^some rude things." 
 
 "I only said I'd pay you back," burst out Joel. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "I swore I'd lay fer you — an' steal your clothes — so 
 you'd have to run home naked." 
 
 There was indeed something lacking in Joel, but it 
 was not sincerity. . His hurt had rankled deep and his 
 voice trembled with indignation. 
 
 "But, Joel, I don't go swimming in spring-holes," pro- 
 tested Lucy, divided between amusement and annoyance. 
 
 "I meant it, anyhow," said Joel, doggedly. 
 
 "Are you absolutely honest? Is that all you said to 
 provoke Van?" 
 
 "It's all, Lucy, I swear." 
 
 40 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 She believed him, and saw the unfortunate circumstance 
 more than ever her fault. "I'm sorry, Joel. I'm much 
 to blame. I shouldn't have lost my temper and played 
 that trick with your clothes. ... If you'd only had sense 
 ■enough to stay out till after dark! But no use crying 
 •over spilt milk. Now, if you'll do youi share I'll do 
 mine. I'll tell the boys I was to blame. I'll persuade 
 them to let you alone. I'll go to Muncie — " 
 
 "No you won't go cryin' small fer me!" blurted out 
 Joel. 
 
 Lucy was surprised to see pride in him. "Joel, I'll not 
 make it appear — " 
 
 "You'll not say one word about me to any one," he went 
 on, with the blood beginning to darken his face. And 
 now he faced her. How strange the blaze in his differ- 
 ently colored eyes! "Lucy Bostil, there's been thet done 
 an' said to me which I'll never forgive. I'm no good in 
 Bostil's Ford. Mebbe I never was much. But I could 
 get a job when I wanted it an' credit when I needed it. 
 Now I can't get nothin'. I'm no good! . , . I'm no good! 
 An' it's your fault!" 
 
 "Oh, Joel, what can I do?" cried Lucy. 
 
 "I reckon there's only one way you can square me," 
 he replied, suddenly growing pale. But his eyes were 
 like flint. He certainly looked to be in possession of all 
 his wits. 
 
 "How?" queried Lucy, sharply. 
 
 " You can marry me. Thet '11 show thet gang! An' it '11 
 square me. Then I'll go back to work an' I'll stick. 
 Thet's all, Lucy Bostil." 
 
 Manifestly he was laboring under strong suppressed 
 agitation. That moment was the last of real strength 
 and dignity ever shown by Joel Creech. 
 
 "But, Joel, I can't marry you — even if I am to blame 
 for your ruin," said Lucy, simply. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because I don't love you." 
 
 41 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "I reckon thet won't make any difference, if you don't 
 love some one else." 
 
 Lucy gazed blankly at him. He began to shake, and 
 his eyes grew wild. , She rose from the log. 
 
 "Do you love anybody else?" he asked, passionately. 
 
 "None of your business!" retorted Lucy. Then, at a 
 strange darkening of his face, an aspect unfamiliar to her, 
 she grew suddenly frightened. 
 
 "It's Van!" he said, thickly. 
 
 "Joel, you're a fool!" 
 
 That only infuriated him, 
 
 "So they all say. An' they got my old man believin' 
 it, too. Mebbe I am. . . . But I'm a-goin' to kill Van!" 
 
 "No! No! Joel, what are you saying? I don't love 
 Van. I don't care any more for him than for any other 
 rider — or — or you." 
 
 "Thet's a lie, Lucy Bostil!" 
 
 "How dare you say I lie?" demanded Lucy. "I've 
 a mind to turn my back on you. I'm trying to make up 
 for my blunder and you — 'you insult me!" 
 
 "You talk sweet . . . but talk isn't enough. You made 
 me no-good. . . . Will you marry me?" 
 
 "I will not!" And Lucy, with her blood up, could not 
 keep contempt out of voice and look, and she did not 
 care. That was the first time she had ever shown any- 
 thing approaching ridicule for Joel. The effect was re- 
 markable. Like a lash upon a raw wound it made him 
 writhe; but more significant to Lucy was the sudden 
 convulsive working of his features and the wildness of 
 his eyes. Then she turned her back, not from contempt. 
 Out to hurry away from him. 
 
 He leaped after her and grasped her with rude hands. 
 
 "Let me go!" cried Lucy, standing perfectly motionless. 
 The hard clutch of his fingers roused a fierce, hot anger. 
 
 Joel did not heed her command. He was forcing her 
 back. He talked incoherently. One glimpse of his face 
 added terror to Lucy's fury. 
 
 42 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Joel, you're out of your head!" she cried, and she 
 began to wrench and writhe out of his grasp. Then en- 
 sued a short, sharp struggle. Joel could not hold Lucy, 
 but he tore her blouse into shreds. It seemed to Lucy 
 that he did that savagely. She broke free from him, and 
 he lunged at her again. With aU her strength she lashed 
 his face with the heavy leather quirt. That staggered 
 him. He almost fell. 
 
 Lucy bounded to Sarchedon. In a flash she was up 
 in the saddle. Joel was running toward her. Blood on 
 his face! Blood on his hands! He was not the Joel 
 Creech she Imew. 
 
 "Stop!" cried Lucy, fiercely. "I'll run you down!" 
 
 The big black plunged at a touch of spur and came down 
 quivering, ready to bolt. 
 
 Creech swerved to one side. His face was lividly white 
 except where the bloody welts crossed it. His jaw seemed 
 to hang loosely, making speech difficult. 
 
 "Jest fer — ^thet — " he panted, hoarsely, "I'll lay fer 
 you — an' I'll strip you — an' I'll tie you on a hoss — an' 
 I'll drive you naked through Bostil's Ford!" 
 
 Lucy saw the utter futility of all her good intentions. 
 Something had snapped in Joel Creech's mind. And in 
 hers kindness had given precedence to a fury she did not 
 know was In her. For the second time she touched a 
 spur to Sarchedon. He leaped out, flashed past Creech, 
 and thundered up the road. It was all Lucy could do 
 to break his gait at the first steep rise. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THREE wild-horse hunters made camp one night be- 
 side a little stream in the Sevier Valley, five hundred 
 miles, as a crow flies, from Bostil's Ford. 
 
 These hunters had a poor outfit, excepting, of course, 
 their horses. They were young men, rangy in build, lean 
 and hard from life in the saddle, bronzed like Indians, 
 still-faced, and keen^eyed. Two of them appeared to be 
 tired out, and lagged at the camp-fire duties. When the 
 meager meal was prepared they sat, cross-legged, before 
 ■a ragged tarpaulin, eating and drinking in silence. 
 
 The sky in the west was rosy, slowly darkening. The 
 valley floor billowed away, ridged and cut, growing gray 
 and purple and dark. Walls of stone, pink with the last 
 rays of "the setting sun, inclosed the valley, stretching 
 away toward a long, low, black mountain range. 
 
 The place was wild, beautiful, open, with something 
 nameless that made the desert different from any other 
 country. It was, perhaps, a loneliness of vast stretches 
 of valley and stone, clear to the eye, even after sunset. 
 That black mountain range, which looked close enough 
 to ride to before dark, was a hundred miles distant. 
 
 The shades of night fell swiftly, and it was dark by 
 the time the hunters finished the meal. Then the camp- 
 fire had burned low. One of the three dragged branches 
 of dead cedars and replenished the fire. Quickly it 
 flared up, with the white flame and crackle characteristic 
 of dry cedar. The night wind had risen, moaning through 
 the gnarled, stunted cedars near by, and it blew the fra- 
 grant wood-smoke into the faces of the two himters, who 
 seemed too tired to move. 
 
 44 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "I reckon a pipe wotild help me make up my mind," 
 said one. 
 
 "Wal, Bill," replied the other, dryly, "your mind's 
 made up, else you'd not say smoke." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because there ain't three pipefuls of thet precious 
 tobacco left." 
 
 "Thet's one apiece, then. . . . Lin, come an' smoke the 
 last pipe with us." 
 
 The tallest of the three, he who had brought the fire- 
 wood, stood in the bright light of the blaze. He looked 
 the bom rider, light, lithe, powerful. 
 
 "Sure, I'll smoke," he replied. 
 
 Then, presently, he accepted the pipe tendered him, 
 and, sitting down beside the fire, he composed himself to 
 the enjoyment which his companions evidently con- 
 sidered worthy of a decision they had reached. 
 
 "So this smokin' means you both want to turn back?" 
 queried Lin, his sharp gaze glancing darkly bright in the 
 glow of the fire. 
 
 "Yep, we'll tttm back. An', Lordyl the relief I feel !" 
 replied one. 
 
 "We've been long comin' to it, Lin, an' thet was for 
 your sake," replied the other. 
 
 Lin slowly pulled at his pipe and blew out the smoke as 
 if reluctant to part with it. "Let's go on," he said, 
 quietly. 
 
 "No. I've had all I want of chasin' thet damn wild 
 stallion," returned Bill, shortly. 
 
 The other spread wide his hands and bent an expostu- 
 lating look upon the one called Lin. "We're two hun- 
 dred miles out," he said. "There's only a little flour left 
 in the bag. No coffee! Only a little salt! All the 
 bosses except your big Nagger are played out. We're 
 already in strange country. An' you know what .we've 
 heerd of this an' all to the south. It's all canons, an' 
 somewheres down there is thet awful canon none of oxu- 
 
 45 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 people ever seen. But we've heerd of it. An awful cut- 
 up country." ; 
 
 He finished with, a conviction that no one could say a 
 word against the common sense of his argument. Lin 
 \ras sUent, as if impressed. 
 
 BiU. raised a strong, lean, brown hand in a forcible 
 gesture. "We can't ketch Wildfire!" 
 
 That seemed to him, evidently, a more convincing argu- 
 ment than his comrade's. 
 
 "Bill is sure right, if I'm wrong, which I ain't," went 
 on the other. "Lin, we've trailed thet wild stallion for 
 six weeks. Thet's the longest chase he ever had. He's 
 left his old range. He's cut out his band, an' left them, 
 one by one. We've tried every trick we know on him. 
 An' he's too smart for us. There's a hoss! Why, Lin, 
 we're all but gpne to the dogs chasin' Wildfire. An' now 
 I'm done, an' I'm glad of it." 
 
 There was another short silence, which presently BiU 
 opened his lips to break. 
 
 "Lin, it makes me sick to quit. I ain't denyin' thet 
 for a long time Tve had hopes of ketchin' Wildfire. He's 
 the grandest hoss I ever laid eyes on. I reckon no man, 
 onless he was an Arab, ever seen as good a one. But now, 
 thet's neither here nor there. . . . We've got to hit the 
 back trail." 
 
 "Boys, I reckon I'll stick to Wildfire's tracks," said 
 Lin, in the same quiet tone. 
 
 Bill swore at him, and the other hunter grew excited 
 and concerned. 
 
 "Lin Slone, are you gone plumb crazy ovefr thet red 
 hoss?" ^ 
 
 "I — ^reckon," replied Slone. The working of his throat 
 as he swallowed could be plainly seen by his companions. 
 
 BUI looked at his ally as if to confirm some sudden 
 understanding between them. They took Slone's atti- 
 tude gravely and they wagged their heads doubtfully, 
 as they might have done had Slone just acquaint^ them 
 
 46 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 with a hopeless and deathless passion for a woman. It 
 was significant of the nature of riders that they accepted 
 his attitude and had consideration for his feelings. For 
 them the situation subtly changed. For weeks they had 
 been three wild-horse wranglers on a hard chase after a 
 valuable stallion. They had failed to get even close to 
 him. They had gone to the limit of their endurance and 
 of the outfit, and it was time to turn back. But Slone 
 had conceived that strange and rare longing for a horse — 
 a passion understood, if not shared, by all riders. And 
 they knew that he would catch Wildfire or die in the 
 attempt. From that moment their attitude toward 
 Slone changed as subtly as had come the knowledge of his 
 feeling. The gravity and gloom left their faces. It 
 seemed they might have regretted what they had said 
 about the futility of catching Wildfire. They did not 
 want Slone to see or feel the hopelessness of his task. 
 
 "I tell you, Lin," said BiU, "yotu: hoss Nagger's as 
 good as when we started." 
 
 "Aw, he's better," vouchsafed the other rider. "Nag- 
 ger needed to lose some weight. Lin, have you got an 
 extra set of shoes for him?" 
 
 "No fxill set. Only three left," replied Lin, soberly. 
 
 "Wal, thet's enough. You can keep Nagger shod. 
 An' mebbe thet red stallion will get sore feet an' go lame. 
 Then yoU'd stand a chance." 
 
 "But Wildfire keeps travelin' the valleys — the soft 
 ground," said Slone. 
 
 "No matter. He's leavin' the country, an' he's bound 
 to strike sandstone sooner or later. Then, by gosh! 
 mebbe he'll wear off them hoofs." 
 
 "Say, can't he ring bells offen the rocks?" exclaimed 
 Bm. "Oh, Lordy! what a hoss!" 
 
 "Boys, do you think he's leaviri' the country?" in- 
 quired Slone, anxiously. 
 
 "Sure he is," repHed Bill. "He ain't the first stallion 
 I've chased off the Sevier range. An' I know. It's a. 
 
 d.7 
 
WILDFIRE ' 
 
 stallion thet makes for new cotintry, when you push him 
 hard." 
 
 "Yep, Lia, he's sure leavin'," added the other com- 
 rade. "Why, he's traveled a bee-line for days! I'll bet 
 he's seen us many a time. Wildfire'§ about as smart as 
 any man. He was bom wild, an' his dam was bom wild, 
 an' there you have it. The wildest of all wild creatures — 
 a wild stallion, with the intelligence of a man! A grand 
 hoss, Lfin, but one thet '11 be hell, if you ever ketch him. 
 He has lolled stallions^ all over the Sevier range. A wild 
 stallion thet's a kiUer! I never liked him for thet. Could 
 he be broke?" 
 
 "I'll break him," said Lin Slone, grimly. "It's gettin' 
 him thet's the job. I've got patience to break a hoss. 
 But patience can't catch a streak of lightnin'." 
 
 " Nope; you're right," replied Bill. "If you have some 
 luck you'll get him — ^mebbe. If he wears out his feet, 
 or if you crowd him into a narrow canon, or run him into 
 a bad place where he can't get by you. Thet might hap- 
 pen. An' then, with Nagger, you stand a chance. Did 
 you ever tire thet hoss?" 
 
 "Not yet." 
 
 "An' how fur did you ever run him without a break? 
 Why, when we ketched thet sorrel last year I rode Nagger 
 myself — thirty miles, most at a hard gallop. An' he 
 never turned a hair!" 
 
 "I've beat thet," replied Lia. "He could run hard 
 fifty miles — ^mebbe more. Honestly, I never seen him 
 tired yet. If only he was fast!" 
 
 "Wal, Nagger ain't so dumed slow", come to think of 
 thet," replied Bill, with a grunt. "He'g^od enough for 
 you not to want another hoss." t 
 
 "Lin, you're goin' to wear out Wildfire, an' then trap 
 him somehow — ^is thet the plan?" asked the other com- 
 rade. 
 
 "I haven't any plan. I'll just trail him, like a cougar 
 trails a deer." 
 
 ^8 ,■ 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Lin, if Wildfire gives you the slip he'll have to fly. 
 You've got the best eyes for tracks of any wrangler in 
 Utah." 
 
 Slone accepted the compliment with a fleeting, doubt- 
 ful smile on his dark face. He did not reply, and no 
 more was said by his comrades. They rolled with backs 
 to the fire. Slone put on more wood, for the keen wind 
 was cold and cutting; and then he lay down, his head in 
 his saddle, with a goatskin under him and a saddle- 
 blanket over him. 
 
 AH three were soon asleep. The wind whipped the sand 
 and ashes and smoke over the sleepers. Coyotes barked 
 from near in darkness, and from the valley ridge came 
 the faint mourn of a htinting wolf. The desert night 
 grew darker and colder. 
 
 The Stewart brothers were wild-horse hunters for the 
 sake of trades and occasional sales. But Lin Slone never 
 traded nor sold a horse he had captured. The excitement 
 of the game, and the lure of the desert, and the love of a 
 horse were what kept him at the profitless work. His 
 type was rare in the uplands. 
 
 These were the early days of the settlement of Utah, 
 and only a few of the hardiest and most adventurous 
 pioneers had penetrated the desert in the southern part 
 of that vast upland. And with them came some of that 
 wild breed of riders to which Slone and the Stewarts 
 belonged. Horses were really more important and neces- 
 sary than men; and this singular fact gave these lonely 
 riders a calling. 
 
 Before the Spaniards came there were no horses in the 
 West. Those explorers left or lost horses all over the, 
 southwest. Many of them were Arabian horses of purest 
 blood. American explorers and travelers, at the outset 
 of the nineteenth century, encountered countless droves 
 of wild horses all over the plains. Across the Grand 
 Canon, however, wild horses were comparatively few iiii 
 
 49 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 number in the early days; and these had probably come 
 in by way of California. 
 
 The Stewarts and Slone had no established mode of 
 catching wild horses. The game had not developed fast 
 enough for that. Every chase of horse or drove was 
 different; and once in many attempts they met with 
 success. 
 
 A favorite method originated by the Stewarts was to 
 find a water-hole frequented by the band of horses or the 
 stallion wanted, and to build round this hole a corral with 
 an opening for the horses to get in. Then the hunters 
 would watch the trap at night, and if the horses went 
 in to drink, a gate was closed across the opening. Another 
 method of the Stewarts was to trail a coveted horse up 
 on a mesa or highland, places which seldom had more 
 than one trail of ascent and descent, and there block the 
 escape, and cut lines of cedars, into which the quarry 
 was run till captured. Still another method, discovered 
 by accident, was to shoot a horse lightly in the neck and 
 sting him. This last, called creasing, was seldom success- 
 ful, and for that matter in any method ten times as many 
 horses were killed as captured. 
 
 Lin Slone helped the Stewarts in their own way, but 
 lie had no especial liking for their tricks. Perhaps a few 
 remarkable captures of remarkable horses had spoiled 
 Slofie. He was always trying what the brothers claimed 
 to be impossible. He was a fearless rider, but he had the 
 fault of saving his motmt, and to kiU a wild horse was a 
 tragedy for him. He would much rather have hunted 
 alone, and he had been alone on the trail of the staUion 
 Wildfire when the Stewarts had joined him. 
 
 Lin Slone awoke next morning and rolled out of his 
 iDlanket at his usual early hou?. But he was not early 
 enough to say good-by to the Stewarts. They were gone. 
 
 The fact surprised him and somehow relieved him. 
 They had left him more than his share of the outfit, and 
 
 SO 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 perhaps that was why they had slipped off before dawn. 
 They knew him well enough to know that he would not 
 have accepted it. Besides, perhaps they felt a little 
 humiliation at abandoning a chase which he chose to 
 keep up. Anyway, they were gone, apparently without 
 breakfast. 
 
 The morning was clear, cool, with the air dark like that 
 before a storm, and in the east, over the steely wall of 
 stone, shone a redness growing brighter. 
 
 Slone looked away to the west, down the trail taken 
 by his comrades, but he saw nothing moving against that 
 cedar-dotted waste. 
 
 "Good-by," he said, and he spoke as if he was saying 
 good-by to more than comrades. 
 
 "I reckon I won't see Sevier Village soon again — an' 
 maybe never," he soliloquized. 
 
 There was no one to regret him, unless it was old 
 Mother Hall, who had been kind to him on those rare 
 occasions when he got out of the wilderness. Still, it was 
 with regret that he gazed away across the red valley to 
 the west. Slone had no home. His father and mother 
 had been lost in the massacre of a wagon-train by Indians, 
 and he had been one of the few saved and brought to 
 Salt Lake. That had happened when he was ten years 
 old. His life thereafter had been hard, and but for his 
 sturdy Texas training he might not have survived. The 
 last five years he had been a horse-himter in the wild 
 uplands of Nevada and Utah. 
 
 Slone turned his attention to the pack of supplies. 
 The Stewarts had divided the flour and the parched com 
 equally, and unless he was greatly mistaken they had 
 left him most of the coffee and all of the salt. 
 
 "Now I hold that decent of BiU an' Abe," said Slone, 
 regretfully. "But I could have got along without it 
 better 'n they could." 
 
 Then he swiftly set about kindling a fire and getting a 
 meal. In the midst of his task a sudden ruddy bright- 
 
 5 SI 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 ness fell around him. Lin Slone paused in his work to 
 look up. \ 
 
 The sun had risen over the eastern wall. 
 
 "Ah!" he said, and drew a deep breath. 
 
 The cold, steely, darkling sweep of desert had been 
 transformed. It was now a world of red earth and gold 
 rocks and purple sage, with everywhere the endless 
 straggling green cedars. A breeze whipped in, making 
 the fire roar softly. The sun felt warm on his cheek. 
 And at the moment he heard the whistle of his horse. 
 
 "Good old Nagger!" he said. "I shore won't have to 
 track you this mornin'." 
 
 Presently he went off into the cedars to find Nagger 
 and the mustang that he used to carry a pack. Nagger 
 was grazing in a little open patch among the trees, but 
 the pack-horse was missing. Slone seemed to know in 
 what direction to. go to find the trail, for he came upon 
 it very soon. The pack-horse wore hobbles, but he be- 
 longed to the class that could cover a great deal of ground 
 when hobbled. Slone did not expect the horse to go far, 
 considering that the grass thereabouts was good. But 
 in a wild-horse country it was not safe to give any horse 
 a chance. The call of his wild brethren was irresistible. 
 Slone, however, found the mustang standing quietly in 
 a clump of cedars, and, removing the hobbles, he mounted 
 and rode back to camp. Nagger caught sight of him 
 and came at his call. 
 
 This horse Nagger appeared as unique in his class as 
 Slone was rare among riders. Nagger seemed of several , 
 colors, though black predominated. His coat was shaggy, 
 almost woolly, Uke that of a sheep. He was huge, raw- 
 boned, knotty, long of body and long of leg, with the 
 head of a war charger. His build did not suggest speed. 
 There appeared to be something slow and ponderous 
 about himi similar to an elephant, with the same sugges- 
 tion of power and endurance. 
 
 Slone discarded the pack-saddle and bags. The latter 
 
 52 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 were almost empty. He roped the tarpaulin on the back 
 of the mustang, and, making a small bundle of his few 
 supplies, he tied that to the tarpaulin. His blanket he 
 used for a saddle-blanket on Nagger. Of the utensils 
 left by the Stewarts he chose a couple of small iron pans, 
 with long handles. The rest he left. In his saddle-bags 
 he had a few extia horseshoes, some nails, bullets for his 
 rifle, and a knife with a heavy blade. 
 
 "Not a rich outfit for a far country," he mused. Slone 
 did not talk very much, and when he did he addressed 
 Nagger and himself simultaneously. Evidently he ex- 
 pected a long chase, one from which he would not 
 return, and light as his outfit was it would grow too 
 heavy. 
 
 Then he mounted and rode down the. gradual slope, 
 facing the valley and the black, bold, flat mountain to 
 the southeajiSt. Some few hundred yards from camp he 
 halted Nagger and bent over in the saddle to scrutinize 
 the ground. 
 
 The clean-cut track of a horse showed in the bare, hard 
 sand. The hoof-marks were large, almost oval, perfect 
 in shape, and manifestly they were beautiful to Lin 
 Slone. He gazed at them for a long time, and then he 
 looked across the dotted red valley up the vast ridg>' 
 steps, toward the black plateau and beyond. It was the 
 look that an Indian gives to a strange country. Then 
 Slone slipped- off the saddle and knelt to scrutinize the 
 horse tracks. A little sand had blown into the depres- 
 sions, and some of it was wet and some of it was dry. 
 He took his time about examining it, and he even tried 
 gently blowing other sand into tiie tracks, to compare 
 that with what was already there. Finally he stood up 
 and addressed Nagger. 
 
 "Reckon we won't have to argue with Abe an' Bill this 
 mornin'," he said, with satisfaction. "Wildfire made 
 that track yesterday, before sun-up." 
 
 Thereupon Slone remounted and put Nagger to a trot. 
 
 S3 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 The pack-horse followed with an alacrity that showed he^ 
 had no desire for loneliness. 
 
 As straight as a bee-line Wildfire had left a trail down 
 into the floor of the valley. He had not stopped to graze, 
 and he had not looked for water. Slone had hoped to 
 find a water-hole in one of the deep washes in the red earth, 
 but if there had been any water there Wildfire would 
 have scented it. He had not had a drink for three days 
 that Slone knew of. And Nagger had not drunk for forty 
 hours. Slone had a canvas water-bag hanging over the 
 pommel, but it was a habit of his to deny himself, as far 
 as possible, till his horse could drink also. Like an Ind- 
 ian, Slone ate and drank but little. 
 
 It took four hours of steady trotting to reach the 
 middle and bottom of that wide, flat valley. A network 
 of washes cut up the whole center of it, and they were all 
 as dry as bleached bone. To cross these Slone had only 
 to keep Wildfire's trail. And it was proof of Nagger's 
 quality that he did not have to veer from the stallion's 
 course. 
 
 It was hot dowiji in the lowland. The heat struck 
 up, reflected from the sand. But it was a March 
 sun, and no more than pleasant to Slone. The wind 
 rose, however, and blew dust and sand in the faces of 
 horse and rider. Except Hzards Slone did not see any 
 living things. 
 
 Miles of low greasewood and sparce yellow sage 
 led to the first almost imperceptible rise of the valley 
 floor on that side. The distant cedars beckoned to 
 Slone. He was not patient, because he was on the 
 trail of Wildfire; but, nevertheless, the hours seemed 
 short. 
 
 Slone had no past to think about, and the future held 
 nothing except a horse, and so his thoughts revolved the 
 possibilities connected with this chase of Wildfire. The 
 chase was hopeless in such country as he was traversing, 
 and if Wildfire chose to roam around valleys like this one 
 
 54 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Slone would fail utterly. But the stallion had long ago 
 left his band of horses, and then, one by one his favorite 
 consorts, and now he was alone, headed with unerring 
 instinct for wild, untrammeled ranges. He had been 
 used to the pure, cold water and the succulent grass of th© 
 cold desert uplands. Assvuredly he would not tarry in 
 such barren lands as these. 
 
 For Slone an ever-present and growing fascination lay 
 in Wildfire's dear, sharply defined tracks. It was as if 
 every hoof-mark told him something. Once, far up the 
 interminable ascent, he found on a ridge-top tracks show- 
 ing where Wildfire had halted and turned. 
 
 "Ha, Nagger!" cried Slone, exultingly. "Look there! 
 He's begun facin' about. He's wonderin' if we're still 
 aiter him. He's worried. . . . But we'll keep out of sight 
 — a day behind." 
 
 When Slone reached the cedars the sun was low down 
 in the west. He looked back across the fifty miles of 
 valley to the colored clifEs and walls. He seemed to be 
 above them now, and the cool air, with tang of cedar and 
 juniper, strengthened the impression that he had climbed 
 high. 
 
 A mile or more ahead of him rose a gray cliff with 
 breaks in it and a line of dark cedars or pinons on the 
 level rims. He believed these breaks to be the mouths 
 of canons, and so it turned out. Wildfire's trail led into 
 the mouth of a narrow canon with very steep and high 
 walls. Nagger snorted his perception of water, and the 
 mustang whistled. Wildfire's tracks led to a point tuider 
 the wall where a spring gushed forth. There were 
 mountain-lion and deer tracks also, as well as those of 
 smaller game. 
 
 Slone made camp here. The mustang was tired. But 
 Nagger, upon taking a long drink, rolled in the grass as 
 if he had just begun the trip. After eatiag, Slone took his 
 rifle and went out to look for deer. But there appeared 
 to be none at hand. He came across many lion tracks. 
 
 55 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 and saw, with apprehension, where one had taken Wild- 
 fire's trail. Wildfire had grazed up the canon, keeping 
 on and on, and he was likely to go miles in a night. Slone 
 reflected that as small as were his own chances of getting 
 Wildfire, they were still better than those of a mountain- 
 lion. Wildfire was the most cunning of all animals — 
 a wild stallion; his speed and endurance were incom- 
 parable; his scent as keen as those animals that relied 
 whoUy upon scent to warn them of danger, and as for 
 sight, it was Slone's belief that no hoofed creature, except 
 the mountain-sheep used to high altitudes, could see as 
 far as a wild horse. 
 
 It bothered Slone a little that he was getting into a 
 lion country. Nagger showed nervousness, something 
 unusual for him. Slone tied both horses with long halters 
 and stationed them on patches of thick grass. Then he 
 put a cedar stimip on the fire and went to sleep. Upon 
 awakening and going to the spring he was somewhat 
 chagrined to see that deer had come down to drink 
 early. Evidently they were ntmierous. A lion country 
 was always a deer country, for the lions followed the 
 deer. 
 
 Slone was packed and saddled and on his way before 
 the sun reddened the canon wall. He walked the horses. 
 From time to time he saw signs of Wildfire's consistent 
 progress. The canon narrowed and the walls grew lower 
 and the grass increased. There was a decided ascent all 
 the time. Slone could find no evidence that the canon 
 had ever been traveled'*by hunters or Indians. The day 
 was pleasant and warm and stiU. Every once in a while 
 a little breath of wind would bring a fragrance of cedar 
 and pinon, and a sweet hint of pine and sage. At every 
 ttim he looked ahead, expecting to see the green or pine 
 and the gray of sage. Toward the middle of the after- 
 noon, coming to a place where Wildfire had taken to a 
 trot, he put Nagger to that gait, and by sundown had 
 worked up to where the canon was only a shallow ravine. 
 
 S6 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 And finally it turned once more, to lose itself in a level 
 where straggling pines stood high above the cedars, and 
 great, dark-green silver spruces stood above the pines. 
 And here were patches of sage, fresh and pungent, and 
 long reaches of bleached grass. It was the edge of a 
 forest. Wildfire's trail went on. Slone came at length 
 to a group of pines, and here he found the remains of a 
 camp-fire, and some flint arrow-heads. Indians had been 
 in there, probably having come from the opposite direc- 
 tion to Slone's. This encouraged him, for where Indians 
 could hunt so could he. Soon he was entering a forest 
 where cedars and pifions and pines began to grow thickly. 
 Presently he came upon a faintly defined trail, just a dim, 
 dark line even to an experienced eye. But it was a trail, 
 and Wildfire had taken it. 
 
 Slone halted for the night. The air was cold. And 
 the dampness of it gave hitn an idea there were snow- 
 banks somewhere not far distant. The dew was already 
 heavy on the grass. He hobbled the horses and put a 
 bell on Nagger. A bell might frighten lions that had 
 never heard one. Then he built a fire and cooked his 
 meal. 
 
 It had been long since he had camped high up among 
 the pines. The sough of the wind pleased him, like music. 
 There had begun to be prospects of pleasant experience 
 along with the toil of chasing Wildfire. He was entering 
 new and strange and beautiful country. How far might 
 the chase take him? He did not care. He was not 
 sleepy, but even if he had been it developed that he must 
 wait till the coyotes ceased their barking round his camp- 
 fire. They came so close that he saw their gray shadows 
 in the gloom. But presently they wearied of yelping at 
 him and went away. After that the silence, broken only 
 by the wind as it rpared and lulled, seemed beautiful to 
 Slone. He lost completely that sense of vague regret 
 which had remained with him, and he forgot the Stewarts. 
 And suddenly he felt absolutely free, alone, with nothing 
 
 57 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 behind to remember, with wild, thrilling, nameless life 
 before him. Just then the long mourn of a timber wolf 
 wailed in with the wind. Seldom had he heard the cry 
 of one of those night wanderers. There was nothing like 
 it — ^no sound like it to fix in the lone camper's heart the 
 great solitude and the wild. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 IN the early morning when all was gray and the big, ' 
 dark pines were shadowy specters, Slone was awakened 
 by the cold. His hands were so numb that he had diifi- 
 culty starting a fire. He stood over the blaze, warming 
 them. The air was nipping, clear and thin, and sweet 
 with frosty fragrance. 
 
 Daylight came while he was in the midst of his morn- 
 ing meal. A white frost covered the ground and crackled 
 under his feet as he went out to bring in the horses. He 
 saw fresh deer tracks. Then he went back to camp for 
 his rifle. Keeping a sharp lookout for game, he con-j 
 tinued his search for the horses. 
 
 The forest was open and park-like. There were no 
 fallen trees or evidences of fire. Presently he came to a 
 wide glade in the midst of which Nagger and the pack- 
 mustang were grazing with a herd of deer. The size of 
 the latter amazed Slone. The deer he had hunted back 
 on the Sevier range were much smaller than these. 
 Evidently these were mule deer, closely allied to the elk. 
 They were so tame they stood facing him curiously, with 
 long ears erect. It was sheer murder to kill a deer stand- 
 ing and watching like that, but Slone was out of meat 
 and hungry and facing a long, hard trip. He shot a 
 buck, which leaped spasmodically away, trying to follow 
 the herd, and fell at the edge of the glade. Slone cut out 
 a haunch, and then, catching the horses, he returned to 
 camp, where he packed and saddled, and at once rode 
 out on the dim trail. 
 
 The wildness of the cotmtry he was entering was evi- 
 
 59 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 dent in the fact that as he passed the glade where he had 
 shot the deer a few minutes before, there were coyotes 
 quarreling over the carcass. 
 
 Slone could see ahead and on each side several hundred 
 yards, and presently he ascertained that the forest floor 
 was not so level as he had supposed. He had entered a 
 valley or was traversing a wide, gently sloping pass. He 
 went through thickets of juniper, and had to go around 
 clumps of quaking asp. The pines grew larger and farther 
 apart. Cedars and pinons had been left behind, and he 
 had met with no silver spruces after leaving camp. Prob- 
 ably that point was the height of a divide. There were 
 banks of snow in some of the hollows on the north side. 
 Evidently the snow had very recently melted, and it was 
 evident also that the depth of snow through here had 
 been fully ten feet, judging from the mutilation of the 
 juniper-trees where the deer, standing on the hard, frozen 
 crust, had browsed upon the branches. 
 
 The quiet of the forest thrilled Slone. And the only 
 movement was tlie occasional gray flash of a deer or 
 coyote across a glade. No birds of any species crossed 
 Slone's sight. He came, presently, upon a lion track in 
 the trail, made probably a day before. Slone grew curi- 
 ous about it, seeing how it held, as he was holding, to 
 Wildfire's tracks. After a mile or so he made sure the 
 lion had been trailing the stallion, and for a second he felt 
 a cold contraction of his heart. Already he loved Wild- 
 fire, and by virtue of all this toil of travel considered the 
 wild horse his property. 
 
 "No lion could ever get close to Wildfire," he solilo- 
 quized, with a short laugh. Of that he was absolutely 
 certain. 
 
 The sun rose, melting the frost, and a breath of warm 
 air, laden with the scent of pine, moved heavily under 
 the huge, yellow trees. Slone passed a point where the 
 remains of an old camp-fire and a pile of deer antlers 
 were further proof that Indians visited this plateau to 
 
 60 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 hunt. From this camp broader, more deeply defined trails 
 led away to the south and east. Slone kept to the east 
 trail, in which Wildfire's tracks and those of the lion 
 showed clearly. It was about the middle of the forenoon 
 when the tracks of the stallion and Uon left the trail to 
 lead up a little draw where grass grew thick. Slone fol- 
 lowed, reading the signs of Wildfire's progress, and the 
 action of his pursuer, as well as if he had seen them. Here 
 the stallion had plowed into a snow-bank, eating a hole 
 two feet deep; then he had grazed around a Uttle; then 
 on and on; there his splendid tracks were deep in the 
 soft earth. Slone knew what to expect when the track 
 of the lion veered from those of the horse, and he followed 
 the lion tracks. The ground was soft from the late melt- 
 ing of snow, and Nagger sunk deep. The lion left a plain 
 track. Here he stole steadily along; there he left many 
 tracks at a point where he might have halted to make 
 sure of his scent. He was circling on the trail of the 
 stallion, with cunning intent of ambush. The end of this 
 slow, careful stalk of the lion, as told in his tracks, came 
 upon the edge of a knoll where he had crouched to watch 
 and wait. From this perch he had made a magnificent 
 spring — Slone estimating it to be forty feet — ^but he had 
 missed the stallion. There were Wildfire's tracks again, 
 slow and short, and then deep and sharp where in the 
 impetus of fright he had sprung out of reach. A second 
 leap of the lion, and then lessening bounds, and finally 
 an abrupt tirm from Wildfire's trail told the futility of 
 that stalk. Slone made certain that Wildfire was so 
 keen that as he grazed along he had kept to open ground. 
 
 Wildfire had run for a mile, then slowed down to a 
 trot, and he had circled to get back to the trail he had 
 left. Slone believed the horse was just so intelligent. 
 At any rate, Wildfire struck the trail again, and turned at 
 right angles to follow it. 
 
 Here the forest floor appeared perfectly level. Patches 
 of snow became frequent, and larger as Slone went on. 
 
 6i 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 At length the patches closed up, and soon extended as far 
 as he could see. It was soft, affording difficult travel. 
 Slone crossed hundreds of deer tracks, and the trail he was 
 on eventually became a deer runway. 
 
 Presentlyj far down one of the aisles between the great 
 pines Slone saw what appeared to be a yellow cliff, far 
 away. It puzzled him. And as he went on he receiyed 
 the impression that the forest dropped out of sight ahead. 
 Then the trees grew thicker, obstructing his view. Pres- 
 ently the trail became soggy and he had to help his horse. 
 The mustang floundered in the soft snow and earth. 
 Cedars and pinons appeared again, making travel stiU 
 more laborious. 
 
 All at once there came to Slone a strange consciousness 
 of light and wind and space and void. On the instant 
 Ms horse halted with a snort. Slone quickly looked up. 
 Had he come to the end of the world? An abyss, a 
 canon, yawned beneath him, beyond all comparison in its 
 greatness. His keen eye, educated to desert distance 
 and dimension, swept down and across, taking in the 
 tremendous truth, before it staggered his comprehension. 
 But a second sweeping glance, slower, becoming intoxi- 
 cated with what it beheld, saw gigantic cliff-steps and 
 yellow slopes dotted with cedars, leading down to clefts 
 filled with purple smoke, and these led on and on to a 
 ragged red world of rock, bare, shining, bold, uplifted in 
 mesa, dome, peak, and crag, clear and strange in the 
 morning light, still and sleeping like death. 
 
 This, then, was the great canon, which had seemed like 
 a hunter's fable rather than truth. Slone's sight dimmed, 
 blurring the spectacle, and he found that his eyes had 
 filled with tears. He wiped them away and looked 
 again and again, until he was confounded by the vastness 
 and the grandeiu: and the vague sadness of the scene. 
 Nothing he had ever looked at had affected him Uke this 
 canon, although the Stewarts had tried to prepare him 
 for it. 
 
 6e 
 
WILDFiKJi 
 
 It was the horse-hunter's passion that reminded him 
 of his purstiit. The deer trail led down through a 
 break in the wall. Only a few rods of it could be seen. 
 This trail was passable, even though choked with snow. 
 But the depth beyond this wall seemed to fascinate Slone 
 and hold him back, used as he was to desert trails. Then 
 the clean mark of Wildfire's hoof brought back the old thrill, i 
 
 "This place fits you, Wildfire," muttered Slone, dis-| 
 mounting. 
 
 He started down, leading Nagger. The mustang fol- 1 
 lowed. Slone kept to the wall side of the trail, fearing j 
 the horses might slip. The snow held firmly at first and \ 
 Slone had no trouble. The gap in the rim-rock widened | 
 to a slope thickly grown over with cedars and pifions ; 
 and manzanita. This growth made the descent more 
 laborious, yet afforded means at least for Slone to go down ; 
 with less danger. There was no stopping. Once started, 
 the horses had to keep on. Slone saw the impossibility 
 of ever climbing out while that snow was there. The 
 trail zigzagged down and down. Very soon the yellow 
 wall hung tremendously over him, straight up. The snow 
 became thinner and softer. The horses began to slip. ' 
 ; They slid on their hatmches. Fortunately the slope grew 
 [ less steep, and Slone could see below where it reached out i 
 to comparatively level ground. Still, a mishap might yet ' 
 occur. Slone kept as close to Nagger as possible, helping ' 
 him whenever he could do it. The mustang sUpped, 
 rolled over, and then slipped past Slone, went down 
 the slope to bring up in a cedar. Slone worked down 
 to him and extricated him. Then the huge Nagger be- 
 gan to slide. Snow and loose rock slid with him, and so 
 did Slone. The little avalanche stopped of its own ac- 
 cord, and then Slone dragged Nagger on down and down, 
 presently to come to the end of the steep descent. Slone 
 looked up to see that he had made shortworkof a thousand- 
 foot slope. Here cedars and pifions grew thickly enough 
 to make a forest. The snow thinned out to patches, and 
 
 63 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 then failed. But the going remained bad for a while as 
 the horses sank deep in a soft red earth. This eventually 
 grew more solid and finally dry. Slone worked out of the 
 cedars to what appeared a grassy plateau inclosed by 
 the great green-and-white slope with its yellow wall over- 
 hanging, and distant mesas and cliffs. Here his view 
 was restricted. He was down on the first bench of the 
 great canon. And there was the deer trail, a well-worn 
 path keeping to the edge of the slope. Slone came to a 
 deep cut in the earth, and the trail headed it, where it 
 began at the last descent of the slope. It was the source 
 of a canon. He could look down to see the bare, worn 
 rock, and a hundred yards from where he stood the earth 
 was ' washed from its rims and it began to show depth 
 and something of that ragged outline which told of vio- 
 lence of flood. The trail headed many canons like this, 
 all running down across this bench, disappearing, drop- 
 ping invisibly. The trail swung to the left under the great 
 slope, and then presently it climbed to a higher bench. 
 Here were brush and grass and huge patches of sage, 
 so pungent that it stung Slone's nostrils. Then he went 
 down again, this time to come to a clear brook lined by 
 willows. Here the horses drank long and Slone refreshed 
 himself. The sun had grown hot. There was fragrance 
 of flowers he could not see and a low murmur of a waterfall 
 that was likewise invisible. For most of the time his view 
 was shut off, but occasionally he reached a point where 
 through some break he saw towers gleaming red in the 
 sun. A strange place, a place of silence, and smoky veils 
 in the distance. Time passed swiftly. Toward the wan- 
 ing of the afternoon he began to climb to what appeared 
 to be a saddle of land, connecting the canon wall on the 
 left with a great plateau, gold-rimmed and pine-fringed, 
 rising more and more in his way as he advanced, At 
 sunset Slone was more shut in than for several hours. 
 He could teU the time was stmset by the golden light on 
 the cliff wall again overhanging him. The slope was 
 
 64 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 gradual up to this pass to the saddle, and upon coming 
 to a spring, and the first pine-trees, he decided to halt 
 for camp. The mustang was almost exhausted. 
 
 Thereupon he hobbled the horses in the luxuriant grass 
 round the spring, and then unrolled his pack. Once as 
 dusk came stealing down, while he was eating his meal, 
 Nagger whistled in fright. Slone saw a gray, pantherish 
 form gliding away into the shadows. He took a quick 
 shot at it, but missed. 
 
 "It's a lion country, all right," he said. And then he 
 set about building a big fire on the other side of the grassy 
 plot, so to have the horses between fires. He cut all the 
 venison into thin strips, and spent an hour roasting them. 
 Then he lay down to rest, and he said: "Wonder where 
 Wildfire is to-night? Am I closer to him? Where's he 
 headin' for?" 
 
 The night was warm and still. It was black near the 
 huge cliff, and overhead velvety blue, with stars of white 
 fire. It seemed to him that he had become more thought- 
 ful and observing of the aspects of his wild environment, 
 and he felt a welcome consciousness of loneliness. Then 
 sleep came to him and the night seemed short. In the 
 gray dawn he arose refreshed. 
 
 The horses were restive. Nagger snorted a welcome. 
 Evidently they had passed an uneasy night. Slone found 
 lion tracks at the spring and in sandy places. Presently 
 he was on his way up to the notch between the great wall 
 and the plateau. A growth of thick scrub-oak made 
 travel difficult. It had not appeared far up to that 
 saddle, but it was far. There were straggling pine-trees 
 and huge rocks that obstructed his gaze. But once up 
 he saw that the saddle was only a narrow ridge, curved 
 to slope up on both sid^. 
 
 Straight before Slone and under him opened the cafionj 
 blazing and glorious along the peaks and ramparts, where 
 the rising sun struck, misty and smoky and shadowy 
 down in those mysterious depths. 
 
 65 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 It took an effort not to keep on gazing. But Slone 
 turned to the grim business of his pursuit. The trail he 
 saw leading down had been made by Indians. It was 
 used probably once a year by them; and also by wild 
 animals, and it was exceedingly steep and rough. Wild- 
 fire had paced to and fro along the narrow ridge of that 
 saddle, making many tracks, before he had headed down 
 again. Slone imagined that the great stallipn had been 
 daunted by the tremendous chasm, but had finally faced 
 it, meaning to put this obstacle between hitn and his pur- 
 suers. It never occurred to Slone to attribute less in- 
 telligence to Wildfire than that. So, dismounting, Slone 
 took Nagger's bridle and started down. The mustang 
 with the pack was reluctant. He snorted and whistled 
 and pawed the earth. But he would not be left alone, so 
 he followed. 
 
 The trail led down under cedars that fringed a precipice. 
 Slone was aware of this without looking. He attended 
 only to the trail and to his horse. Only an Indian could 
 have picked out that course, and it was cruel to put a 
 horse to it. But Nagger was powerful, sure-footed, and 
 he would go anywhere that Slone led him. Gradually 
 Slone worked down and away from the bulging rim-wall., 
 It was hardj rough work, and risky because it could not 
 be accomplished slowly. Brush and rocks, loose shale 
 and weathered slope, long, dusty inclines of yellow 
 earth, and jtunbles of stone — these made bad going for 
 miles of slow, zigzag trail down out of the cedars. Then 
 the trail entered what appeared to be a ravine. 
 
 That ravine became a canon. At its head it was a dry 
 wash, full of gravel and rocks. It began to cut deep into 
 the bowels of the earth. It shut out sight of the sur- 
 rounding walls and peaks. Water appeared from under a 
 cliff and, augmented by other springs, became a brook. 
 Hot, dry, and jjarren at its beginning, this cleft became 
 cool, and shady and luxuriant with grass and flowers and 
 amber moss with silver blossoms. The rocks had changed 
 
 66 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 color from yellow to deep red. Four hours of tijming and 
 twisting, endlessly down and down, over boulders and 
 banks and every conceivable roughness of earth and rock, 
 finished the pack-mustang; and Slone mercifully left him 
 in a long reach of canon where grass and water never 
 failed. In this place Slone halted for the noon hour, 
 letting Nagger have his fill of the rich grazing. Nagger's 
 three days in grassy upland, despite the continuous travel 
 by day, had improved him. He looked fat, and Slone 
 had not yet caught the horse resting. Nagger was iron 
 to endure. Here Slone left all the outfit except what was 
 on his saddle, and the sack containing the few pounds of 
 meat and supplies, and the two utensils. This sack he 
 tied on the back of his saddle, and resumed his journey. 
 
 Presently he came to a place where Wildfire had doubled 
 on his trail and had turned up a side canon. The climb out 
 was hard on Slone, if not on Nagger. Once up, Slone found 
 himself upon a wide, barren plateau of glaring red rock 
 and clumps of greasewood and cactus. The plateau was 
 miles wide, shut in by great walls and mesas of colored 
 rock. The afternoon sun beat down fiercely. A blast 
 of wind, as if from a furnace, swept across the plateau, 
 and it was laden with red dust. Slone walked here, where 
 he could have ridden. And he made several miles of up- 
 and-down progress over this rough plateau. The great 
 walls of the opposite side of the canon loomed appreciably 
 closer. What, Slone wondered, was at the bottom of this 
 rent in the earth? The great desert river was down there, 
 of course, but he knew nothing of it. Would that turn 
 back Wildfire? Slone thought grimly how he had always 
 claimed Nagger to be part fish and part bird. Wildfire 
 was not going to escape. 
 
 By and by only isolated mescal plaiits with long, ydlow- 
 plumed spears broke the bare monotony of the plateau. 
 And Slone passed from red sand and gravel to a red, soft 
 shale, and from that to hard, red rock. Here Wildfire's 
 tracks were lost, the first time in seven weeks. But Slone 
 
 6 67 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 had his direction down that plateau with the cleavage 
 lines of canons to right and left. At times Slone found a 
 vestige of the old Indian trail, and this made him doubly 
 sure of being right. He did not need to have Wildfire's 
 tracks. He let Nagger pick the way, and the horse made 
 no mistake in finding the line of least resistance. But 
 that grew harder and harder. This bare rock, like a file, 
 would soon wear Wildfire's hoofs thin. And Slone re- 
 joiced. Perhaps somewhere down in this awful chasm 
 he and Nagger would have it out with the stallion. Slone 
 began to look far ahead, beginning to believe that he might 
 see Wildfire. Twice he had seen Wildfire, but only at 
 a distance. Then he had resembled a running streak of 
 fire, whence his name, which Slone had given him. 
 
 This bare region of rock began to be cut up into gullies. 
 It was necessary to head them or to climb in and out. 
 Miles of travel really meant little progress straight ahead. 
 But Slone kept on. He was hot and Nagger was hot, and 
 that made hard work easier. Sometimes on the wind 
 came a low thunder. Was it a storm or an avalanche 
 slipping or falUng water? He could not tell. The soimd 
 was significant and haunting. 
 
 Of one thing he was sure — that he could not have found 
 his back-trail. But he divined he was never to retrace 
 his steps on this journey. The stretch of broken plateau 
 before him grew wilder and bolder of outline, darker in 
 color, weirder in aspect, and progress across it grew slower, 
 more dangerous. There were many places Nagger should 
 not have been put to — ^where a slip meant a broken leg. 
 But Slone covild not turn back. And something besides an 
 indomitable spirit kept him going. Again the sound re- 
 sembling thunder assailed his ears, louder this time- 
 The plateau appeared to be ending in a series of great 
 capes or promontories. Slone feared he would soon 
 come out upon a prompntory from which he might see 
 the impossibility of further travel. He felt relieved down 
 in the gtffies, where he could not see far. He climbed 
 
 68 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 out of one, presently, from which there extended a narrow 
 ledge with a slant too perilous for any horse. He stepped 
 out upon that with far less confidence than Nagger. To 
 the right was a bulge of low wall, and a few feet to the 
 left a dark precipice. The trail here was faintly outlined, 
 and it was six inches wide and slanting as well. It seemed 
 endless to Slone, that ledge. He looked only down at 
 his feet and listened to Nagger's steps. The big horse 
 trod carefully, but naturally, and he did not slip. That 
 ledge extended in a long curve, turning slowly away from ' 
 the precipice, and ascending a little at the further end. 
 Slone drew a deep breath of relief when he led Nagger 
 up on level rock. 
 
 Suddenly a strange yet familiar sound halted Slone, as 
 if he had been struck. The wild, shrill, high-pitched, 
 piercing whistle of a stallion! Nagger neighed a blast in 
 reply and pounded the rock with his iron-shod hoofs. 
 With a thrill Slone looked ahead. 
 
 There, some few hundred yards distant, on a promon- 
 tory, stood a red horse. 
 
 "My Lord! . . . It's Wildfire!" breathed Slone, tensely. 
 
 He could not believe his sight. He imagined he was 
 dreaming. But as Nagger stamped and snorted defiance 
 Slone looked with fixed and keen gaze, and knew that 
 beautiful picture was no lie. 
 
 Wildfire was as red as fire. His long mane, wild in the 
 wind, was like a whipping, black-streaked flame. Sil- 
 houetted there against that canon background he seemed 
 gigantic, a demon horse, ready to plunge into fiery depths. 
 He was looking back over his shoulder, his head very 
 high, and every line of him was instinct with wildness. 
 'Again he sent out that shrill, air-splitting whistle. Slone 
 understood it to be a clarion call to Nagger. If Nagger 
 had been alone Wildfire would have killed him. The red 
 stallion was a killer of horses. All over the Utah ranges 
 he had left the trail of a murderer. Nagger understood 
 this, too, for he whistled back in rage and terror. It took 
 
 69 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 an iron arm to hold him. Then Wildfire plunged, appar- 
 ently down, and vanished from Slone's sight. 
 
 Slone hurried onward, to be blocked by a huge crack 
 ia the rocky plateau. This he had to head. And then 
 another and like obstacle checked his haste to reach -that 
 promontory. He was forced to go more slowly. Wild- 
 fire had been close only as to sight. And this was the 
 great canon that dwarfed distance and magnified prox- 
 imity. Climbing down and up, toiling on, he at last 
 learned patience. He had seen Wildfire at close range. 
 That was enough. So he plodded on, once more rettim- 
 ing to careful regard of Nagger. It took an hour of work 
 to reach the point where Wildfire had disappeared. 
 
 A promontory indeed it was, overhanging a valley a 
 thousand feet below. A white torrent of a stream wound 
 through it. There were lines of green cottonwoods fol- 
 lowing the winding course. Then Slone saw Wildfire 
 slowly crossing the flat toward the stream. He had gone 
 down that cliS, which to Slone looked perpendicular. 
 
 Wildfire appeared to be walking lame. Slone, making 
 sure of this, suffered a pang. Then, when the significance 
 of such lameness dawned upon him he whooped his wild 
 joy and waved his hat. The red stallion must have heard, 
 for he looked up. Then he went on again and waded 
 into the stream, where he drank long. When he started 
 to cross, the swift current drove him back in several places. 
 The water wreathed white around him. But evidently 
 it was not deep, and finally he crossed. From the other 
 side he looked up again at Nagger and Slone, and, going on, 
 he soon was out of sight in the cottonwoods. 
 
 "How to get down!" muttered Slone. 
 
 There was a break in the cliff wall, a bare stone slant 
 where horses had gone down and come up. That was 
 enough for Slone to know. He would have attempted 
 the descent if he were sure no other horse but Wildfire 
 had ever gone down there. But Slone's hair began to 
 rise stiff on his head. A horse like Wildfire, and mountaia- 
 
 70 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 sheep and Indian ponies, were all very different from Nag- 
 ger. The chances were against Nagger. 
 
 "Come on, old boy. If I can do it, you can," he 
 said. 
 
 Slone had never seen a trail as perilous as this. He 
 was afraid for his horse. A slip there meant death. 
 The way Nagger trembled in every muscle showed his 
 feelings. But he never flinched. He would follow Slone 
 anywhere, providing Slone rode him or led him. And 
 here, as riding was impossible, Slone went before. If the 
 horse slipped there would be a double tragedy, for Nagger 
 would knock his master off the cliff. Slone set his teeth 
 and stepped down. He did not let Nagger see his fear. 
 He was taking the greatest risk he had ever run. 
 
 The break in the wall led to a ledge, and the ledge 
 dropped from step to step, and these had bare, slippery 
 slants between. Nagger was splendid on a bad trail. 
 He had methods peculiar to his huge build and great 
 weight. He crashed down over the stone steps, both 
 front hoofs at once. The slants he slid down on his 
 haunches with his forelegs stiff and the iron shoes scraping. 
 He snorted and heaved and grew wet with sweat. He 
 tossed his head at some of the places. But he never hesi- 
 tated and it was impossible for him to go slowly. When- 
 ever Slone came to corrugated stretches in the trail he 
 felt grateful. But these were few. The rock was like 
 smooth red iron. Slone had never seen such hard rock. 
 It took him long to realize that it was marble. His heart 
 seeqaed a tense, painful knot in his breast, as if it could 
 not beat, holding back in the strained suspense. But 
 Nagger never, jerked on the bridle. He never faltered. 
 Many times he slipped, often with both front feet, but 
 never with all four feet. So he did' not fall. And the 
 red wall began to loom above Slone. Then suddenly he 
 seemed brought. to a point where it was impossible to 
 descend. It was a round bulge, slanting fearfully, with 
 oiily a few Uttle rough surfaces to hold a foot. Wildiire had 
 
 :^ ^.7I 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 left a broad, clear-swept mark at that place, and red hairs 
 on some of the sharp points. He had slid down. Below 
 was an offset that fortunately prevented further sliding. 
 Slone started to walk down this place, but when Nagger 
 began to slide Slone had to let go the bridle and jump. 
 Both he and the horse landed safely. Luck was with 
 them. And they went on, down and down, to reach the 
 base of the great wall, scraped and exhausted, wet with 
 sweat, but unhurt. As Slone gazed upward he felt the 
 impossibility of believing what he knew to be true. He 
 hugged and petted the horse. Then he led on to the 
 roaring stream. 
 
 It was green water white with foam. Slone waded in 
 and found the water cool and shallow and very swift. 
 He had to hold to Nagger to keep from being swept down- 
 stream. They crossed in safety. There in the sand 
 showed Wildfire's tracks. And here were signs of another 
 Indian camp, half a year old. 
 
 The shade of the cot^onwoods was pleasant. Slone 
 found this valley oppressively hot. There was no wind 
 and the sand blistered his feet through his boots. Wild- 
 fire held to the Indian trail that had guided him down 
 into this wilderness of worn rock. And that trail crossed 
 the stream at every turn of the twisting, narrow valley. 
 Slone enjoyed getting into the water. He hung his gim 
 over the pommel and let the water roU him. A dozen 
 times he and Nagger forded the rushing torrent. Then 
 they came to a box-like closing of the valley to canon 
 walls, and here the trail evidently followed the stream 
 bed. There was no other way. Slone waded in, and 
 stuanbled, rolled, and floated ahead of the sturdy horse. 
 Nagger was wet to his breast, but he did not fall. This 
 gulch seemed full of a hollow rushing roar. It opened out 
 into a wide valley. And Wildfire's tracks took to the left 
 side and began to climb the slope. 
 
 Here the traveling was good, considering what had been 
 passed. Once up out of the valley floor Slone saw Wild- 
 
 72 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 fire far ahead, high on the slope. He did not appear to 
 be limping, but he was not going fast. Slone watched as 
 he climbed. What and where would be the end of this 
 chase? 
 
 Sometimes Wildfire was plain in his sight for a mo- 
 m.ent, but usually he was hidden by rocks. The slope 
 was one great talus, a jumble of weathered rock, fallen 
 
 , from what appeared a mountain of red and yellow wall. 
 Here the heat of the sun fell upon him like fire. The 
 rocks were so hot Slone could not touch them with bare 
 hand. The close of the afternoon was approaching, and 
 this slope was interminably long. Still, it was not steep, 
 and the trail was good. 
 
 At last from the height of slope Wildfire appeared, 
 looking back and down. Then he was gone. Slone 
 plodded upward. Long before he reached that summit 
 he heard the dull rumble of the river. It grew to be a 
 roar, yet it seemed distant. Would the great desert river 
 stop Wildfire in his flight? Slone doubted it. He sur- 
 mounted the ridge, to find the canon opening in a tre- 
 
 *mendous gap, and to see down, far down, a glittering, 
 sun-blasted slope merging into a deep, black gulch where 
 a red river swept and chafed and roared. 
 
 Somehow the river was what he had expected to see. 
 A force that had cut and ground this canon could have 
 been nothing but a river like that. The trail led down, 
 and Slone had no doubt that it crossed the river and led 
 up out of the canon. He wanted to stay there and gaze 
 endlessly and listen. At length he began the descent. 
 As he proceeded it seemed that the roar of the river 
 lessened. He could not understand why this was so. It 
 took half an hour to reach the last level, a ghastly, black, 
 and iron-ribbed canon bed, with the river splitting it. 
 He had not had a glimpse of 'Wildfire on this side of the 
 divide, but he found his tracks, and they led down off 
 the last level, through a notch in the black bank of 
 marble to a sand-bar and the river. 
 
 73 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Wildfire had walked straight off the sand into the water. 
 Slone studied the river and shore. The water ran slow, 
 heavily, in sluggish eddies. From far up the canon came 
 the roar of a rapid, and from below the roar of another, 
 heavier and closer. The river appeared tremendous, in 
 ways Slone felt rather than realized, yet it was not swift. 
 Studying the black, rough wall of rock above him, he 
 saw marks where the river had been siKty feet higher than 
 where he stood on the sand. It was low, then. How 
 lucky for him that he had gotten there before flood season! 
 He believed Wildfire had crossed easily, and he knew 
 Nagger could make it. Then he piled and tied his sup- 
 plies and weapons high on the saddle, to keep them dry, 
 and looked for a place to take to the water. 
 
 Wildfire had sunk deep before reaching the edge. 
 Manifestly he had Itmged the last few feet. Slone found 
 a better place, and waded in, urging Nagger. The big 
 horse plunged, almost going under, and began to swim, 
 Slone kept up-stream beside him. He found, presently; 
 that the water was thick and made him tired, so it was 
 necessary to grasp a stirrup and be towed. The river 
 appeared only a few hundred feet wide, but probably it 
 was wider than it looked. Nagger labored heavily near 
 the opposite shore; still, he landed safely upon a rocky 
 bank. There were patches of sand in which Wildfire's 
 tracks showed so fresh that the water had not yet dried 
 out of them. 
 
 Slone rested his horse before attempting to climb out 
 of that split in the rock. However, Wildfire had found an 
 easy ascent. On this side of the canon the bare rock 
 did not predominate. A clear trail led up a dusty, 
 gravelly slope, upon which scant greasewood and cactus 
 appeared. Half an hoiu-'s climbing brought Slone to 
 where he could see that he was entering a vast valley, 
 sloping up and narrowing to a notch in the dark cliffs, 
 above which towered the great red wall and about that 
 the slopes of cedar and the yellow rim-rock. 
 
 74 
 
- WILDFIRE 
 
 And scarcely a mile distant, bright in the westering 
 sunlight, shone the red stallion, moving slowly. 
 
 Slone pressed on steadily. Just before dark he came 
 to an ideal spot to camp. The valley had closed up, so 
 that the lofty walls cast shadows that met. A clump of 
 cottonwoods surrounding a spring, abundance of rich 
 grass, willows and flowers lining the banks, formed an 
 oasis in the bare valley. Slone was tired out from the day 
 of ceaseless toil down and up, and he could scarcely keep 
 his eyes open. But he tried to stay awake. The dead 
 silence of the valley, the dry fragrance, the dreaming 
 walls, the advent of night low down, when up on the ram- 
 parts the last red rays of the sun lingered, the strange 
 loneliness — these were sweet and comforting to him. 
 
 And that night's sleep was as a moment. He opened 
 his eyes to see the crags and towers and peaks and domes, 
 and the lofty walls of that vast, broken chaos of canons 
 across the river. They were now emerging from the 
 misty gray of dawn, growing pink and lilac and purple 
 under the rising sun. 
 
 He arose and set about his few tasks, which, being soon 
 finished, allowed him an early start. 
 
 Wildfire had grazed along no more than a mile in the 
 lead. Slone looked eagerly up the narrowing canon, but 
 he was not rewarded by a sight of the stallion. As he 
 progressed up a gradually ascending trail he became 
 aware of the fact that the notch he had long looked up 
 to was where the great red walls closed in and almost 
 met. And the trail zigzagged up this narrow vent, so 
 steep that only a few steps could be taken without rest. 
 Slone toiled up for an hour — an age — till he was wet, burn- 
 ing, choked, with a great weight on his chest. Yet stiU 
 he was only half-way up that awful break between the 
 walls. Sometimes he could have tossed a stone down 
 upon a part of the trail, only a few rods below, yet many, 
 many weary steps of actual toil. As he got farther up 
 the notch widened. What had been scarcely visible from 
 
 75 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 the valley below was now colossal in actual dimensions. 
 The trail was like a twisted mile of thread between two 
 bulging mountain walls leaning their ledges and fronts 
 over this tilted pass. 
 
 Slone rested often. Nagger appreciated this and heaved 
 ■gratefully at every halt. In this monotonous toil Slone 
 forgot the zest of his pursuit. And when Nagger sud- 
 denly snorted in fright Slone was not prepared for what 
 he saw. 
 
 Above him ran a low, red wall, around which evidently 
 the trail led. At the curve, which was a promontory, 
 scarcely a' hundred feet in an airline above him, he saw 
 something red moving, bobbing, coming out into view. 
 It was a horse. 
 
 Wildfire — ^no farther away than the length of three 
 lassoes ! 
 
 There he stood looking down. He fulfilled all of Slone's 
 dreams. Only he was bigger. But he was so magnifi- 
 cently proportioned that he did not seem heavy. His 
 coat was shaggy and red. It was not glossy. The color 
 was what made him shine. His mane was like a crest, 
 tnounting, then falling low. Slone had never seen so 
 much muscle on a horse. Yet his outline was graceful, 
 beautiful. The head was indeed that of the wildest of 
 all wild creatures — a stallion bom wild — and it was beau- 
 tiivd, savage, splendid, everything but noble. Whatever 
 Wildfire was, he was a devil, a murderer — ^he had no noble 
 attributes. Slone thought that if a horse could express 
 liate, siirely Wildfire did then. It was certain that he 
 did express curiosity and fury. 
 
 Slone shook a gantleted fist at the stallion, as if the 
 horse were hitman. That was a natural action for a rider 
 of his kind. Wildfire turned away, showed bright against 
 the dark backgrotmd, and then disappeared. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THAT was the last Slone saw of Wildfire for three 
 days. 
 
 It took all of this day to climb out of the canon. The 
 second was a slow march of thirty miles into a scrub cedar 
 and pifion forest, through which the great red and yellow 
 walls of the canon could be seen. That night Slone found 
 a water-hole in a rocky pocket and a little grass for 
 Nagger. The third day's travel consisted of forty miles 
 or more through level pine forest, dry and odorous, but 
 lacking the freshness and beauty of the forest on the 
 north side of the canon. On this south side a strange 
 feature was that all the water, when there was any, ran 
 away from the rim. Slone camped this night at a muddy 
 pond in the woods, where Wildfire's tracks showed plainly. 
 
 On the following day Slone rode out of the forest into 
 a country of scanty cedars, bleached and stunted, and 
 cut of this to the edge of a plateau, from which the shim- 
 mering desert flung its vast and desolate distances, for- 
 bidding and menacing. This was not the desert upland 
 country of Utah, but a naked and bony world of colored 
 rock and sand — a painted desert of heat and wind and 
 flying sand and waterless wastes^ and barren ranges. 
 But it did not daunt Slone. For far down on the bare, 
 billowing ridges moved a red ^eck, at a snail's pace, a 
 slowly moving dot of color whidi was Wildfire. 
 
 On open ground like this. Nagger, carrying two hundred 
 and fifty potmds, showed his wonderful quality. He did 
 not mind the heat nor the sand nor the glare nor the dis- 
 
 77 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 tance nor his burden. He did not tire. He was an en- 
 gine of tremendous power. 
 
 Slone gained upon Wildfire, and toward evening of that 
 day he reached to within half a mile of the stallion. And 
 he chose to keep that far behind. That night he camped 
 where there was dry grass, but no water. 
 
 Next day he followed Wildfire down and down, over the 
 ' endless swell of roUing red ridges, bare of all but bleached 
 white grass and meager greasewood, always descending 
 in the face of that painted desert of bold and ragged steps. 
 Slone made fifty miles that day, and gained the valley 
 , bed, where a slender stream ran thin and spread over a 
 ' wide sandy bottom. It was salty water, but it was wel- 
 come to both man and beast. 
 
 The following day he crossed, and the tracks of Wild- 
 fire were still wet on the sand-bars. The stallion was 
 slowing down. Slone saw him, limping along, not far 
 in advance. There was a ten-mile stretch of level ground, 
 blown hard as rock, from which the sustenance had been 
 bleached, for not a spear of grass grew there. And fol- 
 lowing that was a tortuous passage through a weird 
 region of clay dunes, blue and violet and heliotrope and 
 lavender, all worn smooth by rain and wind. Wildfire 
 favored the soft ground now. He had deviated from his 
 straight course. And he was partial to washes and dips 
 in the earth where water might have lodged. And he was 
 not now scornful of a green-scummed water-hole with 
 its white margin of alkali. That night Slone made camp 
 with Wildfire in plain sight. The stalUon stopped when 
 his pursuers stopped. And he began to graze on the same 
 stretch with Nagger. How strange this seemed to Slone! 
 
 Here at this camp was evidence of Indians. Wildfire 
 had swung round to the north in his course. Like any 
 pursued wild animal, he had begun to circle. And he had 
 pointed his nose toward the Utah he had left. 
 
 Next morning Wildfire was not in sight, but he had left 
 his tracks in the sand. Slone trailed him with Nagger 
 
 78 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 at a trot. Toward the head of this sandy flat Slone came 
 upon old corn-fields, and a broken dam where the water 
 had been stored, and well-defined trails leading away to 
 the right. Somewhere over there in the desert lived Ind- 
 ians. At this point Wildfire abandoned the trail he had 
 followed for many days and cut out more to the north. It 
 took all the morning hours to climb three great steps and 
 benches that led up to the summit of a mesa, vast in ex- 
 tent. It turned out to be a sandy waste. The wind rose 
 and ever5rwhere were moving sheets of sand, and in the 
 distance circular yellow dust-devils, rising high Uke water- 
 spouts, and back down in the sun-scorched valley a sand- 
 storm moved along majestically, burying the desert in its 
 yellow pall. 
 
 Then two more days of sand and another day of a slowly 
 rising groimd growing from bare to gray and gray to green, 
 and then to the purple of sage and cedar — these three 
 grinding days were toiled out with only one water-hole. 
 
 And Wildfire was lame and in distress and Nagger 
 was growipg gaunt and showing strain; and Slone, hag- 
 gard and black and worn, plodded miles and miles on foot 
 to save his horse. 
 
 Slone felt that it would be futile to put the chase to a 
 test of speed. Nagger could never head that stallion. 
 Slone meant to go on and on, always pushing Wildfire, 
 keeping him, tired, wearied, and worrying him, till a sec- 
 tion of the country was reached where he could drive Wild- 
 fire into some land of a natural trap. The pxirsuit seemed 
 endless. Wildfire kept to open country where he could 
 not be surprised. 
 
 There came a morning when Slone climbed to a cedared 
 plateau that rose for a whole day's travel, and then split 
 into a labyrinthine maze of canons. There were trees, 
 grass, water. It was a high country, cool and wild, 
 like the uplands he had left. For days he camped on 
 Wildfire's trail, always relentlessly driving him, always 
 watching for the trap he hoped to find. And the red 
 
 79 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 stallion spent much of this time of flight in looking back- 
 ward. Whenever Slone came in sight of him he had his 
 head over his shotilder, watching. And on the soft groimd 
 of these canons he had begun to recover from his lame- 
 ness. But this did not worry Slone. Sooner or later 
 Wildfire would go down into a high-walled wash, from 
 which there woiild be no outlet; or he would wander into 
 a box-canon; or he would climb out on a mesa with no 
 place to descend, imless he passed Slone; or he would 
 get cornered on a soft, steep slope where his hoofs woidd 
 sink deep and make him slow. The nature of the desert 
 had changed. Slone had entered a wonderful region, the 
 like of which he had not seen — a high plateau criss- 
 crossed in every direction by narrow canons with red walls 
 a thousand feet high. 
 
 And one of the strange turning canons opened into a vast 
 valley of monuments. 
 
 The plateau had weathered and washed away, leaving 
 huge sections of stone walls, all standing isolated, different 
 in size and shape, but all clean-cut, bold, with straight lines. 
 They stood up everywhere, monumental, towering, many- 
 colored, lending a singular and beautiful aspect to the great 
 green-and-gra:y valley, billowing away to the north, where 
 dim, broken battlements mounted to the clouds. 
 
 The only living thing in Slone's sight was Wildfire. 
 He shone red down on the green slope. 
 
 Slone's heart swelled. This was the setting for that 
 grand horse — a perfect wild range. But also it seemed 
 the last place where there might be any chance to trap 
 the stallion. Still that did not alter Slone's purpose, 
 though it lost to him the joy of former hopes. He rode 
 down, the slope, out upon the billowing floor of the valley. ' 
 Wildfire looked back to see his pursuers, and then the 
 solemn stillness broke to a wild, piercing whistle. 
 
 Day after day, camping where night found him, Slone 
 followed the stallion, never losing sight of him till dark- 
 
 80 
 
WiLUl' IKJl 
 
 ness had fallen. The valley was immense and the monu- 
 ments miles apart. But they always seemed close together 
 and near him. The air magnified everything. Slone lost 
 track of time. The strange, solemn, lonely days and the 
 sUent, lonely nights, and the endless pursuit, and the wild, 
 weird valley — these completed the work of years on Slone 
 and he became satisfied, unthinking, almost savage. 
 
 The toil and privation had worn him down and he 
 was like iron. His garments hung in tatters; his boots 
 were ripped and soleless. Long since his flour had been 
 used up, and all his supplies except the salt. He lived 
 on the meat of rabbits, but they were scarce, and the 
 time came when there were none. Some days he did 
 not eat. Hunger did not make him suffer. He killed 
 a desert bird now and then, and once a wildcat crossing 
 the valley. Eventually he felt his strength diminishing, 
 and then he took to digging out the pack-rats and cook- 
 ing them. But .these, too, were scarce. At length star- 
 vation faced Slone. But he knew he would not starve. 
 Many times he had been within rifle-shot of Wildfire. 
 And the grim, forbidding thought grew upon him that 
 he must kill the stallion. The thought seemed involun- 
 tary, but his mind rejected it. Nevertheless, he knew 
 that if he could not catch the stalHon he wotild kill him. 
 That had been the end of many a desperate rider's pmr- 
 suit of a coveted horse. 
 
 While Slone kept on his merciless pursuit, never letting 
 Wildfire rest by day, time went on just as relentlessly. 
 Spring gave way to early summer. The hot stm bleached 
 the grass; water-holes failed out in the valley, and water 
 could be found only in the canons; and the dry winds be- 
 gan to blow the sand. It was a sandy valley, green and 
 gray only at a distance, and out toward the north there 
 were no monuments, and the slow heave of sand lifted 
 toward the dim walls. 
 
 Wildfire worked away from this open valley, back to 
 the south end, where the great monuments loomed, and 
 
 8i 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 still farther back, where they grew closer, till at length 
 some of them were joined by weathered ridges to the 
 walls of the surrounding plateau. For all that Slone 
 could see, Wildfire was in perfect condition. But Nagger 
 was not the horse he had been. Slone realized that in 
 one way or another the pursuit was narrowing down to 
 the end. 
 
 He found a water-hole at the head of a wash in a split 
 in the walls, and here he let Nagger rest and graze one 
 whole day — ^the first day for a long time that he had not 
 kept the red stallion in sight. That day was marked by 
 the good fortune of killing a rabbit, and while eating it his 
 gloomy, fixed mind admitted that he was starving. He 
 dreaded the next sunrise. But he could not hold it back. 
 There, behind the dark monuments, standing sentinel- 
 like, the sky lightened and reddened and burst into gold 
 and pink, till out of the golden glare the sun rose glorious. 
 And Slone, facing the league-long shadows of the monu- 
 ments, rode out again into the silent, solemn day, on his 
 hopeless quest. 
 
 For a change Wildfire had climbed high up a slope of 
 talus, through a narrow pass, rounded over with drifting 
 sand. And Slone gazed down into a huge amphitheater 
 full of monuments, like all that strange country. A 
 basin three miles across lay beneath him. Walls and 
 weathered slants of rock and steep slopes of reddish- 
 yellow sand inclosed this oval depression. The floor was 
 white, and it seemed to move gently or radiate with heat- 
 waves. Studying it, Slone made out that, the motion 
 was caused by wind in long bleached grass. He had 
 crossed small areas of this grass in different parts of 
 the region. 
 
 Wildfire's tracks led down into this basin, and presently 
 Slone, by straining his eyes, made out the red spot that 
 was the stalhon. 
 
 "He's lookin' to quit the country," soliloquized Slone, 
 as he surveyed the scene. 
 
 82 
 
WILDFIRJi 
 
 With keen, slow gaze Slone studied the lay of wall 
 and slope, and when he had circled the huge depression 
 he made sure that Wildfire could not get out except by 
 the narrow pass through which he had gone in. Slone 
 sat astride Nagger in the mouth of this pass — a wash 
 a few yards wide, walled by broken, rough rock on one 
 side and an insurmountable slope on the other. 
 
 "If this hole was only little, now," sighed Slone, as he 
 gazed at the sweeping, shimmering oval floor, "I might 
 have a chance. But down there — ^we couldn't get near 
 him." 
 
 There was no water in that dry bowl. Slone reflected 
 on the uselessness of keeping Wildfire down there, because 
 Nagger could not go without water as long as Wildfire. 
 For the first time Slone hesitated. It seemed merciless 
 to Nagger to drive him down into this hot, windy hole. 
 The wind blew from the west, and it swooped up the 
 slope, hot, with the odor of dry, dead grass. 
 
 But that hot wind stirred Slone with an idea, and sud- 
 denly he was tense, excited, glowing, yet grim and hard. 
 
 "Wildfire, I'll make you run with your namesake in 
 that high grass," called Slone. The speech was full of 
 bitter failtire, of regret, of the hardness of a rider who 
 could not give up the horse to freedom. 
 
 Slone meant to ride down there and fire the long grass. 
 In that wind there would indeed be wildfire to race with 
 the red stallion. It would perhaps mean his death; at 
 least it would chase him out of that hole, where to follow 
 him would 'be useless. 
 
 "I'd make you hump now to get away if I could get 
 behind you," muttered Slone. He saw that if he could 
 fire the grass on the other side the wind of flame wotdd 
 drive Wildfire straight toward him. The slopes and 
 walls narrowed up to the pass, but high grass grew to 
 within a few rods of where Slone stood. But it seemed 
 impossible to get behind Wildfire. 
 
 "At m^cA — ^then — I could get round him," said Slone, 
 
 7 83 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 thinking hard and narrowing his gaze to scan the circle 
 of wall and slope. "Why not? . . . No wind at night. 
 That grass would bum slow tiU momin' — ^till the wind 
 came up — an' it's been west for days." 
 
 Suddenly Slone began to pound the patient Nagger and 
 to cry out to him in wild exultance. 
 
 "Old horse, we've got him! . . . We've got him! . . . 
 We'll put a rope on him before this time to-morrow!" 
 
 Slone jrielded to his strange, wild joy, but it did not 
 last long, soon succeeding to sober, keen thought. He 
 rode down into the bowl a mile, making absolutely certain 
 that Wildfire could not climb out on that side. The far ■ 
 end, beyond the monuments, was a sheer waU of rock. 
 Then he crossed to the left side. Here the sandy slope 
 was almost too steep for even him to go up. And there 
 was grass that would bum. He returned to the pass 
 assured that Wildfire had at last fallen into a trap the 
 like Slone had never dreamed of. The great horse was 
 doomed to run into living flame or the whirling noose of 
 a lasso. 
 
 Then Slone reflected. Nagger had that very morning 
 had his fill of good water — the first really satisfying drink 
 for days. If he was rested that day, on the morrow he 
 would be fit for the grueling work possibly in store for 
 him. Slone unsaddled the horse and turned him loose, 
 and with a snort he made down the gentle slope for the 
 grass. Then Slone carried his saddle to a shady spot 
 afforded by a slab of rock and a dwarf cedar, and here he 
 composed himself to rest and watch and think and wait. 
 
 Wildfire was plainly in sight no more than two miles 
 away. Gradually he was grazing along toward the monu- . 
 ments and the far end of the great basin. Slone believed, 
 because the place was so large, that Wildfire thought 
 there was a way out on the other side or over the slopes 
 or through the walls. Never before had the far-sighted 
 stallion made a mistake. Slone suddenly felt the keen, 
 stabbing fear of an outlet somewhere. But it left ^im- 
 
 84 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 qtiickly. He had studied those slopes and walls. Wild- 
 fire could not get out, except by the pass he had entered, 
 unless he could fly. i 
 
 Slone lay in the shade, his head propped on his saddle, 
 and while gazing down into the shimmering hollow he 
 began to plan. He calculated that he must be able to 
 carry fire swiftly across the far end of the basin, so that 
 he wotild not be absent long from the mouth of the pass. 
 Fire was always a difficult matter, since he must depend 
 only on flint and steel. He decided to wait till dark, build 
 a fire with dead cedar sticks, and carry a bundle of them 
 with btiming ends. He felt assured that the wind 
 caused by riding would keep them burning. After he 
 had Hghted the grass all he had to do was to hurry back 
 to his station and there await developments. 
 
 The day passed slowly, and it was hot. The heat- 
 waves rose in dark, wavering lines and veils from the 
 valley. The wind blew almost a gale. Thin, curling 
 sheets of sand blew up over the crests of the slopes, and 
 the sotmd it made was a soft, silken rustling, very low. 
 The sky was a steely blue above and copper close over the 
 distant walls. 
 
 That afternoon, toward the close, Slone ate the last of 
 the meat. At sunset the wind died away and the air 
 cooled. There was a strip of red along the wall of rock 
 and on the tips of the monuments, and it lingered there 
 for long, a strange, bright crown. Nagger was not far 
 away, but Wildfire had disappeared, probably behind 
 one of the monuments. 
 
 When twilight fell Slone went down after Nagger and, 
 returning with him, put on bridle and saddle. Then he 
 began to search for suitable sticks of wood. Farther 
 back in the pass he found stunted dead cedars, and from 
 these secured enough for his purpose. He kindled a fire 
 and burnt the ends of the sticks into red embers. Mak- 
 ing a bundle of these, he put them under his arm, the dull, 
 glowing ends backward, and then mounted his horse. 
 
 85 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 It was just about dark when he faced down into the 
 valley. When he reached level ground he kept to the 
 edge of the left slope and put Nagger to a good trot. 
 The grass and brush were scant here, and the color of the 
 sand was light, so he had no difficulty in traveling. From 
 time to time his horse went through grass, and its dry, 
 crackling rustle, showing how it would biun, was music 
 to Slone. Gradually the monuments began to loom up, 
 bold and black against the blue sky, with stars seemingly 
 hanging close over them. Slone had calculated that the 
 basin was smaller than it really was, in both length and 
 breadth. This worried him. Wildfire might see or hear 
 or scent him, and make a break back to the pass and thus 
 escape. Slone was glad when the huge, dark monu- 
 ments were indistinguishable from the black, frowning 
 wall. He had to go slower here, because of the darkness. 
 But at last he reached the slow rise of jumbled rock that 
 evidently marked the extent of weathering on that side. 
 Here he turned to the right and rode out into the valley. 
 The floor was level and thickly overgrown with long, dead 
 grass and dead greasewood, as dry as tin(|er. It was easy 
 to account for the dryness; neither snow nor rain had 
 visited that valley for many months. Slone whipped one 
 of the sticks in the wind and soon had the smoldering end 
 red and showering sparks. Then he dropped the stick in 
 the grass, with curious intent and a strange feeling of regret. 
 
 Instantly the grass blazed with a little sputtering roar. 
 Nagger snorted. "Wildfire!" exclaimed Slone. That 
 word was a favorite one with riders, and now Slone used 
 it both to call out his menace to the stallion and to ex- 
 press his feeling for that blaze, already running wild. 
 
 Without looking back Slone rode across the valley; 
 dropping a glowing stick every quarter of a mile. When 
 he reached the other side there were a dozen fires behind 
 him, burning slowly, with white smoke rising lazily. Then 
 he loped Nagger along the side back to the sandy ascent, 
 aiid on up to the mouth of the pass. There he searched 
 
 86 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 for tracks. Wildfire had not gone out, and Slone experi- 
 enced relief and exultation. He took up a position in 
 the middle of the narrowest part of the pass, and there, 
 with Nagger ready for anything, he once more composed 
 •himself to watch and wait. 
 
 Far across the darkness of the valley, low down, 
 twelve lines of fire, widely separated, crept toward one 
 another. They appeared thin and slow, with only an oc- 
 casional leaping flame. And some of the black spaces 
 must have been montraients, blotting out the creeping 
 snail-lines of red. Slone watched, strangely fascinated. 
 
 "What do you think of that?" he said, aloud, and he 
 meant his query for Wildfire. 
 
 As he watched the lines perceptibly lengthened and 
 brightened and pale shadows of smoke began to appear. 
 Over at the left of the valley the two brightest fires, the 
 first he had started, crept closer and closer together. 
 They seemed long in covering distance. But not a breath 
 of wind stirred, and besides they really might move 
 swiftly, without looking so to Slone. When the two lines 
 met a sudden and larger blaze rose. 
 
 "Ah!" said the rider, and then he watched the other 
 lines creeping together. How slowly fire moved, he 
 thought. The red stallion would have every chance to 
 run between those lines, if he dared. But a wUd horse 
 feared nothing like fire. This one would not run the 
 gantlet of flames. Nevertheless, Slone felt more and 
 more relieved as the lines closed. The hours of the night 
 dragged past until at length one long, continuous line of 
 fire spread level across the valley, its bright, red line 
 broken only where the monuments of stone were sil- 
 houetted against it. 
 
 The darkness of the valley changed. The light of the 
 moon changed. The radiance of the stars changed. 
 Either the line of fire was finding denser fuel to consvmie 
 or it was growing appreciably closer, for the flames be- 
 gan to grow, to leap, and to flare. 
 
 87 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Slone strained his ears for the thud of hoofs on sand. 
 
 The time seemed endless in its futility of results, but 
 fleeting after it had passed; and he could tell how the 
 hours fled by the ever-recurring need to replenish the little 
 fire he kept burning in the pass. 
 
 A broad belt of valley grew bright in the light, and 
 behind it loomed the monuments, weird and dark, with 
 columns of yellow and white smoke wreathing them. 
 
 Suddenly Slone's sensitive ear vibrated to a thrilling 
 sound. He leaned down to place his ear to the sand. 
 Rapid, rhythmic beat of hoofs made him leap to his feet, 
 reaching for his lasso with right hand and a gun with 
 his left. 
 
 Nagger lifted his head, sniHed the air, and snorted. 
 Slone peered into the black belt of gloom that lay below 
 him. It would be hard to see a horse there, unless he got 
 high enough to be silhouetted against that line of fire 
 now flaring to the sky. But he heard the beat of hoofs, 
 swift, sharp, louder — ^louder. The night shadows were 
 deceptive. That wonderful light confused him, made the 
 place unreal. Was he dreaming? Or had the long chase 
 and his privations unhinged his mind? He reached for 
 Nagger. No! The big black was real, alive, quivering, 
 pounding the sand. He scented an enemy. 
 
 Once more Slone peered down into the void or what 
 seemed a void. But it, too, had changed, lightened. 
 The whole valley was brightening. Great palls of curling 
 smoke rose white and yeUow, to turn back as the monu- 
 ments met their crests, and then to roll upward, blotting 
 out the stars. It was such a light as he had never seen, 
 except in dreams. Pale moonlight and dimmed star- 
 light and wan dawn aU vague and strange and shadowy 
 tmder the wild and vivid light of burning grass. 
 
 In the pale path before Slone, that fanlike slope of sand 
 which opened down into the valley, appeared a swiftly 
 moving black object, like a fleeting phantom. It was a 
 phantom horse. Slone felt that his eyes, deceived by his 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 mind, saw racing images. Many a wild chase he had 
 lived in dreams on some far desert. But what was that 
 beating in his ears — sharp, swift, even, rhythmic? Never 
 had his ears played him false. Never had he heard 
 things in his dreams. That running object was a horse 
 and he was coming like the wind. Slone felt something 
 grip his heart. All the time and endurance and pain 
 and thirst and suspense and longing and hopelessness — 
 the agony of the whole endless chase — closed tight on his^ 
 heart in that instant. 
 
 The running horse halted just in the belt of light cast 
 by the burning grass. There he stood sharply defined; 
 clear as a cameo, not a hundred paces from Slone. It 
 was Wildfire. 
 
 Slone uttered an involuntary cry. Thrill on thrill 
 shot through him. Delight and hope and fear and despair 
 claimed him in swift, successive flashes. And then again 
 the ruling passion of a rider held him — the sheer glory of 
 a grand and unattainable horse. For Slone gave up 
 Wildfire in that splendid moment. How had he ever 
 dared to believe he could capture that wild stallion? 
 Slone looked and looked, filling his mind, regretting noth- 
 ing, sure that the moment was reward for aU he had 
 endured. 
 
 The weird lights magnified Wildfire and showed him 
 clearly. He seemed gigantic. He shone black against the 
 fire. His head was high, his mane flying. Behind him 
 the fire flared and the valley-wide colvimn of smoke rolled 
 majestically upward, and the great moniunents seemed to 
 retreat darkly and mysteriously as the flames advanced 
 beyond them. It was a beautiful, tmearthly spectacle, 
 with its silence the strangest feature. 
 
 But suddenly Wildfire broke that silence with a whistle 
 which to Slone's overstrained faculties seemed a blast 
 as piercing as the splitting sound of Hghtning. And 
 with the whistle Wildfire pkmged up toward the pass. 
 
 Slone yelled at the top of his lungs and fired his gun 
 
 89 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 before he could terrorize the stallion and drive him back 
 down the slope. Soon Wildfire became again a running 
 black object, and then he "disappeared. 
 
 The great line of fire had gotten beyond the monu- 
 ments and now stretched unbroken across the valley from 
 wall to slope. Wildfire could never pierce that line of 
 flames. And now Slone saw, in the paling sky to the east,' 
 that dawn was at hand. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 SLONE looked grimly glad when simultaneously with 
 the first red flash of sunrise a breeze fanned his 
 cheek. All that was needed now was a west wind. And 
 here came the assurance of it. 
 
 The valley appeared hazy and smoky, with slow, roll- 
 ing clouds low down where the line of fire moved. 
 The coming of daylight paled the blaze of the grass, 
 though here and there Slone caught flickering glimpses 
 of dull red flame. The wild stallion kept to the center 
 of the valley, restlessly facing this way and that, but 
 never toward the smoke. Slone made sure that Wildfire 
 gradually gave ground as the line of smoke slowly worked 
 toward him. 
 
 Every nioment the breeze freshened, grew steadier and 
 stronger, until Slone saw that it began to clear the valley 
 of the low-hanging smoke. There came a time when 
 once more the blazing line extended across from slope to 
 slope. 
 
 Wildfire was cornered, trapped. Many times Slone 
 nervously uncoiled and recoiled his lasso. Presently the 
 great chance of his life would come — the hardest and most 
 important throw he would ever have with a rope. He did 
 not miss often, but then he missed sometimes, and here 
 he must be swift and sure. It annoyed him that his 
 hands perspired' and trembled and that something weighty 
 seemed to obstruct his breathing. He muttered that he 
 was pretty much worn out, not in the best of condition 
 for a hard fight with a wild horse. Still he would capture 
 Wildfire; his mind was tinalterably set there. He an- 
 
 91 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 ticipated that the stallion would make a final and des- 
 perate rush past him; and he had his plan of action all 
 outlined. What worried him was the possibility of 
 Wildfire doing some unforeseen feat at the very last. 
 Slone was prepared for hours of strained watching, and 
 then a desperate effort, and then a shock that might kill 
 Wildfire and cripple Nagger, or a long race and fight. 
 
 But he soon discovered that he was wrong about the 
 long watch and wait. The wind had grown strong and 
 was driving the fire swiftly. The flames, fanned by the 
 breeze, leaped to a formidable barrier. In less than an 
 hour, though the time seemed only a few moments to the 
 excited Slone, Wildfire had been driven down toward the 
 narrowing neck of the valley, and he had begun to run, 
 to and fro, back and forth. Aiiy moment., then, Slone 
 expected him to grow terrorized and to come tearing up 
 toward the pass. 
 
 Wildfire showed evidence of terror, but he did not 
 attempt to make the pass. Instead he went at the right- 
 hand slope of the valley and began to climb. The slope 
 was steep and soft, yet the stallion climbed .up and up. 
 The dust flew in clouds; the gravel rolled down, and the 
 sand followed in long streams. Wildfire showed his keen- 
 ness by zigzagging up the slope. 
 
 " Go ahead, you red devil !" yelled Slone. He was much 
 elated. In that soft bank Wildfire would tire out while 
 not hurting himself. 
 
 Slone watched the stallion in admiration and pity and 
 exultation. Wildfire did not make much headway, for he 
 slipped back almost as much as he gained. He attempted 
 one place after another where he failed. There was a 
 bank of clay, some few feet high, and he could not round 
 it at either end or surmount it in the middle. Finally 
 he literally pawed and cut a path, much as if he were 
 digging in the sand for water. Wlien he got over that he 
 was not much better off. The slope above was endless 
 and grew steeper, more difficult toward the top. Slone 
 
 92 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 knew absolutely that no horse could climb over it. He 
 grew apprehensive, however, for Wildfire might stick up 
 there on the slope until the line of fire passed. The 
 horse apparently shunned any near proximity to the fire, 
 and performed prodigious efforts to escape. 
 
 "He'U be ridin' an avalanche pretty soon," muttered 
 Slone. 
 
 Long sheets of sand and gravel slid down to spill thinly 
 over the low bank. Wildfire, now sinking to his knees, 
 worked steadily upward tiU he had reached a point half- 
 way up the .slope, at the head of a long, yellow bank of 
 treacherous-looking sand. Here he was halted by a low 
 bulge, which he might have surmounted had his feet 
 been free. But he stood deep in the sand. For the first 
 time he looked down at the sweeping fire, and then at 
 Slone. 
 
 Suddenly the bank of sand began to slide with him. 
 He snorted in fright. The avalanche started slowly and 
 was evidently no mere surface slide. It was deep. It 
 stopped — ^then started again — and again stopped. Wild- 
 fire appeared to be sinking deeper and deeper. His strug- 
 gles only embedded him more firmly. Then the bank of 
 sand, with an ominous, low roar, began to move once 
 more. This time it slipped swiftly. The dust rose in a 
 cloud, almost obscuring the horse. Long streams of 
 gravel rattled down, and waterfalls of sand waved' over 
 the steps of the slope. 
 
 Just as suddenly the avalanche stopped again. Slone 
 saw, from the great oval hole it had left above, that it 
 was indeed deep. That was the reason it did not slide 
 readily. When the dust cleared away Slone saw the 
 stallion, sunk to his flanks in the sand, utterly helpless. 
 
 With a wild whoop Slone leaped off Nagger, and, a 
 lasso in each hand, he ran down the long bank. The 
 fire was perhaps a quarter of a mile distant, and, since 
 the grass was thinning out, it was not coming so fast as 
 it had been. The position of the stallion was half-way 
 
 93 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 between the fire and Slonei and a hundred yards up the 
 slope. ^ 
 
 Like a madman Slone climbed up through the dragging, 
 loose sand. He was beside himself with a fury of excite- 
 ment. He fancied his eyes were faiUng him, that it was 
 ■not possible the great horse really was up there, helpless 
 in the sand. Yet every huge stride Slone took brought 
 Jiim closer to a fact he could not deny. In his eagerness 
 he slipped, and fell, and crawled, and leaped, tmtil he 
 reached the slide which held Wildfire prisoner. 
 
 The stallion might have been fast in quicksand, up 
 to his body, for all the movement he could make. He 
 could move only his head. He held that up, his eyes wild, 
 showing the whites, his foaming mouth wide open, his 
 teeth gleaming. A sound like a scream rent the air. 
 Terrible fear and hate were expressed in that piercing 
 neigh. And shaggy, wet, dusty red, with all of brute 
 savageness in the look and action of his head, he appeared 
 hideous. 
 
 As Slone leaped within roping distance the avalanche 
 slipped a foot or two, halted, slipped once more, and 
 slowly started again with that low roar. He did not care 
 -whether it slipped or stopped. Like a wolf he leaped 
 closer, whirling his rope. The loop hissed round his head 
 and whistled as he flung it. And when fiercely he jerked 
 back on the rope, the noose closed tight round Wildfire's 
 neck. 
 
 "By G — d — I — ^got — a rope — on him!" cried Slone, in 
 hoarse pants. 
 
 He stared, unbelieving. It was tmreal, that sight — 
 unreal like the slow, grinding movement of the avalanche 
 under him. Wildfire's head seemed a demon head of 
 hate. It reached out, mouth agape, to bite, to rend. 
 That horrible scream could not be the scream of a 
 horse. 
 
 Slone was a wild-horse hunter, a rider, and when that 
 second of incredulity flashed by, then came the moment 
 
 94 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 of triumph. No moment could ever equal that one, when 
 he realized he stood there with a rope around that grand 
 stalUon's neck. All the days and the miles and the toil 
 and the endurance and the hopelessness and the hunger 
 were paid for in that moment. His heart seemed too 
 large for his breast. 
 
 "I tracked — ^you!" he cried, savagely. "I stayed — 
 with you! . . . An' I got a rope — on you! An' — I'll ride 
 you — you red devil!" 
 
 The passion of the man was intense. That endless, 
 racking pursuit had brought out all the hardness the 
 desert had engendered in him. Almost hate, instead of 
 love, spoke in Slone's words. He hauled on the lasso, 
 pulling the stallion's head down and down. The action 
 was the lust of capture as well as the rider's instinctive 
 motive to make the horse fear him. Life was unquench- 
 ably wild and strong in that stallion; it showed in the 
 terror which made him hideous. And man and beast 
 somehow resembled each other in that moment which 
 was inimical to noble life. 
 
 The avalanche slipped with little jerks, as if treacher- 
 ously loosing its hold for a long plunge. The line of fire 
 below ate at the bleached grass and the long column of 
 smoke curled away on the wind.. 
 
 Slone held the taut lasso with his left hand, and with 
 the right he swung the other rope, catching the noose 
 round Wildfire's nose. Then letting go of the first rope 
 he hauled on the other, pijlling the head of the staUion 
 far down. Hand over hand Slone closed in on the horse. 
 He leaped on Wildfire's head, pressed it down, and, hold- 
 ing it down on the sand with his knees, with swift fingers 
 he tied the noose in a hackamore — an improvised halter. 
 Then, just as swiftly, he botmd his scarf tight round Wild- 
 fire's head, blindfolding him. 
 
 "AH so easy!" exclaimed Slone, tmder his breath. 
 "Lord! who wotild beUeve it! . . . Is it a dream?" 
 
 He rose and let the staLion have a free head. 
 
 95 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Wildfire, I got a rope on you — an' a hackamore — an' 
 a blinder," said Slone. "An' if I had a bridle I'd put that 
 on you. . . . Who'd ever believe you'd catch yourself, 
 draggin' in the sand?" 
 
 Slone, finding himself falling on the sand, gre:w alive 
 to the augmented movement of the avalanche. It had 
 begun to slide, to heave and bulge and crack. Dust 
 rose in clouds from all around. The sand appeared to 
 open and let him sink to his knees. The rattle of gravel 
 was drowned in a soft roar. Then he shot down swiftly, 
 holding the lassoes, keeping himself erect, and riding as 
 if in a boat. He felt the successive steps of the slope, 
 and then the long incline below, and then the checking 
 and rising and spreading of the avalanche as it slowed 
 down on the level. All movement then was checked 
 violently. He appeared to be half buried in sand. While 
 he struggled to extricate himself the thick dust blew 
 away and settled so that he could see. Wildfire lay 
 before him, at the edge of the slide, and now he was not 
 so deeply embedded as he had been up on the slope. He 
 was struggling and probably soon would have been able 
 to get out. The line of fire was close now, but Slone did 
 not fear that. 
 
 At his shrill whistle Nagger bounded toward him, obedi- 
 ent, but snorting, with ears laid back. He halted. A 
 second whistle started him again. Slone finally dug him- 
 self out of the sand, pulled the lassoes out, and ran the 
 length of them toward Nagger. The black showed both 
 fear and fight. His eyes rolled and he half shied away. 
 
 "Come on!" called Slone, harshly. 
 
 He got a hand on the horse, pulled him round, and, 
 mounting in a flash, wound both lassoes round the pommel 
 of the saddle. 
 
 "Haul him out. Nagger, old boy!" cried Slone, and 
 he dug spurs into the black. 
 
 One plunge of Nagger's slid the stallion out of the 
 sand. Snorting, wild, blinded. Wildfire got up, shaking 
 
 96 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 in every limb. He could not see his enemies. The blow- 
 ing smoke, right in his nose, made scent impossible. 
 But in the taut lassoes he sensed the direction of his 
 captors. He plunged, rearing at the end of the plunge, 
 and struck out viciously with his hoofs. Slone, quick 
 with spur and bridle, swerved Nagger aside and Wildfire, 
 off his balance, went down with a crash. Slone dragged 
 him, stretched him out, pulled him over twice before he 
 got forefeet planted. Once up, he reared again, screech- 
 ing his rage, striking wildly with his hoofs. Slone wheeled 
 aside and toppled him over again. 
 
 "Wildfire, it's no fair fight," he called, grimly. "But 
 you led me a chase. . . . An' you learn right now I'm 
 boss!" 
 
 Again he dragged the stallion. He was ruthless. He 
 would have to be so, stopping just short of maiming or 
 killing the horse, else he would never break him. But 
 Wildfire was nimble. He got to his feet and this time 
 he Itmged out. Nagger, powerful as he was, could not 
 sustain the tremendous shock, and went down. Slone 
 saved himself with a rider's supple skill, falling clear of 
 the horse, and he leaped again into the saddle as Nagger 
 pounded up. Nagger braced his huge frame and held 
 the pltmging stallion. But the saddle slipped a little, the 
 cinches cracked. Slone eased the strain by wheeUng after 
 Wildfire. 
 
 The horses had worked away from the fire, and Wild- 
 fire, free of the stifling smoke, began to break and lunge 
 and pitch, plunging round Nagger in a circle, running 
 blindly, but with tinerring scent. Slone, by masterly 
 horsemanship, easily avoided the rushes, and made a 
 pivot of Nagger, roimd which the wild horse dashed in 
 his frenzy. It seemed that he no longer tried to free 
 himself. He lunged to kill. 
 
 ' ' Steady, Nagger, old boy !" Slone kept calling. ' ' He'll 
 never get at you. ... If he slips that blinder I'll kill 
 him!" 
 
 97 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 The stallion was a fiend in his fury, quicker than a 
 panther, wonderful on his feet, and powerful as an ox. 
 But he was at a disadvantage. He could not see. And 
 Slone, in his spoken intention to kill Wildfire should the 
 scatf slip, acknowledged that he never would have a 
 chance to master the stallion. Wildfire was bigger, faster, 
 stronger than Slone had believed, and as for spirit, that 
 was a grand and fearfid thing to see. 
 
 The soft sand in the pass was plowed deep before Wild- 
 fire paused in his mad plunges. He was wet and heaving. 
 His red coat seemed to blaze. His mane stood up and 
 his ears lay flat. 
 
 Slone uncoiled the lassoes from the pommel and slacked 
 them a Uttle. Wildfire stood up, striking at the air, 
 snorting fiercely. Slone tried to wheel Nagger in close 
 behind the stallion. Both horse and man narrowly es- 
 caped the vicious hoofs. But Slone had closed in. He took 
 a desperate chance and spurred Nagger in a single leap 
 as Wildfire reared again. The horses collided. Slone 
 hauled the lassoes tight. The impact threw Wildfire off 
 his balance, just as Slone had calculated, and as the 
 stallion plunged down on four feet Slone spurred Nagger 
 close against him. Wildfire was a Uttle in the lead. He 
 could only half rear now, for the heaving, moving Nagger, 
 always against him, jostled him down, and Slone 's iron 
 arm hauled on the short ropes. When Wildfire turned 
 to bite, Slone knocked the vicious nose back with a long 
 swing of his fist. 
 
 Up the pass the horses plunged. With a rider's wild 
 joy Slone saw the long green-and-gray valley, and the iso- 
 lated monuments in the distance. There, on that wide 
 stretch, he would break Wildfire. How marvelously 
 luck had favored him at the last ! 
 
 "Run, you red devil!" Slone called. "Drag us arotmd 
 now tiU you're done!" 
 
 They left the pass and swept out upon the waste of 
 sage. Slone realized, from the stinging of the sweet wind 
 
 98 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 in his face, that Nagger was being pulled along at a tr&< 
 mendous pace. The faithful black could never have made 
 the wind cut so. Lower the wild stallion stretched and 
 swifter he ran, till it seemed to Slone that deg,th must 
 end that thunderbolt race. 
 8 
 
CHAPTER Vin 
 
 tUCY BOSTIL had called twice to her father and he 
 J had not answered. He was out at the hitching-rail, 
 with HoUey, the rider, and two other men. If he heard 
 Lucy he gave no sign of it. She had on her chaps and 
 did not care to go any farther than the door where she 
 stood. 
 
 " Somers has gone to Durango an' Shugrue is out huntin* 
 hosses," Lucy heard Bostil say, gruffly. 
 
 "Wal now, I reckon I could handle the boat an' fetch 
 Creech's hosses over," said HoUey. 
 
 Bostil raised an impatient hand, a& if to wave aside 
 HoUey's assimiption. 
 
 Then one of tlie other two men spoke up. Lucy had 
 seen him before, but did not know his name. 
 
 "Sure there ain't any need to rustle the job. The 
 river hain't showed any signs of risin' yet. But Creech 
 is worryin'. He alius is wonyin' over them hosses. 
 No wonder! Thet Blue Roan is sure a hoss. Yesterday 
 at two miles he showed Creech he was a sight faster than 
 last year. The grass is gone over there. Creech is grain- , 
 in' his stock these last few days. An' thet's expensive." 
 
 "How about the fiat up the canon?" queried BostU. 
 "Ain't there any grass there?" 
 
 "Reckon not. It's the dryest spell Creech ever had," 
 replied the other., "An' if there was grass it wouldn't 
 do him no good. A landslide blocked the only trail up." 
 
 "Bostil, them hosses, the racers special, ought to be 
 brought acrost the river," said HoUey, earnestly. He 
 loved horses and was thinking of them. 
 
 lOO 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "The boat's got to be patched up," replied Bostil, 
 shortly. 
 
 It occurred to Lucy that her father was also thinking 
 of Creech's thoroughbreds, but not like HoUey. She 
 grew grave and listened intently. 
 
 There was an awkward pause. Creech's rider, who- 
 ever he was, evidently tried to conceal his anxiety. He 
 flicked his boots with a quirt. The boots were covered with 
 wet mud. Probably he had crossed the river very recently. 
 
 "Wal,. when will you have the bosses fetched over?" 
 he asked, deliberately. "Creech '11 want to know." 
 
 "Just as soon as the boat's mended," replied Bostil. 
 "I'll put Shugrue on the job to-morrow." 
 
 "Thanks, Bostil. Sure, thet '11 be all right. Creech '11 
 be satisfied," said the rider, as if relieved. Then he 
 moimted, and with his companion trotted down the lane. 
 
 The lean, gray HoUey bent a keen gaze upon Bostil. 
 But Bostil did not notice that; he appeared preoccupied 
 in thought. 
 
 "Bostil, the dry winter an' spring here ain't any guar- 
 antee thet there wasn't a lot of snow up in the moun- 
 tains." 
 
 HoUey's remark startled Bostil. 
 
 "No — it ain't — sure," he replied 
 
 "An' any momin' along now we might wake up to hear 
 the Colorado boomin'," went on HoUey, significantly. 
 
 Bostil did not reply to that. 
 
 " Creech hain't lived over there so many years. What's 
 he know about the river? An' fer that matter, who 
 knows anythin' sure about thet hell-bent river?" 
 
 "It ain't my business thet Creech lives over there 
 riskin' his stock every spring," replied Bostil, darkly. 
 
 HoUey opened his lips to speak, hesitated, looked away 
 from Bostil, and finally said, "No, it sure ain't." Then 
 he turned and walked away, head bent in sober thought. 
 
 Bostil came toward the open door where Lucy stood. 
 He looked somber. At her greeting he seemed startled. 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "What?" he said. 
 
 "I just said, 'Hello, Dad,'" she replied, demtire- 
 ly. Yet she thoughtfully studied her father's dark 
 face. 
 
 "Hello yourself. . . . Did you know Van got throwed 
 an' hurt?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Bostil swore under his breath. "There ain't any 
 riders on the range thet can be trusted," he said, dis- 
 gustedly. " They're all the same. They like to get in a 
 bunch an' jeer each other an' bet. They want mean 
 bosses. They make good bosses buck. They haven't 
 any use for a boss thet won't buck. They all want to 
 give a boss a rakin' over. . . . Think of thet fool Van gettin' 
 throwed by a two-dollar Ute mustang. An' hurt so he 
 can't ride for days! With them races comin' soon! It 
 makes me sick." 
 
 "Dad, weren't you a rider once?" asked Lucy. 
 
 "I never was thet kind." 
 
 "Van will be all right in a few days." 
 
 "No matter. It's bad business. If I had any other 
 rider who could handle the King I'd let Van go." 
 
 "I can get just as much out of the King as Van can," 
 said Lucy, spiritedly. 
 
 "You!" exclaimed Bostil. But there was pride in his 
 glance. 
 
 "I know lean." 
 
 "You never had any use for Sage King," said Bostil, 
 as if he had been wronged. 
 
 "I love the King a little, and hate him a lot," laughed 
 Lucy. 
 
 "Wal, I might let you ride at thet, if Van ain't in 
 shape," rejoined her father. 
 
 "I wouldn't ride him in the raqe. But I'll keep him 
 in fine fettle." 
 
 "I'll bet you'd like to see Sarch beat him," said BostU, 
 jealously. 
 
 102 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Sure I would," replied Lucy, teasingly. "But, Dad, 
 I'm afraid Sarch never will beat him." 
 
 Bostil grunted. "See here. I don't want any weight 
 up on the King. You take him out for a few days. An' 
 ride him ! Savvy thet ?" 
 
 "Yes, Dad." 
 
 "Give him miles an' miles — an' then comin' home, on 
 good trails, ride him for all your worth. . . . Now, Lucy, 
 keep yotur eye open. Don't let any one get near you 
 on the sage." 
 
 "I won't. . . . Dad, do you still worry about poor Joel 
 Creech?" 
 
 "Not Joel. But I'd rather lose all my stock then have 
 Cordts or Dick Sears get within a mile of you." 
 
 "A mile!" exclaimed Lucy, lightly, though a fleeting 
 shade crossed her face. "Why, I'd run away from him, 
 if, I was on 'the King, even if he got within ten yards of 
 me." 
 
 "A mile is close enough, my daughter," replied Bostil. 
 "Don't ever forget to keep your eye open. Cordts has 
 sworn thet if he can't steal the King he'll get you." 
 
 "Oh! he prefers the horse to me." 
 
 "Wal, Lucy, I've a sneaMn' idea thet Cordts will never 
 leave the uplands unless he gets you an' the King both." 
 
 "And, Dad — ^you consented to let that horse-thief come 
 to our races?" exclaimed Lucy, with heat. 
 
 "Why not? He can't do any harm. If he or his men 
 get uppish, the worse for them. Cordts gave his word 
 not to turn a trick tiU after the races." 
 
 "Do you trust him?" 
 
 "Yes. But his men might break loose, away from his 
 sight. Especially thet Dick Sears. He's a bad man. 
 So be watchful whenever you ride out." 
 
 As Lucy went down toward the corrals she was thinking 
 deeply. She could always tell, woman-like, when her 
 father was excited or agitated. She remembered the con- 
 versation between him and Creech's rider. She remem- 
 
 103 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 bered the keen glance old HoUey had bent upon him. 
 And mostly she remembered the somber look upon his 
 face. She did not like that. Once, when a little girl, she 
 had seen it and never forgotten it, nor the thing that it was 
 associated with — something tragical which had happened 
 in the big room. There had been loud, angry voices of 
 men — and shots — and then the men carried out a long 
 form covered with a blanket. She loved her father, but 
 there was a side to him she feared. And somehow re- 
 lated to that side was his hardness toward Creech and his 
 intolerance of any rider owning a fast horse and his ob- 
 session in regard to his own racers. Lucy had often tan- 
 talized her father with the joke that if it ever came to 
 a choice between her and his favorites they would come 
 first. But was it any longer a joke? Lucy felt that she 
 had left childhood behind with its fun and fancies, and 
 she had begun to look at life thoughtftdly. 
 
 Sight of the corrals, however, and of the King pranc- 
 ing around, drove serious thoughts away. There were 
 riders there, among them Farlane, and they all had pleas- 
 ant greetings for her. 
 
 "Farlane, Dad says I'm to take out Sage King," an- 
 nounced Lucy. 
 
 "No!" ejaculated Farlane, as he pocketed his pipe. 
 
 "Sure. And I'm to ride him. You know how Dad 
 means that." 
 
 "Wal, now, I'm doggoned!" added Farlane, looking 
 worried and pleased at once. "I reckon. Miss Lucy, 
 you — ^you wouldn't fool me?" 
 
 " Why, Farlane !" returned Lucy, reproachfully. "Did 
 I ever do a single thing around horses that you didn't 
 want me to?" 
 
 Farlane rubbed his chin beard somewhat dubiously. 
 "Wal, Miss Lucy, not exactly while you was around the 
 bosses. But I reckon when you onct got up, you've 
 sorta forgot a few times." 
 
 All the riders laughed, and Lucy joined them. 
 
 104 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "I'm safe when I'm up, you know that," she replied. 
 
 They brought out the gray, and after the manner of 
 riders who had the care of a great horse and loved him, 
 they curried and combed and rubbed him before saddling 
 him. 
 
 "Reckon you'd better ride Van's saddle," suggested 
 Farlane. "Them races is close now, an' a strange 
 saddle—" 
 
 " Of course. Don't change an3rthing he's used to, except 
 the stirrups," replied Lucy. 
 
 Despite her antipathy toward Sage King, Lucy could 
 not gaze at him without all a rider's glory in a horse. 
 He was sleek, so graceful, so racy, so near the soft gray 
 of the sage, so beautifiil in build and action. Then he 
 was the kind of a horse that did not have to be eternally 
 watched. He was spirited and full of life, eager to run, 
 but when Farlane called for him to stand still he obeyed. 
 He was the kind of a horse that a child could have played 
 around in safety. He never kicked. He never bit. He 
 never bolted. It was splendid to see him with Farlane 
 or with Bostil. He did not like Lucy very well, a fact 
 that perhaps accounted for Lucy's antipathy. For that 
 matter, he did not hke any woman. If he had a bad trait, 
 it came out when Van rode him, but all the riders, and 
 Bostil, too, claimed that Van was to blame for that. 
 
 "Thar, I reckon them stirrups is right," declared Far- 
 lane. "Now, Miss Lucy, hold him tight till he wears 
 off thet edge. He needs work." 
 
 Sage King would not kneel for Lucy as Sarchedon did, 
 and he was too high for her to mount from the ground, so 
 she mounted from a rock. She took to the road, and then 
 the first trail into the sage, intending to trot him ten or 
 fifteen miles down into the valley, and give him some 
 fast, warm work on the return. 
 
 The day was early in May and promised to grow hot. 
 There was not a cloud in the blue sky. The wind, laden 
 with the breath of sage, blew briskly from the west. All 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 before Lucy lay the vast valley, gray and dusky gray, 
 then blue, then purple where the monuments stood, and, 
 farther still, dark ramparts of rock. Lucy had a habit of 
 dreaming while on horseback, a habit all the riders had 
 tried to break, but she did not give it rein while she 
 rode Sarchedon, and assuredly now, up on the King, she 
 never forgot him for an instant. He shied at mocking- 
 birds and pack-rats and blowing blossoms and even at 
 butterflies; and he did it, Lucy thought, just because he 
 was full of mischief. Sage King had been known to go 
 steady when there had been reason to shy. He did not 
 like Lucy and he chose to torment her. Finally he earned 
 a good dig from a spur, and then, with swift pounding of 
 hoofs, he plunged and veered and danced in the sage. 
 Lucy kept her temper, which was what most riders did 
 not do, and by patience and firmness pulled Sage King 
 out of his prancing back into the trail. He was not the 
 least cross-grained, and, having had his Uttle spurt, he 
 settled down into easy going. 
 
 In an hour Lucy was ten miles or more from home, and 
 farther down in the valley than she had ever been. In 
 fact, she had never before been down the long slope to 
 the valley floor. How changed the horizon became! 
 The monuments loomed up now, dark, sentinel-like, and 
 strange. The first one, a great red rock, seemed to her 
 some five miles away. It was lofty, straight-sided, with 
 a green slope at its base. And beyond that the other 
 monuments stretched out down the valley. Lucy de- 
 cided to ride as far as the first one before turning back. 
 Always these montiments had fascinated her, and this 
 was her opportunity to ride near one. How lofty they 
 were, how wonderfully colored, and how comely! 
 
 Presently, over to the left, where the monuments were 
 thicker, and gradually merged their slopes and lines and 
 bulk into the yellow walls, she saw low, drifting clouds of 
 smoke. 
 
 "Well, what's that, I wonder?" she mused. To see 
 
 io6 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 smoke on the horizon in that direction was unusual, 
 though out toward Durango the grassy benches would 
 often bum over. And these low clouds of smoke resem- 
 bled those she had seen before. 
 
 "It's a long way ofE," she added. 
 
 So she kept on, now and then gazing at the smoke. 
 As she grew nearer to the first monument she was sur- 
 prised, then amazed, at its height and surpassing size. 
 It was mountain-high — a grand tower — smooth, worn, 
 glistening, yellow and red. The trail she had followed 
 petered out in a deep wash, and beyond that she crossed 
 no more trails. The sage had grown meager and the 
 greasewbods stunted and dead; and cacti appeared on 
 barren places. The grass had not failed, but it was not 
 rich grass such as the horses and cattle grazed upon miles 
 back on the slope. The air was hot down here. The 
 breeze was heavy and smelled of fire, and the sand was 
 blowing here and there. She had a sense of the bigness, 
 the openness of this valley, and then she realized its wild- 
 ness and strangeness. These lonely, isolated monuments 
 made the place different from any she had visited. They 
 did not seem mere standing rocks. They seemed to re- 
 treat all the time as she approached, and they watched 
 her. They interested her, made her curious. What had 
 formed all these strange moniunents? Here the ground 
 was level for miles and miles, to slope gently up to the 
 bases of these huge rocks. In an old book she had seen 
 pictures of the Egyptian pyramids, but these appeared 
 vaster, higher, and stranger, and they were sheerly per- 
 pendicular. 
 
 Suddenly Sage King halted sharply, shot up his ears, 
 and whistled. Lucy was startled. That from the King 
 meant something. Hastily, with keen glance she swept 
 the foreground. A mile on, near the monimient, was a 
 small black spot. It seemed motionless. But the 
 King's whistle had proved it to be a horse. When Lucy 
 had covered a quarter of the intervening distance she 
 
 107 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 could distinguish the horse and that there appeared some- 
 thing strange about his position. Lucy urged Sage King 
 into a lope and soon drew nearer. The black horse had 
 his head down, yet he did not appear to be grazing. He 
 was as still as a statue. He stood just outside a clump 
 of greasewood and cactus. 
 
 Suddenly a sound pierced the stillness. The King 
 jumped and snorted in fright. For an instant Lucy's 
 blood ran cold, for it was a horrible cry. Then she recog- 
 nized it as the neigh of a horse in agony. She had heard 
 crippled and dying horses utter that long-drawn and 
 blood-curdling neigh. The black horse had not moved, 
 so the sound could not have come from him. Lucy 
 thought Sage King acted more excited than the occasion 
 called for. Then remembering her father's warning, she 
 reined in on top of a little knoll, perhaps a hundred yards 
 from where the black horse stood, and she bent her keen 
 gaze'forward. 
 
 It was a huge, gaunt, shaggy black horse she saw, with 
 the saddle farther up on his shoulders than it should have 
 been. He stood motionless, as if utterly exhausted. His 
 forelegs were braced, so that he leaned slightly back. 
 Then Lucy saw a rope. It was fast to the saddle and 
 stretched down into the cactus. There was no other 
 horse in sight, nor any living thing. The immense monu- 
 ment dominated the scene. It seemed stupendous to 
 Lucy, sublime, almost frightful. 
 
 She hesitated. She knew there was another horse,- 
 very likely at the other end of that lasso. Probably a 
 rider had been thrown, perhaps killed. Certainly a horse 
 had been hurt. Then on the moment rang out the same 
 neigh of agony, only weaker and shorter. Lucy no 
 longer feared an ambush. That was a cry which could 
 not be imitated by a man or forced from a horse. There 
 was probably death, certainly suffering, near at hand. 
 She spurred the King on. 
 
 There was a little slope to descend, a wash to cross, 
 
 io8 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 a bench to climb — and then she rode tip to tfee black 
 horse. Sage King needed harder treatment than Lucy 
 had ever given him. 
 
 "What's wrong with you?" she demanded, pulling him 
 down. Suddenly, as she felt him tremble, she realized 
 .that he was frightened. "That's funny!" Then when 
 she got him quiet she looked around. 
 
 The black horse was indeed huge. His mane, his 
 shaggy flanks, were lathered as if he had been smeared 
 with heavy soap-suds. He raised his head to look at her. 
 Lucy, accustomed to horses all her life, saw that this one 
 welcomed her arrival. But he was almost ready to drop. 
 
 Two taut lassoes stretched from the pommel of his 
 saddle down a little into a depression full of brush and 
 cactus-and rocks. Then Lucy saw a red horse. He was 
 down in a bad position. She heard his low, choking heaves. 
 Probably he had broken legs or back. She could not bear 
 to see a, horse in pain. She would do what was possible, 
 even to the extent of putting him out of his misery, if 
 nothing else could be done. Yet she scanned the sur- 
 roundings closely, and peered into the bushes and behind 
 the rocks before she tried to urge Sage King closer. He 
 refused to go nearer, and Lucy dismounted. 
 
 The red horse was partly hidden by overbending 
 brush. He had plunged into a hole fuH of cactus. There 
 was a hackamore round his nose and a tight noose roimd 
 his neck. The one round his neck was also round his 
 forelegs. And both lassoes were held taut by the black 
 horse. A torn and soiled rider's scarf hung limp round 
 the red horse's nose, kept from falling oflE by the hacka-, 
 more. 
 
 "A wild horse, a stallion, being broken!" exclaimed 
 Lucy, instantly grasping the situation. "Oh! where's. 
 the rider?" 
 
 She gazed around, ran to and fro, glanced down the 
 little slope, and beyond, but she did not see anything; 
 resembling the form of a man. Then she ran back. 
 
 109 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Lucy took another quick look at the red stallion. She 
 did not believe either his legs or back were hurt. He 
 was just played out and tangled and tied in the ropes, 
 and could not get up. The shaggy black horse stood there 
 braced and indomitable. But he, likewise, was almost 
 ready to drop. Looking at the condition of both horses 
 and the saddle and ropes, Lucy saw what a fight there 
 had been, and a race! Where was the rider? Thrown, 
 surely, and back on the trail, perhaps dead or maimed. 
 
 Lucy went closer to the stallion so that she could al- 
 most touch him. He saw [her. He was nearly choked. 
 Foam and blood wheezed out with his heaves. She must 
 do something quickly. And in her haste she pricked her 
 arms and shoulders on the cactus. ^^ 
 
 She led the black horse closer in, letting the Sees go 
 slack. The black seemed as glad of that releas^fe she 
 was. , What a faithful brute he looked! Lucy lil^ his 
 eyes. 
 
 Then she edged down in among the cactus and brush. 
 The red horse no longer lay in a strained position. He 
 could lift his head. Lucy saw that the noose still held 
 tight round his neck. Fearlessly she jerked it loose. 
 Then she back away, but not quite out of his reach. He 
 coughed and breathed slowly, with great heaves. Then 
 he snorted. 
 
 "You're all right now," said Lucy, soothingly. Slowly 
 she reached a hand toward his head. He drew it back 
 as far as he could. She stepped aroimd, closer, and more 
 back of him, and put a hand on him, gently, for an in- 
 stant. Then she slipped out of the brush and, untying 
 one lasso from the pommel, she returned to the horse and 
 pulled it from round his legs. He was free now, except 
 the hackamore, and that rope was slack. Lucy stood 
 near him, watching him, taUdng to him, waiting for him 
 to get up. She could not be sure he was not badly hurt 
 till he stood up. At first he made no efforts to rise. He 
 watched Lucy, less fearfully, she imagined. And she 
 
 no 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 never made a move. She wanted him to see, to under-^ 
 stand that she had not hurt him and would not hurt 
 him. It began to dawn upon her that he was magnificent. 
 
 Finally, with a long, slow heave he got to his feet. 
 Lucy led him out of the hole to open ground. She seemed 
 somehow confident. There occurred to her only one way 
 to act. 
 
 "A little horse sense, as Dad would say," she solilo- 
 quized, and then, when she got him out of the brush, she 
 stood thrilled and amazed. 
 
 "Oh, what a wild, beautiful horse! What a giant! 
 He's bigger than the King. Oh, if Dad could see him 1" | 
 
 The red stallion did not appear to be hurt. The twitch- 
 ing of his muscles must have been caused by the cactus 
 spikes embedded in him. There were drops of blood all 
 over one side. Lucy thought she dared to try to pull 
 these thorns out. She had never in her life been afraid 
 of any horse. Farlane, Holley, all the riders, and her 
 father, too, had tried to make her realize the danger in 
 a horse, sooner or later. But Lucy could not help it;' 
 she was noli afraid; she believed that the meanest horse 
 was actuated by natural fear of a man; she was not a 
 man and she had never handled a horse like a man. This \ 
 red stallion showed hate of the black horse and the rope 
 that connected them; he showed some spirit at the re-j 
 peated blasts of Sage King. But he showed less fear of ^ 
 h^. 
 
 "He has been a proud, wild stallion," mused Lucy.^ 
 "And he's now broken — ^terribly broken — all but ruined." 
 
 Then she walked up to him naturally and spoke softly, 
 and reached a hand for his shoulder. 
 
 "Whoa, Reddy. Whoa now. . . . There. That's a good 
 fellow. Why, I wouldn't rope you or hit you. I'm only 
 a girl." 
 
 He drew up, made a single effort to jump, which she 
 prevented, and then he stood quivering, eying her, while 
 she talked soothingly, and patted him and looked at him 
 
 III 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 in the way she had found infallible with most horses. 
 Lucy believed horses were Uke people, or easier to get 
 along with. Presently she gently pulled out one of the 
 cactus spikes. The horse flinched, but he stood. Lucy 
 was slow, careful, patient, and dexterous. The cactus 
 needles were loose and easily removed or brushed ofE. 
 At length she got him free of them, and was almost as 
 proud as she Was glad. The horse had gradually dropped 
 his head; he was tired and his spirit was broken. 
 
 "Now, what shall I do?" she queried. "I'll take the 
 back trail of these horses. They certainly hadn't been 
 here long before I saw them. And the rider may be 
 close. If not. I'll take the horses home." 
 
 She slipped the noose from the stallion's head, leaving 
 the hackamore, and, coiling the loose lasso, she hung it 
 over the pommel of the black's saddle. Then she took 
 up his bridle. 
 
 "Come on," she called. 
 
 The black followed her, and the stallion, still fast to 
 him by the lasso Lucy had left tied, trooped behind with 
 bowed head. Lucy was elated. But Sage King did not 
 like the matter at all. Lucy had to drop the black's 
 bridle and catch the .King, and then ride back to lead 
 the other again. 
 
 A broad trail maj-ked the way the two horses had 
 come, and it led off to the left, toward where the monu- 
 ments were thickest, and where the great sections of wall 
 stood, broken and battlemented. Lucy was hard put 
 to it to hold Sage King, but the horses behind plodded 
 along. The black horse struck Lucy as being an ugly, 
 but a faithful and wonderful animal. He understood 
 everything. Presently she tied the bridle she was leading 
 him by to the end of her own lasso, a,nd thus let him drop 
 back a few yards, which lessened the King's fretting. 
 
 Intent on the trail, Lucy failed to note time or distance 
 till the looming and frowning monuments stood aloft be- 
 fore her. What weird effect they had! Each might have 
 
 112 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 been a colossal statue left there to mark the work of the 
 ages. Lucy realized that the whole vast valley had once 
 been solid rock, just like the monuments, and through the 
 milUons of years the softer parts had eroded and weathered 
 and blown away — gone with the great sea that had once 
 been there. But the beauty, the solemnity, the majesty of 
 these monuments fascinated her most. She ptssed the 
 first one, a huge square butte, and then the second, a 
 ragged, thin, double shaft, and then went between two 
 much alike, reaching skyward in the shape of monstrous 
 mittens. She watched and watched them, sparing a 
 moment now and then to attend to the trail. She noticed 
 that she was coming into a region of grass, and faint signs 
 of water in the draws. She was getting high again, not 
 many miles nov/ from the wall of rock. 
 
 All at once Sage King shied, and Lucy looked down to 
 see a man lying on the ground. He lay inert. But his 
 eyes were open — dark, staring eyes. They moved. And 
 he called. But Lucy could not understand him. 
 
 In a flash she leaped off the King. She ran to the pros- 
 trate man — dropped to her knees. 
 
 "Oh!" she cried. His face was ghastly. "Oh! are 
 you — you badly hurt?" 
 
 "Lift me — ^my head," he said, faintly. 
 
 She raised his head. What a strained, passionate^ ■ 
 terrible gaze he bent upon the horses. 
 
 "Boy, they're mine — the black an' the red!" he cried. 
 
 "They surely must be," replied Lucy. "Oh! tell me. 
 Are you hurt?" 
 
 "Boy! did you catch them — fetch them back — ^look- 
 in' forme?" 
 
 "I sure did." 
 
 "You caught — ^that red devil — an' fetched him — ^back 
 to me?" went on the wondering, faint voice. "Boy — 
 oh— boy!" 
 
 He lifted a long, ragged arm and pulled Lucy down. ' 
 The action amazed her equally as his passion of gratitude. 
 
 113 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 He might have been iniured, but he had an arm of iron. 
 Lucy was powerless. She felt her face against his — tod 
 her breast against his. The pounding of his heart was 
 like blows. The first instant she wanted to laugh, despite 
 her pity. Then the powerful arm — ^the contact affected 
 her as nothing ever before. Suppose this crippled rider 
 had tak^ her for a boy — She was not a boy! She 
 could not help being herself. And no ntian had ever put 
 a hand on her. Consciousness of this brought shame and 
 anger. She struggled so violently that she freed herself. 
 And he lay back. 
 
 "See herer— that's no way to act — ^to hug — a person," 
 she cried, with flaming cheeks. 
 
 "Boy, I—" 
 
 " I'm not a boy. I'm a girl." 
 
 "What!" 
 
 Lucy tore off her sombrero, which had been pulled far 
 forward, and this revealed her face fully, and her hair 
 came ttmibling down. The rider gazed, stupefied. Then 
 a faint tinge of red colored his ghastly cheeks. 
 
 "A girl! . . . Why — ^why 'scuse me, miss. I — 1 took 
 you — ^for a boy." 
 
 He seemed so astounded, he looked so ashamed, so 
 scared, and withal, so haggard and weak, that Lucy im- 
 mediately recovered her equanimity. 
 
 "Sure I'm a girl. But that's no matter. . . . You've 
 been thrown. Are you hurt?" 
 
 He smiled a weak assent. 
 
 "Badly?" she queried. She did not like the way he 
 lay: — so limp, so motionless. 
 
 "I'm afraid so. I can't move." 
 
 "Oh!... What shall I do?" 
 
 " Can you — get me water?" he whispered, with dry lips. ' 
 
 Lucy flew to her horse to get the small canteen she 
 always carried. But that had been left' on her saddle, 
 and she had ridden Van's. Then she gazed around. 
 The wash she had crossed several times ran near where 
 
 114 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 the rider lay. Green grass and willows bordered it. 
 She ran down and, hurrying along, searched for water. 
 There was water in places, yet she had to go a long way 
 before she found water that was drinkable. Filling her 
 sombrero, she htirried back to the side of the rider. It 
 was difficult to give him a drink. 
 
 "Thanks, miss," he said, gratefully. His voice was 
 stronger and less hoarse. 
 
 "Have you any broken bones?" asked Lucy. 
 
 "I don't know. I can't feel much." 
 
 "Are you in pain?" 
 
 "Hardly. I feel sort of thick." 
 
 Lucy, being an intelligent girl, bom in the desert and 
 used to its needs, had not often encountered a situation 
 with which she was unable to cope. 
 
 "Let me feel if you have any broken bones. . . . That 
 arm isn't broken, I'm positive." 
 
 The rider smiled faintly again. How he stared with 
 his strained, dark eyes! His face showed ghastly through 
 the thin, soft beard and the tan. Lucy found his right 
 arm badly bruised, but not broken. She made sure his 
 collar-bones and shoulder-blades were intact. Broken 
 ribs were harder to locate; still, as he did not feel pain 
 from presstire, she concluded there were no fractures 
 there. With her assistance he moved his legs, proving 
 no broken bones there. 
 
 "I'm afraid it's my — spine," he said. 
 
 "But you raised your head once," she replied. "If 
 your back was — ^was broken or injured you couldn't raise 
 your head." 
 
 "So I couldn't. I guess I'm just knocked out. I was 
 — pretty weak before Wildfire knocked me — ofE Nagger." 
 
 "Wildfire?" 
 
 "That's the red stallion's name." 
 
 "Oh, he's named already?" 
 
 "I named him — long ago. He's known on many a' 
 range." 
 
 9 IIS 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Where?'' 
 
 "I think far north of here. I~trailed him — days— 
 ■^eeks — ^months. We crossed the great canon — " 
 
 "The Grand Canon?" 
 
 "It must be that." 
 
 " The Grand Canon is down there," said Lucy, pointing. 
 ' "I live on it. . . . You've come a long way." 
 
 "Hundreds of miles! . . . Oh, the ground I covered — 
 that awful canon country! . . . But I stayed with Wildfire. , 
 An' I put a rope on him. An' he got away. . . . An' it 
 was a boy — ^no — a girl who — saved him for me — an' 
 maybe saved my life, too!" 
 
 Lucy looked away from the dark,., staring eyes. A light 
 in them confused her. 
 
 ' ' Never mind me. You say you were weak ? Have you 
 been iU?" 
 
 "No, miss. Just starved. ... I starved on Wildfire's 
 trail." 
 
 Lucy ran to her saddle and got the biscuits out of the 
 pockets of her coat, and she ran back to the rider. 
 
 "Here. I never thought. Oh, you've had a hard 
 time of it! I understand. That wonderful flame of a 
 horse! I'd have stayed, too. My father was a rider 
 once. Bostil. Did you ever hear of him?" 
 
 "Bostil. The name — I've heard." Then the rider 
 lay thinking, as he mtmched a biscuit. "Yes, I remem- 
 i ber, but it was long ago. I spent a night with a wagon- 
 train, a camp of many men and women, religious people, 
 worldng into Utah. Bostil had a boat at the crossing 
 of the Fathers." 
 
 "Yes, they called the Ferry that." 
 
 "I remember well now. They said Bostil couldn't 
 count his horses — that he was a rich man, hard on riders — 
 an' he'd used a gun more than once." 
 
 Lucy bowed her head. "Yes, that's my dad." 
 
 The rider did not seem to see how he had hurt her. 
 
 "Here we are talking — ^wasting time," she said. "I 
 ii6 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 must start home. You can't be moved. What shall I 
 do?" 
 
 "That's for you to say, Bostil's daughter." 
 
 "My name's Lucy," replied the girl, blushing painfully. 
 "I mean I'll be glad to do anything you think best." 
 
 "You're very good." 
 
 Then he turned his face away. Lucy looked closely 
 at him. He was indeed a beggared rider. His clothes 
 and his boots hung in tatters. He had no hat, no coat, 
 no vest. His gaunt face bore traces of what might 
 have been a fine, strong comeliness, but now it was only 
 thin, worn, wan, pitiful, with that look which always 
 went to a woman's heart. He had the look of a homeless 
 rider. Lucy had seen a few of his wandering type, and 
 his story was so plain. But he seemed to have a touch 
 of pride, and this quickened her interest. 
 
 "Then I'll do what I think best for you," said Lucy. 
 
 First she unsaddled the black Nagger. With the saddle 
 she made a pillow for the rider's head, and she covered 
 him with the saddle blanket. Before she had finished this 
 task he turned his eyes upon her. And Lucy felt she 
 would be haunted. Was he badly hurt, after all? It 
 seemed probable. How strange he was! 
 
 "I'll water the horses — ^then tie Wildfire here on a 
 double rope. There's grass." 
 
 "But you can't lead him," replied the rider, i 
 
 "He'll follow me." 
 
 "That red devil!" The rider shuddered as he spoke. 
 
 Lucy had some faint inkling of what a terrible fight 
 that had been between man and horse. "Yes; when I 
 fotmd him he was broken. Look at him now." 
 
 But the rider did not appear to want to see the stal- 
 lion. He gazed up at Lucy, and she saw something in 
 his eyes that made her think of a child. She left him, 
 had no trouble in watering the horses, and haltered Wild- 
 fire among the willows on a patch of grass. Then she 
 returned. 
 
 117 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "I'll go now," she said to the rider. 
 
 "Where?" \ 
 
 "Home. I'll come back tp-inorrow, early, and bring 
 some one to help you — " 
 
 "Girl, if ^'OM want to help me more — ^bring me some 
 
 I bread an' meat. Don't tell any one. Look what a raga- 
 
 miifiBn I am. . . . An' there's Wildfire. J. don't want hiin 
 
 seen till I'm— on my feet again. I know riders. . . . 
 
 That's all. If you want to be so good-^-come." 
 
 "I'H come," replied Lucy, simply. 
 
 "Thank you. I owe you — a lot. . . . What did you say 
 your name was?" 
 
 "Lucy— Lucy Bostil." 
 
 "Oh, I forgot. . . . Are you sure you tied Wildfire good 
 an' tight?" 
 
 "Yes, I'm sure. I'll go now. I hope you'll be better 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Lucy hesitated, with her hand on the King's bridle. 
 She did not like to leave this young man lying there 
 helpless on the desert. But what else could she do? 
 What a strange adventure had befallen her! At the 
 following thought that it was not yet concluded she felt 
 a Httle stir of excitement at her pulses. She was so 
 strangely preoccupied that she forgot it was necessary 
 for her to have a step to mount Sage King. She realized 
 it quickly enough when she attempted it. Then she 
 led^ him off in the sage till she found a rock. Mounting, 
 she turned him straight across country, meaning to cut 
 out miles of travel that would have been necessary along 
 her back-trail. Once she looked back. The rider was 
 not visible; the black horse, Nagger, was out of sight, 
 but Wildfire, blazing in the sun, watched her depart. 
 
CHAPTER IX* 
 
 LUCY BOSTIL could not control the glow of strange 
 i excitement under which she labored, but she could 
 put her mind on the riding of Sage King. She did not 
 realize, however,. tjiat she was riding him under the stress 
 and spell of that excitement. 
 
 She had headed out to make a short cut, fairly sure of 
 her directiqp, yet she was not unaware of the fact that 
 she would be lost till she ran across her trail. That 
 might be easy to miss and time was flying. She put the 
 King to a brisk trot, winding through the aisles of the sage. | 
 
 Soon she had left the monument region and was down 
 on the valley floor again. From time to time she con- 
 quered a desire to look back. Presently she was sur- 
 prised and very glad to ride into a trail where she saw 
 the tracks she had made coming out. With much relief 
 she turned Sage King into this trail, and then any anxiety 
 she had felt left her entirely. But that did not mitigate 
 her excitement. She eased the King into a long, swinging 
 lope. And as he warmed to the work she was aroused 
 also. It was hard to hold him in, once he got out of a 
 trot, and after miles and miles of this, when she thought 
 best to slow down he nearly puUed her arms oflE. Still 
 she finally got him in hand. Then followed miles of soft 
 and rough going, which seemed long and tedious. Be-i 
 yond that was the home stretch up the valley, whose 
 gradual slope could be seen only at a distance. Here 
 was a straight, broad trail, not too soft nor too hard? 
 and for all the years she could remember riders had tried 
 out and trained their favorites on that course. 
 
 119 J 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Lucy reached down to assure herself that the cinch 
 was tight, then she piilled her sombrero down hard,- 
 slackened the bridle, and let the King go. He simply 
 broke his gait, he was so surprised. Lucy saw him trying 
 to look back at her, as if he could not realize that this 
 young woman rider had given him a free rein. Perhaps 
 one reason he disliked her had been 'always and everlast- 
 ingly that tight rein. Like the wary horse he was he 
 took to a canter, to try out what his new freedom 
 meant. 
 
 "Say, what's the matter with you?" called Lucy, dis- 
 dainfully. "Are you lazy? Or don't you believe I can 
 ride you?" 
 
 Whereupon she dug him with her spurs. Sage King 
 snorted. His action shifted marvelously. Thunder rolled 
 from under his hoofs. And he broke out of that clattering 
 roar into his fleet stride, where his hoof-beats were swift, 
 regular, rhythmic. 
 
 Lucy rode him with teeth and fist^ clenched, bending 
 low. After all, she thought, it was no trick to ride him. 
 In that gait he was dangerous, for a fall meant death; 
 but he ran so smoothly that riding him was easy and cer- 
 tainly glorious. He went so fast that the wind blinded 
 her. The trail was only a white streak in blurred gray. 
 She could not get her breath; the wind seemed to whip 
 the air away from her. And then she felt the lessening 
 of the tremendous pace. Sage King had run himself 
 out and the miles were behind her. Gradually her sight 
 became clear, and as the hot and wet horse slowed down, 
 satisfied with his wild run, Lucy realized that she was up 
 on the slope only a few miles from home. Suddenly she 
 thought she saw something dark stir behind a sage-bush 
 just ahead. Before she could move a hand at the bridle 
 Sage King leaped with a frantic snort. It was a swerving, 
 nimble, tremendous bound. He went high. Lucy was 
 unseated, but somehow clung on, and came down with 
 him, finding the saddle. And it seemed, while in the air, 
 
 120 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 she saw a long, snaky, whipping loop of rope shoot out 
 and close just where Sage King's legs had been. 
 
 She screanied. The horse broke and ran. Lucy, right- 
 ing herself, looked back to see Joel Creech holding a limp 
 lasso. He had tried to rope the King. 
 
 The blood of her father was aroused in Lucy. She 
 thought bl the horse — not "herself. If the King had not 
 been so keen-sighted, so swift, he would have gone down 
 with a broken leg. Lucy never in her Hfe had been so 
 furious. 
 
 Joel shook his fist at her and yelled, " I'd 'a' got you — 
 on any other hoss!" 
 
 She did not reply, though she had to fight herself to 
 keep from pulling her gun and shooting at him. She 
 guided the running horse back into the trail, rapidly 
 leaving Creech out of sight. 
 
 "He's gone crazy, that's sure," said Lucy. "And he 
 means me harm!" 
 
 She ran the King clear up to the corrals, and he was 
 still going hard when she turned down the lane to the 
 bams. Then she pulled him in. 
 
 Farlane was there to meet her. She saw no other 
 riders and was glad. 
 
 "Wal, Miss Lucy, the King sure looks good," said 
 Farlane, as she jumped off and flung him the bridle. 
 "He's just had about right, judgin'. . . . Say, girl, you're 
 all pale! Oh, say, you wasn't scared of the King, 
 now?" 
 
 "No," replied Lucy, panting. 
 
 "Wal, what's up, then?" The rider spoke in an en- 
 tirely different voice, and into his clear, hazel eyes a 
 little dark gleam shot. 
 
 "Joel Creech waylaid me out in the sage — and — and 
 tried to catch me." Lucy checked herself. It might not 
 do to tell how Joel had tried to catch her. 
 
 " He did? An' you on the King !" Farlane laughed, as if 
 relieved. "Wal, he's tried thet before. Miss Lucy. But 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 when you was up on the gray — thet shows Joel's crazy^ 
 sure." 
 
 "He sure is. Farlane, I — I am mad!" 
 
 "Wal, cool, off, Miss Lucy. It ain't nothin' to git set 
 up about. An' don't tell the old man." 
 
 "Why not?" demanded Lucy. 
 
 "Wal, because he's in a queer sort of bad mood lately .1 
 It wouldn't be safe. He hates them Creeches. So, 
 don't tell him." 
 
 "All right, Farlane, I won't. Don't you tell, either, "j 
 replied Lucy, soberly. 
 
 "Sure I'll keep mum. But if Joel doesn't watch out 
 I'll put a crimp in him myself." . 
 
 Lucy hurried aWay down the lane and entered the 
 house without meeting any one. In her room she changed 
 her clothes and lay down to rest and think. 
 
 Strangely enough, Lucy might never have encountered 
 Joel Creech out in the sage, for all the thought she gave 
 him. Her mind was busy with the crippled rider. Who 
 was he? Where was he from? What strange passion he 
 had shown over the recovery of that wonderful red horse! 
 Lucy could not forget the feeling of his iron arm when 
 he held her in a kind of frenzied gratitude. A wild upland 
 rider, living only for a wild horse ! How like Indians some 
 of these riders ! Yet this fellow had seemed different from 
 most of the uncouth riders she had known. He spoke 
 better. He appeared to have had some little schooling. 
 Lucy did not realize that she was interested in him. She 
 thought she was sorry for him and interested in the stal- 
 lion. She began to compare Wildfire with Sage King, 
 and if she remembered rightly Wildfire, even in his di- 
 sheveled state, had appeared a worthy rival of the King. 
 Wliat would Bostil say at sight of that flame-colored 
 stallion? Lucy thrilled. 
 
 Later she left her room to see if the hour was oppor- 
 tune for her plan to make up a pack of supplies for the 
 rider. Her atmt was busy in the kitchen, and Bostil 
 
 122 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 had not come in. Lucy took advantage of the moment 
 to tie up a pack and carry it to her room. Somehow the 
 task pleased her. She recalled the lean face of the rider. 
 And that recalled his ragged appearance. Why not pack 
 up an outfit of clothes? Bostil had a stock-room full of 
 such accessories for his men. Then Lucy, glowing with 
 the thought, hurried to Bostil's stock-room, and with 
 deft hands and swift judgment selected an outfit for the 
 rider, even down to a comb and razor. All this she car- 
 ried quickly to her room, where in her thoughtfulness 
 she added a bit of glass from a broken mirror, and soap 
 and a towel. Then she tied up a second pack. 
 
 Bostil did not come home to supper, a circtmistance 
 that made Lucy's aunt cross. They ate alone, and, 
 waiting awhile, were rather late in clearing away the 
 table. After this Lucy had her chance in the dusk of 
 early evening, and she carried both packs way out into 
 the sage and left them near the trail. 
 
 "Hope a coyote doesn't come along," she said. That 
 possibility, however, did not worry her as much as getting 
 those packs up on the King. How in the world would 
 she ever do it ? 
 
 She hurried back to the house, stealthily keeping to 
 the shadow of the cottonwoods, for she would have faced 
 an embarrassing situation if she had met her father, 
 even had he been in a good humor. And she reached the 
 sitting-room unobserved. The lamps had been lighted 
 and a log blazed on the hearth. She was reading when 
 Bostil entered. 
 
 "Hello, Lucy!" he said. 
 
 He looked tired, and Lucy knew he had been drinking, 
 because when he had been he never offered to kiss her. The 
 strange, somber shade was still on his face, but it brightened 
 somewhat at sight of her. Lucy greeted him as always. 
 
 "Farlane tells me you handled the King great — bet- 
 ter 'n Van has worked him lately," said Bostil. "But 
 don't tell him I told you." 
 
 123 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 That was sweet praise from Farlane. "Oh, Dad, it 
 could hardly be true," expostulated Lucy. "Both you 
 and Farlane are a little sore at Van now." 
 
 "I'm a lot sore," replied Bostil, grufHy. 
 
 "Anyway, how did Farlane know how I handled Sage 
 King?" queried Lucy. 
 
 ] "Wal, every hair on a hoss talks to Farlane, so Holley' 
 says. . . . Lucy, you take the King out every day for a 
 while. Ride him now an' watch out! Joel Creech was 
 in the village to-day. He sure sneaked when he seen 
 me. He's up to some mischief." 
 
 Lucy did not want to lie and she did not know what 
 to say. Presently Bostil bade her good night. Lucy 
 endeavored to read, but her mind continually wandered" 
 back to the adventure of the day. 
 
 Next morning she had difficulty in concealing her im- 
 patience, but luck favored her. Bostil was not in evi- 
 dence, and Farlane, for once, could spare no more time 
 than it took to saddle Sage King. Lucy rode out into 
 the sage, pretty sure that no one watched her. 
 
 She had hidden the packs near the tallest bunch of 
 greasewood along the trail; and when she halted behind 
 it she had no fear of being seen from the corrals. She 
 got the packs. The light one was not hard to tie back of 
 the saddle, but the large one was a very different matter. 
 She decided to carry it in front. There was a good-sized 
 rock near, upon which she stepped, leading Sage King 
 alongside; and after an exceedingly trying moment 
 she got up, holding the pack. For a wonder Sage King 
 behaved well. 
 
 Then she started off, holding the pack across her lap; 
 and she tried the King's several gaits to see which one 
 would lend itself" more comfortably to the task before 
 her. The trouble was that Sage King had no slow gait, 
 even his walk was fast. And Lucy was compelled to 
 hold him into that. She wanted to hurry, but that seemed 
 
 124 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 out of the question. She tried to keep from gazing 
 out toward the monuments, because they were so far 
 away. 
 
 How would she find the crippled rider? It flashed into 
 her mind that she might find him dead, and this seemed 
 horrible. But her common sense persuaded her that she 
 would find him alive and better. The pack was hard to 
 hold, and Sage King fretted at the monotonous walk. 
 The hours dragged. The sun grew hot. And it was noon, 
 almost, when she reached the point where she cut off 
 the trail to the left. Thereafter, with the monuments 
 standing ever higher, and the distance perceptibly lessen- 
 ing, the minutes passed less tediously. 
 
 At length she reached the zone of lofty rocks', and found 
 them different, how, she could not tell. She rode down 
 among them, and was glad when she saw the huge mittens 
 — ^her landmarks. At last she espied the green-bordered 
 wash and the few cedar-trees. Then a horse blazed red 
 against the sage and another shone black. That sight 
 made Lucy thrill. She rode on, eager now, but moved 
 by the strangeness of the experience. 
 
 Before she got quite close to the cedars she saw a man. 
 He took a few slow steps out of the shade. His back was 
 bent. Lucy recognized the rider, and in her gladness to 
 see him on his feet she cried out. Then, when Sage King 
 reached the spot, Lucy rolled the pack off to the ground. 
 
 "Oh, that was a job!" she cried. 
 
 The rider looked up with eyes that seemed keener, 
 less staring than she remembered. "You came? ... I 
 was afraid you wouldn't," he said. 
 
 "Sure I came. . . . You're better — ^not badly htirt?" she 
 said, gravely. "I — I'm so glad." 
 
 "I've got a crimp in my back, that's all." 
 
 Lucy was quick to see that after the first glance at her 
 he was all eyes for Sage King. She laughed. How like 
 a rider! She watched him, knowing that presently he 
 would realize what a horse she was riding. She slipped 
 
 125 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 off and threw the bridle, and then, swiftly untying the 
 second pack, she laid it down. 
 
 The rider, with slow, painful steps and bent back, ap- 
 proached Sage King and put a lean, strong, brown hand 
 on him, and touched him as if he wished to feel if he were 
 real. Then he whistled softly. When he turned to Lucy 
 I his eyes shone with a beautiful Ught. 
 
 "It's Sage King, Bostil's favorite," said Lucy. 
 
 "Sage King ! ... He looks it But never a wild horse?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "A fine horse," replied the rider. "Of course he can 
 run?" This last held a note of a rider's jealousy. 
 
 Lucy laughed. " Run ! . . . The King is Bostil's favorite. 
 He can run' away from any horse in the uplands." 
 
 "I'll bet you Wildfire can beat him," replied the rider, 
 with a dark glance. 
 
 "Come on!" cried Lucy, daringly. 
 
 Then the rider and girl looked more earnestly at each 
 other. He smiled in a way that changed his face — 
 brightened out the set hardness. 
 
 "I reckon I'll have to crawl," he said, ruefully. "But 
 maybe I can ride in a few days— if you'll come back again." 
 
 His remark brought to Lucy l^ie idea that of course she 
 would hardly see this rider again after to-day. Even if 
 he went to the Ford, which event was unlikely, he would 
 not remain there long. The sensation of blankness puz- 
 zled her, and she felt an unfamiliar confusion. 
 
 "I — I've brought you — some things," she said, point- 
 ing to the larger pack. 
 
 "Grub, you mean?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "That was all I asked you for, miss," he said, some- 
 what stiffly. 
 
 ' ' Yes, but — I — I thought — ' ' Lucy became unaccount- 
 ably embarrassed. Suppose this strange rider would be of- 
 fended. " Your clothes were — so torn. . . . And no wonder 
 you were thrown — ^in those boots! ... So I thought I'd — " 
 
 126 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "You thought I needed clothes as bad as grub," he said/ 
 bitterly. "I reckon that's so." 
 
 His look, more than his tone, cut Lucy; and involun- 
 tarily she touched his arm. "Oh, you won't refuse to 
 take them! Please don't!" 
 
 At her touch a warmth came into his face. "Take 
 them? I should smile I will." 
 
 He tried to reach down to lift the pack, but as it was 
 obviously painful for him to bend, Lucy intercepted him. 
 
 "But you've had no breakfast," she protested. "Why 
 not eat before you open that pack?" 
 
 "Nope. I'm not hungry. . . . Maybe I'll eat a little, 
 after I dress up." He started to walk away, then turned. 
 "Miss Bostil, have you been so good to every wanderin' 
 rider you happened to run across?" 
 
 "Good!" she exclaimed, flushing. She dropped her 
 eyes before his. "Nonsense. . . . Anyway, you're the first 
 wandering rider I ever met — ^like this." 
 
 "Well, you're good," he replied, with emotion. Then 
 he walked away with slow, stiff steps and disappeared 
 behind the willows in the little hollow. 
 
 Lucy uncoiled the rope on her saddle and haltered Sage 
 King on the best grass near at hand. Then she opened 
 the pack of supplies, thinking the while that she must 
 not tarry here long. 
 
 "But on the King I can nm back like the wind," she 
 mused. 
 
 The pack contained dried fruits and meat and staples, 
 also an assortment of good things to eat that were of a 
 perishable nature, already much the worse for the long 
 ride. She spread all this out in the shade of a cedar. 
 The utensils were few — two cups, two pans, and a tiny 
 pot. She gathered wood, and arranged it for a fire, so 
 that the rider could start it as soon as he came back. 
 He seemed long in coming. Lucy waited, yet still he did 
 not return. Finally she thought of the red stallion, and 
 started off down the wash to take a look at him. He was 
 
 127 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 grazing. He had lost some of the dirt and dust and the 
 bedraggled appearance. When he caught sight of her he 
 lifted his head high and whistled. How wild he looked! 
 And his whistle was shrill, clear, strong. Both the other 
 horses answered it. Lucy went on closer to Wildfire. 
 She was fascinated now. 
 
 "If he doesn't know me!" she cried. Never had she 
 been so pleased. She had expected every sign of savage- 
 ness on his part, and certainly had not intended to go 
 near him. But Wildfire did not show fear or hate in 
 his recognition. Lucy went directly to him and got a 
 hand on him. Wildfire reared a little and shook a little, 
 but this disappeared presently under her touch. He held 
 his head very high and watched her with wonderful eyes. 
 Gradually she drew his head down. Standing before him, 
 she carefully and slowly changed the set of the hacka- 
 more, which had made a welt on his nose. It seemed to 
 have been her good fortune that every significant move 
 she had made around this stallion had been to mitigate his 
 pain. Lucy believed he knew this as well as she knew it. 
 Her theory, an often disputed one, was that horses were 
 as intelligent as human beings and had just the same 
 fears, lilces, and disUkes. Lucy knew she was safe when 
 she untied the lasso from the strong root where she had 
 fastened it, and led the stallion down the wash to a pool 
 of water. And she stood beside him with a hand on his 
 shoulder while he bent his head to sniff at the water. He 
 tasted it, plainly with disgust. It was stagnant water, 
 full of vermin. But finally he drank. Lucy led him 
 up the wash to another likely place, and tied him 
 securely. 
 
 When she got back to the camp in the cedars the rider 
 was there, on his knees, kindling the fire. His clean- 
 shaved face and new apparel xnjSLde him vastly different. 
 He was young, and; had he not been so gaunt, he would 
 have been fine-looking, Lucy thought. 
 
 "Wildfire remembered me," Lucy burst out. "He 
 128 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 wasn't a bit scary. Let me handle him. Followed me to 
 water." 
 
 "He's taken to you," replied the rider, seriously. 
 "I've heard of the like, but not so quick. Was he in a 
 bad fix when you got to him yesterday?" 
 
 Lucy explained briefly. 
 
 "Aha! ... If that red devil has any love in hitn I'UI 
 never get it. I wish I could have done so much for him. ' 
 But always when he sees me he'll remember." 
 
 Lucy saw that the rider was in difficulties. He could 
 not bend his back, and evidently it pained him to try. 
 His brow was moist. 
 
 "Let me do that," she said. 
 
 "Thanks. It took about all my strength to get into 
 this new outfit," he said, relinquishing his place to Lucy. 
 
 When she looked up from her task, presently, he was 
 sitting in the shade of the cedar, watching her. He had 
 the expression of a man who hardly believed what he 
 saw. 
 
 "Did you have any trouble gettin' away, without tell- 
 in' — about me?" he asked. 
 
 "No. But I sure had a job with those packs," she re- 
 plied. 
 
 "You must be a wonder with a horse." 
 
 As fax as vanity was concerned Lucy had only one 
 weakness — and he had touched upon it. 
 
 "Well, Dad and HoUey and Farlane argue much about 
 me. StUl, I guess they all agree I can ride." 
 
 "Holley an' Farlane are riders?" he questioned. 
 
 "Yes, Dad's right-hand men." | 
 
 "Your dad hires many riders, I suppose?" 
 
 "Sure I never heard of him ttuning any rider down, 
 at least not without a try." 
 
 "I wonder if he would give me a job?" 
 
 Lucy glanced up quickly. The idea stuprised her — 
 pleased her. "In a minute," she replied. "And he'd be 
 grand to you. You see, he'd have an eye for Wildfire." 
 
 129 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 The rider nodded his head as if he understood how that 
 would be. 
 
 "And of course you'd never sell nor trade Wildfire?" 
 went on Lucy. 
 
 The rider's smile was sad, but it was conclusive. 
 
 "Then you'd better stay away from Bostil," returned 
 Lucy, shortly. 
 
 He remained silent, and Lucy, busy about the camp- 
 fire, did not speak again till the simple fare was ready. 
 Then she spread a tarpaulin in the shade. 
 
 "I'm pretty hungry myself," she said. "But I don't 
 suppose I know what hunger is." ' . 
 
 "After a while a fellow Joses the feelin' of hunger," he 
 replied. "I reckon it 'U come back quick. . . . This all 
 looks good." 
 
 So they began to eat. Lucy's excitement, her sense 
 of the unreality of this adventure, in no wise impaired her 
 appetite. She seemed acutely sensitive to the perceptions 
 of the moment. The shade of the cedars was cool. And 
 out on the desert she could see the dark smoky veils of 
 heat lifting. The breeze carried a dry odor of sand and 
 grass. She heard bees humming by. And all around 
 the great isolated monuments stood up, red tops against 
 the blue sky. It was a silent, dreaming, impressive place, 
 where she felt unlike herself. 
 
 "I mustn't stay long," she said, suddenly remem- 
 bering. 
 
 "Will you come back — again?" he asked. 
 
 The question startled Lucy. "Why — I — I don't know. 
 . . . Won't you ride in to the Ford just as soon as you're 
 able?" 
 
 "I reckon not." 
 
 "But it's the only place where there's people in hun- 
 dreds of miles. Surely you won't try to go back — the 
 way you came?" 
 
 "When Wildfire left that country I left it. We can't 
 go back." 
 
 130 
 
OH, IF I COULD RIDE WILDFIRE AGAINST THE FIELD IN THAT 
 RACE. ... IF I ONLY COULD!" 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Then you've no people — no one you care for?" she 
 asked, in sweet seriousness. 
 
 "There's no one. I'm an orphan. My people were 
 lost in an Indian massacre — ^with a wagon-train crossin' 
 Wyomin'. A few escaped, an' I was one of the youngsters. 
 I had a tough time, like a stray dog, till I grew up. An' 
 then I took to the desert." 
 
 "Oh, I see. I — I'm sorry," replied Lucy. "But that's 
 not very different from my dad's story, of his ferly years. 
 . . . What will you do now?" 
 
 " I'll stay here tiH my back straightens out. . . . Will you 
 ride out again?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Lucy, without looking at him; and she 
 wondered if it were really she who was speaking. 
 
 Then he asked her about the Ford, and Bostil, and the 
 ranches and villages north, and the riders and horses. 
 Lucy told him everything she knew and could think of, 
 and, lastly, after waxing eloquent on the horses of the 
 uplands, particularly Bostil's, she gave him a graphic 
 account of Cordts and Dick Sears. 
 
 "Horse-thieves!" exclaimed the rider, darkly. There 
 was a grimness as well as fear in his tone. "I've heard 
 of Sears, but not Cordts. Where does this band hang 
 out?" 
 
 " No one knows. HoUey says they hide up in the canon 
 coimtry. None of the riders have ever tried to track 
 them far. It would be useless. HoUey says there are 
 plateaus of rich grass and great forests. The Ute Indians 
 say that much, too. But we know little about the wild 
 cotmtry." 
 
 "Aren't there any hunters at Bostil's Ford?" 
 
 "WUd-horse hunters, you mean?" 
 
 "No. Bear an' deer htinters." 
 
 "There's none. And I suppose that's why we're not 
 familiar with the wild canon country. I'd like to ride 
 in there sometime and camp. But our people don't go 
 in for that. They love the open ranges. No' one I 
 
 10 131 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 know, except a half-witted boy, ever rode down among 
 these monuments. And how wonderftd a place! It can't 
 be more than twenty miles from home. ... I must be going 
 soon. I'm forgetting Sage King. Did I tell you I was. 
 training him for the races?" 
 
 "No, you didn't. What races? Tell me," he replied,' 
 with keen interest. 
 
 Then Lucy told htm about the great passion of herf 
 father — about the long, time-honored custom of free-for- 
 all races, and the great races that had been run in the 
 past; about the Creeches and their swift horses; about 
 the rivalry and speculation and betting; and lastly about 
 the races to be run in a few weeks — races so wonderful in 
 prospect that even the horse-thief, Cordts, had begged 
 to be allowed to attend. 
 
 "I'm going to see the King beat Creech's roan," shouted 
 the rider, with red in his cheeks and a flash in his eye. 
 
 His enthusiasm warmed Lucy's interest, yet it made her 
 thoughtful. Ideas flaslied into her mind. If the rider 
 attended the races he would have that fleet stallion with 
 him. He could not be separated from the horse that had 
 cost him so dearly. What would Bostil and HoUey and^ 
 Farlane say at sight of Wildfire? Suppose Wildfire was 
 to enter the races! It was probable that he could run 
 away from the whole field — even beat the King. Lucy 
 thrilled and thrilled. What a surprise it would be! She 
 had the rider's true love of seeipg the unheralded horse 
 win over the favorite. She had for years wanted to see 
 a horse — and ride a horse — out in front of Sage King. 
 Then suddenly aU these flashing ideas coruscated seem- 
 ingly into a gleam — a leaping, radiant, wonderful thought. 
 Irresistibly it burst from her. 
 
 "Let me ride your Wildfire in the great race?" she 
 cried, breathlesdy. 
 
 His response was iastantaneous — a smile that was keeri 
 and sweet and stror^, and a proffered hand. Imptilsively 
 Lucy classped thst hand with both irers. 
 
 132 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "You don't mean it," she said. "Oh, it's what Auntie 
 would call one of my wUd dreams! . . . And I'm growing 
 up — ^they say. . . . But — Oh, if I could ride Wildfire 
 against the field in that race. . . , If I only could!" 
 
 She was on fire with the hope, flushing, tingling. She 
 was xmconscious of her efEect upon the rider, who gazed 
 at her with a new-bom light in his eyes. 
 
 "You can ride him. I reckon I'd like to see that race 
 just as much as Bostil or Cordts or any man. . . . An' 
 see here, girl. Wildfire can beat this gray racer of your 
 father's." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Lucy. 
 
 "Wildfire can beat the King," repeated the rider, in- 
 tensely. "The tame horse doesn't step on this earth 
 that can run with Wildfire. He's a stallion. He has 
 been a killer of horses. It's in him to kill. If he ran 
 a race it would be that instinct in him." 
 
 "How can we plan it?" went on Lucy, impulsively. 
 She had forgotten to withdraw her hands from his. "It 
 must be a surprise — a complete surprise. If you came 
 to the Ford we couldn't keep it secret. And Dad or 
 Farlane would prevent me, somehow." 
 
 "It's easy. Ride out here as often as you can. Bring 
 a light saddle an' let me put you up on Wildfire. You'll 
 run him, train him, get him in shape. Then the day 
 of the races or the night before I'll go in an' hide out in 
 the sage till you come or send for Wildfire." 
 
 "Oh, it 'U be glorious," she cried, with eyes like stars. 
 "I know just where to have you hide. A pile of rocks 
 near the racecourse. There's a spring and good grass. 
 I could ride out to you just before the big race, and we'd 
 come back, with me on Wildfire. The crowd always 
 stays down at the end of the racecovuse. Only the 
 starters stay out there. . . . Oh, I can see Bostil when that 
 red stallion runs into sight!" 
 
 "Well, is it settled?" queried the rider, strangely. 
 
 Lucy was startled into self-consciousness by his tone. 
 133 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 How strangely he must have felt. And* his eyes were 
 piercing. 
 
 "You mean — ^that I ride Wildfire?" she replied, shyly.1 
 "Yes, if you'll let me." 
 
 "I'll be proud." 
 
 "You're very good. . . . And do you think Wildfire can 
 beat the King?" 
 
 "I know it." 
 
 "How do you?" 
 
 "I've seen both horses." 
 
 "But it will be a grand race." 
 
 "I reckon so. It'sJlikely to be the grandest ever seen. 
 But Wildfire will win because he's run wild all his life — 
 an' run to kill other horses. . . . The only question is — can 
 you ride him?" 
 
 "Yes. I never saw the horse I couldn't ride. Bostil 
 says there are some I can't ride. Farlane says not. 
 Only two horses have thrown me, the King and Sarchedon. 
 But that was before they knew me. And I was sort of 
 wild. I can make your Wildfire love me." 
 
 " That's the last part of it I'd ever doubt," replied the 
 rider. "It's settled, then. I.'ll camp here. I'll be weU 
 in a few days. Then I'll take Wildfire in hand. You 
 will ride out whenever you have a chance, without bein' 
 seen. An' the two of us will train the stallion to upset 
 that race." 
 
 "Yes— then— it's settled." 
 
 Lucy's gaze was impelled and held by the rider's. 
 Why was he so pale? But then he had been injured — 
 weakened. This compact between them had somehow i 
 changed their relation. She seemed to have known him 
 long. 
 
 "What's your name?" she asked. 
 
 "Lin Slone," replied the rider. 
 
 Then she released her hands. "I must ride in now. 
 If this isn't a dream I'U come back soon." She led Sage 
 IQng to a rock and mounted him. 
 
 134 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "It's good to see you up there," said Slone. "An' that 
 splendid horse! ... He knows what he is. It '11 break 
 Bostil's heart to see that horse beat." 
 
 " Dad '11 feel bad, but it '11 do him good," replied Lucy. 
 
 That was the old rider's ruthless spirit speaking out 
 of his daughter's lips. 
 
 Slone went close to the Kling and, putting a hand on 
 the pommel, he looked up at Lucy. "Maybe — it is — a 
 dream — an' you won't come back," he said, with un- 
 steady voice. 
 
 "Then I'll come in dreams," she flashed. "Be careful 
 of yourself. . . . Good-by." 
 
 And at a touch the impatient King was off. From far 
 up the slope near a monument Lucy looked back. Slone 
 was watching her. She waved a gauntleted hand — and 
 then looked back no more. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 TWO weeks slipped by on the wings of time and op- 
 portunity and achievement, all colored so wonder- 
 fully for Lucy, all spelling that adventure for which she 
 had yearned. 
 
 Lucy was riding down into the sage toward the monu- 
 ments with a whole day before her. Bostil kept more 
 and more to himself, a circumstance that worried her, 
 though she thought little about it. Van had taken up 
 the training of the King; and Lucy had deliberately 
 quarreled with him so that she would be free to ride 
 where she listed. Farlane nagged her occasionally about 
 her rides into the sage, insisting that she must not go so 
 far and stay so long. And after Van's return to work 
 he made her ride Sarchedon. 
 
 Things had happened at the Ford which would have 
 concerned Lucy greatly had she not been ovor-excited 
 about her own affairs. Some one had ambushed Bostil 
 in the cottonwoods near his house and had shot at him, 
 narrowly missing him. Bostil had sworn he recognized 
 the shot as having come from a rifle, and that he knew 
 to whom it belonged. The riders did not believe this, 
 and said some boy, shooting at a rabbit or coyote, had been 
 afraid to confess he had nearly hit Bostil. The riders all 
 said Bostil was not wholly himself of late. The river 
 was still low. The boat had not been repaired. And 
 Creech's horses were still on the other side. 
 
 These things concerned Lucy, yet they only came and 
 went swiftly through her mind. She was obsessed by 
 things intimately concerning herself. 
 
 136 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Oh, I oughtn't to go," she said, aloud. But she did 
 not even check Sarchedon's long swing, his rocking-chair 
 lope. She had said a hundred times that she ought not 
 £o again out to the monuments. For Lin Slone had 
 fallen despairingly, terribly in love with her. 
 
 It was not this, she averred, but the monuments and the 
 beautiful Wildfire that had woven a spell round her she 
 could not break. She had ridden Wildfire all through 
 that strange region of monuments and now they claimed 
 something of her. Just as wonderful was Wildfire's love 
 for her. The great stallion hated Slone and loved Lucy. 
 Of all the remarkable circumstances she had seen or 
 heard about a horse, this fact was the most striking. She 
 could do anjrthing with him. All that savageness and 
 ■wildness disappeared when she approached him. He 
 came at her call. He whistled at sight of her. He sent 
 out a ringing blast of disapproval when she rode away. 
 Every day he tried to bite or kick Slone, but he was meek 
 tmder Lucy's touch. 
 
 But this morning there came to Lucy the first vague 
 doubt of herself. Once entering her mind, that doubt 
 became clear. And then she vowed she liked Slone as 
 she might a brother. And something within her accused 
 her own conviction. The conviction was her real self, 
 and the accusation was some other girl lately bom 
 in her. Lucy did not like this new person. She was 
 afraid of her. She would not think of her unless she 
 had to. 
 
 "I never cared for him — that way," she said, aloud. 
 "I don't— I couldn't— ever— 1—1— love Lin Slone!" 
 
 The spoken thought — the sound of the words played 
 havoc with Lucy's self-conscious calmness. She burned. 
 She trembled. She was in a rage with herself. She 
 spurred Sarchedon into a run and tore through the sage, 
 down into the valley, running him harder than she should 
 have run him. Then she checked him, and, penitent, 
 petted him out of all proportion to her thoughtlessness. 
 
 137 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 The violent exercise only heated her blood and, if any- 
 thing, increased this sudden and new torment. Why had 
 she discarded her boy's rider outfit and chaps for a 
 riding-habit made by her aunt, and one she had scorned 
 to wear? Some awful, accusing voice thundered in Lucy's 
 burning ears that she had done this because she was 
 ashamed to face Lin Slone any more in that costume — 
 she wanted to appear different in his eyes, to look like a 
 girl. If that shameful suspicion was a fact why was it — 
 what did it mean? She could not tell, yet she was afraid 
 of the truth. 
 
 All of a sudden Lin Slone stood out clearer in her mental 
 vision — the finest type of a rider she had ever known — a 
 strong, lithe, magnificent horseman, whose gentleness 
 showed his love for horses, whose roughness showed his 
 power — a strange, intense, lonely man in whom she had 
 brought out pride, gratitude, kindness,- passion, and 
 despair. She felt her heart swell at the realization that 
 she had changed him, made him kinder, made him 
 divide his love as did her father, made him human, hope- 
 ful, longing for a future unfettered by the toils of desert 
 allurement. She could not control her pride. She must 
 like him jfery much. She confessed that, honestly, with- 
 out a qualm. It was only bewildering moments of strange 
 agitation and uncertainty that bothered her. She had 
 refused to be concerned by them until they had finally 
 impinged upon her peace of mind. Then they accused 
 her; now she accused herself. She ought not go to meet 
 Lin Slone any more. 
 
 "But then — the race!" she murmured. "I couldn't 
 give that up. . . . And oh ! I'm afraid the harm is done ! 
 What can I do?" 
 
 After the race — ^what then? To be sure, all of Bostil's 
 Ford would know she had been meeting Slone out in the 
 sage, training his horse. What would people say? 
 
 "Dad will simply be radiant, if he can buy Wildfire — ■ 
 and a fiend if he can't," she muttered. 
 
 138 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Lucy saw that her own imptilsiveness had amounted 
 to daring. She had gone too far. She excused that — ^for 
 she had a rider's blood — she was Bostil's girl. But she 
 had, in her wildness and joy and spirit, spent many hours 
 alone with a rider, to his undoing. She could not excuse 
 that. She was ashamed. What would he say when she 
 told him she could see him no more? The thought 
 made her weak. He would accept and go his way;^— back 
 to that lonely desert, with only a horse. 
 
 "Wildfire doesn't love him!" she said. 
 
 And the scarlet fired her neck and cheek and temple. 
 That leap of blood seemed to release a riot of emotions. 
 What had been a torment became a torture. She turned 
 Sarchedon homeward, but scarcely had faced that way 
 when she wheeled him again. She rode slowly and she 
 rode swiftly. The former was hateful because it held her- 
 back — ^from what she no longer dared think; the latter 
 was fearful because it hurried her on swiftly, irresistibly 
 to her fate. 
 
 Lin Slone had changed his camp and had chosen a 
 pass high up where the great walls had begun to break 
 into sections. Here there was intimacy with the sheer 
 cliffs of red and yellow. Wide avenues between the walls 
 opened on all points of the compass, and that one to the 
 north appeared to be a gateway down into the valley of 
 monuments. The monuments trooped down into the 
 valley to spread out and grow isolated in the distance. 
 Slone's camp was in a cltmip of cedars surrounding a 
 spring. There was grass and white sage where rabbits 
 darted in and otit. 
 
 Lucy did not approach this camp from that round- 
 about trail which she had made upon the first occasion 
 of her visiting Slone. He had found an opening in th& 
 wall, and by riding this way into the pass Lucy cut off 
 miles. In fact, the camp was not over fifteen miles from 
 Bostil's Ford. It was so close that Lucy was worried. 
 
 139 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 lest some horse-tracfcr shcmH staaaable on the trafl and 
 follow her up into the pa^. 
 
 This morning she espied Skaie at his outlook on a high 
 rock that had fallen from the great walls. She always 
 looked to see if he was there, and she always saw him. 
 The days she had not con», which were few, he had 
 spent watching for her there. His tasks were not many, 
 and he said he had nothing to do but wait for her. Lucy 
 had a persistent and remorseful, yet sweet memory of 
 Slone at his lonely lookout. Here was a fine, strong, 
 splendid young man who had nothing to do but watch 
 for her — a waste of precious hours! 
 
 She waved her hand from afar, and he waved in reply. 
 Then as she reached the cedared part of the pass Slone 
 was no longer visible. She put Sarchedon to a run up 
 the hard, wind-swept sand, and reached the camp before 
 Slone had climbed down from his perch. 
 
 Lucy dismounted reluctantly. What would he say 
 about the riding-habit that she wore? She felt very 
 curious to learn, and shyer than ever before, and alto- 
 gether different. The skirt made her more of a girl, it 
 seemed. ^ 
 
 "Hello, Lin!" she called.' There was nothing in her 
 usual greeting to betray the state of her mind. 
 
 "Good momin' — Lucy," he replied, very slowly. He 
 was looking at her, she thought, with different eyes. And 
 he seemed changed, too, though he had long been well, 
 and his tall, lithe rider's form, his lean, strong face, and 
 his dark eyes were admirable in her sight. Only this 
 morning, all because she had worn a girl's riding-skirt 
 instead of boy's chaps, everything seemed different. Per- 
 haps her aimt had been right, after all, and now things 
 were natural. 
 
 Slone gazed so long at her that Lucy could not keep 
 silent. She laughed. 
 
 "How do you like — ^me — ^in this?" 
 
 "I like you much better," Slone said,>bluntly. 
 140 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Auntie made this — and she's been trying to get me 
 to ride in it." 
 
 "It changes you, Lucy. . . . But can you ride as well?" 
 
 "I'm afraid not. . . . What's Wildfire going to think 
 of me?" 
 
 "He'll like you better, too. . . . Lucy, how's the King 
 comin' on?" 
 
 "Lin, I'll tell you, if I wasn't as crazy about Wildfire 
 as you are, I'd say he'll have to kill himself to beat the 
 King," replied Lucy, with gravity. 
 
 "Sometimes I doubt, too," said Slone. "But I only 
 have to look at Wildfire to get back my nerve. . . . Lucy, 
 that win be the grandest race ever run!" 
 
 "Yes," sighed Lucy. 
 
 "What's wrong? Don't you want Wildfire to win?" 
 
 "Yes and no. But I'm going to beat the King, any- 
 way. . . . Bring on your Wildfire!" 
 
 Lucy unsaddled Sarchedon and turned him loose to 
 graze while Slone went out after Wildfire. And present- 
 ly it appeared that Lucy might have some li^le time to 
 wait. Wildfire had lately been trusted to hobbles, which 
 fact made it likely that he had strayed. 
 
 Lucy gazed about her at the great looming red walls 
 and out through the avenues to the gray desert beyond. 
 This adventure of hers would soon have an end, for the 
 day of the races was not far distant, and after that it was 
 obvious she would not have occasion to meet Slone. To 
 think of never coming to the pass again gave Lucy, 
 a pang. Unconsciously she meant that she wotild never 
 ride up here again, because Slone would not be here. 
 A wind always blew through the pass, and that was 
 why the sand was so clean and hard. To-day it was a 
 pleasant wind, not hot, nor laden with dust, and some- 
 how musical in the cedars. The blue smoke from Slone's 
 fire curied away and floated out of sight. It was lonely, 
 with the haunting presence of the broken waUs ever mani- 
 fest. But the loneliness seemed fuU of content. She no 
 
 141 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 longer wondered at Slone's desert life. That might be 
 well for a young man, during those years when adven- 
 ture and daring called him, but she doubted that it would 
 be well for all of a man's life. And only a little of it 
 ought to be known by a woman. She saw how the wild- 
 ness and loneliness and brooding of such a life would 
 prevent a woman's development. Yet she loved it all 
 and wanted to live near it, so that when the need pressed 
 her she could ride out into the great open stretches and 
 see the dark monuments grow nearer and nearer, till she 
 was under them, in the silent and colored shadows. 
 
 Slone returned presently with Wildfire. The stalUon 
 shone like a flame in the sunlight. His fear and hatred 
 of Slone showed in the way he obeyed. Slone had mas- 
 tered him, and must always keep the upper hand of him. 
 It had from the first been a fight between man and 
 beast, and Lucy believed it would always be so. 
 
 But Wildfire was a diSerent horse when he saw Lucy. 
 Day by day evidently Slone loved him more and tried 
 harder to win a httle of what Wildfire showed at sight of 
 Lucy. StiU Slone was proud of Lucy's control over the 
 stallion. He was just as much heart and soul bent on 
 winning the great race as Lucy was. She had ridden 
 Wildfire bareback at first, and then they had broken 
 him to the saddle. 
 
 It was serious business, that training of WUdfire, and 
 Slone had peculiar ideas regarding it. Lucy rode him 
 up and down the pass imtil he was warm. Then Slone 
 got on Sarchedon. Wildfire always snorted and showed 
 fight at sight of Sage King or Nagger, and the stallion 
 Sarchedon infuriated him because Sarchedon showed 
 fight, too. Slone started out ahead of Lucy, and then 
 they raced down the long pass. The course was hard- 
 packed sand. Fast as Sarchedon was, and matchless as 
 a horseman as was Slone, the race was over almost as soon 
 as it began. Wildfire ran indeed like fire before the wind. 
 He wanted to run, and the other horse made him fierce. 
 
 142 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Like a burr Lucy stuck low over his neck, a part of the 
 horse, and so light he wotdd not have known he was: 
 carrying her but for the repeated calls in his ears. Lucy 
 never spurred him. She absolutely refused to use spurs 
 on him. This day she ran away from Slone, and, turning 
 at the end of the two-mile course they had marked out, 
 she loped Wildfire back. Slone turned with her, and 
 they were soon in camp. 
 
 Lucy did not jump off. She was in a transport. Every 
 race Idndled a mounting fire in her. She was scarlet of 
 face, out of breath, her hair flying. And she lay on Wild- 
 fare's neck and hugged him and caressed him and talked 
 to him in low tones of love. 
 
 Slone dismounted and got Sarchedon out of the way, 
 then crossed to where Lucy still fondled Wildfire. He 
 paused a moment to look at her, but when she saw him 
 he started again, and came close up to her as she sat the 
 saddle. 
 
 " You went past me like a bullet," he said. 
 
 "Oh, can't he run!" murmured Lucy. 
 
 "Could he beat the King to-day?" 
 
 Slone had asked that question every day, more than 
 once. 
 
 "Yes, he could — ^to-day. I know it," repHed Lucy. 
 "Oh — I get so — so excited. I — I make a fool of myself — 
 over him. But to ride him — going like that — Lin! it's 
 just glorious!" 
 
 "You sure can ride him," replied Slone. "I can't see 
 a fault anywhere— in him — or in your handling him. He 
 never breaks. He goes hard, but he saves something. He 
 gets mad — fierce — all the time, yet he wants to go your 
 way. Lucy, I never saw the like of it. Somehow you 
 an' Wildfire make a combination. You can't be beat." 
 
 "Do I ride him — ^weU?" she asked, softly. 
 
 "I could never ride him so well." 
 
 "Oh, Lin — you just want to please me. Why, Van 
 couldn't ride with you." 
 
 143 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "I don't care, Lucy," replied Slone, stoutiy. "You 
 rode this horse perfect. I've found fault with,you on the 
 IGng, on your mustangs, an' on this black horse Sarch. 
 But on Wildfire! You grow there." 
 
 "What will Dad say, and Farlane, and HoUey, and 
 
 Van? Oh, I'll crow over Van," said Lucy. "I'm crazy 
 
 , to ride Wildfire out before all the Indians and ranchers 
 
 and riders, before the races, just to show him off, to make 
 
 them stare." 
 
 "No, Lucy. The best plan is to surprise them all. 
 Enter your horse for the race, but don't show up tiU all 
 the riders are at the start." 
 
 "Yes, that '11 be best. . . . And, Lin, only five days more 
 —five days!" 
 
 Her words made Slone thoughtful, and Lucy, seeing 
 that, straightway grew thoughtful, too. 
 
 "Sure — only five days more," repeated Slone, slowly. 
 
 His tone convinced Lucy that he meant to speak again 
 as he had spoken once before, precipitating the only quarrel 
 they had ever had. 
 
 "Does any one at Bostil's Ford know you meet me out 
 here?" he asked, suddenly. 
 
 "Only Auntie. I told her the other day. She had 
 been watching me. She thought things. So I told 
 her." 
 
 "What did she say?" went on Slone, curiously. 
 
 "She was mad," replied Lucy. "She scolded me. 
 She said. . . . But, anyway, I coaxed her not to tell on 
 ime." 
 
 "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 
 
 144 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 riders would. . . . Oh, Lin, it was perfectly ridiculous the 
 way Auntie talked." 
 
 "I reckon not," repUed 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 come." 
 
 "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 speUs that Lucy hated. Nevertheless, 
 she felt a stir of her pulses. 
 
 "Lucy, there won't be any doubt about my stand — 
 when I meet BostH," said Slone. Some thought had ani- 
 mated him. 
 
 "What do you mean?" Lucy trembled a little. 
 
 There was a sternness about Slone, a dignity that 
 seetned new. "I'U 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, bit- 
 terly, "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 Uttle 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. Some- 
 145 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 thing 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 wiU. 
 
 "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 ragamuiEn — " 
 
 "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 ou^t to ask," burst out 
 Lucy, with scarlet face. 
 
 "Sure, that's it," he replied. 
 
 "But there's no reason. None! Not a reason under 
 the sun," retorted Lucy, hotly. "I found you out here. 
 I did you a — a little service. We planned to race Wild- 
 fire. And I came out to ride him. . . . That's all." 
 
 Slone's dark, steady gaze disconcerted Lucy. "But, 
 no one knows me, and we've been alone in secret." 
 
 "It's not altogether — that. I— I told Auntie," fal- 
 tered Lucy. 
 
 "Yes, just lately." 
 
 " Lin Slone, I'll never forgive you if yoa. ask Dad that," 
 declared Lucy, with startling force. 
 
 "I reckon that's not so important." 
 
 "Oh! — so you don't care." Lucy felt herself indeed in 
 a mood not comprehensible to her. Her blood raced. 
 She wanted to be furious with Slone, but somehow she 
 could not wholly be so. There was something about 
 him that made her feel small and thoughtless and selfish. 
 Slone had hurt her pride. But the thing that she feared 
 and resented and could not understand was the strange 
 gladness Slone's declaration roused in her. She tried to 
 
 146 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 control her temper so she cottld think. Two emotions 
 contended within her — one of intense annoyance at the 
 thought of embarrassment sttrely to follow Slone's action, 
 and the other a vague, disturbing element, aU sweet and 
 furious and inexplicable. She mast try to dissuade him 
 from approaching her father. 
 
 "Please don't go to Dad." She put a hand on Slone's 
 arm as he stood close up to Wildfire. 
 
 "I reckon I will," he said. 
 
 "Lin!" In that word there was the subtle, nameless 
 charm of an intimacy she had never granted him tmtil 
 that moment. He seemed drawn as if by invisible wires. 
 He put a shaking hand on hers and crushed her gauntleted 
 fingers. And Lucy, in the current now of her woman's 
 need to be placated, if not obeyed, pressed her small hand 
 to his. How strange to what lengths a little submission 
 to her feeling had carried her! Every spoken word, every 
 movement, seemed to exact more from her. She did not 
 know herself. 
 
 "Lin! . . . Promise not to — speak to Dad!" 
 
 "No." His voice rang. 
 
 "Don't give me away — don't tell my Dad!" 
 
 "What?" he queried, incredulously. 
 
 Lucy did not understand what. But his amazed voice, 
 Ms wide-open eyes of bewilderment, seemed to aid her 
 into piercing the maze of her own mind. A hundred 
 thoughts whirled together, and all arovind them was 
 wrapped the warm, strong feeling of his hand on hers. 
 What did she mean that he wotild teU her father? There 
 seemed to be a deep, hidden self in her. Up out of these 
 depths came a whisper, like a ray of light, and it said to 
 her that there was more hope for Lin Slone than he had 
 ever had in one of his wildest dreams. 
 
 " Lin, if you tell Dad — ^then he'U know — and there won't 
 be any hope for you!" cried Lucy, honestly. 
 
 If Slone caught the significance of her words he did 
 not believe it. 
 
 II 147 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 " I'm goin' to Bostil after the race an' ask him. That's 
 settled," declared Slone, stubbornly. 
 
 At this Lucy utterly lost her temper. "Oh! you— you 
 fool!" she cried. 
 
 Slone drew back suddenly as if struck, and a spot of 
 dark blood leaped to his lean face. "No! It seems to 
 me the right way." . » 
 
 "Right or wrong there's no sense in it — ^because — ^be- 
 cause. Oh! can't you see?" 
 
 " I see more than I used to," he replied. " I was a fool 
 over a horse. An' now I'm a fool over a girl. ... I wish 
 you'd never found me that day!" 
 
 Lucy whirled in the saddle and made Wildfire jump. 
 She quieted him, and, leaping off, threw the bridle to 
 Slone. "I won't ride your horse in the race!" she de- 
 clared, with sudden passion. She felt herself shaking 
 all over. 
 
 "Lucy Bostil, I wish I was as sure of Heaven as I am 
 you'll be up on Wildfire in that race," he said. 
 
 "I won't ride your horse." 
 
 "My horse. Oh, I see. . . . But you'U ride Wildfire." 
 i won t. 
 
 Slone suddenly turned white, and his eyes flashed dark 
 fire. "You won't be able to help ridin' him any more 
 than I could help it." 
 
 "A lot you know about me,'Lin Slone!" returned Lucy, 
 with scorn. " I can be as — as bull-headed as you, any day." 
 
 Slone evidently controlled his temper, though his face 
 remained white. He even smiled at her. 
 
 "You are BostU's daughter," he said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You are blood an' bone, heart an' soul a rider, if 
 any girl ever was. You're a wonder with a horse — as 
 good as any man I ever saw. You love Wildfire. An' 
 look — ^how strange! That wild stallion — ^that Idller of 
 horses, why he follows you, he whistles for you, he runs 
 like lightnin' for you; he loves you." 
 
 148 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Slone had attacked Lucy in her one weak point. She 
 felt a force rending her. She dared not look at Wildfire. 
 Yes — all that was true Slone had said. How desperately 
 hard to think of forfeiting the great race she knew she 
 could win! 
 
 " Never! I'll never ride your Wildfire again!" she said, 
 i very low. 
 
 ' "Mine! ... So that's the trouble. Well, Wildfire won't 
 be mine when you ride the race." 
 
 "What do you mean?" demanded Lucy. "Youll sell 
 him to Bostil. . . . Bah! you couldn't!" 
 
 "Sell Wildfire! — after what it cost me to catch an*, 
 break him? . . . Not for all your father's lands an' horses 
 an' money!" 
 
 Slone's voice rolled out with deep, ringing scorn. And 
 Lucy, her temper quelled, began to feel the rider's strength, 
 his mastery of the situation, and something vague, yet 
 splendid about him that htirt her. 
 
 Slone strode toward her. Lucy backed against the 
 cedar-tree and could go no farther. How white he was 
 now! Lucy's heart gave a great, fearful leap, for she 
 imagined Slone intended to take her in his arms. But 
 he did not. 
 
 "When you ride — ^Wildfire in that — ^race he'll be — 
 yours!" said Slone, huskily. 
 
 "How can that be?" questioned Lucy, in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " I give him to you." 
 
 "You — give — ^Wildfire — ^to me?" gasped Lucy. 
 
 "Yes. Right now." 
 
 The rider's white face and dark eyes showed the strain 
 of great and passionate sacrifice. 
 
 "Lin Slone! ... I can't — ^understand you." 
 
 "You've got to ride Wildfire in that race. You've got 
 to beat the King. ... So I give Wildfire to you. An' now 
 you can't help but ride him." 
 
 "Why — ^why do you give him — ^to me?" faltered Lucy. 
 
 149 
 
 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 All her pride and temper had vanished, and she seemed 
 lost in blankness. 
 
 "Because you love Wildfire. An' Wildfire loves you. 
 ... If that isn't reason enough — then . . . because I love 
 him — as no rider ever loved a horse. . . . An' I love you 
 as no man ever, loved a girl!" 
 
 Slone had never before spoken words of love to Lucy. 
 She dropped her head. She knew of his infatuation. But 
 he had always been shy except once when he had been 
 bold, and that had caused a quarrel. With a strange pain 
 at her breast Lucy wondered why Slone had not spoken 
 that way before? It made as great a change in her as if 
 she had been bom again. It released something. A bolt 
 shot back in her heart. She knew she was quivering Hke 
 a leaf, with no power to control her muscles. She knew 
 if she looked up then Slone might see the depths of her 
 soul. Even with her hands shutting out the light she 
 thought the desert arotmd had changed and become all 
 mellow gold and blue and white, radiant as the moonlight 
 of dreams— and that the monuments soared above them 
 grandly, and were beautiful and noble, like the revelations 
 of love and joy to her. And suddenly she found herself 
 sitting at the foot of the cedar, weeping, with tear-wet 
 hands over her face. 
 
 "There's nothin' to — ^to cry about," Slone was saying. 
 "But I'm sorry if I hurt you." 
 
 " Will — yotL — ^please — ^fetch Sarch?" asked Lucy, tremu- 
 lously. 
 
 WhUe Slone went for the horse and saddled htm Lucy 
 composed herself outwardly. And she had two very 
 .strong desires — one to tell Slone something, and the other 
 to run. She decided she would do both together. 
 
 Slone brought Sarchedon. Lucy put on her gauntlets; 
 and, mounting the horse, she took a moment to arrange 
 her skirts before she looked down at Slone. He was now 
 pale, rather than white, and instead of fire in his eyes 
 there was sadness. Lucy felt the swelling and pounding 
 
 i5« 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 of her heart — and a long, delicious shuddering thrill that 
 ran over her. 
 
 "Lin, I won't take Wildfire," she said. 
 
 "Yes, you will. You can't refuse. Remember he's 
 grown to look to you. It wouldn't be right by the 
 horse." 
 
 "But he's all you have in the world," she protested. 
 Yet she knew any protestations would be in vain. 
 
 "No. I have good old faithful Nagger." 
 
 "Would you go try to hunt another wild stallion — ^like 
 Wildfire?" asked Lucy, curiously. She was playing with 
 the wonderful sweet consciousness of her power to render 
 happiness when she chose. 
 
 " No more horse-huntin' forme," declared Slone. "An' 
 as for findin' one like Wildfire — ^that 'd never be." 
 
 "Suppose I won't accept him?" 
 
 " How could you refuse ? Not for me, but for Wildfire's 
 saie! . . . But if you could be mean an' refuse, why, Wild- 
 fire can go back to the desert." 
 
 "No!" exclaimed Lucy. 
 
 "I reckon so." 
 
 Lucy paused a moment. How dry her tongue seemed! 
 And her breathing was labored. Aii imreal shimmering 
 gleam shone on all about her. Even the red stallion ap- 
 peared enveloped in a glow. And the looming monu- 
 ments looked down upon her, paternal, old, and wise, 
 bright with the color of happiness. 
 
 "Wildfire ought to have several more days' training — 
 then a day of rest — and then the race," said Lucy, turn- 
 ing again to look at Slone. 
 
 A smile was beginning to change the hardness of his 
 face. "Yes, Lucy," he said. 
 
 "And I'll have to ride him?" 
 
 "You sure will — ^if he's ever to beat the King." 
 
 Lucy's eyes flashed blue. She saw the crowd — the 
 curious, friendly Indians — ^the eager riders — the spirited 
 horses — ^the face of her father — and last the race itself. 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 such a race as had never been nm, so swift, so fierce, so 
 wonderfiil. 
 
 "Then Lin," began Lucy, with a slowly heaving breast, 
 "if I accept Wildfire will you keep him for me — ^until . . . 
 and if I accept him,' and tell you why, will you promise 
 to say — " 
 
 "Don't ask me again!" interrupted Slone, hastily. "I 
 will speak to BostU." 
 
 "Wait, will you . . . promise not to say a word — a single 
 word to me — ^till after the race?" 
 
 "A word — ^to you! What about?" he queried, wonder- 
 ingly. Something in his eyes made Lucy think of the 
 dawn. 
 
 "About — ^the — Because — Why, I'm — I'll accept 
 your horse." 
 
 "Yes," he replied, swiftly. 
 
 Lucy settled herself in the saddle and, shortening tie 
 bridle, she got ready to sptir Sarchedon into a bolt. 
 
 "Lin, I'll accept Wildfire because I love you." 
 
 Sarchedon leaped forward. Lucy did not see Slone's 
 face nor hear him speak. Then she was tearing through 
 the sage, out past the whistling Wildfire, with the wind 
 sweet in her face. She did not look back. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 ALL through May there was an idea, dark and sinister, 
 growing in Bostil's raiad. Fiercely at first he had 
 rejected it as utterly unworthy of the man he was. But 
 it returned. It would not be denied. It was fostered by 
 singular and unforeseen circumstances. The meetings 
 with Creech, the strange, sneaking actions of young Joel 
 Creech, and especially the gossip of riders about the im- 
 provement in Creech's swift horse — ^these things appeared 
 to loom larger and larger and to augment in Bostil's mind 
 the monstrous idea which he could not shake off. So he 
 became brooding and gloomy. 
 
 It appeared to be an indication of his intense pre- 
 occupation of mind that he seemed unaware of Lucy's 
 long trips down into the sage. But Bostil had observed 
 them long before HoUey and other riders had approached 
 him with the information. 
 
 "Let her alone," he growled to his men. "I gave her 
 orders to train the King. An' after Van got well mebbe 
 Lucy just had a habit of ridia' down there. She can 
 take care of herself." 
 
 To himself, when alone, Bostil muttered: "Wonder 
 what the kid has looked up now? Some mischief, 
 I'll bet!" 
 
 Nevertheless, he did not speak to her on the subject. 
 Deep in his heart he knew he feared his keen-eyed daugh- 
 ter, and during these days he was glad she was not in 
 evidence at the hours when he could not very well keep 
 entirely to himself. Bostil was afraid Lucy might divine 
 what he had on his mind. There was no one else he cared 
 
 I S3 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 for. Holley, that old hawk-eyed rider, might see through 
 htm, but Bostil knew Holley would be loyal, whatervo: 
 he saw. 
 
 Toward the end of the month, when Somers returned 
 from horse-hunting, BostU put him and Shugrue to work 
 upon the big flatboat down at the crossing. Bostil him- 
 self went down, and he walked — a fact apt to be considered 
 unusual if it had been noticed. 
 
 " Put in new planks," was his order to the men. "An' 
 pour hot tar in the cracks. Then when the tar dries 
 shove her in. . . but I'll tell you when." 
 
 Every morning young Creech rowed over to see if the 
 boat was ready to take the trip across to bring his f atha-'s 
 horses back. The third morning of work on the boat 
 Bostil met Joel down there. Joel seemed eager to speak 
 to Bostil. He certainly was a wild-looking youth. 
 
 "Bostil, my ole man is losin' sleep waitin' to git the 
 hosses over," he said, frankly. "Feed's almost gone." 
 
 "That '11 be all right, Joel," replied Bostil. "You see, 
 the river ain't begun to raise yet. . . . How're the hosses 
 comin' on?" 
 
 "Grand, sir — grand!" exclaimed the simple Jod. "P^ 
 is runnin' faster than last year, but Blue Roan is leavin' 
 her a mile. Dad's goin' to bet all he has. The roan 
 can't lose this year." 
 
 Bostil felt like a bull bayed at by a hotmd. Blue Roan 
 was a young horse, and every season he had grown bigger 
 and faster. The King had reached the limit of his speed. 
 That was great, Bostil knew, and enough to win over 
 any horse in the uplands, providing the luck of the race 
 fell even. Luck, however, was a fickle thing. 
 
 " I was advisin' Dad to swim the hosses over," declared 
 Joel, deliberately. 
 
 "A-huh! You was? . . . An' ts^?" rejoined Bostil. 
 
 Joel's simphcity and frankness vani^ed, and with them 
 his rationality. He looked queer. His contrasting eyes 
 shot Uttle malignant gleams. He muttered inccJaeren^y, 
 
 IS4 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 and moved back toward the skiff, making violent gestures, 
 and his muttering grew to shouting, though still incoherent. 
 He got in the boat and started to row back over the river. 
 
 "Sure he's got a screw loose," observed Somers. 
 
 Shugrue tapped his grizzled head significantly. 
 
 Bostil made no comment. He strode away from his 
 men down to the river shore, and, finding-a seat on a stone, 
 he studied the slow eddying red current of the river and 
 he listened. If any man knew the strange and remorseless 
 Colorado, that man was Bostil. He never made any 
 mistakes in anticipating what the river was going to do. 
 
 And now he listened, as if indeed the sullen, low roar, 
 the murmuring hollow gurgle,, the sudden strange splash, 
 were spoken words meant for his ears alone. The river 
 was low. It seemed tired out. It was a dirty red in 
 color, and it swirled and flowed along lingeringly. At 
 times the current was almost imperceptible; and then 
 again it moved at varying speed. It seemed a petulant, 
 waiting, yet inevitable stream, with some remorseless 
 end before it. It had a thousand voices, but not the one 
 Bostil listened to hear. 
 
 He plodded gloomily up the trail, resting in the quiet, 
 dark places of the canon, loath to climb out into the clear 
 light of day. And once in the village, Bostil shook him- 
 self as if to cast off an evil, ever-present, pressing spell. 
 
 The races were now only a few days off. Piutes and 
 Navajos were camped out on the sage, and hourly the 
 nttmber grew as more came in. They were building cedar 
 sunshades. Columns of blue smoke curled up here and 
 there. Mustangs and ponies grazed ever3rwhere, and a line 
 of Indians extended along the racecourse, where trials were 
 being held. The village was fuU of riders, horse-traders and 
 hunters, and ranchers. Work on the ranges had practical- 
 ly stopped for the time being, and in another day or so 
 every inhabitant of the country would be in Bostil's Ford. 
 
 Bostil walked into the village, grimly conscious that the 
 presence of the Indians and riders and horses, the action 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 and color and bustle, the near approach of the great race- 
 day — these things that in former years had brought him 
 keen delight and speculation — ^had somehow lost their 
 tang. He had changed. Something was wrong in him. 
 But he must go among these visitors and welcome them 
 as of old; he who had always been the life of these racing- 
 days must be outwardly the same. And the task was all 
 the harder because of the pleasure shown by old friends 
 among the Indians and the riders at meeting him. Bostil 
 knew he had been a cunning horse-trader, but he had 
 likewise been a good friend. Many were the riders and 
 Indians who owed niuch to him. So everjrwhere he was 
 hailed ^and besieged, until finally the old excitement of 
 betting and bantering took hold of him and he forgot his 
 brooding. 
 
 Brackton's place, as always, was a headquarters for all 
 visitors. Macomber had just come in full of enthusiasm 
 and pride over the horse he had entered, and he had 
 money to wager. Two Navajo chiefs, called by white 
 men Old Horse and Silver, were there for the first time in 
 years. They were ready to gamble horse against horse. 
 Cal Blinn and his riders of Durango had arrived; like- 
 wise Colson, Sticks, and Burthwait, old friends and rivals 
 of Bostil's. 
 
 For a while Brackton's was merry. There was some 
 drinking and much betting. It was characteristic of Bos- 
 til that he woiild give any odds asked on the King in a 
 race; and, furthermore, he would take any end of wagers 
 on other horses. As far as his own horses were concerned 
 he bet shrewdly, but in races where his horses did not 
 figure he seemed to find fun in the betting, whether or 
 not he won. 
 
 The fact remained, however, that there were only two 
 wagers against the King, and both were put up by Ind- 
 ians. Macomber was betting on second or third place 
 for his horse in the big race. No odds of Bostil's tempted 
 him. 
 
 iS6 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Say, Where's Wetherby?" rolled out Bostil. "He'll 
 back his hoss." 
 
 " Wetherby 's ridin' over to-morrow," replied Macomber. 
 "But you gotta bet hitn two to one." 
 
 "See hyar, Bostil," spoke up old Cal Blinn, "you jest, 
 wait till I git an eye on the King's runnin'. Mebbe I'll 
 go you even money." 
 
 "An' as fer me, BostU," said Colson, "I ain't set up 
 yit which hoss I'll race." 
 
 Burthwait, an old rider, came forward to Brackton's 
 desk and entered a wager against the field that made 
 all the men gasp. 
 
 "By George! pard, you ain't a-limpin' along!" Macu- 
 lated Bostil, admiringly, and he put a hand on the other's- 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Bostil, I've a grand hoss," replied Burthwait. "He's 
 four years old, I guess, fer he was bom wild, an' you never 
 seen him." 
 
 "Wild hoss? . . . Huh!" growled Bostil. "You must 
 think he can run." 
 
 "Why, Bostil, a streak of lightnin' ain't anywheres - 
 with him." 
 
 " Wal, I'm glad to hear it," said Bostil, gruffly. "Brack, 
 how many hosses entered now for the big race?" 
 
 The lean, gray Brackton bent earnestly over his soiled 
 tedger, while the riders and horsemen round him grew 
 silent to listen. 
 
 "Thar's the Sage King, by Bostil," replied Brackton. 
 " Blue Roan an' Peg, by Creech; Whitefoot, by Macomber; 
 Rocks, by Holley; Hossshoes, by Blinn; Bay Charley, 
 by Burthwait. "Then thar's the two mustangs entered 
 by Old Hoss an' Silver — an' last — Wildfire, by Lucy 
 Bostil." 
 
 "What's thet last?" quened Bostil. 
 
 "Wildfire, by Lucy Bostil," repeated Brackton. 
 
 "Has the girl gone an' entered a hoss?" 
 
 "She sure has. She came in to-day, regular an' busi- 
 157 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 aiess-like, writ her name an' her hoss's — ^here 'tis — an' 
 •put up the entrance money." 
 
 "Wal, I'll be d — d!" exclaimed Bostil. He was aston- 
 ished and pleased. "She said she'd do it. But I didn't 
 take no stock in her talk. . . . An' the hoss's name?" 
 
 "WUdfire." 
 
 "Huh! . . . "Wildfire. Mebbe thet girl can't think of 
 names for bosses! What's this boss she calls Wildfire?" 
 
 "She sure didn't say," replied Brackton. "Holley an' 
 Van an' some more of the boys was here. They joked 
 -her a little. You oughter seen the look Lucy give them. 
 But fer once she seemed mimi. She jest waUced away 
 mysterious like." 
 
 "Lucy's got a pony off some Indian, I reckon," returned 
 Bostil, and he laughed. "Then thet makes ten bosses 
 • entered so far?" 
 
 "Right. An' there's sure to be one more. I guess the 
 track's wide enough for twelve." 
 
 "Wal, Brack, there'll likely be one hoss out in front 
 an' some stretched out behind," replied BostU, dryly. 
 "Tie track's sUre wide enough." 
 
 "Won't thet be a grand race!" exclaimed an enthusias- 
 tic rider. "Wisht I had about a million to bet!" 
 
 "Bostil, I 'most forgot," went on Brackton, "Cordts 
 •sent word by the Piutes who come to-day thet he'd be 
 here sure." 
 
 Bostil's face subtly changed. The light seemed to 
 leave it. He did not reply to Brackton — did not show 
 that he heard the comment on all sides. Public opinion 
 was against Bostil's permission to allow Cordts and his 
 horse-thieves to attend the races. Bostil appeared grave, 
 regretful. Yet it was known by all that in the strange- 
 ness and perversity of his rider's nature he wanted Cordts 
 to see the King win that race. It was his rider's vanity 
 and defiance in, the teeth of a great horse-thief. But no 
 ;good would come of Cordts's presence — that much was 
 jnanifest. 
 
 iS8 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 There was a moment of silence. All these men, if thejr 
 did not fear Bostil, were sometimes uneasy when near 
 him. Some who were more reckless than discreet liked 
 to irritate him. That, too, was a rider's weakness. 
 
 "When's Creech's hosses comin' over?" asked Colson, 
 with sudden interest. 
 
 "Wal, I reckon — soon," replied Bostil, constrainedly, 
 and he turned away. 
 
 By the time he got home all the excitement of the past 
 hour had left him and gloom a^ain abided in his mind. 
 He avoided his daughter and forgot the fact of her en- 
 tering a horse in the race. He ate supper alone, without 
 speaking to his sister. Then in the dusk he went out to- 
 the corrals and called the King to the fence. There was. 
 love between master and horse. Bostil talked low, like 
 a woman, to Sage King. And the hard old rider's heart 
 was full and a lump swelled in his throat, for contact with 
 the King reminded him that other men loved other horses - 
 
 Bostil retiu-ned to the house and went to his room, 
 where he sat thinking in the dark. By and by all was 
 qtdet. Then seemingly with a wrench he bestirred him- 
 self and did what for him was a strange action. Remov- 
 ing his boots, he put on a pair of moccasins. He slipped* 
 out of the house; he kept to the flagstone of the walk; 
 he took to the sage till out of the village, and then he 
 sheered round to the river trail. With the step and sure- 
 ness and the eyes of an Indian he went down through that- 
 pitch-black canon to the river and the ford. 
 
 The river seemed absolutely the same as during the 
 day. He peered through the dark opaqueness of gloom. 
 It moved there, the river he knew, shadowy, mysterious, 
 murmuring. Bostil went down to the edge of the water, 
 and, sitting there, he listened. Yes— the voices of the 
 stream were the same. But after a long time he imagined 
 there was among them an infinitely low voice, as if from 
 a great distance. He imagined this; he doubted; he 
 made sure; and then all seemed fancy again. His mind; 
 
 IS9 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 held only one idea and was riveted round it. He strained 
 his hearing, so long, so intently, that at last he knew he 
 had hear4 what he was longing for. Then in the gloom 
 he took to the trail, and returned home as he had left, 
 stealthily, like an Indian. 
 
 But BostU did not sleep nor rest. 
 
 Next morning ear y he rode down to the river. Somers 
 and Shugrue had finished the boat and were waiting. 
 Other men were there, curious and eager. Joel Creech, 
 barefooted and ragged, with hollow eyes and strange ac- 
 tions, paced the sands. 
 
 The boat was lying bottom up. Bostil examined the 
 new planking and the seams. Then he straightened his 
 "form. 
 
 "Turn her over," he ordered. "Shove her in. An' 
 let her soak up to-day." 
 
 The men seemed glad and relieved. Joel Creech heard 
 and he came near to Bostil. 
 
 "You'U — ^you'U fetch Dad's bosses over?" he queried. 
 
 "Sure. To-morrow," replied Bostil, cheerily. 
 
 Joel smiled, and that smile showed what might have 
 been possible for him under kinder conditions of life. 
 "Now, Bostil, I'm sorry fer what I said," blurted Joel. 
 
 " Shut up. Go tell your old man." 
 
 Joel ran down to his skiff and, leaping in, began to row 
 vigorous y across. Bostil watched while the workmen 
 turned the boat over and slid it off the sand-bar and tied 
 it securely to the mooring. Bostil observed that not a 
 man there saw anjrthing unusual about the river. But, 
 for that matter, there was nothing to see. The river was 
 the same. 
 
 That night when all was quiet in and around the vil- 
 lage Bostil emerged from his house and took to his 
 stealthy stalk down toward the river. 
 
 The moment he got out into the night oppression left 
 ■him. How interminable the hours had been! Suspense, 
 
 1 60 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 doubt, anxiety, feax no longer burdened him. The night 
 was dark, with only a few stars, and the air was cool. A 
 soft wind blew across his heated face. A neighbor's dog, 
 baying dismally, startled Bostil. He halted to listen, 
 then stole on under the cottonwoods, through the sage, 
 down the trail, into the jet-black canon. Yet he found 
 his way as if it had been light. In the darkness of his. 
 room he had been a slave to his indecision; now in the 
 darkness of the looming clifiEs he was free, resolved, 
 immutable. 
 
 The distance seemed short. He passed out of the nar- 
 row canon, skirted the gorge over the river, and hurried, 
 down into the shadowy amphitheater under the looming 
 walls. 
 
 The boat lay at the mooring, one end resting lightly on 
 the sand-bar. With strong, nervous clutch Bostil felt 
 the knots of the cables. Then he peered into the opaque 
 gloom of that strange and huge V-shaped spUt between, 
 the great canon walls. Bostil's mind had begun to relax 
 from the single idea. Was he alone? Except for the low 
 murmur of the river there was dead silence — a silence 
 like no other — a silence which seemed held imder im- 
 prisoning walls. Yet Bostil peered long into the shadows. 
 Then he looked up. The ragged ramparts far above 
 frowned bold and black at a few cold stars, and the blue 
 of its sky was without the usual velvety brightness. How 
 far it was up to that corrugated rim! All of a sudden 
 Bostil hated this vast ebony pit. 
 
 He strode down to the v/ater and, sitting upon the stone 
 he had occupied so often, he listened. He turned his ear 
 up-stream, then down-stream, and to the side, and again 
 up-stream and listened. 
 
 The river seemed the same. 
 
 It was slow, heavy, listless, eddjring, lingering, moving 
 — ^the same apparently as for days past. It splashed 
 very softly and murmured low and gurgled faintly. It 
 gave forth fitful Uttle swishes and musical tinMes and 
 
 i6i 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 lapping sounds. It was flowing water, yet the proof was 
 there of tardiness. Now it was ahnost still, and then 
 again it moved on. It was a river of mystery telling a lie 
 with its low music. As Bostil Ustened all those soft, 
 watery sounds merged into what seemed a moaning, and 
 that moaning held a roar so low as to be only distinguish- 
 able to the ear trained by years. 
 
 No — the river was not the same. For the voice of its 
 soft moaning showed to Bostil its meaning. It called 
 from the far north — ^the north of great ice-clad peaks be- 
 ginning to glisten under the nearing sun; of vast snow- 
 filled canons dripping and melting; of the crystal brooks 
 suddenly colored and roiled and filled bank-full along the 
 mountain meadows; of many brooks plunging down and 
 down, rolling the rocks, to potir their volume into the 
 growing turbid streams on the slopes. It was the voice 
 of all that widely separated water spilled suddenly with 
 magical power into the desert river to make it a mighty, 
 thundering torrent, red and defiled, terrible in its increas- 
 ing onslaught into the cafion, deep, ponderous, but swift 
 — the Colorado in flood. 
 
 And as Bostil heard that voice he trembled. What was 
 the thing he meant to do? A thousand thoughts assailed 
 him in answer and none were clear. A chUl passed over 
 him. Suddenly he felt that the cold stole up from his 
 feet. They were both in the water. He pulled them out 
 and, bending down, watched the dim, dark line of water. 
 It moved up and up, inch by inch, swiftly. The river was 
 on the rise! 
 
 Bostil leaped up. He seemed possessed of devils. A 
 rippling hot gush of blood fired his every vein and tremor 
 after tremor shook him. 
 
 "By G — d! I had it right — she's risin'!" he exclaimed, 
 hoarsely. 
 
 He stared in fascinated certainty at the river. All, 
 about it and pertaining to it had changed. The mtirmur 
 ■and moan changed to a low, sullen roar. The music was 
 
 162 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 gone. The current chafed at its rock-botmd confines. 
 Here was an uneasy, tormented, driven river! The light 
 from the stars shone on dark, glancing, restless waters, 
 uneven and strange. And while Bostil watched, whether 
 it was a short time or long, the remorseless, destructive 
 nature of the river showed itself. 
 
 Bostil began to pace the sands. He thought of those 
 beautiful race-horses across the river. 
 
 "It's not too late!" he muttered. "I can get the boat 
 over an' back — yet!" 
 
 He knew that on the morrow the Colorado in flood 
 would bar those horses, imprison them in a barren canon, 
 shut them in to starve. 
 
 "It 'd be hellish! . . . BostU, you can't do it. You ain't 
 thet kind of a man. . . . BostU poison a water-hole where 
 bosses loved to drink, or bum over grass! . . . What would 
 Lucy think of you? . . . No, Bostil, you've let spite rule 
 bad. Hurry now and save them bosses !" 
 
 He strode down to the boat. It swiuig clear now, and 
 there was water between it and the shore. Bostil laid 
 hold of the cables. As he did so he thought of Creech 
 and a blackness enfolded him. He forgot Creech's horses. 
 Something gripped him, burned him — some hard and 
 bitter feeling which he thought was hate of Creech. 
 Again the wave of fire ran over him, and his huge hands 
 strained on the cables. The fiend of that fiendish river 
 had entered his soid. He meant ruin to a man. He 
 meant more than ruin. He meant to destroy what his 
 enemy, his rival loved. The darkness all about him, the 
 gloom and sinister shadow of the cafion, the stiUen increas- 
 ing roar of the river — ^these lent their influence to the 
 deed, encouraged him, drove him onward, fought and 
 strangled the resistance in his heart. As he brooded all 
 the motives for the deed grew like that remorseless river. 
 Had not his enemy's son shot at him from ambush? Was 
 not his very life at stake? A terrible blow must be dealt 
 Creech, one that would crush him or else lend him man- 
 ia 163 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 hood enough to come forth with a gun, Bostil, in his 
 torment, divined that Creech would know who had ruined 
 him. They would meet then, as Bostil had tried more 
 than once to bring about a meeting. Bostil saw into his 
 soul, and it was a gulf like this canon pit where the dark 
 and sullen river raged. He shraiik at what he saw, but 
 the furies of passion held him fast. His hands tore at the 
 cables. Then he fell to pacing to and fro in the gloom. 
 Every moment the river changed its voice. In an hour 
 flood would be down. Too late, then! Bostil again re- 
 membered the sleek, slim, racy thoroughbreds — Blue 
 Roan, a wUd horse he had longed to own, and Peg, a 
 mare that had no equal in the uplands. Where did Bos- 
 til's hate of a man stand in comparison with love of a 
 horse? He began to sweat and the sweat burned him. 
 
 "How soon '11 Creech hear the river an' know what's 
 comin'?" muttered Bostil, darkly. And that question 
 showed him how he was lost. All this strife of doubt, and 
 fear and horror were of no use. He meant to doom 
 Creech's horses. The thing had been unalterable from 
 the inception of the insidious, hateful idea. It was ir- 
 resistible. He grew strong, hard, fierce, and implacable. 
 He found himself. He strode back to the cables. The 
 knots, having dragged in the water, were soaking wet and 
 swollen. He could not untie them. Then he cut one 
 strand after another. The boat swung out beyond his 
 reach. 
 
 Instinctively BostU reached to pull it back. 
 
 "My God! . , . It's goin'!" he whispered. "What have 
 I done?" 
 
 He — Bostn — ^who had made this Crossing of the Fathers 
 more famous as BostU's Ford — ^he — ^to cut the boat adrift! 
 The thing was inconceivable. 
 
 The roar of the river rose weird and mournful and in- 
 cessant, with few breaks, and these were marked by strange 
 ripping and splashing soimds made as the bulges of water 
 broke on the surface. Twenty feet out the boat floated, 
 
 164 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 turning a little as it drifted. It seemed loath to leave. 
 It held on the shore eddy. Hiingrily, spitefully the little, 
 heavy waves lapped it. Bostil watched it with dilating 
 eyes. There! the current caught one end and the water 
 rose in a hollow splash over the comer. An invisible 
 hand, like a mighty giant's, seemed to swing the boat out. 
 It had been dark; now it was opaque, now shadowy, 
 now dim. How swift this cursed river! Was there any 
 way in which Bostil" could recover his boat? The river 
 answered him with hollow, deep mockery. Despair 
 seized upon him. And the vague shape of the boat, 
 spectral and instinct with meaning, passed from BostU's 
 strained gaze. 
 
 "So help me God, I've done it!" he groaned, hoarsely. 
 And he staggered back and sat down. Mind and heart 
 and soul were suddenly and exqiusitely acute to the shame 
 of his act. Remorse seized upon his vitals. He suffered 
 physical agony, as if a wolf gnawed him internally. 
 
 "To heU with Creech an' his bosses, but where do I 
 come in as a man?" he whispered. And he sat there, 
 arms tight aroimd his knees, locked both mentally and 
 physically into inaction. 
 
 The rising water broke the spell and drove him back. 
 The river was creeping no longer. It swelled. And the 
 roar likewise swelled. Bostil hiuried across the flat to 
 get to the rocky trail before he was cut off, and the last 
 few rods he waded in water up to his knees. 
 
 "I'll leave no trail there," he muttered, with a hard 
 laugh. It sounded ghastly to him, like the laugh of the 
 river. 
 
 And there at the foot of the rocky trail he halted to 
 watch and listen. The old memorable boom came to his 
 ears. The flood was coming. For twenty-three years he 
 had heard the vanguard boom of the Colorado in flood. 
 But never like this, for in the sound he heard the strife 
 and passion of his blood, and realized himself a human 
 counterpart of that remorseless river. The moments 
 
 i6s 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 passed and each one saw a swelling of the volume of 
 sound. The sullen roar just below him was gradually 
 lost in a distant roar. A steady wind now blew through 
 the canon. The great walls seemed to gape wider to 
 prepare for the torrent. BostU backed slowly up the 
 trail as foot by foot the water rose. The floor of the 
 amphitheater was now a lake of choppy, angry waves. 
 The willows bent and seethed in the edge of the current. 
 Beyond ran an uneven, bulging mass that resembled 
 some gray, heavy moving monster. In the gloom Bostil 
 could see how the river turned a comer of wall and slanted 
 away from it toward the center, where it rose higher. 
 Black objects that must have been driftwood appeared 
 on this crest. They showed an instant, then flashed out 
 of sight. The boom grew steadier, closer, louder, and 
 the reverberations, like low detonations of thunder, were 
 less noticeable because aU sounds were being swallowed 
 up. 
 
 A harder breeze puffed into Bostil's face. It brought a 
 tremendous thunder, as if all the colossal walls were fall- 
 ing in avalanche. Bostil knew the crest of the flood had 
 turned the comer above and would soon reach him. He 
 watched. He listened, but sound had ceased. His ears 
 seemed ringing and they hurt. All his body felt cold, 
 and he backed up and up, with dead feet. 
 
 The shadows of the canon lightened. A river-wide 
 froth, Uke a curtain, moved down, spreading mushroom- 
 wise before it, a rolling, heaving maelstrom. Bostil ran 
 to escape the great wave that surged into the amphi- 
 theater, up and up the rocky trail. When he turned 
 again he seemed to look down into hell. Murky depths, 
 streaked by pale gleams, and black, sinister, changing 
 forms yawned beneath them. He watched with fixed. 
 eyes untU once more the feeling of filled ears left him 
 and an awful thundering boom assured him of actualities. 
 It was only the Colorado in flood. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 ( 
 
 BOSTIL slept that night, but his sleep was troubled, 
 and a strange, dreadful roar seemed to run through 
 it, like a mournful wind over a dark desert. He was 
 awakened early by a voice at his window. He listened. 
 There came a rap on the wood. 
 
 " BostU ! . . . Bostil !" It was HoUey's voice. 
 
 Bostil rolled off the bed. He had slept without remov- 
 ing any apparel except his boots. 
 
 "Wal, Hawk, what d'ye mean wa.kin' a man at this 
 unholy hotur?" growled Bostil. 
 
 Holley's face appeared above the rude siU. It was pale 
 and grave, with the hawk eyes like glass. "It ain't so 
 awful early," he said. "Listen, boss." 
 
 Bostil halted in the act of pulling on a boot. He 
 looked at his man while he listened. The still air outside 
 seemed filled with low boom, like thunder at a distance. 
 Bostil tried to look astounded. 
 
 " Hell ! . . . It's the Colorado ! She's boomin' !" 
 
 "Reckon it's hell aU right — ^for Creech," repHed HoUey. 
 "Boss, why didn't you fetch them bosses over?" 
 i Bostil's face darkened. He was a bad man to oppose — 
 'to question at times. "HoUey, you're sure powerful 
 anxious about Creech. Are you his friend?" 
 
 "Naw! I've little use fer Creech," replied HoUey. 
 "An, you know thet. But I hold for his bosses as I would 
 any man's." 
 
 "A-huh! An' what's your kick?" 
 
 "Nothin' — except you could have fetched them over 
 heioTG the flood come down. That's all." 
 
 167 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 The old horse-trader and his right-hand rider looked at 
 each other for a moment in silence. They tmderstood 
 each other. Then Bostil returned to the task of pulling 
 on wet boots and HoUey went away. 
 
 Bostil opened his door and stepped outside. The east- 
 em ramparts of the desert were bright red with the rising 
 sun. With the night behind him and the morning cool 
 and bright and beautiful, Bostil did not suffer a pang 
 nor feel a regret. He walked around under the cotton- 
 woods where the mocking-birds were singing. The shrill, 
 screeching bray of a burro split the morning stillness, and 
 with that the sounds of the awakening village drowned 
 that sullen, dreadful boom of the river. Bostil went in 
 to breakfast. 
 
 He encountered Lucy in the kitchen, and he did act 
 avoid her. He could tell from her smiling greeting that 
 he seemed to heir his old self again. Lucy wore an apron 
 and she had her sleeves rolled up, showing rotmd, strong, 
 brown arms. Somehow to Bostil she seemed different. 
 She had been pretty, but now she was more than that. 
 She was radiant. Her blue eyes danced. She looked ex- 
 cited. She had been, telling her aunt something, and 
 that worthy woman appeared at once shocked and de- 
 lighted. But Bostil's entrance had caused a mysterious 
 break in everything that had been going on, except the 
 preparation of the morning meal. 
 
 "Now I rode in on some confab or other, that's sui'e," 
 said Bostil, good-naturedly. 
 
 "You sture did, Dad," replied Lucy, with a bright 
 snule. 
 
 "Wal, let me sit in the game," he rejoined. 
 
 "Dad, you can't even ante," said Lucy. 
 
 "Jane, what's this kid up to?" asked Bostil, turning 
 to his sister. 
 
 "The good Lord only knows!" replied Atmt Jane, with 
 a sigh. 
 
 "Kid? . . . See here. Dad, I'm eighteen long ago. I'm 
 i68 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 grown up., I can do as I please, go where I like, and 
 anything. . . . Why, Dad, I could get — ^married." 
 
 "HawJ haw!" laughed Bostil. "Jane, hear the girl." 
 
 "I hear her, Bostil," sighed Aunt Jane. 
 
 "Wal, Lucy, I'd just like to see you fetch some fool 
 love-sick rider around when I'm feelin' good," said Bostil. 
 
 Lucy laughed, but there was a roguish, daring flash in 
 her eyes. "Dad, you do seem to have all the young fel- 
 lows scared. Some day maybe one will ride along — a 
 rider like you used to be — ^that nobody could bluff. . . . 
 And he can have me!" 
 
 "A-huh! . . . Lucy, are you in fun?" 
 
 Lucy tossed her bright head, but did not answer. 
 
 "Jane, what's got into her?" asked Bostil, appealing 
 to his sister. 
 
 "Bostil, she's in fun, of course," declared Aunt Jane. 
 "Still, at that, there's some sense in what she says. 
 Come to your breakfast, now." 
 
 Bostil took his seat at the table, glad that he could once 
 more be amiable with his women-folk. " Lucy, to-morrow 
 '11 be the biggest day Bostil's Ford ever seen," he said. 
 
 "It sure will be, Dad. The biggest surprising day the 
 Ford ever had," replied Lucy, i 
 
 "Surprisin'?" 
 
 "Yes, Dad." 
 
 "Who's goin' to get surprised?" 
 
 "Everybody." 
 
 Bostil said to himself that he had been used to Lucy's 
 banter, but during his moody spell of days past he had 
 forgotten how to take her or else she was different. 
 
 "Brackton tells me you've entered a hoss against the 
 field." 
 
 "It's an open race, isn't it?" 
 
 "Open as the desert, Lucy," he replied. "What's this 
 hoss Wildfire you've entered?" 
 
 "Wouldn't you like to know?" taunted Lucy. 
 
 "If he's as good as his name you might be in at the 
 i6e 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 finish. . . . But, Lucy, my dear, talkin' good sraise now — 
 you ain't a-goin' to go up on some unbroken naistang in 
 this big race?" 
 
 " Dad, I'm going to ride a horse." 
 
 " But, Lucy, ain't it a risk you'll be takin' — all for fun?" 
 
 "Fun! . . . I'm in dead earnest." 
 
 Bostil liked the look of her then. She had paled a 
 little; her eyes blazed; she was intense. His question 
 had brought out her earnestness, and straightway BostiL 
 became thoughtful. If Lucy had been a boy she would 
 have been the greatest rider on the uplands; and even 
 girl as she was, superbly mounted, she would have been 
 dangerous in any race. 
 
 "Wal, I ain't afraid of your handlin' of a hoss," he said, 
 soberly. "An' as long as you're in earnest I won't stop 
 you. But, Lucy, no bettin'. I won't let you gamble." 
 
 "Not even with you?"* she coaxed. 
 
 Bostil stared at the girl. What had gotten into her? 
 "What '11 you bet?" he queried, with blunt curiosity. 
 
 "Dad, I'U go you a hundred dollars in gold that I 
 finish one — ^two — ^three." 
 
 Bostil threw back his head to laugh heartily. What a 
 chip of the old block she was! "ChUd, there's some fast . 
 hosses that 'U be back of the King. You'd be throwin' 
 away money." 
 
 Blue fire shone in his daughter's eyes. She meant 
 business, all right, and Bostil thrilled with pride in her. 
 
 ' Dad, I'll bet you two hundred, even, that I beat the 
 King!" she flashed. 
 
 "Wal, of all the nerve!" ejaculated Bostil. "No, I 
 won't take you up. Reckon I never before turned down 
 an even bet. Understand, Lucy, ridin' in the race is 
 enouglTfor you." 
 
 "All right, Dad," replied Lucy, obediently. 
 
 At that juncture Bostil suddenly shoved back his plate 
 and turned his face to the open door. "Don't I hear a 
 runnin' hoss?" 
 
 170 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Aunt Jane stopped the noise she was making, and Lucy 
 darted to the door. Then Bostil heard the sharp, rhyth- 
 mic hoof-beats he recognized. They shortened to clatter 
 and pound — ^then ceased somewhere out in front of the 
 house. 
 
 "It's the King with Van up," said Lucy, from the door. 
 " Dad, Van's jumped off — ^he's coming in . . . he's running. 
 Something has happened. . . . There are other horses 
 coming — riders — Indians." 
 
 Bostil knew what was coming and prepared himself. 
 Rapid footsteps sounded without. 
 
 "Hello, Miss Lucy! Where's Bostil?" 
 
 A lean, supple rider appeared before the door. It was 
 Van, greatly excited. 
 
 "Come in, boy," said Bostil. "What 're you flustered 
 about?" 
 
 Van strode in, spurs jangling, cap in hand. "Boss, 
 there's — a sixty-foot raise — in the river!" Van panted. 
 
 "Oh!" cried Lucy, wheeling toward her father. 
 
 "Wal, Van, I reckon I knowed thet," replied Bostil. 
 "Mebbe I'm gettin' old, but I can still hear. . . . Listen." 
 
 Lucy tiptoed to the door and turned her head sidewise 
 and slowly bowed it till she stiffened. Outside were 
 sounds of birds and horses and men, but when a lull 
 came it quickly filled with a sullen, low boom. 
 
 "Highest flood v/e — ever seen," said Van. 
 
 "You've been down?" queried Bostil, sharply. 
 
 "Not to the river," replied Van. "I went as far as 
 — ^where the gulch opens — on the bluff. There was a 
 string of Navajos goin' down. An' some comin' up. I 
 stayed there watchin' the flood, an' pretty soon Somers 
 come up the trail with Blakesley an' Brack an' some riders. 
 . . . An' Somers hollered out, 'The boat's gone!'" 
 
 "Gone!" exclaimed Bostil, his loud cry showing con- 
 sternation. 
 
 "Oh, Dad! Oh, Van!" cried Lucy, with eyes wide and 
 lips parted. 
 
 171 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Stire she's gone. An' the whole place down there — 
 where the willows was an' the sand-bar — it was deep 
 tinder water." 
 
 "What will become of Creech's horses?" asked Lucy, 
 breathlessly. 
 
 "My God! ain't it a shame!" went on Bostil, and he 
 could have laughed aloud at his hypocrisy. He felt 
 Lucy's blue eyes riveted upon his face. 
 
 "Thet's what we all was sayin'," went on Van. "While 
 we was watchin' the awful flood an' listenin' to the deep 
 btrni — ^bum — ^bum of roUin' rocks some one seen Creech 
 an' two Piutes leadin' the bosses up thet trail where the 
 slide was. We counted the bosses — ^nine. An' we saw 
 the roan shine blue in the sunlight." 
 
 "Piutes with Creech!" exclaimed Bostil, the deep gloom 
 in his eyes lighting. "By all thet's lucky! Mebbe them 
 Indians can climb the bosses out of thet hole an' find 
 water an' grass enough." 
 
 ' ' Mebbe, ' ' replied Van, doubtfully. ' ' Sure them Piutes 
 could if there's a chance. But there ain't any grass." 
 
 "It won't take much grass travelin' by night." 
 
 "So lots of the boys say. But the Navajos they 
 shook their heads. An' Farlane an' HoUey, v/hy, they 
 jest held up their hands." 
 
 "With them Indians Creech has a chance to get his 
 bosses out," declared Bostil. He was sure of his sin- 
 cerity, but he was not certain that his sincerity was not 
 the birth of a strange, sudden hope. And then he was 
 ' able to meet the eyes of his daughter. That was his su- 
 preme test. 
 
 "Oh, Dad, why, why didn't you htirry Creech's 
 horses over?" said Lucy, with her tears falling. 
 
 Something tight within Bostil's breast seemed to ease 
 and lessen. "Why didn't I? . . . Wal, Lucy, I reckon I 
 wasn't in no htirry to oblige Creech. I'm sorry now." 
 
 "It won't be so terrible i£ he doesn't lose the horses," 
 anurmured Lucy. 
 
 172 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Where's young Joel Creech?" asked Bostil. 
 
 "He stayed on this side last night," replied Van. 
 "Fact is, Joel's the one who first knew the flood was on. 
 Some one said he said he slept in the canon last night. 
 Anyway, he's ravin' crazy now. An' if he doesn't do 
 harm to some one or hisself I'll miss my guess." 
 
 "A-huh!" grunted Bostil. "Right you are." 
 
 "Dad, can't anything be done to help Creech now?" 
 appealed Lucy, going close to her father. 
 
 Bostil put his arm around her and felt immeasurably 
 relieved to have the golden head press close to his shoulder. 
 "Child, we can't fly acrost the river. Now don't you 
 cry about Creech's bosses. They ain't starved yet. It's 
 hard luck. But mebbe it '11 turn out so Creech '11 lose 
 only the race. An', Lucy, it was a dead sure bet he'd 
 have lost thet anyway." 
 
 Bostil fondled his daughter a moment, the first time 
 in many a day, and then he turned to his rider at the door. 
 "Van, how's the King?" 
 
 "Wild to run, Bostil, jest plumb wild. There won't 
 be any hoss with the ghost of a show to-morrow." 
 
 Lucy raised her drooping head. "Is that so, Van 
 Sickle? . . . Listen here. If you and Sage King don't get 
 more wild running to-morrow than you ever had I'll 
 never ride again!" With this retort Lucy left the room. 
 
 Van stared at the door and then at Bostil. "What'd 
 I say, Bostil?" he asked, plaintively. " I'm always r'ilin' 
 her." 
 
 "Cheer up. Van. You didn't say much. Lucy is 
 fiery these days. She's got a hoss somewhere an' she's 
 goin' to ride him in the race. She offered to bet on him — 
 against the King ! It certainly beat me all hollow. But 
 see here. Van. I've a hunch there's a dark hoss goin' to 
 show up in this race. So don't imderrate Lucy an' her 
 mount, whatever he is. She calls him Wildfire. Ever 
 see him?" 
 
 " I sure haven't. Fact is, I haven't seen Lucy for days 
 173 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 an' days. As for the hunch you gave, I'll say I was 
 figurin' Lucy for some real race. Bostil, she doesn't 
 make a hoss run. He'll run jest to please her. An' Lucy's 
 lighter 'n a feather. Why, Bostil, if she happened to 
 ride out there on Blue Roan or some other hoss as fast 
 I'd— I'd jest wilt." 
 
 Bostil uttered a laugh full of pride in his daughter. 
 "Wal, she won't show up on Blue Roan," he replied, with 
 grim gruffness. "Thet's sure as death. . . . Come on out 
 now. I want a look at the King." 
 
 Bostil went into the village. All day long he was so 
 busy with a thousand and one things referred to him, put 
 on him, tindertaken by him, that he had no time to 
 think. Back in his mind, however, there was a burden 
 of which he was vaguely conscious all the time. He 
 worked late into the night and slept late the next morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Never in his life had Bostil been gloomy or retro- 
 spective on the day of a race. In the press of matters 
 he had only a word for Lucy, but that earned a saucy, 
 datintless look. He was glad when he was able to join 
 the procession of villagers, visitors, and Indians moving 
 out toward the sage. 
 
 The racecourse lay at the foot of the slope, and now 
 the gray and purple sage was dotted with more horses 
 and Indians, more moving things and colors, than Bostil 
 had ever seen there before. It was a spectacle that stirred 
 him. Many fires sent up blue columns of smoke from 
 before the hastily built brush huts where the Indians 
 cooked and ate. Blankets shone bright in the sun; 
 burros grazed and brayed; horses whistled piercingly 
 across the slope; Indians lolled before the huts or talked 
 in groups, sitting and lounging on their ponies; down in 
 the valley, here and there, were Indians racing, and 
 others were chasing the wiry mustangs. Beyond this 
 gay and colorful spectacle stretched the valley, merging 
 
 174 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 into the desert marked so strikingly and beautifully by 
 the monuments. 
 
 Bostil was among the last to ride down to the high 
 bench that overlooked the home end of the racecottrse. 
 He calculated that there were a thousand Indians and 
 whites congregated at that point, which was the best 
 vantage-ground to see the finish of a race. And the 
 occasion of his arrival, for all the gaiety, was one of 
 dignity and importance. If Bostil reveled in anything 
 it was in an hour like this. His liberality made this 
 event a great race-day. The thoroughbreds were all 
 there, blanketed, in charge of watchful riders. In the 
 center of the brow of this long bench lay a huge, flat 
 rock which had been BostU's seat in the watching of many 
 a race. Here were assembled his neighbors and visitors 
 actively interested in the races, and also the important 
 Indians of both tribes, all waiting for him. 
 
 As Bostil dismounted, throwing the bridle to a, rjder, 
 he saw a face that suddenly froze the thrilling delight of 
 the moment. A tall, gaunt man with cavernous black 
 eyes and huge, drooping black mustache fronted him 
 and seemed waiting. Cordts! Bostil had forgotten. 
 Instinctively Bostil stood on guard. For years he had 
 prepared himself for the moment when he would come 
 face to face with this noted horse-thief. 
 
 "Bostil, how are you?" said Cordts. He appeared 
 pleasant, and certainly grateftil for being permitted 
 to come there. From his left hand hung a belt containing 
 two heavy guns. 
 
 "Hello, Cordts," replied Bostil, slowly unbending. 
 Then he met the other's proffered hand. 
 
 "I've bet heavy on the King," said Cordts. 
 
 For the moment there could have been no other way 
 to BostU's good graces, and this remark made the gruff 
 old rider's hard face relax. 
 
 "Wal, I was hopin' you'd back some other hoss, so I 
 could take your money," replied Bostil. 
 
 I7S 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Cordts held out the belt and guns to Bostil. "I want 
 to enjoy this race," he said, with a smile that somehow 
 hinted of the years he had packed those guns day and 
 night. 
 
 " Cordts, I don't want to take your guns," replied Bostil, 
 bluntly. "I've taken your word an' that's enough." 
 
 "Thanks, Bostil. All the same, as I'm your guest I 
 won't pack them," returned Cordts, and he hung the 
 belt on the horn of Bostil's saddle. "Some of my men 
 are with me. They were all right till they got outside 
 of Brackton's whisky. But now I won't answer for 
 them." 
 
 "Wal, you're square to say thet," replied Bostil. "An' 
 I'll run this race an' answer for everybody." 
 
 Bostil recognized Hutchinson and Dick Sears, but the 
 others of Cordts's gang he did not know. They were a 
 hard-looking lot. Hutchinson was a spare, stoop- 
 shouldered, red-faced, squinty-eyed rider, branded all 
 over with the marks of a bad man. And Dick Sears 
 looked his notoriety. He was a little knot of muscle, 
 short and bow-legged, rough in appearance as cactus. 
 He wore a ragged slouch-hat pulled low down. His 
 face and stubby beard were dust-colored, and his eyes 
 seemed stillen, watchful. He made Bostil think of a 
 dusty, scaly, hard, desert rattlesnake. Bostil eyed this 
 right-hand man of Cordts's and certainly felt no fear of 
 him, though Sears had the fame of swift and deadly skill 
 with a gun. Bostil felt that he was neither afraid nor 
 loath to face Sears in gun-play, and he gazed at the 
 little horse-thief in a manner that no one could mistake. 
 Sears was not drunk, neither was he wholly free from the 
 unsteadiness caused by the bottle. Assviredly he had no 
 fear of Bostil and eyed him insolently. BostU turned 
 away to the group of his riders and friends, and he asked 
 for his daughter. 
 
 "Lucy's over there," said Farlane, pointing toa merry 
 crowd. 
 
 176 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Bostil waved a hand to her, and Lucy, evidently niis- 
 taking his action, came forward, leading one of her ponies. 
 She wore a gray blouse with a red scarf, and a skirt over 
 overalls and boots. She looked pale, but she was smil- 
 ing, and there was a dark gleam of excitement in her 
 blue eyes. She did not have on her sombrero. She 
 wore her hair in a braid, and had a red band tight above 
 her forehead. Bostil took her in all at a glance. She 
 meant business and she looked dangerous. Bostil knew 
 once she slipped out of that skirt she could ride with any 
 rider there. He saw that she had become the center 
 toward which all eyes shifted. It pleased him. She was 
 his, like her mother, and as beautiful and thorough- 
 bred as any rider could wish his daughter. 
 
 "Lucy, Where's your hoss?" he asked, curiously. 
 
 "Never you mind, Dad. I'll be there at the finish," 
 she replied. 
 
 "Red's your color for to-day, then?" he questioned, as 
 he put a big hand on the bright-banded head. 
 
 She nodded archly. 
 
 "Lucy, I never thought you'd flaunt red in your old 
 Dad's face. Red, when the color of the King is like the 
 sage out yonder. You've gone back on the King." 
 
 "No, Dad, I never was for Sage King, else I wouldn't 
 wear red to-day." 
 
 " Child, you sure mean to run in this race — the big one?" 
 
 "Sure and certain." 
 
 "Wal, the only bitter drop in my cup to-day. will be 
 seein' you get beat. But if you run second Fll give you 
 a present thet '11 make the purse look sick." 
 
 Even the Indian chiefs were smiling. Old Horse, the 
 Navap, beamed benignly upon this daughter of the 
 friend of the Indians. Silver, his brother chieftain, 
 nodded as if he understood Bostil's pride and regret. 
 Some of the young riders showed their hearts in their 
 eyes. Farlane tried to look mysterious, to pretend he 
 was in Lucy's confidence. 
 
 177 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Lucy, if you are really goln' to race I'll withdraw my 
 hoss so you can win," said Wetherby, gallantly. 
 
 Bostil's sonorous laugh rol'ed down the slope. 
 
 "Miss Lucy, I sure hate to run a hoss against yours," 
 said old Cal Blinn. Then Colson, Sticks, Burthwait, the 
 other principals, paid laughing compliments to the 
 bright-haired girl. 
 
 Bostil enjoyed this hugely until he caught the strange 
 intensity of regard in the cavernous eyes of Cordts. That 
 gave him a shock. Cordts had long wanted this girl as 
 much probably as he wanted Sage King. There were 
 dark and terrible stories that stained the name of Cordts. 
 Bostil regretted his impulse in granting the horse-thief 
 permission to attend the races. Sight of Lucy's fair, 
 sweet face might inflame this Cordts — this Kentuckian 
 who had boasted of his love of horses and women. Be- 
 hind Cordts hung the little dust-colored Sears, like a 
 coiled snake, ready to strike. Bostil felt stir in him a 
 long-dormant fire — a stealing along his veins, a passion 
 he hated. 
 
 "Lucy, go back to the women till you're ready to come 
 out on your hoss," he said. "An' mind you, be careful 
 to-day!" 
 
 He gave her a meaning glance, which she understood 
 perfectly, he saw, and then he turned to start the day's 
 sport. 
 
 The Indian races run in twos and threes, and on up to 
 a number that crowded the racecourse; the betting and 
 yelling and running; the wild and plunging mustangs; 
 the heat and dust and pounding of hoofs; the excited 
 betting; the surprises and defeats and victories; the trial 
 tests of the principals, jealously keeping off to themselves 
 in the sage; the endless moving, colorful procession, 
 gaudy and swift and thrilling — all these Bostil loved 
 tremendously. 
 
 But they were as nothing to what they gradually 
 worked up to — ^the climax — ^the great race. 
 
 178 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 It was afternoon when all was ready for this race, and 
 the sage was bright gray in the westering sun. Every- 
 body was resting, waiting. The tense quiet of the riders 
 seemed to settle upon the whole assemblage. Only the 
 thoroughbreds were restless. They quivered and stamped 
 and tossed their small, fine heads. They knew what was 
 going to happen. They wanted to run. Blacks, bays, 
 and whites were the predominating colors; and the horses 
 and mustangs were alike in those points of race and speed 
 and spirit that proclaimed them thoroughbreds. 
 
 Bostil himself took the covering off his favorite. Sage 
 King was on edge. He stood out strikingly in contrast 
 with the other horses. His sage-gray body was as sleek 
 and shiny as satin. He had been trained to the hour. 
 He tossed his head as he champed the bit, and every 
 moment his muscles rippled under his fine skin. Proud, 
 mettlesome, beautiful! 
 
 Sage King was the favorite in the betting, the Indians, 
 who were ardent gamblers, plunging heavily on him. 
 
 Bostil saddled the horse and was long at the task. 
 Van stood watching. He was pale and nervous. Bostil 
 saw this. 
 
 "Van," he said, "it's your race." 
 
 The rider reached a quick hand for bridle and horn, 
 and when his foot touched the stirrup Sage King was in 
 the air. He came down, springy — quick, graceftd, and 
 then he pranced into line with the other horses. 
 
 Bostil waved his hand. Then the troop of riders and 
 racers headed for the starting-point, two miles up the val- 
 ley. Macomber and Blinn, with a rider and a Navajo, 
 were up there as the official starters of the day. 
 
 Bostil's eyes glistened. He put a friendly hand on 
 Cordts's shoulder, an action which showed the stress of 
 the moment. Most of the men crowded around Bostil. 
 Sears and Hutchinson hung close to Cordts. And Hol- 
 ley, keeping near his employer, had keen eyes for other 
 things than horses. 
 
 13 179 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Suddenly, he touched Bostil and pointed down the slope. 
 "There's Lucy," he said. "She's ridin' out to join the 
 btmch." 
 
 "Lucy! Where? I'd forgotten my girl!. . . Where?" 
 
 "There," repeated Holly, and he pointed. Others of 
 the group spoke up, having seen Lucy riding down. 
 
 "She's on a red hoss," said one. 
 
 "'Pears all-fired big to me — ^her hoss," said another. 
 "Who's got a glass?" 
 
 Bostil had .the only field-glass there and he was using 
 it. Across the round, magnified field of vision moved a 
 giant red horse, his mane waving like a flame. Lucy 
 rode him. They were moving from a jumble of broken 
 rocks a mile down the slope. She had kept her horse 
 hidden there. Bostil felt an added stir in his pulse-beat. 
 Certainly he had never seen a horse like this one. But 
 the distance was long, the glass not perfect; he could 
 not trust his sight. Suddenly that sight dimmed. 
 
 "HoUey, I can't make out nothin'," he complained. 
 "Take the glass. Give me a line off Lucy's mount." 
 
 "Boss, I don't need the glass to gee that she's up on a 
 hoss," replied Holley, as he took the glass. He leveled 
 it, adjusted it to his eyes, and then lopked long. Bostil 
 grew impatient. Lucy was rapidly overhauling the troop 
 of racers on her way to the post. Nothing ever hiuried 
 or excited Holley. 
 
 "Wal, can't you see any better 'n me?" queried Bostil, 
 eagerly. 
 
 "Come on, HoU, give us a tip before she gits to the 
 post," spoke up a rider. 
 
 Cordts showed intense eagerness, and all the group 
 were excited. Lucy's* advent, on an unknown horse 
 that even her father could not disparage, was the last 
 and unexpected addition to the suspense. They all knew 
 that if the horse was fast Lucy would be dangerous. 
 
 Holley at last spoke: "She's up on a wild stallion. 
 He's red, like fire. He's mighty big — strong. Looks as 
 
 1 80 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 if he didn't want to go near the bunch. Lord! what 
 action! . . . Bostil, I'd say — a great hoss!" 
 
 There was a moment's intense silence in the group 
 round Bostil. HoUey was never known to mistake a 
 horse or to be extravagant in judgment or praise. 
 
 "A wild stallion!" echoed Bostil. "A-huh! An' she 
 calls him Wildfire. Where 'd she get him? . . . Gimme 
 thet glass." 
 
 But all Bostil could make out was a blur. His eyes 
 were wet. He realized now that his first sight of Lucy 
 on the strange horse had been clear and strong, and it 
 was that which had dimmed his eyes. 
 
 "HoUey, you use the glass — an' tell me what comes 
 off," said Bostil, as he wiped his eyes with his scarf. He 
 was relieved to find that his sight was clearing. "My 
 God! if I couldn't see this finish!" 
 
 Then everybody watched the close, dark mass of horses 
 and riders down the valley. And all waited for HoUey 
 to speak. "They're linin' up," began the rider. "Havin' 
 some muss, too, it 'pears. . . . Bostil, thet red hoss is raisin' 
 hell! He wants to fight. There! he's up in the air. . . . 
 Boys, he's a devil — a hoss-killer like all them wild stallions. 
 . . . He's plungin' at the King — strikin'! There! Lucy's 
 got him down. She's handlin' him. . . . Now they've got 
 the King on the other side. Thet's better. But Lucy's 
 hoss won't stand. Anyway, it's a runnin' start. . . . 
 Van's got the best position. Foxy Van ! . . . He'll be leadin' 
 before the rest know the race 's on. . . . Them Indian mus- 
 tangs are behavin' scandalous. Guess the red stallion 
 scared 'em. Now they're all lined up back of the post. . . . 
 Ah! gun-smoke! They move. ... It looks like a go." 
 
 Then HoUey was silent, strained in watching. So 
 were aU the watchers sUent. Bostil saw far down the 
 valley a moving, dark line of horses. 
 
 •" They're off! They're off!" caUed HoUey, thrillingly. 
 
 Bostil uttered 'a deep and booming yeU, which rose 
 above the shouts of the men round him and was heard 
 
 i8i 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 even in the din of Indian cries. Then as quickly as the 
 yells had risen they ceased. 
 
 HoUey stood up on the rock with leveled "glass. 
 
 "Mac's dropped the flag. It's a sure go. -.Now! . . • 
 Van's out there front — ^inside. The King's got his stride. 
 Boss, the King's stretchin' out! . . . Look! Look! see 
 thet red hoss leap! . . .Bostil, he's runnin' down the King! 
 I knowed it. He's like lightnin'. He's pushiri' -the King 
 over — off the course! See him plunge! Lord! Lucy 
 can't pulL him! She goes up — down — ^tossed — ^but she 
 sticks like a burr. Good, Lucy ! Hang on ! . . . My Gawd, 
 Bostil, the King's thrown! He's down! . . . He comes up, 
 off the course. The others flash by. . . . Van's out of the 
 race! . . . An', Bostil — an', gentlemen, there ain't anythin' 
 more to this race but a red hoss !'^ 
 
 BostU's heart gave a great leap and then seemed to 
 stand still. He was half cold, half hot. 
 
 What a horrible, sickening disappointment' Bostil 
 rolled out a cursing query. HoUey's answer was short 
 and sharp. The King was out! Bostil raved. He 
 could not see. He could not believe. After all the weeks 
 of preparation, of excitement, of suspense — only this! 
 There was no race. The King was out! The thing did 
 not seem possible. A thousand thoughts flitted through 
 Bostil's mind. Rage, impotent rage, possessed him. He 
 cursed Van, he swore he would kill that red stallion. 
 And some one shook him hard. Some one's incisive 
 words cut into his thick, throbbing ears: "Luck of the 
 game! The King ain't beat! He's only out!" 
 
 Then the rider's habit of mind asserteditseh and Bostil 
 began to recover. For the King to fall was hard luck. 
 But he had not lost the race! Anguish and pride battled 
 for mastery over him. Even if the King were out it was, 
 a Bostil who would win the great race. 
 
 "He ain't beat!" muttered Bostil. "It ain't fair! 
 He's run off the track by a wild stallion!" 
 
 His dimmed sight grew clear and sharp. And with a 
 182 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 gasp he saw the moving, dark line take shape as horses. 
 A bright horse was in the lead. Brighter and larger he 
 grew. Swiftly and more swiftly he came on. The bright 
 color changed to red. Bostil heard Holley calling and 
 Cordts calling — and other voices, but he did not dis- 
 tinguish what was said. The Une of horses began to 
 bob, to bunch. The race looked close, despite what 
 Holley had said. The Indians were beginning to lean 
 forward, here and there uttering a short, sharp yell. 
 Everything within BostU grew together in one great, 
 throbbing, tingling mass. His rider's eye, keen once 
 more, caught a gleam of gold above the red, and that 
 gold was Lucy's hair. Bostil forgot the King. 
 
 Then Holley bawled into his ear, "They're half-way!" 
 
 The race was beautiful. Bostil strained his eyes. He 
 gloried in what he saw — Lucy low over the neck of that 
 red stallion. He could see plainer now. They were 
 coming closer. How swiftly! What a splendid race! 
 But it was too swift — it would not last. The Indians be- 
 gan to yell, drowning the hoarse shouts of the riders. Out 
 of the tail of his eye Bostil saw Cordts and Sears and 
 Hutchinson. They were acting like crazy men. Strange 
 that horse-thieves should care ! The naiUion thrills within 
 Bostil coalesced into one great shudder of rapture. He 
 grew wet with sweat. His stentorian voice took up the 
 call for Lucy to win. 
 
 "Three-quarters!" bawled Holley into Bostil's ear. 
 "An' Lucy's give thet wild boss free rein! Look, Bostil! 
 You never in yoirr life seen a hoss run like thet!" 
 
 Bostil never had. His heart swelled. Something 
 
 shook him. "Was that his girl — that tight little gray burr 
 
 half hidden in the huge stallion's flaming mane? The 
 
 ' distance had been dose between Lucy and the bunched 
 
 riders. 
 
 But it lengthened. How it widened! That flame of a 
 horse was running away from the others. And now they 
 were dose — cconing into the home stretch. A deafening 
 
 183 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 roar from the onlookers engulfed all other sounds. A 
 straining, stamping, arm-flinging horde surrounded Bostil. 
 
 Bostil saw Lucy's golden hair whipping out from the 
 flame-streaked mane. And then he could only see that 
 red brute of a horse. Wildfire before the wind! Bostil 
 thought of the leaping prairie flame, storm-driven. 
 
 On came the red stallion — on — on ! What a tremendous 
 stride! What a marvelous recovery! What ease! What 
 savage action! 
 
 He flashed past, low, pointed, long, going faster 
 every magnificent stride — winner by a dozen lengths 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 WILDFIRE ran on down the valley far beyond the 
 yelling crowd lined along the slope. Bostil was 
 deaf to the throng; he watched the stallion till Lucy 
 forced him to stop and turn. 
 
 Then Bostil whirled to see where Van was with the 
 King. Most of the crowd surged down to surround the 
 racers, and the yells gave way to the buzz of many voices. 
 Some of the ranchers and riders remained near Bostil, 
 all apparently talking at once. Bostil gathered that 
 HoUey's Whitefoot had run second, and the Navajo's 
 mustang third. It was HoUey himself who verified what 
 Bostil had heard. The old rider's hawk eyes were warm 
 with delight. 
 
 "Boss, he run second!" HoUey kept repeating. 
 
 Bostil had the heart to shake hands wish Holley and 
 say he was glad, when it was on his lips to blurt out there 
 had been no race. Then Bostil's nerves tingled at sight 
 of Van trotting the King up the course toward the slope. 
 Bostil watched with searching eyes. Sage King did not 
 appear to be injured. Van rode straight up the slope and 
 leaped off. He was white and shaking. 
 
 The King's glossy hide was dirty with dust and bits of 
 cactus and brush. He was not even hot. There did not 
 appear to be a bruise or mark on him. He whinnied and 
 rubbed his face against Bostil, and then, flinching, he swept 
 up his head, ears high. Both fear and fire shone in his eyes. 
 
 "Wal, Van, get it out of your system," said Bostil, 
 kindly. He was a harder loser before a race was run 
 than after he had lost it. 
 
 i8s 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 " Thet red hoss run in on the King before the start an' 
 scared the race out of him," replied Van, swiftly. "We 
 had a hunch, you know, but at thet Lucy's hoss was 
 a surprise. I'll say, sir, thet Lucy rode her wUd hoss 
 an' handled him. Twice she ptdled him off the King. 
 He meant to kill the King ! . . . Ask any of the boys. . . . 
 We got started. I took the lead, sir. The King was in 
 the lead. I never looked back tiU I heard Lucy scream. 
 She couldn't pull Wildfire. He was rushin' the King — 
 meant to kUl him. An' Sage King wanted to fight. If I 
 could only have kept him runnin'! Thet would have 
 been a race ! . . . But Wildfire got in closer an' closer. He 
 crowded us. He bit at the King's flank an' shoulder an' 
 neck. Lucy pulled till I yelled she'd throw the hoss an' 
 kill us both. Then Wildfire jtunped for us. Runnin' an' 
 strildn' with both feet at once! Bostil, thet hoss 's hell! 
 Then he hit us an' down we went. I had a bad spill. 
 But the King's not hurt an' thet's a blessed wonder." 
 
 "No race. Van! It was hard luck. Take him home," 
 said Bostil. 
 
 Van's story of the accident vindicated Bostil's doubts. 
 A new horse had appeared on the scene, wild and swift 
 and grand, but Sage King was still unbeaten in a fair 
 race. There would come a reckoning, BostU grimly 
 muttered. Who owned this Wildfire? 
 
 HoUey might as well have read his mind. "Reckon 
 this feller rid n' up will take down the prize money," 
 remarked HoUey, and he pointed to a man who rode a 
 huge, shaggy, black horse and was leading Lucy's pony. 
 
 "A-huh!" exclaimed Bostil. "A strange rider." 
 
 "An' here comes Lucy coaxin' the stallion back," add- 
 ed HoUey. 
 
 "A wild stallion never clear broke!" ejaculated Cordts. 
 
 All the men looked and all had some remark of praise 
 for Lucy and her mount. 
 
 Bostil gazed with a strange, irresistible attraction. 
 Never had he expected to live to see a wild stalUon like 
 
 i86 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 this one, to say nothing of his daughter mounted on 
 hitn, with the record of having put Sage King out of 
 the race! 
 
 A thousand pairs of eyes watched Wildfire. He 
 pranced out there beyond the crowd of men and horses. 
 He did not want to come closer. Yet he did not seem to 
 fight his rider. Lucy hung low over his neck, apparently 
 exhausted, and she was patting him and caressing him. 
 There were horses and Indians on each side of the race- 
 track, and between these lines Lucy appeared reluctant 
 to come. 
 
 Bostil strode down and, waving and yelling for every- 
 body to move back to the slope, he cleared the way and 
 then stood out in front alone. 
 
 "Ride up, now," he called to Lucy. 
 
 It was then Bostil discovered that Lucy did not wear 
 a spur and she had neither quirt nor whip. She turned 
 Wildfire and he came prancing on, head and mane and 
 tail erect. His action was beautiful, springy, and every 
 few steps, as Lucy touched him, he jumped with mar- 
 velous ease and swiftness. 
 
 Bostil became all eyes. He did not see his daughter as 
 she paraded the winner before the applauding throng. 
 And Bostil recorded in his mind that which he would 
 never forget — a wild stallion, with unbroken spirit; a 
 giant of a horse, glistening red, with mane like dark- 
 striped, wind-blown flame, all muscle, all grace, all 
 power; a neck long and slender and arching to the small, 
 savagely beautiful head; the jaws open, and the thin- 
 skinned, pink-colored nostrils that proved the Arabian 
 blood; the slanting shoulders and the deep, broad chest, 
 the powerful legs and knees not too high nor too low, the 
 symmetrical dark hoofs that rang on the little stones — 
 all these marks so significant of speed and endurance. A 
 stallion with a wonderful physical perfection that matched 
 the savage, ruthless spirit of the desert kiUer of horses! 
 
 Lucy waved her hand, and the strange rider to whom 
 
 187 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 HoUey had called attention strode out of the crowd tow- 
 ard Wildfire. 
 
 Bostil's gaze took in the splendid build of this htha 
 rider, the clean-cut face, the dark eye. This fellow had a 
 shiny, coiled lasso in hand. He advanced toward Wild- 
 fire. The stalUon snorted and plunged. K ever Bostil 
 saw hate expressed by a horse he saw it then. But he 
 seemed to be tractable to the control of the girl. Bostil 
 swiftly grasped the strange situation. Lucy had won the 
 love of the savage stallion. That always had been the 
 secret of her power. And she had hated Sage King be- 
 cause he alone had somehow taken a dislike to her. 
 Horses were as queer as people, thought Bostil. 
 
 The rider walked straight up to the trembling Wild- 
 fire. When Wildfire plunged and reared up and up the 
 rider leaped for the bridle and with an iron arm pulled 
 the horse down. Wildfire tried again, ahnost lifting the 
 rider, but a stinging cut from the lasso made him come 
 to a stand. Plainly the rider held the mastery. 
 
 "Dad!" called Lucy, faintly. 
 
 Bostil went forward, close, while the rider held Wild~ 
 fire. Lucy was as wan-faced as a flower by moonlight. 
 Her eyes were dark with emotions, fear predominating. 
 Then for Bostil the half of his heart that was human re- 
 asserted itself. Lucy was only a girl now, and weakening. 
 Her fear, her pitiful little smile, as if she dared not hope 
 for her father's approval yet could not help it, touched 
 Bostil to the quick, and he opened his arms. Lucy slid 
 down into them. 
 
 "Lucy, girl, you've won the Kjng's race an* double- 
 crossed your poor old dad!" 
 
 "Oh, Dad, I never knew — I never dreamed Wildfire — 
 would jump the King," Lucy faltered. "I couldn't hold 
 him. He was terrible. ... It made me sick. . . . Daddy, 
 tell me Van wasn't hurt — or the King!" 
 
 "The boss's all right an' so's Van," replied Bostil. 
 "Don't cry, Lucy. It was a fool trick you pulled ofE, 
 
 i88 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 but you did it great. By Gad! you stu-e was ridin' thet 
 red devil. . . . An' say, it's all right with me!" 
 
 Lucy did not faint then, but she came near it. Bostil 
 put her down and led her through the lines of admiring 
 Indians and applauding riders, and left her with the 
 women. 
 
 When he turned again he was in time to see the strange 
 rider mount Wildfire. It was a swift and hazardous 
 moimt, the stallion being in the air. When he came down 
 he tore the turf and sent it flying, and when he shot up 
 again he was doubled in a red knot, bristling with fiery 
 hair, a furious wild beast, mad to throw the rider. Bostil 
 never heard as wild a scream uttered by a horse. Like- 
 wise he had never seen so incomparable a horseman as this 
 stranger. Indians and riders alike thrilled at a sight 
 which was after their own hearts. The rider had hooked 
 his long spurs tinder the horse and now appeared a part 
 of him. He could not be dislodged. This was not a 
 bucking mustang, but a fierce, powerful, fighting stallion. 
 No doubt, thought Bostil, this fight took place every 
 time the rider mounted his horse. It was the sort of 
 thing riders loved. Most of them would not own a horse 
 that would not pitch. Bostil presently decided, however, 
 that in the case of this red stallion no rider in his right 
 senses would care for such a fight, simply because of the 
 extraordinary strength, activity, and ferocity of the 
 stallion. 
 
 The riders were all betting the horse would throw the 
 stranger. And Bostil, seeing the gathering might of 
 Wildfire's momentum, agreed with them. No horseman 
 could stick on that horse. Suddenly Wildfire tripped in 
 the sage, and went sprawling in the dust, throwing his 
 rider ahead. Both man and beast were quick to rise, 
 but the rider had a foot in the stirrup before Wildfire was 
 under way. Then the horse plunged, ran free, came 
 circling back, and slowly gave way to the rider's control. 
 Those few moments of frenzied activity had brought out 
 
 189 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 the foam and the sweat — ^Wildfire was wet. The rider 
 pulled him in before Bostil and dismounted. 
 
 "Sometimes I ride him; then sometimes I don't," he 
 said, with a smile. 
 
 Bostil held out his hand. He liked this rider. He 
 would have liked the frank face, less hard than that of 
 most riders, and the fine, dark eyes, straight and steady, 
 even if their possessor had not come with the open sesame 
 to Bostil's regard — a grand, wild horse, arid the nerve to 
 ride him. r 
 
 " Wal, you rode him longer 'n any of us figgered," said 
 Bostil, heartily shaking the man's hand. "I'm Bostil. 
 Glad to meet you." 
 
 "My name's Slone — ^Lin Slone," replied the rider, 
 frankly. "I'm a wild-horse hunter an' hail from Utah." 
 
 "Utah? How'd you ever get over? Wal, you've got 
 a grand hoss — an' you put a grand rider up on him in 
 the race. . . . My girl Lucy — " 
 
 Bostil hesitated. His mind was running swiftly. Back 
 of his thoughts gathered the desire and the determinatirai 
 to get possession of this horse WUdiire. He had forgotten 
 what he might have said to this stranger under different 
 circumstances. He looked keenly into Slone's face and 
 saw no fear, no subterfuge. The yotmg man was honest. 
 
 "Bostil, I chased this wUd horse days an' weeks an' 
 months, hundreds of miles — across the canon an' the 
 river — " 
 
 "No!" interrupted Bostil, blanMy. 
 
 "Yes. I'U tell you how later. . . . Out here somewhere 
 I caught Wildfire, broke him as much as he'll ever be 
 broken. He played me out aa' got away. Your girl 
 rode along — saved my horse — a^' saved my Hfe, too. 
 I was in bad shape for days. But I got well — an'— ^n' 
 then she wanted me to let her run Wildfire in the big 
 race. I couldn't refuse. . . . An' it would have been a 
 great race but for the unlucky accident to Sage King. 
 I'm sorry, sir." 
 
 190 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Slone, it jarred me some, thet disappointment. But 
 it's over," replied Bostil. "An' so thet's how Lucy found 
 
 her hoss. She sure was mysterious Wal, wal." BostU 
 
 became aware of others behind him. "Holley, shake 
 hands with Slone, hoss-wrangler out of Utah. . . , You, 
 too, Cal Blinn. . . . An' Macomber — an' Wetherby, meet 
 nay friend here — ^young Slone. . . . An', Cordts, shake hands 
 with a feller thet owns a grand hoss!" 
 
 Bostil laughed as he introduced the horse-thief to Slone. 
 The others laughed, too, even Cordts joining in. There 
 was much of the old rider daredevil spirit left in Bostil, 
 and it interested and amused him to see Cordts and 
 Slone meet. Assuredly Slone had heard of the noted 
 stealer of horses. The advantage was certainly on 
 Cordts's side, for he was good-natured and pleasant 
 while Slone stiHened, paling slightly as he faced about 
 to acknowledge the introduction. 
 
 "Howdy, Slone," drawled Cordts, with hand out- 
 stretched. "I sure am glad to meet yuh. I'd like to 
 trade the Sage King for this red stallion!" 
 
 A roar of laughter greeted this sally, all but Bostil and 
 Slone joining in. The joke was on Bostil, and he diowed 
 it. iSlone did not even smile. 
 
 "Howdy, Cordts," he replied. "I'm glad to meet you 
 — so I'll know you when I see you again." 
 
 "Wal, we're all good fellers to-day," interposed Bostil. 
 "An' now let's ride home an' eat. Slone, you come with me." 
 
 The group slowly mounted the slope where the horses 
 waited. Macomber, Wetherby, Burthwait, Blinn — all 
 Bostil's friends proffered their felicitations to the young 
 rider, and all were evidently prepossessed with him. 
 
 The sun was low in the west; purple shades were blot- 
 ting out the gold lights down the valley; the day of the 
 great races was almost done. Indians were stm scattered 
 here and there in groups; others were turning out the 
 mustangs; and the majority were riding and walking 
 with the crowd toward the village. 
 
 IQI 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 BostU observed that Cordts had hurried ahead oi the 
 group and now appeared to be saying something emphatic 
 to Dick Sears and Hutchinson. Bostil heard Cordts curse. 
 Probably he was arraigning the sullen Sears. Cordts had 
 acted first rate — ^had lived up to his word, as Bostil 
 thought he wotild do. Cordts and Hutchinson mounted 
 their horses and rode off, somewhat to the left of the 
 scattered crowd. But Sears remained behind. Bostil 
 thought this strange and put it down to the surliness of 
 the fellow, who had lost on the races. Bostil, wishing 
 Sears would get out of his sight, resolved never to make 
 another blunder like inviting horse-thieves to a race. 
 
 All the horses except Wildfire stood in a bunch back 
 on the bench. Sears appeared to be fussing with the 
 straps on his saddle. And Bostil could not keep his 
 glance from wandering back to gloat over Wildfire's savage 
 grace and striking size. 
 
 Suddenly there came a halt in the conversation of the 
 men, a curse in HoUey's deep voice, a violent split in 
 the group. Bostil wheeled to see Sears in a menacing 
 position with two guns leveled low. 
 
 "Don't holler!" he called. "An' don't move!" 
 
 "What'n the h — ^1 now. Sears?" demanded Bostil. 
 
 "I'll bore you if you move — ^thet's what!" replied 
 Sears. His eyes, bold, steely, with a glint that Bostil 
 knew, vibrated as he held in sight all points before him. 
 A vicious little sand-rattlesnake about to strike! 
 
 "Holley, turn yer back!" ordered Sears. 
 
 The old rider, who stood foremost of the group, in- 
 stantly obeyed, with hands up. He took no chances 
 here, for he alone packed a gun. With swift steps Sears 
 moved, pulled HoUey's gun, flung it aside into the sage. 
 
 "Sears, it ain't a hold-up!" expostulated Bostil. The 
 act seemed too bold, too wild even for Dick Sears. 
 
 "Ain't it?" scofled Sears, malignantly. "Bostil, I was 
 aftei: the King. But I reckon I'U git the hoss thet beat 
 him!" 
 
 192 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Bostil's face turned dark-blood color and his neck 
 swelled. "By Gawd, Sears! You ain't a-goin' to steal 
 this boy's hoss!" 
 
 "Shut up!" hissed the horse-thief. He pushed a gun 
 
 "close to Bostil. "I've always laid fer you! I'm achin' 
 
 to bore you now. I wotild but fer scarin' this hoss. If 
 
 you yap again I'll kill you, anyhow, an' take a chance!" 
 
 All the terrible hate and evil and cruelty and deadli- 
 ness of his kind burned in his eyes and stung in his voice. 
 
 "Sears, if it's my horse you want you needn't kill Bos- 
 til," spoke up Slone. The contrast of his cool, quiet 
 voice eased the terrible strain. 
 
 "Lead him round hyarl" snapped Sears. 
 
 Wildfire appeared more shy of the horses back of him 
 than of the men. Slone was able to lead him, however, 
 to within several paces of Sears. Then Slone dropped the 
 reins. He still held a lasso which was loosely coiled, and 
 the loop dropped in front of him as he backed away. 
 
 Sears sheathed the left-hand gtm. Keeping the- group 
 covered with the other, he moved backward, reaching for 
 the hanging reins. Wildfire snorted, appeared about to 
 jump. But Sears got the reins. Bostil, standing like a 
 stone, his companions also motionless, could not help 
 but admire the daring of this upland horse-thief. How 
 was he to mount that wild stallion? Sears was noted for 
 two qtialities — ^his nerve before men and his skill with 
 horses. Assuredly he would not risk an ordinary mount. 
 Wildfire began to suspect Sears — ^to look at him instead 
 of the other horses. Then quick as a cat Sears vaulted 
 into the saddle. Wildfire snorted and lifted his forefeet 
 in a lunge that meant he wotild bolt. 
 
 Sears in vaulting up had swung the gun aloft. He 
 swept it down, but waveringly, for Wildfire had begun 
 to rear. 
 
 Bostn saw how fatal that single instant would have 
 been for Sears if he or HoUey had a gim. 
 
 Something whistled. Bostil saw the leap of Slone's 
 
 193 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 lasso — ^the curling, snaky dart of the noose which flew 
 up to snap around Sears. The rope sung taut. Sears 
 was swept bodily dean from the saddle, to hit the ground 
 in sodden impact. , 
 
 Almost swifter than Bostil's sight was the action of 
 Slone — flashing by — ^in the air — himself on the plunging 
 horse. Sears shot once, twice. Then Wildfire bolted as 
 his rider whipped the lasso rotind the horn. Sears, half 
 rising, was jerked ten feet. An awftd shriek was throttled 
 in his throat. 
 
 A streak of dust on the slope — a tearing, parting line 
 in the sage! 
 
 Bostil stood amazed. The red stallion made short 
 plimges. Slone reached low for the tripping reins. 
 When he straightened up in the saddle Wildfire broke 
 wUdly into a run. 
 
 It was characteristic of Holley that at this thrilling, 
 tragic instant he walked over into the sage to pick up 
 his gun. 
 
 "Throwed a gun on me, got the drop, an' pitched 
 mine away!" muttered Holley, in disgust. The way he 
 spoke meant that he was disgraced. 
 
 "My Gawd! I was scared thet Sears would get the 
 hoss!" rolled out Bostil. 
 
 Holley thought of his gun; Bostil thought of the splen- 
 did horse. The thoughts were characteristic of these 
 riders. The other men, however, recovering from a 
 horror-broken silence, burst out in acclaim of Slone's 
 feat. 
 
 "Dick Sears's finish! Roped by a boy rider!" exclaimed 
 Cal Blinn, fervidly. 
 
 "Bostil, that rider Is worthy of his horse," said Wether- 
 by. "I think Sears would have bor°-d you. I saw his 
 finger pressing — ^pressing on the trigger. Men like Sears 
 can't help but pull at that stage." 
 
 "Thet was the quickest trick I ever seen," declared 
 Macomber. 
 
 194 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 They watched Wildfire run down the slope, out into 
 the valley, with a streak of rising dust out behind. They 
 all saw when there ceased to be that peculiar rising of 
 dust. Wildfire appeared to shoot ahead at greater speed. 
 Then he slowed up. The rider turned him and faced 
 back toward the group, coming at a stiff gallop. Soon 
 Wildfire breasted the slope, and halted, snorting, shaking 
 before the men. The lasso was still trailing out behind, 
 limp and sagging. There was no weight upon it now. 
 
 Bostil strode slowly ahead. He sjnnpathized with the 
 tension that held Slone; he knew why the rider's face 
 was gray, why his Hps only moved mutely, why there 
 was horror in the dark, strained eyes, why the lean, strong 
 hands, slowly taking up the lasso, now shook like leaves 
 in the wind. 
 
 There was only dust on the lasso. But Bostil knew — 
 they all knew that none the less it had dealt a terrible 
 death to the horse-thief. 
 
 Somehow Bostil cotild not find words ^or what he 
 wanted to say. He put a hand on the red staUion — 
 patted his shoulder. Then he gripped Slone close and 
 hard. He was thinking how he wotild have gloried in a 
 son like this yotmg, wild rider. Then he again faced his 
 comrades. 
 
 "Fellers, do you think Cordts was in on thet trick?" 
 he queried. 
 
 "Nope. Cordts was on the square," replied Holley. 
 "But he must have seen it comin' an' left Sears to his 
 fate. It sure was a fittin' last ride for a hoss-thief." 
 
 Bostil sent Holley and Farlane on ahead to find Cordts 
 and Hutchinson, with their comrades, to teU them the 
 fate of Sears, and to warn them to leave before the news 
 got to the riders. 
 
 The sun was setting golden and red over the broken 
 battlements of the cations to the west. The heat of the 
 day blew away on a breeze that bent the tips of the 
 14 I9S 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 sage-brush. A wild song, drifted back from the ridera 
 to the fore. And the procession of Indians moved along, 
 their gay trappings and bright colors beautiful in the 
 fading sunset light. 
 
 When BostH and his guests arrived at the corrals, 
 HoUey, with Farlane and other riders, were waiting. 
 
 "Boss," said HoUey, "Cordts an' his outfit never rid 
 in. They was last seen by some Navajos headin' for 
 the canons." 
 
 "Thet's good!" ejaculated BostU, in -relief. "Wal, 
 boys, look after the hosses. . . . Slone, just turn Wildfire 
 over to the boys with instructions, an' feel safe." 
 
 Farlane scratched his head and looked dubious. "I'm 
 wonderin' how safe it 'U be fer us." 
 
 "I'll look after him," said Slone. 
 
 Bostil nodded as if he had expected Slone to refuse to 
 let any rider put the stallion away for the pight. Wildfire 
 would not go into the bam, and Slone led him into one 
 of the high-barred corrals. Bostil waited, talking with 
 his friends, until Slone "returned, and then they went 
 toward the house. 
 
 "I reckon we couldn't get inside Brack's place now," 
 remarked BostU. "But in a case like this I can scare 
 up a drink." Lights from the windows shone bright 
 through the darkness under the cottonwoods. BostU 
 halted at the door, as if suddenly remembering, and he 
 whispered, huskily: "Let's keep the women from leamin' , 
 about Sears — to-night, anjA^iray." 
 
 Then he led the way through the big door into the 
 huge living-room. There were hanging-lights on the 
 walls and blazing sticks on the hearth. Lucy came run- 
 ning in to meet them. It did not escape Bostil's keen 
 eyes that she was dressed in her best white dress. He 
 liad never seen her look so sweet and pretty, and, for that 
 matter, so strange. The flush, the darkness of her eyes, the 
 added something in her face, tender, thoughtful, strong — 
 these were new- Bostil pondered while she welcomed his 
 
 igio 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 guests. Slone, who had hung back, was last in turn. 
 Lucy greeted him as she had the others. Slone met her 
 with awkward constraint. The gray had not left his 
 face. Lucy looked up at him again, and differently. 
 
 "What — ^what has happened?" she asked. 
 
 It annoyed Bostil that Slone and all the men suddenly 
 looked blank. 
 
 "Why, nothin'," replied Slone, slowly, "'cept I'mfagged 
 out." 
 
 Lucy, or any other girl, could have seen that he was 
 evading the truth. She flashed a look from Slone to her 
 father. 
 
 "Until to-day we never had a big race that something 
 dreadful didn't happen," said Lucy. "This was my day 
 ■ — my race. And, oh! I wanted it to pass without — ^with- 
 out—" 
 
 "Wal, Lucy dear," replied Bostil, as she faltered. 
 "Nothin' came off thet'd make you feel bad. Yotmg 
 Slone had a scare about his hoss. Wildfire's safe out there 
 in the corral, an' he'll be guarded like the King an' Sarch. 
 Slone needs a drink an' somethin' to eat, same as all of 
 us." 
 
 Lucy's color returned and her smile, but Bostil noted 
 that, while she was serving them and brightly responsive 
 to compliments, she gave more than one steady glance 
 at Slone. She was deep, thought Bostil, and it angered 
 him a little that she showed interest in what concerned 
 this strange rider. 
 
 Then they had dinner, with twelve at table. The wives 
 of Bostil's three friends had been helping Aunt Jane pre- 
 pare the feast, and they added to the merriment. Bostil 
 was not much given to social intercourse — ^he wovild have 
 preferred to be with his horses and riders — ^but this night 
 he outdid himself as host, amazed his sister Jane, who 
 evidently thought he drank too much, and delighted 
 Lucy. Bostil's outward appearance and his speech and 
 action never reflected all the workings of his mind. No 
 
 197 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 one wotild ever know the depth of his bitter disappoint- 
 ment at the outcome of the race. With Creech's Blue 
 Roan out of the way, another horse, swifter and more 
 dangerous, had come along to spoil the King's. chance. 
 BostU felt a subtly increasing covetousness in regard to 
 Wildfire, and this colored all his talk and action. The 
 upland coimtry, vast and rangy, was for Bostil too small 
 to hold Sage King and Wildfire unless they both belonged 
 to him. And when old Cal Blinn gave a ringing toast 
 to Lucy, hoping to live to see her up on Wildfire in the 
 grand race that must be run with the King, Bostil felt 
 stir in him the birth of a subtle, bitter fear. At &st he 
 mocked it. He — Bostil — ^afraid to race! It was a lie 
 of the excited mind. He repudiated it. Insidiously it 
 returned. He drowned it down — smothered it with 
 passion. Then the ghost of it remained, hauntingly. 
 
 After dinner BostU with the men went down to Brack- 
 ton's, where Slone and the winners of the day received 
 their prizes. 
 
 "Why, it's more money than I ever had m my 
 whole life!" exclaimed Slone, gazing incredulously at 
 the gold. 
 
 Bostil was amused and pleased, and back of both 
 amusement and pleasure was the old inventive, driving 
 passion to gain his own ends. 
 
 Bostil was abnormally generous in many ways; mon- 
 strously selfish in one way. 
 
 "Slone, I seen you di(ii't drink none," he said, curi- 
 ously. 
 
 "No; I don't Ijke liquor." 
 
 "Do you gamble?" 
 
 "I like a little bet — on a race," replied Slone, frankly. 
 
 "Wal, thet ain't gamblin'. These fool riders of mine 
 will bet on the switchin' of a hoss's tail." He drew Slcme 
 a little aside from the others, who were interested in 
 Brackton's delivery of the different prizes. "Slone, 
 how'd you like to ride for me?" 
 
 198 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Slone appeared sitrprised. "Why, I never rode for 
 any one," he replied, slowly. "I can't stand to be tied 
 down. I'm a horse-hunter, you know." 
 
 Bostil eyed the young man, wondering what he knew 
 about the difficulties of the job ofiEered. It was no news 
 to Bostil that he was at once the best and the worst man 
 to ride for in all the uplands. 
 
 "Sure, I know. But thet doesn't make no difference," 
 went on BostU, persuasively. "If we got along — ^wal, 
 you'd save some of thet yellow coin you're jinglin'. A 
 roamin' rider never builds no corral!" 
 
 "Thank you, Bostil," replied Slone, earnestly. "I'U 
 think it over. It would seem kind of tame now to go 
 back to wild-horse wranglin', after I've caught Wildfire. 
 I'U think it over. Maybe I'll do it, if you're sure I'm 
 good enough with rope an' horse." 
 
 "Wal, by Gawd!" blurted out Bostil. "HoUey says 
 he'd rather you throwed a gun on him than a rope! So 
 would I. An', as for yotu: handlin' a hoss, I never seen 
 no better." 
 
 Slone appeared embarrassed and kept studying the 
 gold coins in his palm. Some one touched BostU, who, 
 turning, saw Brackton at his elbow. The other men vare 
 now bantering with the Indians. 
 
 "Come now while I've got a minnit," said Brackton, 
 taking up a lantern. "I've somethin' to show you." 
 
 BostU followed Brackton, and Slone came along. The 
 old man opened a door into a smaU room, half full of 
 stores and truck. The lantern only dimly lighted the 
 place. 
 
 "Look thar!" And Brackton flashed the light upon 
 a man lying prostrate. 
 
 BostU recognized the pale face of Joel Creech. "Brack! 
 . . . What's this? Is he dead?" BostU sustained a 
 strange, incomprehensible shock. Sight of a dead man 
 had never before shocked him. 
 
 "Nope, he ain't dead, which if he was might be good 
 199 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 for this commtmity," replied Brackton. "He's only' 
 fallen in a fit. Fust off I reckoned he was drmik. But 
 ft ain't thet." 
 
 "Wal, what do you want to show him to me for?" de-. 
 manded BostU, gruiSy. 
 
 "I reckoned you oughter see him." 
 
 "An' why, Brackton?" 
 
 Brackton set down the lantern and, pushing Slone out-' 
 side, said: "Jest a minnit, son," and then he closed the 
 door. "Joel's been on my hands since the flood cut him 
 off from home," said Brackton. "An' he's been some 
 trial. But nobody else would have done nothin' for him, 
 so I had to. I reckon I felt sorry for him. He cried 
 like a baby thet had lost its mother. Then he gets wild- 
 lookin' an' raved around. When I wasn't busy I kept an 
 eye on him. But some of the time I couldn't, an' he 
 stole drinks, which made him wuss. An' when I seen 
 he was tryin' to sneak one of my guns, I up an' gets 
 suspicious. Once he said, ' My dad's bosses are goin' to 
 starve, an' I'm goin' to kill somebody !' He was out of 
 his head an' dangerous. Wal, I was worried some, but 
 all I could do was lock up my guns. Last night I caught 
 him confabin' with some men out in the dark, behind 
 the store. They all skedaddled except Joel, but I recog- 
 nized Cordts. I didn't like this, nuther. Joel was surly 
 an' ugly. An' when one of the riders called him he said: 
 'Thet boat never drifted off. Fer the night of the flood 
 X went down there myself an' tied the ropes. They never 
 come tmtied. Somebody cut them — ^jest before the 
 flood — ^to make sure my dad's bosses couldn't be crossed. : 
 Somebody figgered the river an' the flood.' An' if my, 
 dad's bosses starve I'm goin' to kill somebody!'" 
 
 Brackton took up the lantern and placed a hand on 
 the door ready to go out. 
 
 "Then a rider pimched Joel — I never seen who — an' 
 Joel had a fit. I dragged him in here. An' as you see, 
 he ain't come to yet." 
 
 200 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Wal, Brackton, the boy's crazy," said Bostil.\ 
 
 "So I reckon. An' I'm afeared he'll bum us out- 
 he's crazy on fires, anyway — or do somethin' like." 
 
 "He's sure a problem. Wal, we'll see," replied Bostil^ 
 soberly. 
 
 And they went out to find Slone waiting. Then Bostil 
 called his guests, and with Slone also accompanying him, 
 , went home. 
 
 Bostil threw off the recurring gloom, and he was good- 
 natured when Lucy came to his room to say good night. 
 He knew she had come to say more than that. 
 
 "Hello, daughter!" he said. "Aren't you ashamed to 
 come facia' your poor old dad?" 
 
 Lucy eyed him dubiously. "No, I'm not ashamed. 
 But I'm still a little — afraid." 
 
 "I'm harmless, chUd. I'm a broken man. When you 
 put Sage King out of the race you broke me." 
 
 "Dad, that isn't funny. You make me ao — ^angry 
 when you hint I did something imderhand." 
 
 "Wal, you didn't consult me." 
 
 " I thought it would be fun to surprise you all. Why, 
 you're always delighted with a surprise in a race, unless 
 it beats you. . . . Then, it was my great and only chance 
 to get out in front of the King. Oh, how grand it 'd , 
 have been! Dad, I'd have run away from him the same 
 as the others!" 
 
 "No, you wouldn't," declared Bostil. 
 
 " Dad, Wildfire can beat the King !" . 
 
 "Never, girl! Knockin' a good-tempered hoss off his 
 pins ain't beatin' him in a runnin'-race." 
 
 Then father and daughter fought over the old score,' 
 the one doggedly, imperturbably, the other spiritedly, 
 with flashing eyes. It was different this time, however, 
 for it ended in Lucy saying Bostil wotdd never risk an- 
 other race. That stung Bostil, and it cost him an effort 
 to control his temper. 
 
 201 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Let thet go now. Tell me — all about how you saved 
 Wildfire, an' Slone, too." 
 
 Lucy readily began the narrative, and she had scarcely 
 started before Bostil found himself intensely interested. 
 Soon he became absorbed. That was the most thrilling 
 and moving kind c£ romance to him, like his rider's 
 dreams. 
 
 "Lucy, you're sure a game kid," he said, fervidly, when 
 she had ended. " I reckon I don't blame Slone for fallin' 
 in love with you." 
 
 "Who said that?" inquired Lucy. 
 
 "Nobody. ' But it's true— ain't it?" 
 
 She looked up with eyes as true as ever they were, 
 yet a little sad, he thought, a little wistful and wondering, 
 as if a strange and grave thing confronted her. 
 
 "Yes, Dad — ^it's — ^it's true," she answered, haltingly. 
 
 "Wal, you didn't need to tell me, but I'm glad you 
 did." 
 
 Bostil meant to ask her then if she in any sense returned 
 the rider's love, but imaccountably he could not put the 
 question. The girl was as true as ever — as. good as gold. 
 Bostil feared a secret that might hurt him. Just as sure 
 as life was there and death but a step away, some rider, 
 sooner or later, would win this girl's love. Bostil knew 
 that, hated it, feared it. Yet he would never give his 
 girl to a beggarly rider. Such a man as Wetherby ought 
 to win Lucy's hand. And Bostil did not want to know 
 too much at present; he did not want his swift-mounting 
 animosity roused so soon. Still he was curious, and, want- 
 ing to get the drift of Lucy's mind, he took to his old 
 habit of teasing. 
 
 "Another moonstruck rider!" he said. "Your eyes 
 are sure full moons, Lucy. I'd be ashamed to trifle with 
 these poor fellers." 
 
 "Dad!" 
 
 "You're a heartless flirt — same as your naother was be- 
 fore she met me." 
 
 302 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "I'm not. And I don't believe mother was," either," 
 replied Lucy. It was easy to strike fire from her. 
 
 "Wal, you did dead wrong to ride out there day after 
 day meetin' Slone, because — ^young woman — if he ever 
 has the nerve to ask me for you I'll beat him up bad." 
 
 "Then you'd be a brute!" retorted Lucy. 
 
 "Wal, mebbe," returned Bostil, secretly delighted and 
 surprised at Lucy's failure to see through him. But she 
 was looking inward. He wondered what hid there deep 
 in her. "But I can't stand for the nerve of thet." 
 
 "He — ^he means to — to ask you." 
 
 "Theh— A-huh!" 
 
 Lucy did not catch the slip of tongue. She was flush- 
 ing now. " He said he'd never have let me meet him out 
 there alone — ^unless — ^he — ^he loved me — and as our neigh- 
 bors and the riders would learn of it — and talk — he 
 wanted you and them to know he'd asked to — to marry 
 me. 
 
 "Wal, he's a square young man!" ejaculated Bostil, 
 involuntarily. It was hard for Bostil to hide his sin- 
 cerity and impulsiveness; much harder than to hide un- 
 worthy attributes. Then he got back on the other track. 
 "Thet '11 make me treat him decent, so when he rides up 
 to ask for you I'll let him off with, 'No!' " 
 
 Lucy dropped her head. Bostil wotild have given all 
 he had, except his horses, to feel sure she did not care for 
 Slone. 
 
 "Dad — I said — 'No' — ^for myself," she murmured. 
 
 This time Bostil did not withhold the profane word 
 of surprise. "... So he's asked you, then? Wal. wal! 
 When?" 
 
 "To-day — out there in the rocks where he waited with 
 Wildfire for me. He— he— " 
 
 Lucy slipped into her father's arms, and her slender 
 form shook. Bostil instinctively felt what she then 
 needed was her mother. Her mother was dead, and he 
 was only a rough, old, hard rider. He did not know what 
 
 203 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 to do — ^to say. His heart softened and he clasped her 
 close. It htirt him keenly to realize that he might have 
 been a better, kinder father if it were not for the fear that 
 she would find him out. But that proved he loved her, 
 ■craved her respect and affection. 
 
 "Wal, httle girl, tell me," he said. 
 
 "He — ^he broke his word to me." 
 
 "A-huh! Thet's too bad. An' how did he?" 
 
 "He — ^he — " Lucy seemed to catch her tongue. 
 
 Bostil was positive she had meant to tell him some- 
 thing and suddenly changed her mind. Subtly the child 
 vanished — a woman remained. Lucy sat up self-pos- 
 sessed once more. Some powerfully impelling thought 
 had transformed her. Bostil's keen sense gathered that 
 what she would not tell was not hers to reveal. For her- 
 self, she was the soul of simplicity and frankness. 
 
 "Days ago I told him I cared for him," she went on. 
 ■"But I forbade hun to speak of it to me. He promised. 
 I wanted to wait till after the race — ^till after I had found 
 courage to confess to you. He broke his word. . . . To- 
 day when he put me up on Wildfire he — ^ho suddenly lost 
 bis head." 
 
 The slow scarlet welled into Lucy's face and her eyes 
 grew shamed, but bravely she kept facing her father. 
 
 "He — ^he pulled me off — ^he hugged me — ^he k-kissed 
 me. . . . Oh, it was dreadful — shameful! . . . Then I gave 
 him back — some — something he had given me. And I 
 told him I— I hated him— and I told him, 'No!'" 
 
 "But you rode his hoss in the race," said Bostil. 
 
 Lucy bowed her head at that. "I — I couldn't resist!" 
 
 Bostil stroked the bright head. What a quandary for a 
 thick-skulled old horseman! "Wal, it seems to me 
 Slone didn't act so bad, considerin'. You'd told him you 
 cared for him. If it wasn't for thet! ... I remember I 
 did much the same to your mother. She raised the devil, 
 but I never seen as she cared any less for me." 
 
 "I'll never forgive him," Lucy cried, passionately. 
 204. 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 " I hate him. A man who breaks his word in one thing 
 will do it in another." 
 
 Bostil sadly realized that his little girl had reached 
 womanhood and love, and with them the sweet, bitter 
 pangs of life. He realized also that here was a crisis 
 when a word — an unjust or lying word from him would 
 forever ruin any hope that might still exist for Slone. 
 Bostil realized this acutely, but the realization was not 
 even a temptation. 
 
 "Wal, listen. I'm bound to confess your new rider is 
 sure swift. An', Lucy, to-day if he hach^t been as swift 
 with a rope as he is in love — ^wal, your old daddy might 
 be dead!" 
 
 She grew as white as her dress. "Oh, Dad! I knew 
 something had happened," she cried, reaching for him. " 
 
 Then Bostil told her how Dick Sears had menaced him 
 — ^how Slone had foiled the horse-thief. He told the 
 story bluntly, but eloquently, with all a rider's praise. 
 
 Lucy rose with hands pressed against her breast. When 
 had Bostil seen eyes like those — dark, shining, wonder- 
 ful? Ah! he remembered her mother's once — only once, 
 as a girl. 
 
 Then Lucy kissed him and without a word fled from the 
 room. 
 
 Bostil stared after her. "D — n me!" he swore, as he 
 threw a boot against the wall. " I reckon I'll never let 
 her marry Slone, but I just had to tell her what I think 
 of him I" 
 
(W: 
 
 PTER KIV 
 
 SLONE lay wide swake under an open window, watdi- 
 ing the stars glimmer through the rustling foliage of 
 the cottonwoo(^. Somewhere a lonesome hound bayed. 
 Very faintly camre the silvery tinkle of running water. 
 
 For five days Slone had been a guest of Bostil's, and 
 the whole five days had been torment. 
 
 On the morning of the day after the races Lucy had 
 confronted him. Would he ever forget her eyes — ^her 
 voice? "Bless you for saving my dad!" she had said. 
 "It was brave. . . . But don't let dad fool you. Don't 
 believe in his kindness. Above all, don't ride for him! 
 He only wants Wildfire, and if he doesn't get him he'll 
 hate you!" 
 
 That speech of Lucy's had made the succeeding days 
 hard for Slone. BostU loaded him with gifts and kind- 
 nesses, and never ceased importuning him to accept his 
 offers. But for Lucy, Slone would have accepted. It 
 was she who cast the first doubt of BostU into his mind. 
 Lucy averred that her father was splendid and good in 
 every way except in what pertained to fast horses; there 
 he was impossible. 
 
 The great stallion that Slone had nearly sacrificed his 
 life to catch was like a thorn in the rider's flesh. Slone 
 lay there in the darkness, restless, hot, rolling from side 
 to side, or staring out at the star-studded sky — ^miserably 
 unhappy all on account of that horse. Almost he hated 
 him. What pride he had felt in Wildfire! How he had 
 gloried in the gift of the stallion to Lucy! Then, on the 
 morning of the race had come that unexpected, incom- 
 
 206 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 prehensible and wild act of whim he had been guilty. 
 Yet not to save his life, his soul, could he regret it! Was 
 it he who had been responsible, or an"lu]iiiown savage 
 within him? He had kept his word >to Lucy, when day 
 after day he had burned with love until that fatal moment 
 when the touch of her, as he lifted her to Wildfire's saddle, 
 had made a madman out of him. He had swept her into 
 his arms and held her breast to his, her face before him, 
 and he had kissed the sweet, parting lips till he was blind. 
 
 Then he had learned what a little fury she was. Then 
 he learned how he had fallen, what he had forfeited. In 
 his amaze at himself, in his humility and shame, he had 
 not been able to say a word in his own defense. She did 
 not know yet that his act had been tmgovemable and 
 that he had not known what he was doing till too late. 
 And she had finished with: " I'll ride Wildfire in the race — 
 but I won't have him — and I won't have you! No!" 
 
 She had the steel and hardness of her father. 
 
 For Slone, the watching of that race was a blend of 
 rapture and despair. He lived over in mind all the time 
 .between the race and this hour when he lay there sleep- 
 less and full of remorse. His mind was Uke a racecourse 
 with many races; and predominating in it was that swift j 
 strange, stinging race of his memory of Lucy Bostil's 
 looks and actions. 
 
 What an utter fool he was to believe she had meant 
 those tender words when, out there under the looming 
 monuments, she had accepted Wildfire! She had been 
 an impulsive child. Her scorn and fury that morning of 
 the race had left nothing for him except footless fancies. 
 She had mistaken love of Wildfire for love of him. No, 
 his case was hopeless with Lucy, and if it had not been 
 so Bostil would have made it hopeless. Yet there were 
 things Slone could not fathom — ^the wilful, contradictory, 
 proud and cold and unaccovmtably sweet looks and 
 actions of the girl. They haunted Slone. They made him 
 conscious he had a mind and tortured him with his de- 
 
 207 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 velopment. But he had no experience with girls to com- 
 pare with what was happening now. It seemed that 
 accepted fact and remembered scorn and cold certainty 
 were somehow at variance with hitherto unknown intui- 
 tions and iastincts. Lucy avoided him, if by chance she 
 encountered him alone. When Bostil or Aunt Jane or 
 any one else was present Lucy was Mnd, pleasant, agree- 
 able. What made her flush red at sight of him and then 
 pale? Why did she often at table or in the big living- 
 room softly brush against him when it seemed she could 
 have avoided that? Many times he had felt some incon- 
 ceivable drawing power, and looked up to find her eyes 
 upon him, strange eyes full of mystery, that were sud- 
 denly averted. Was there any meaning attachable to 
 the fact that his room was kept so tidy and neat, that 
 every day something was added to its comfort or color, 
 that he found fresh flowers whenever he returned, or a 
 book, or fruit, or a dainty morsel to eat, and once a bunch 
 of Indian paint-brush, wild flowers of the desert that 
 Lucy knew he loved? Most of all, it was Lucy's eyes 
 which haunted Slone — eyes that had changed, darkened, 
 lost their audacious flash, and yet seemed all the sweeter. 
 The glances he caught, which he fancied were stolen — 
 and then derided his fancy — 'thrilled him to his heart. 
 Thus Slone had spent waking hours by day and night, 
 mad with love and remorse, tormented one hour by 
 imagined grounds for hope and resigned to despair the 
 next. 
 
 Upon the sixth morning of his stay at Bostil's Slone 
 rose with something of his former wUl reasserting itself. 
 He could not remain in Bostil's home any longer unless 
 he accepted Bostil's offer, and this was not to be thought 
 of. With a wrench Slone threw off the softening inde- 
 cision and hurried out to find Bostil while the determina- 
 tion was hot. .. 
 
 Bostil was in the corral with Wildfire. This was the 
 second time Slone had found him there. Wildfire ap- 
 
 208 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 peared to regard Bostil with a much better favor than 
 he did his master. As Slone noted this a little heat stole 
 along his veins. That was gall to a rider. 
 
 "I like your hoss," said Bostil, with grufi frankness. 
 But a tinge of red showed under his beard. 
 
 "Bostil, I'm sorry I can't take you up on the job," 
 rejoined Slone, swiftly. "It's been hard for me to de- 
 cide. You've been good to me. I'm grateful. But it's 
 time I was tellin' you." 
 
 "Why can't you?" demanded Bostil, straightening up 
 with a glint in his big eyes. It was the first time he had 
 asked Slone that. 
 
 "I can't ride for you," replied Slone, briefly. 
 
 "Anythin' to do with Lucy?" queried Bostil. 
 
 "How so?" returned Slone, conscious of more heat. 
 
 "Wal, you was sweet on her an' she wouldn't have 
 you," replied Bostil. 
 
 Slone felt the blood swell and boil in his veins. This 
 Bostil could say as harsh and hard things as repute gave 
 him credit for. 
 
 "Yes, I am sweet on Lucy, an' she won't have me," 
 said Slone, steadily. "I asked her to let me come to you 
 an' tell you I wanted to marry her. But she wouldn't." 
 
 "Wal, it's just as good you didn't come, because I 
 might. . . ." Bostil broke off his speech and began again. 
 . "You don't lack nerve, Slone. What 'd you have to offer 
 Lucy?" 
 
 "Nothin' except — But that doesn't matter," replied 
 Slone, cut to the quick by Bostil's scorn. I'm glad you 
 know, an' so much for that." 
 
 Bostil turned to look at Wildfire once more, and he 
 looked long. When he faced around again he was an- 
 other man. Slone felt the powerful driving passion of this 
 old horse-trader. 
 
 "Slone, I'll give you pick of a hundred mustangs an' 
 a thousand dollars for Wildfire!" 
 
 So he unmasked his power in the face of a beggarly 
 209 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 rider! Though it struck Slone like a thunderbolt, he felt 
 amused. But he did not show that. Bostil had only one 
 possession, among all his uncounted wealth, that could 
 win Wildfire from his owner. 
 
 "No," said Slone, briefly. 
 
 "I'll double it," returned Bostil, just as briefly. 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "I'll—" 
 
 " Save your breath, Bostil," flashed Slone. "You don't 
 know me. But let me tell you — ^you can't buy my horse !" 
 
 The great veins swelled and churned in Bostil's bull 
 neck; a thick and ugly contortion worked in his face; 
 his eyes reflected a sick rage. 
 
 Slone saw that two passions shook Bostil — one, a bitter, 
 terrible disappointment, and the other, the passion of a 
 man who could not brook being crossed. It appeared 
 to Slone that the best thing he could do was to get away 
 quickly, and to this end he led Wildfire out of the corral 
 to the stable courtyard, and there quickly saddled him. 
 Then he went into another corral for his other horse, 
 Nagger, and, bringing him out, returned to find Bostil . 
 had followed as far as the court. The old man's rage ap- 
 parently had passed or had been smothered. 
 
 "See here," he began, in thick voice, "don't be ad r 
 
 fool an' ruin your chance in life, I'll — " 
 
 "Bostil, my one chance was ruined — an' you know who 
 did it," replied Slone, as he gathered Nagger's rope and 
 Wildfire's bridle together. "I've no hard feelin's. . . . 
 But I can't sell you my horse. An' I can't ride for you — ■ 
 because — ^well, because it wotdd breed trouble." 
 
 "An' what kind?" queried BostU. 
 
 Holley and Farlane and Van, with several other riders, 
 had come up and were standing open-mouthed. Slone 
 gathered from their manner and expression that anything 
 might happen with Bostil in such a mood. 
 
 "We'd be racin' the King an' Wildfire, wouldn't we?" 
 replied Slone. 
 
 210 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "An' supposin' we would?" retiimed Bostil, ominously. 
 His huge frame vibrated with a slight start. 
 
 "Wildfire would run off with your favorite — an' you 
 wouldn't like that," answered Slone. It was his rider's 
 hot blood that prompted him to launch this taunt. He 
 could not help it. 
 
 "You wild-hoss chaser," roared Bostil, "your Wildfire 
 may be a bloody killer, but he can't beat the King in 
 a race!" 
 
 "Excuse me, Bostil, but Wildfire did beat the King!" 
 
 This was only adding fuel to the fire. Slone saw HoUey 
 making signs that must have meant silence would be 
 best. But Slone's blood was up. Bostil had rubbed him 
 the wrong way. 
 
 "You're a liar!" declared Bostil, with a tremendous 
 stride forward. Slone saw then how dangerous the man 
 really was. "It was no race. Your wild hoss knocked 
 the King off the track." 
 
 "Sage King had the lead, didn't he? Why didn't he 
 keep it?" 
 
 Bostil was like a fiuious, intractable child whose fa- 
 vorite precious treasure had been broken; and he burst 
 out into a torrent of incoh^erent speech, apparently reasons 
 why this and that were so. Slone did not make out what 
 BostU meant and he did not care. When Bostil got 
 out of breath Slone said: 
 
 "We're both wastin' talk. An' I'm not wantin' you 
 to call me a Har twice. . . . Put your rider up on the King 
 an' come on, right now. I'll — " 
 
 "Slone, shut up an' chase yourself," interrupted Hol- 
 ley. 
 
 "You go to h — ^I!" returned Slone, coolly. 
 
 There was a moment's silence, in which Slone took 
 HoUey's measure. The hawk-eyed old rider may have 
 been square, but he was then thinking only of Bostil. 
 
 "What am I up against here?" demanded Slone. "Am 
 I goin' to be shot because I'm takin' my own part? 
 
 15 211 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Holley, you an' the rest of your pards are all afraid of 
 this old devil. But I'm not — an' you stay out of this." 
 
 "Wal, son, you needn't git r'iled," replied Holley, 
 placatingly. "I was only tryin' to stave off talk you 
 might be sorry for." 
 
 ' ' Sorry for nothin' ! I'm goin' to make this ^eat horse- 
 trader, this rich an' mighty rancher, this judge of grand 
 horses, this Bostil! . . . I'm goin' to make him race the 
 King or take water!" Then Slone turned to Bostil. 
 That worthy evidently had been stunned by the rider who 
 dared call him to his face. "Come on! Fetch the King! 
 Let your own riders judge the race!" 
 
 Bostil struggled both to control himself and to speak. 
 "Naw! I ain't goin' to seethetred hoss-killer jump the 
 King again!" 
 
 "Bah! you're afraid. You know there'd be no girl 
 on his back. You know he can outrun the King an' 
 that's why you want to buy him." 
 
 Slone caught his breath then. He realized suddenly, 
 at Bostil's paling face, that perhaps he had dared too 
 much. Yet, maybe the truth flung into this hard old 
 rider's teeth was what he needed more than anything 
 else. Slone divined, rather than saw, that he had done 
 an unprecedented thing. 
 
 "I'll go now, Bostil." 
 
 Slone nodded a good-by to the riders, and, turning away, 
 he led the two horses down the lane toward the house. 
 It scarcely needed sight of Lucy under the cottonwoods 
 to still his anger and rouse his regret. Lucy saw him 
 coming, and, as usual, started to avoid meeting him, when 
 sight of the horses, or something else, caused her to come 
 toward him instead. 
 
 Slone halted. Both Wildfire and Nagger whinnied at 
 sight of the girl. Lucy took one flashing glance at them, 
 at Slone, and then she evidently guessed what'was amiss. 
 
 "Lucy, I've done it now — ^played hob, sure," said 
 Slone. 
 
 212 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "What?" she cried. 
 
 "I called your dad — called him good an' hard — an' 
 he— he— " 
 
 "Lin! Oh, don't say Dad." Lucy's face whitened 
 and she put a swift hand upon his arm — a touch that 
 thrilled him. "Lin! there's blood — on your face. Don't 
 — don't tell me Dad hit you?" 
 
 "I should say not," declared Slone, quickly lifting his 
 hand to his face. "Must be from my cut, that blood. 
 I barked my hand holdin' Wildfire." 
 
 ' ' Oh ! I — I was sick with — ^with — ' ' Lucy faltered and 
 broke off, and then drew back quickly, as if suddenly 
 conscious of her actions and words. 
 
 Then Slone began to relate everjrthing that had been 
 said, and before he concluded his story his heart gave a 
 wild throb at the telltale face and eyes of the girl. 
 
 "You said that to Dad!" she cried, in amaze and fear 
 and admiration. "Oh, Dad richly deserved it! But I 
 wish you hadn't. Oh, I wish you hadn't !" 
 
 "Why?" asked Slone. 
 
 But she did not answer that. "Where are you going?" 
 she questioned. 
 
 "Come to think of that, I don't know," replied Slone, 
 blankly. "I started back to fetch my things out of my 
 room. That's as far as my muddled thoughts got." 
 
 "Your things? . . . Oh!" Suddenly she grew intensely 
 white. The little freckles that had been so indistinct stood 
 out markedly, and it was as if she had never had any tan. 
 One brown hand went to her breast, the other fluttered to 
 his arm again. "You mean to — ^to go away — ^for good?" 
 
 "Sure. What else can I do?" 
 
 "Lin! . . . Oh, there comes Dad! He mustn't see me. 
 I must run. . . . Lin, don't leave Bostil's Ford — don't go 
 —donH!" 
 
 Then she flew round the comer of the house, to disap- 
 pear. Slone stood there transfixed and thrilling. Even 
 Bostil's heavy tread did not break the trance, and a meet- 
 
 213 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 ing would have been unavoidable had not Bostil turned 
 down the path that led to the back of the house. Slone, 
 with a start collecting his thoughts, hurried into the little 
 room that had been his and gathered up his few belong- 
 ings. He was careful to leave behind the gifts of guns, 
 blankets, gloves, and other rider's belongings which Bostil 
 had presented to him. Thus laden, he went outside and, 
 tingling with emotions utterly sweet and bewildering, he 
 led the horses down into the village. 
 
 Slone went down to Brackton's, and put the horses into 
 a large, high-fenced pasture adjoining Brackton's house. 
 Slone felt reasonably sure his horses would be safe there, 
 but he meant to keep a mighty close watch on them. 
 And old Brackton, as if he read Slone's mind, said this: 
 " Keep yotir eye on thet daffy boy, Joel Creech. He hangs 
 round my place, sleeps out somewheres, an' he's crazy 
 about bosses." 
 
 Slone did not need any warning like that, nor any in- 
 formation to make him curious regarding young Creech. 
 Lucy had seen to that, and, in fact, Slone was anxious to 
 meet this half-witted fellow who had so grievously offended 
 and threatened Lucy. That morning, however, Creech 
 did not put in an appearance. The village had nearly 
 returned to its normal state now, and the sleepy tenor 
 of its way. The Indians had been the last to go, but now 
 none remained. The days were hot while the sun stayed 
 high, and only the riders braved its heat. 
 
 The morning, however, did not pass without an inter- 
 esting incident. Brackton approached Slone with an 
 offer that he take charge of the freighting between the 
 Ford and Durango. "What would I do with Wildfire?" 
 was Slone's questioning reply, and Brackton held up his 
 hands. A later incident earned more of Slone's attention. 
 He had observed a man in Brackton's store, and it chanced 
 that this man heard Slone's reply to Brackton's offer, 
 and he said: "You'll sure need to corral thet red stal- 
 lion. Grandest hoss I ever seen !" 
 
 214 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 That praise won Slone, and he engaged in conversation 
 with the man, who said his name was Vorhees. It de- 
 veloped soon that Vorhees owned a little house, a corral, 
 and a patch of ground on a likely site up under the bluff, 
 and he was anxious to sell cheap because he had a fine 
 opportunity at Durango, where his people Hved. What 
 interested Slone most was the man's remark that he had 
 a corral which could not be broken into. The price he 
 asked was ridiculously low if the property was worth any- 
 thing. An idea flashed across Slone's mind. He went 
 up to Vorhees' s place and was much pleased with every- 
 thing, especially the corral, which had been built by a 
 man who feared horse-thieves as much as Bostil. The 
 view from the door of the little cabin was magnificent 
 beyond compare. Slone remembered Lucy's last words. 
 They rang like bells in his ears. "Don't go — don't!" 
 They were enough to chain him to Bostil's Ford until the 
 crack of doom. He dared not dream of what they meant. 
 He only listened to their music as they pealed over and 
 over in his ears. 
 
 "Vorhees, are you serious?" he asked. "The money 
 you ask is little enough." 
 
 "It's enough an' to spare," replied the man. "An' I'd 
 take it as a favor of you." 
 
 "Well, I'll go you," said Slone, and he laughed a little 
 irrationally. "Only you needn't tell right away that I 
 bought you out." 
 
 The deal was consummated, leaving Slone still with half 
 of the money that had been his prize in the race. He felt 
 elated. He was rich. He owned two horses — one' the 
 grandest in all the uplands, the other the faithfulest — 
 and he owned a neat little cabin where it was a joy to 
 sit and look out, and a corral which would let him sleep 
 at night, and he had money to put into supplies and 
 furnishings, and a garden. After he drank out of the 
 spring that bubbled from under the bluff he told himself 
 it alone was worth the money. 
 
 2IS 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Looks right down on Bostil's place," Slone solilo- 
 quized, with glee. "Won't he justbe mad! An' Lucy! 
 . . . Whatever's she goin' to tliink?" 
 
 The more Slone looked around and thought, the more 
 he became convinced that good fortune had knocked at 
 his door at last. And when he returned to Brackton's 
 he was in an exultant mood. The old storekeeper gave 
 him a nudge and pointed underhand to a young man of 
 ragged aspect sitting gloomily on a box. Slone recog- 
 nized Joel Creech. The fellow surely made a pathetic 
 sight, and Slone pitied him. He looked needy and 
 hungry. 
 
 "Say," said Slone, impulsively, "want to help me 
 carry some grub an' stufE?" 
 
 "Howdy!" replied Creech, raising his head. "Sure 
 do." 
 
 Slone sustained the queerest shock of his life when he 
 met the gaze of those contrasting eyes. Yet he did not 
 believe that his strange feeling came from sight of different- 
 colored eyes. There was an instinct or portent in that 
 meeting. 
 
 He purchased a biU of goods from Brackton, and, with 
 Creech helping, carried it up to the cabin under the bluff. 
 Three trips were needed to pack up aU the supplies, and 
 meanwhile Creech had but few words to say, and these of 
 no moment. Slone offered him money, which he refused. 
 
 "I'll help you fix up, an' eat a bite," he said. "Nice 
 up hyar." 
 
 He seemed rational enough and certainly responded to 
 kindness. Slone found that Vorhees had left the cabin 
 so dean there was little cleaning to do. An open fire- 
 place of stone required some repair and there was wood 
 to cut. 
 
 "Joel, you start a fire while I go down aftor my horses," 
 said Slone. 
 
 Yotmg Creech nodded and Slone left hin there. It was 
 not easy to catdi Wildfire, nor any easier to get him into 
 
 216 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 the new corral; but at last Slone saw him safely there. 
 And the bars and locks on the gate might have defied 
 any effort to open or breat them quickly. Creech was 
 standing in the doorway, watching the horses, and some- 
 how Slone saw, or imagined he saw, that Creech wore 
 a different aspect. 
 
 "Grand wild hoss! He did what Blue was a-goin'to 
 do — ^beat thet there d — d Bostil's King!" 
 
 Creech wagged his head. He was gloomy and strange. 
 His eyes were unpleasant to look into. His face changed. 
 And he mumbled. Slone pitied him the more, but 
 wished to see the last of him. Creech stayed on, however, 
 and grew stranger and more talkative during the meal. 
 He repeated things often — talked disconnectedly, and gave 
 other indications that he was not wholly right in his 
 mind. Yet Slone suspected that Creech's want of bal- 
 ance consisted only in what concerned horses and the 
 Bostils. And Slone, wanting to learn all he could, en- 
 cotuaged Creech to talk about his father and the racers 
 and the river and boat, and finally Bostil. 
 
 Slone became convinced that, whether young Creech 
 was half crazy or not, he knew his father's horses were 
 doomed, and that the boat at the ferry had been cut adrift. 
 Slone could not understand why he was convinced, but 
 he was. Finally Creech told how he had gone down to 
 the river only a day before; how he had found the flood 
 still raging, but much lower; how he had worked rotmd 
 the cliffs and had pulled up the rope cables to find they 
 had been cut. 
 
 "You see, Bostil cut them when he didn't need to," 
 continued Creech, shrewdly. "But he didn't know the 
 flood was comiti' down so quick. He was afeared we'd 
 come across an' git the boat thet night. An' he meant 
 to take away them cut cables. But he hadn't no 
 time." 
 
 "Bostil?" queried Slone, as he gazed hard at Creech. 
 The fellow had told that rationally enough. Slone won- 
 
 217 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 dered if Bostil could have been so base. No ! and yet — 
 when it came to horses Bostil was scarcely human. 
 
 Slone's query served to send Creech off on another 
 tangent which wound up in dark, mysterious threats. 
 Then Slone caught the name of Lucy. It abruptly killed 
 his sympathy for Creech. 
 
 "What's the girl got to do with it?" he demanded, 
 angrily. "If you want to talk to me don't use her 
 name." 
 
 "I'll use her name when I want," shouted Creech. 
 
 "Not to me!" 
 
 "Yes, to you, mister. I ain't carin' a d — ^n fer 
 you!" 
 
 "You crazy loon!" exclaimed Slone, with impatience 
 and disgust added to anger. "What's the use of being 
 decent to you?" 
 
 Creech crouched low, his hands digging like claws into 
 the table, as if he were making ready to spring. At that 
 instant he was hideous. 
 
 "Crazy, am I?" he yelled. "Mebbe not d — ^n crazy! 
 I kin tell you're gone on Lucy Bostil! I seen you with 
 her out there in the rocks the momin' of the race. I 
 seen what you did to her. An' I'm a-goin' to tell it ! . . . 
 An' I'm a-goin' to ketch Lucy Bostil an' strip her 
 naked, an' when I git through with her I'll tie her on a 
 hoss an' fire the grass ! By Gawd ! I am !" Livid and wild, 
 he breathed hard as he got up, facing Slone malignantly. 
 
 "Crazy or not, here goes!" muttered Slone, grimly; 
 and, leaping up, with one blow he knocked Creech half 
 out of the door, and then kicked him the rest of the way. 
 "Go on and have a fit!" cried Slone. "I'm Hable to Idll 
 you i£ you don't have one!" 
 
 Creech got up and ran down the path, turning twice 
 on the way. Then he disappeared among the trees. 
 
 Slone sat down. "Lost my temper again!" he said. 
 "This has been a day. Guess I'd better cool off right now 
 an' stay here. . . . That poor devil! Maybe he's not so 
 
 218 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 crazy. But he's wilder than an Indian. I must warn 
 Lucy. . . . Lord! I wonder if Bostil could have held back 
 repairin' that boat, an' then cut it loose? I wonder? 
 Yesterday I'd have sworn never. To-day — " 
 
 Slone drove the conclusion of that thought out of his 
 consciousness before he wholly admitted it. Then he set 
 to work cutting the long grass from the wet and shady 
 nooks under the bluff where the spring made the ground 
 rich. He carried an armftd down to the corral. Nagger 
 was roaming around outside, picking grass for himself. 
 Wildfire snorted as always when he saw Slone, and Slone 
 as always, when time permitted, tried to coax the stallion 
 to him. He had never succeeded, nor did he this time. 
 When he left the bundle of grass on the ground and went 
 outside Wildfire readily came for it. 
 
 "You're that tame, anyhow, you htmgry red devil," 
 said Slone, jealously. Wildfire would take a bunch of 
 grass from Lucy Bostil's hand. Slone's feelings had 
 undergone some reaction, though he still loved the horse. 
 But it was love mixed with bitterness. More than ever 
 he made up his mind that Lucy should have Wildfire. 
 Then he walked around his place, planning the work he 
 meant to start at once. 
 
 Several days slipped by with Slone scarcely realizing 
 how they flew. Unaccustomed labor tired him so that 
 he went to bed early and slept like a log. If it had not 
 been for the ever-present worry and suspense and longing, 
 in regard to Lucy, he would have been happier than ever 
 he could remember. Almost at once he had become at- 
 tached to his little home, and the more he labored to make 
 it productive and comfortable the stronger grew his at- 
 tachment. Practical toil -ras not conducive to day- 
 dreaming, so Slone felt a loss of something vague and 
 sweet. Many times he caught himself watching with 
 eager eyes for a glimpse of Lucy Bostil down there among 
 the cottonwoods. StUl, he never saw her, and, in fact, 
 he saw so few villagers that the place began to have a 
 
 219 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 loneliness which endeared it to him the more. Then 
 the view down the gray valley to the purple montraients 
 was always thrillingly memorable to Slone- It was out 
 there Lucy had saved his horse and his life. His keen 
 desert gaze could make out even at that distance the 
 great, dark raonument, gold-crowned, in the shadow of 
 which he had heard Lucy speak words that had trans- 
 formed life for him. He would ride out there some day. 
 The spell of those looming grand shafts of colored rock 
 was still strong upon him. 
 
 One morning Slone had a visitor — old Brackton. 
 Slone's cordiality died on his lips before it was half ut- 
 tered. Brackton's former friendliness was not in evidence ; 
 indeed, he looked at Slone with curiosity and disfavor. 
 
 ' ' Howdy, Slone ! I jest wanted to see what you was doin' 
 up hyar," he said. 
 
 Slone spread his nands and explained in few words. 
 
 "So you took over the place, hey?. We all figgered 
 thet. But Vorhees was mum. Fact is, he was sure 
 mysterious." Brackton sat down and eyed Slone with 
 interest. "Folks are talkin' a lot about you," he said, 
 bluntly. 
 
 "Is that so?" 
 
 "You 'pear to be a pretty mysterious kind of a feller, 
 Slone. I kind of took a shine to you at first, an' thet's 
 why I come up hyar to tell you it 'd be wise fer you to 
 vamoose." 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Slone. 
 
 Brackton repeated substantially what he had said, 
 then, pausing an instant, continued: "I've no call to 
 give you a hunch, but I'll do it jest because I did like 
 you fust ofE." 
 
 The old man seemed fussy and nervous and patronizing 
 and disparaging all at once. 
 
 "What 'd you beat up thet poor Joel Creech fer?" de- 
 manded Brackton. 
 
 "He got what he deserved," replied Slone, and the 
 
 220 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 memory, coming on the head of this strange attitude of 
 Brackton's, roused Slone's temper. 
 
 "Wal, Joel tells some queer things about you — ^fer 
 instance, how you took advantage of Httle Lucy Bostil, 
 grabbin' her axi' mauHn' her the way Joel seen you." 
 
 "D — ^n the loon!" muttered Slone, rising to pace the 
 path. 
 
 "Wal, Joel's a bit off, but he's not loony all the time. 
 He's seen you an' he's teUin' it. When Bostil hears it 
 you'd better be acrost the canon!" 
 
 Slone felt the hot, sick rush of blood to his face, and 
 humiliation and rage overtook him. 
 
 "Joel's down at my house. He had fits after you beat 
 him, an' he 'ain't got over them yet. But he could blab 
 to the riders. Van Sickle's lookin' fer you. An' to-day 
 when I was alone with Joel he told me some more queer 
 things about you. I shut him up quick. But I ain't 
 guaranteein' I can keep him shut up." 
 
 "I'll bet you I shut him up," declared Slone. "What 
 more did the fool say?" 
 
 "Slone, hev you been round these hyar parts — down 
 among the monuments — ^fer any considerable time?" 
 queried Brackton. 
 
 "Yes, I have — several weeks out there, an' about ten 
 days or so around the Ford." 
 
 "Where was you the night of the flood?" 
 
 The shrewd scrutiny of the old man, the suspicion, 
 angered Slone. 
 
 ' If it's any of your mix, I was out on the slope among 
 the rodks. I heard that flood comin' down long before 
 it got here," replied Slone, deliberately. 
 
 Bradcton averted his gaze, and abruptly rose as if the 
 occasion was ended. "Wal, take my hunch an' leave!" 
 he said, turning away. 
 
 "Brackton, if you mean weH, I'm much obliged," re- 
 turned Slone, slowly, ponderingly. "But I'U not take 
 the hunch." 
 
 221 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Suit yourself," added Brackton, coldly, and he went 
 away. 
 
 Slone watched him go down the path and disappear 
 in the lane of cottonwoods. 
 
 "I'll be darned!" muttered Slone. "Funny old man. 
 Maybe Creech's not the only loony one hereabouts." 
 
 Slone tried to laugh off the efEect of the interview, but 
 it persisted and worried him all day. After supper he de- 
 cided to walk down into the village, and wotild have 
 done so but for the fact that he saw a man climbing his 
 path. When he recognized the rider Holley he sensed 
 trouble, and straightway he became gloomy. Bostil's 
 right-hand man could not call on him for any friendly 
 reason. Holley came up slowly, awkwardly, after the 
 manner of a rider unused to walking. Slone had built 
 a little porch on the front of his cabin and a bench, 
 which he had covered with goatskins. It struck him a 
 little strangely that he should bend over to rearrange 
 these skins just as Holley approached the porch. 
 
 "Howdy, son!" was the rider's drawled remark. "Sure 
 makes — ^me — puff to climb^-up this mountain." 
 
 Slone turned instantly, surprised at the friendly tone, 
 doubting his own ears, and wanting to verify them. He 
 was the more surprised to see Holley unmistakably 
 amiable. 
 
 "Hello, Holley! How are you?" he replied. "Have a 
 seat." 
 
 "Wal, I'm right spry fer an old bird. But I can't 
 clitnb wuth a d — n .... Say, this here beats Bostil's 
 view." 
 
 "Yes, it's fine," replied Slone, rather awkwardly, as 
 he sat down on the porch step. What could Holley 
 want with him.? This old rider was above curiosity or 
 gossip. 
 
 "Slone, you ain't holdin' it ag'in me — thet I tried to 
 shut you up the other day?" he drawled, with dry frank- ' 
 ness. 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Why, no, Holley, I'm not. I saw your point. You 
 were right. But Bostil made me mad." 
 
 "Sure! He'd make anybody mad. I've seen riders bite 
 themselves, they was so mad at Bostil. You called him, 
 an' you sure tickled all the boys. But you hurt yourself, 
 fer Bostil owns an' runs this here Ford." 
 
 "So I've discovered," replied Slone. 
 
 "You got yourself in bad right off, fer Bostil has 
 turned the riders ag'in you, an' this here punchin' of 
 Creech has turned the village folks ag'in you. What 'd 
 you pitch into him fer?" 
 
 Slone caught the kindly interest and intent of the rider, 
 and it warmed him as Brackton's disapproval had alien- 
 ated him. 
 
 "Wal, I reckon I'd better tell you," drawled Holley, 
 as Slone hesitated, "thet Lucy wants to know ij you beat 
 up Joel an' why you did." 
 
 "Holley! Did she ask you to find out?" 
 
 "She sure did. The girl's worried these days, Slone. . . . 
 You see, you haven't been around, an' you don't know 
 what's comin' off." 
 
 "Brackton was here to-day an' he told me a good deal. 
 I'm worried, too," said Slone, dejectedly. 
 
 "Thet hoss of yours. Wildfire, he's enough to make 
 you hated in Bostil's camp, even if you hadn't made a 
 fool of yourself, which you sure have." 
 
 Slone dropped his head as admission. 
 
 "What Creech swears he seen you do to Miss Lucy, 
 out there among the rocks, where you was hid with Wild- 
 fire — ^is there any truth in thet?" asked Holley, earnest- 
 ly. " Tell me, Slone. Folks beUeve it. An' it's hurt you 
 at the Ford. Bostil hasn't heard it yet, an' Lucy she 
 doesn't know. But I'm figgerin' thet you punched Joel 
 because he throwed it in your face." 
 
 " He did, an' I lambasted him," replied Slone, with force. 
 
 "You did right. But what I want to know, is it true 
 what Joel seen?" 
 
 223 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "It's trae, Holley. But wliat I did isn't so bad — so 
 ibad as he'd make it look." 
 
 "Wal, I knowed thet. I knowed fer a long time how 
 Lucy cares fer you," returned the old rider, kindly. 
 
 Slone raised his head swiftly, incredulously. "Holley I 
 You can't be serious." 
 
 "Wal, I am. I've been sort of a big brother to Lucy 
 Bostil for eighteen years. I carried her in these here 
 hands when she weighed no more'n my spurs. I taught 
 her how to ride — ^what she knows about bosses. An' she 
 knows more'n her dad. I taught her to shoot. I know 
 her better 'n anybody. An' lately she's been diEEerent. 
 She's worried an' unhappy." 
 
 "But Holley, all that — ^it doesn't seem — " 
 
 "I reckon not," went on Holley, as Slone halted. "I 
 think she cares fer you. An' I'm your friend, Slone. 
 You're goin' to buck up ag'in some hell round here sooner 
 or later. An' you'll need a friend." 
 
 "Thanks — Holley," replied Slone, unsteadily. He 
 thrilled under the iron grasp of the rider's hard hand. 
 
 "You've got another friend you can gamble on," said 
 Holley, significantly. 
 
 "Another! Who?" 
 
 " Lucy Bostil. An' don't you fergit thet. I'll bet she'U 
 raise more trouble than Bostil when she hears what Joel 
 Creech is tellin'. Fer she's bound to hear it. Van Sickle 
 •swears he's a-goin' to teU her an' then beat you up with 
 a qtiirt." 
 
 "He is, js he?" snapped Slone, darkly. 
 
 "I've a hunch Lucy's guessed why you punched Joel. 
 But she wants to know fer sure. Now, Slone, I'll tell 
 her why." 
 
 "Oh, don't!" said Slone, involuntarily. 
 
 "Wal, it '11 be better comin' from you an' me. Take 
 my word fer thet. I'll prepare Lucy. An' she's as good 
 a scrapper as Bostil, any day." 
 
 "It all scares me," repUed Slone. He did feel panicky, 
 224 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 and that was from thoughts of what shame might befall 
 Lucy. The cold sweat oozed out of every pore. What 
 might not Bostil do? "Holley, I lave the girl. So I — 
 I didn't insult her. Bostil will never understand. An' 
 what's he gom' to do when he finds out?" 
 
 "Wal, let's hope you won't git any wuss'n you give 
 Joel." 
 
 "Let Bostil beat me!" ejaculated Slone. "I think I'm 
 wiUin' — now — the way I feel. But I've a temper, and 
 Bostil rubs me the wrong way." 
 
 "Wal, leave your gtm home, an' fight Bostil. You're 
 pretty husky. Stire he'll Hck you, but mebbe you could 
 give the old cuss a black eye." Holley laughed as if the 
 idea gave him infinite pleasure. 
 
 "Fight Bostil? . . . Lucy would hate me!" cried Slone. 
 
 "Nix! You don't know thet kid. If the old man goes 
 after you Lucy '11 care more fer you. She's jest like him 
 in some ways." HoUey pulled out a stubby black pipe 
 and, filling and lighting it, he appeared to grow more 
 thoughtful. "It wasn't only Lucy thet sent me up here 
 to see you. Bostil had been pesterin' me fer days. But 
 I kept fightin' shy of it till Lucy got hold of me." 
 
 "Bostil sent you? Why?" 
 
 "Reckon you can guess. He can't sleep, thinkin' about 
 your red boss. None of us ever seen Bostil have sich a 
 bad case. He raised Sage King. But he's always been 
 crazy fer a great wild stallion. An' here you come along 
 — an' your hoss jumps the King — an' there's trouble 
 generally." 
 
 "Holley, do you think Wildfire can beat Sage King?" 
 asked Slone, eagerly. 
 
 "Reckon I do. Lucy says so, an' I'll back her any 
 day. But, son, I ain't paradin' what I think. I'd git 
 in bad myself. Farlane an' the other boys, they're 
 with Bostil. Van he's to blame fer thet. He's takin' a 
 dislike to you, right off. An' what he tells Bostil an' the 
 boys about thet race don't agree with what Lucy tells 
 
 225 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 me. Lucy says Wildfire ran fiery an' cranky at the 
 start. He wanted to run round an' kill the King instead 
 of racin'. So he was three lengths behind when Macom- 
 ber dropped the flag. Lucy says the King got into his 
 stride. She knows. An' there Wildfire comes from be- 
 hind an' climbs all over the King! . . . Van tells a differ- 
 ent story." 
 
 "It came ofE just as Lucy told you," declared Slone. 
 "I saw every move." 
 
 "Wal, thet's neither here nor there. What you're up 
 ag'in is this. Bostil is sore since you called him. But he 
 holds himself in because he hasn't given up hope of gittin' 
 Wildfire. An', Slone, you're sure wise, ain't you, thet 
 if Bostil doesn't buy him you can't stay on here?" 
 
 "I'm wise. But I won't sell Wildfire," replied Slone, 
 doggedly. 
 
 "Wal, I'd never wasted my breath tellin' you all this if 
 I hadn't figgered about Lucy. You've got her to think of." 
 
 Slone turned on HoUey passionately. "You keep 
 hintin' there's a hope for me, when I know there's 
 none!" 
 
 "You're only a boy," replied Holley. "Son, where 
 there's life there's hope. I ain't a-goin' to tell you agin 
 thet I know Lucy Bostil." 
 
 Slone could not stand nor walk nor keep stiU. He 
 was shaking from head to foot. 
 
 "Wildfire's not mine to sell. He's Lucy's!" confessed 
 Slone. 
 
 "The devil you say!" ejaculated Holley, and he nearly 
 dropped his pipe. 
 
 "I gave Wildfire to her. She accepted him. It was 
 done. Then — then I lost my head an' made her mad. 
 . . . An' — she said she'd ride him in the race, but wouldn't 
 keep him. But he is hers." 
 
 "Oho! I see. Slone, I was goin' to advise you' to sell 
 Wildfire — all on account of Lucy. You're young an' 
 you'd have a big start in life if you would. But Lucy's 
 
 226 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 your girl an' you give her the hoss. . . . Thet settles 
 that!" 
 
 "If I go away from here an' leave Wildfire for Lucy — 
 do you think she could keep him? Wotildn't Bostil take 
 him from her?" 
 
 " Wal, son, if he tried thet on Lucy she'd jump Wildfire 
 an' hit your trail an' hang on to it till she found you." 
 
 "What '11 you tell Bostil?" asked Slone, half beside him- 
 self. 
 
 "I'm consamed if I know," replied Holley. "Mebbe 
 I'll think of some idee. I'U go back now. An' say, son, 
 I reckon you'd better hang close to home. If you meet 
 Bostil down in the village you two 'd clash stire. I'll 
 come up soon, but it '11 be after dark." 
 
 "Holley, all this is — ^is good of you," said Slone. "I — 
 I'll—" 
 
 "Shut up, son," interrupted the rider, dryly. "Thet's 
 your only weakness, so far as I can see. You say too 
 much." 
 
 Holley started down then, his long, clinking spurs dig- 
 ging into the steep path. He left Slone a prey to deep 
 thoughts at once anxious and dreamy. 
 
 Next day Slone worked hard all day, looking forward to 
 nightfall, expecting that Holley would come up. He tried 
 to resist the sweet and tantalizing anticipation of a mes- 
 sage from Lucy, but in vain. The rider had immeasurably 
 upUfted Slone's hope that Lucy, at least, cared for him. 
 Not for a moment all day could Slone drive away the 
 hope. At twiUght he was too eager to eat — ^too obsessed 
 to see the magnificent sunset. But Holley did not come, 
 and Slone went to bed late, half sick with disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 The next day was worse. Slone found work irksome, 
 yet he held to it. On the third day he rested and dreamed, 
 and grew doubtful agaia, and then moody. On the fourth 
 day Slone found he needed supplies that he must obtain 
 from the store. He did not forget Holley's warning, but 
 
 i6 227 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 he disregarded it, thinking there would scarcely be a 
 chance of meeting Bostil at midday. 
 
 There were horses standing, bridles down, before Brack- 
 ton's place, and riders lounging at the rail and step. 
 Some of these men had been pleasant to Slone on earlier 
 occasions. This day they seemed not to see him. Slone 
 was tingUng all over when he went into the store. Some 
 deviltry was afoot ! He had an angry thought that these 
 riders could not have minds of their own. Just inside 
 the door Slone encotmtered Wetherby, the young rancher 
 from Durango. Slone spoke, but Wetherby only replied 
 with an insolent stare. Slone did not glance at' the man 
 to whom Wetherby was talking. Only a few people were 
 inside the store, and Brackton was waiting upon them. 
 Slone stood back a little in the shadow. Brackton had 
 observed his entrance, but did not greet him. Then 
 Slone absolutely knew that for him the good will of 
 Bostil's Ford was a thing of the past. 
 
 Presently Brackton was at leisure, but he showed no 
 disposition to attend to Slone's wants. Then Slone 
 walked up to the counter and asked for supplies. 
 
 "Have you got the money?" asked Brackton, as if ad- 
 dressing one he would not trust. 
 
 "Yes," replied Slone, growing red under an insult that 
 he knew Wetherby had heard. 
 
 Brackton handed out the supplies and received the 
 money, without a word. He held his head down. It was 
 a singular action for a man used to dealing fairly with 
 every one. Slone felt outraged. He hurried out of the 
 place, with shame burning him, with his own eyes down- 
 cast, and in his hurry he bumped square into a biu-ly 
 form. Slone recoiled — ^looked up. Bostil ! The old rider 
 was eying him with cool speculation. 
 
 "Wal, are you drunk?" he queried, without any par- 
 ticular expression. 
 
 Yet the query was to Slone like a blow. It brought his 
 head up with a jerk, his glance steady and keen on Bostil's. 
 
 22S 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Bostil, you know I don't drink," he said. 
 
 "A-hioh! I know a lot about you, Slone. ... I heard 
 you bought Vorhees's place, up on the bench." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Did he tell you it was mortgaged to me for more'n 
 it's worth?" 
 
 "No, he didn't." 
 
 "Did he make over any papers to you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Wal, if it interests you I'll show you papers thet 
 proves the property's mine." 
 
 Slone suffered a pang. The little home had grown 
 dearer and dearer to him. 
 
 "All right, Bostil. If it's yoiirs — it's yours," he said, 
 calmly enough. 
 
 "I reckon I'd drove you out before this if I hadn't 
 felt we could make a deal." 
 
 "We can't agree on any deal, Bostil," replied Slone, 
 steadily. It was not what Bostil said, but the way he 
 said it, the subtle meaning and power behind it, that 
 gave Slone a sense of menace and peril. These he had 
 been used to for years; he could meet them. But he was 
 handicapped here because it seemed that, though he could 
 meet Bostil face to face, he could not fight him. For he 
 was Lucy's father. Slone's position, the impotence of it, 
 rendered him less able to control his temper. 
 
 "Why can't we?" demanded Bostil. "If you wasn't so 
 touchy we could. An' let me say, young feller, thet there's 
 more reason now thet you do make a deal with me." 
 
 "Deal? What about?" 
 
 "About your red hoss." 
 
 "Wildfire! ... No deals, Bostil," returned Slone, and 
 made as if to pass him. 
 
 The big hand that forced Slone back was far from gentle, 
 and again he felt the quick rush of blood. 
 
 " Mebbe I can teU you somethin' thet 'U make you sell 
 Wildfire," said Bostil. 
 
 229 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Not if you talked yourself dumb!" flashed Slone. 
 There was no use to try to keep cool with this Bostil, if 
 he talked horses. "I'll race Wildfire against the King. 
 But no more." 
 
 "Race! Wal, we don't run races around here without 
 stakes," replied Bostil, with deep scorn. "An' what can 
 you bet? Thet little dab of prize money is gone, an' it 
 wouldn't be enough to meet me. You're a strange one 
 in these parts. I've pride an' reputation to uphold. 
 You brag of radn' with me — an' you a beggarly rider! . . . 
 You wouldn't have them clothes an' boots if my girl 
 hadn't fetched them to you." 
 
 The riders behind Bostil laughed. Wetherby's face 
 was there in the door, not amused, but hard with scorn 
 and something else. Slone felt a sickening, terrible gust 
 of passion. It fairly shook him. And as the wave sub- 
 sided the quick cooling of skin and body pained him hke 
 a bum made with ice. 
 
 "Yes, Bostil, I'm what you say," responded Slone, 
 and his voice seemed to fill his ears. "But you're dead 
 wrong when you say I've nothin' to bet on a race." 
 
 "An' what '11 you bet?" 
 
 "My life an' my horse!" 
 
 The riders suddenly' grew silent and intense. Bostil 
 vibrated to that. He turned white. -He more than any 
 rider on the uplands must have felt the nattue of that 
 ofiEer. 
 
 "Ag'in what?" he demanded, hoarsely. 
 
 "Your daughter Lucy!" 
 
 One instant the surprise held Bostil mute and motion- 
 less. Then he seemed to expand. His huge bulk jerked 
 into motion and he bellowed like a mad bull. 
 
 Slone saw the blow coming, made no move 'to avoid 
 it. The big fist took him square on the mouth and chin 
 and laid him flat on the ground. Sight failed Slone for 
 a Httle, and likewise ability to movei. But he did not lose 
 consciousness. His head seemed to have been burst 
 
 230 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 into rays and red mist that blurred his eyes. Then these 
 cleared away, leaving intense pain. He started to get 
 up, his brain in a whirl. Where was his gun? He had 
 left it at home. But for that he would have killed Bostil. 
 He had already killed one man. The thing was a burn- 
 ing flash — ^then all over! He cotdd do it again. But 
 Bostil was Lucy's father! 
 
 Slone gathered up the packages of supplies, and with- 
 out looking at the men he hurried away. He seemed pos- 
 sessed of a ftiry to turn and run back. Some force, Hke 
 an invisible hand, withheld him. When he reached the 
 cabin he shut himself in, and lay on his btmk, forgetting 
 that the place did not belong to him, alive only to the 
 mystery of his trouble, smarting with the shame of the 
 assault upon him. It was dark before he composed him- 
 self and went out, and then he had not the desire to eat. 
 He made no move to open the suppUes of food, did not 
 even make a light. But he went out to take grass and 
 water to the horses. When he returned to the cabin a 
 man was standing at the porch. Slone recognized Hol- 
 ley's shape and then his voice. 
 
 "Son, you raised the devil to-day." 
 
 "Holley, don't you go back on me!" cried Slone. "I 
 was driven!" 
 
 "Don't talk so loud," whispered the rider in return. 
 "I've only a minnit. . . . Here — a letter from Lucy. . . . 
 An', son, don't git the idee thet I'll go back on you." 
 
 Slone took the letter with trembling fingers. All the 
 fury and gloom instantly fled. Lucy had written him! 
 He could not speak. 
 
 "Son, I'm double-crossin' the boss, right this minnit!" 
 whispered Holley, hoarsely. "An' the same time I'm 
 pla5Tn' Lucy's game. If Bostil finds out he'll kUl me. 
 I mustn't be ketched up here. But I won't lose track of 
 you — ^wherever you go." 
 
 Holley slipped away stealthily in the dusk, leaving 
 Slone with a throbbing heart. 
 
 231 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Wherever jrou go!" he echoed. "Ah! I forgot! I 
 can't stay here." 
 
 Lucy's letter made his fingers tingle — ^made them so 
 hasty and awkward that he had diflSculty in kindling 
 blaze enough to see to read. The letter was short, written 
 m lead-pencil on the torn leaf of a ledger. Slone could 
 not read rapidly — ^those years on the desert had seen to 
 that — and his haste to learn what Lucy said bewildered 
 him. At first all the words blurred: 
 
 Come at once to tlie bench in the cottonwoods. I'U meet 
 you there. My heart is breaking. It's a lie — a He — ^what they 
 say. I'll swear you were with me the night the boat was cut 
 adrift. I know you didn't do that. I know who. . . . Oh, come! 
 I will stick to you. I will run oS with you. I love you! 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 SLONE'S heart leaped to his throat, and its beating 
 choked his utterances of rapture and amaze and 
 dread. But rapture dominated the other emotions. He 
 could scarcely control the impulse to run to meet Lucy, 
 without a single cautious thought. 
 
 He put the precious letter inside his blouse, where it 
 seemed to warm his breast. He buckled on his gun-belt, 
 and, extinguishing the light, he hurried out. 
 
 A crescent moon had just tipped the bluff. The vil- 
 lage lanes and cabins and trees lay silver in the moon- 
 light. A lonesome coyote barked in the distance. All 
 else was still. The air was cool, sweet; fragrant. There 
 appeared to be a glamour of light, of silence, of beauty 
 over the desert. 
 
 Slone kept under the dark lee of the bluff and worked 
 around so that he cottld be above the village, where there 
 was little danger of meeting any one. Yet presently he 
 had to go out of the shadow into the moon-blanched 
 lane. Swift and silent as an Indian he went along, keep- 
 ing in the shade of what trees there were, until he came to 
 the grove of cottonwoods. The grove was a black mystery 
 lanced by silver rays. He slipped in among the trees, 
 halting every few steps to listen. The action, the reali- 
 zation had helped to make him cool, to steel him, though 
 never before in his life had he been so exalted. The pur- 
 suit and capture of Wildfire, at one time the desire of his 
 heart, were as nothing to this. Love had called him — 
 and life — and he knew death hung in the balance. If 
 Bostil found him seeking Lucy there would be blood 
 
 233 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 spilled. Slone quaked at the thought, for the cold and 
 ghastly oppression following the death he had meted 
 out to Sears came to him at times. But such thoughts 
 were fleeting; only one thought really held his mind — and 
 the one was that Lucy loved him, had sent strange, wild, 
 passionate words to him. 
 
 He found the narrow path, its white crossed by slowly 
 moving black bars of shadow, and stealthily he followed 
 this, keen of eye and ear, stopping at every rustle. He 
 well knew the bench Lucy had mentioned. It was in a 
 remote comer of the grove, under big trees near the 
 spring. Once Slone thought he had a glimpse of white. 
 Perhaps it was only moonlight. He slipped on and on, 
 and when beyond the branching paths that led toward 
 the house he breathed freer. The grove appeared de- 
 serted. At last he crossed the runway from the spring, 
 smelled the cool, wet moss and watercress, and saw the 
 big Cottonwood, looming dark above the other trees. A 
 patch of moonlight brightened a little glade just at the 
 edge of dense shade cast by the Cottonwood. Here the 
 bench stood. It was empty! 
 
 Slone's rapture vanished. He was suddenly chilled. 
 She was not there! She might have been intercepted. 
 He would not see her. The disappointment, the sudden 
 relaxation, was horrible. Then a white, slender shape 
 flashed from beside the black tree-trunk and flew toward 
 him. It was noiseless, like a specter, and swift as the 
 wind. Was he dreaming? He felt so strange. Then — 
 the white shape reached him and he knew. 
 
 Lucy leaped into his arms. 
 
 "Lin! Lin! Oh, I'm so — so glad to see you!" she 
 whispered. She seemed breathless, keen, new to him, 
 not in the least afraid nor shy. Slone could only hold 
 her. He could not have spoken, even if she had given 
 him a chance.' "I know everything — ^what they accuse 
 you of — ^how the riders treated you — ^how my dad struck 
 you. Oh! . . . He's a brute! I hate him for that. Why 
 
 234 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 didn't you keep out of his way? . . . Van saw it all. Oh, I 
 hate him, too! He said you lay still — where you fell! 
 . . . Dear Lin, that blow may have hurt you dreadfully — 
 shamed you because you couldn't strike back at my dad 
 — ^but it reached me, too. It hurt me. It woke my 
 heart. . . . Where — ^where did he hit you? Oh, I've seen 
 him hit men! His terrible fists!" 
 
 "Lucy, never mind," whispered Slone. "I'd stood to 
 be shot just for this." 
 
 He felt her hands softly on his face, feeling around ten- 
 derly till they found the swollen bruise on mouth and chin. 
 
 "Ah! . . . He struck you. And I — I'll kiss you," she 
 whispered. "If kisses wiU make it well — ^it '11 be well!" 
 
 Ske seemed strange, wild, passionate in her tenderness. 
 She lifted her face and kissed him softly again and again 
 and again, till the touch that had been exquisitely painful 
 to his bruised lips became rapture. Then she leaned back 
 in his arms, her hands on his shoulders, white-faced, dark- 
 eyed, and laughed up in his face, lovingly, daringly, as 
 i£ she defied the world to change what she had done. 
 
 "Lucy! Lucy! ... He can beat me — again!" said 
 Slone, low and hoarsely. 
 
 "If you lore me youll keep out of his way," replied 
 the girl. 
 
 "If I love you? . . . My God! . . . I've felt my heart 
 die a thousand times since that momin' — ^when — ^when 
 you—" 
 
 "Lin, I didn't know," she interrupted, with sweet, 
 grave earnestness. "I know now!" 
 
 And Slone could not but know, too, looking at her; 
 and the sweetness, the eloquence, the noble abandon of 
 her avowal sounded to the depths of him. His dread, his 
 resignation, his shame, all sped forever in the deep, fuU 
 breath of relief with which he cast off that burden. He 
 tasted the nectar of happiness, the first time in his life. 
 He lifted his head — never, he knew, to lower it again. 
 He would be true to what she had made him. 
 
 235 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Come in the shade," he whispered, and with his arm 
 round her he led her to the great tree-trunk. "Is it safe 
 for you here? An' how long can you stay?" 
 
 "I had it out with Dad — ^left him licked once in his 
 life," she replied. "Then I went to my room, fastened 
 the door, and slipped out of my window. I can stay out 
 as long as I want. No one will know." 
 
 Slone's heart throbbed. She was his. The clasp of 
 her hands on his, the gleam of her eyes, the white, daring 
 flash of her face in the shadow of the moon — ^these told 
 him she was his. How it had come about was beyond 
 him, but he realized the truth. What a girl! This was 
 the same nerve which she showed when she had run Wild- 
 fire out in front of the fleetest horses in the uplands. 
 
 "Tell me, then," he began, quietly, with keen gaze 
 roving under the trees and eyes strained tight, "tell me 
 what's come off." 
 
 "Don't you know?" she queried, in amaze. 
 
 "Only that for some reason I'm done in Bostil's Ford. 
 It can't be because I punched Joel Creech. I felt it be- 
 fore I met Bpstil at the store. He taunted me. We had 
 bitter words. He told before aU of them how the outfit 
 I wore you gave me. An' then I dared him to race the 
 King. My horse an' my life against you!" 
 
 "Yes, I know," she whispered, softly. "It's all over 
 town. . . . Oh, Lin! it was a grand bet! And Bostil four- 
 flushed, as the riders say. For days a race between Wild- 
 fire and the King had been in the air. There'll never be 
 peace in Bostil's Ford again till that race is nm." 
 
 "But, Lucy, could Bostil's wantin' Wildfire an' hatin' 
 me because I won't sell — could that ruin me here at the 
 Ford?" 
 
 "It could. But, Lin, there's more. Oh, I hate to 
 teU you!" she whispered, passionately. "I thought you'd 
 know. . . . Joel Creech swore you cut the ropes on the 
 ferry-boat and sent it adrift." 
 
 "The loon!" ejaculated Slone, and he laughed low in 
 236 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 both anger and ridicule. "Lucy, that's only a fool's 
 talk." 
 
 "He's crazy. Oh, if I ever get hun in front of me again 
 when I'm on Sarch — I'll — I'll. . . ." She ended with a 
 little gasp and leaned a moment against Slone. He felt 
 her heart beat — felt the strong clasp of her hands. She 
 was indeed Bostil's flesh and blood, and there was that 
 in her dangerous to arouse. 
 
 "Lin, the folks here are queer," she resumed, more 
 calmly. "For long years Dad has ruled them. They 
 see with his eyes and talk with his voice. Joel Creech 
 swore you cut those cables. Swore he trailed you. 
 Brackton believed him. Van believed him. They told 
 my father. And he — ^my dad — God forgive him! he 
 jumped at that. The village as one person now believes 
 you sent the boat adrift so Creech's horses cotdd not 
 cross and you could win the race." 
 
 "Lucy, if it wasn't so — so ftmny I'd be mad as — as — " 
 burst out Slone. 
 
 "It isn't funny. It's terrible. ... I know who cut those 
 cables. . . . Holley knows. . . . Dad knows — an', oh, Lin — 
 I — I hate — I hate my own father!" 
 
 "My God!" gasped Slone, as the full signification burst 
 upon him. Then his next thought was for Lucy. ""Listen, 
 dear — ^you mustn't say that," he entreated. "He's your 
 father. He's a good man eveiy way except when he's 
 after horses. Then he's half horse. I understand him. 
 I feel sorry for him. . . . An' if he's throwed the blame on 
 me, all right. I'll stand it. What do I care? I was 
 queered, anyhow, because I wouldn't part with my horse. 
 It can't matter so much if people think I did that just 
 to help win a race. But if they knew your — your father 
 did it, an' if Creech's horses starve, why it 'd be a dis- 
 grace for him — an' you." 
 
 "Lin Slone — you'll accept the blame!" she whispered; 
 with wide, dark eyes on him, hands at his shoulders. 
 
 " Sure I will," replied Slone. " I can't be any worse oflE." 
 237 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "You're better than all of them— my rider!" she criedy 
 full-voiced and tremulous. "Lin, you make me love you 
 so — ^it — ^it hurts!" And she seemed about to fling her- 
 self into his arms again. There was a strangeness about 
 her — a glory. "But you'll not take the shame of that 
 act. For I won't let you. I'll tell my father I was with 
 you when the boat was cut loose. He'll believe me." 
 ' "Ye^, an' he'U kill me!" groaned Slone. "Good Lord! 
 Lucy, don't do that!" . 
 
 "I wUl! An' he'U not kill you. Lin, Dad took a great 
 fancy to you. I know that. He thinks he hates you. 
 But in his heart he doesn't. If he got hold of Wildfire — 
 why, he'd never be able to do enough for you. He never 
 cotdd make it up. What do you think? I told him you 
 hugged and kissed me shamefully that day." 
 
 "Oh, Lucy! you didn't?" implored Slone. 
 
 ' ' I sure did. And what do you think ? He said he once 
 did the same to my mother! . . . No, Lin, Dad 'd never 
 kill you for anj^hing except a fury about horses. All the 
 fights he ever had were over horse deals. The two men 
 — ^he — ^he — " Lucy faltered and her shudder was il- 
 luminating to Slone. "Both of them — ^fights over horse 
 trades!" 
 
 "Lucy, if I'm ever unlucky enough to meet Bostil 
 again I'll be deaf an' dumb. An' now you promise me 
 you won't teU him you were with me that night." 
 
 "Lin, if the occasion comes, I will — I couldn't help 
 it," replied Lucy. 
 
 " Then fight shy of the occasion," he rejoined, earnestly. 
 "For that would be the end of Lin Slone!" 
 
 "Then— what on earth can — ^we do?" Lucy said, with 
 sudden break of spirit. 
 
 ' ' I think we must wait. You wrote in your letter you'd 
 stick to me — ^you'd — " He could not get the words out, 
 the thought so overcame him. 
 
 "If it comes to a finish, I'U go with you," Lucy re- 
 turned, with passion rising again. 
 
 238 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Oh! to ride off wUh you, Lucy — ^to have you all to 
 myself — I daren't think of it. But that's only selfish." 
 
 "Maybe it's not so selfish as you believe. If you left 
 the Ford — ^now — it 'd break my heart. I'd never get 
 over it." 
 
 " Lucy! You love me — ^that well?" 
 
 Then their lips met again and their hands locked, and 
 they stood silent, straining toward each other. He held 
 the slight form, so pUant, so responsive, so alive, close to 
 him, and her face lay hidden on his breast; and he looked 
 out over her head into the quivering moonlit shadows. 
 The night was as still as one away on the desert far from 
 the abode of men. It was more beautiful than any dream 
 of a night in which he had wandered far into strange 
 lands where wild horses were and forests lay black under 
 moon-silvered peaks. 
 
 "We'll nm — then — ^if it comes to a finish," said Slone, 
 huskily. "But I'll wait. I'll stick it out here. I'll take 
 what comes. So — maybe I'U not disgrace you more." 
 
 "I told Van I — I gloried in being hugged by you that 
 day," she replied, and her lititle defiant laugh told what 
 she thought of the alleged disgrace. 
 
 "You torment him," remonstrated Slone. "You set 
 him against us. It would be better to keep still." 
 
 "But my blood is up!" she said, and she pounded his 
 shoulder with her fist. "I'U fighl^I'll fight! ... I 
 couldn't avoid Van. It was Holley who told me Van was 
 threatening you. And when I met Van he told me how 
 everybody said you insulted me — ^had been worse than 
 a drunken rider — and that he'd beat you half to death. 
 So I told Van Joel Creech might have seen us — I didn't 
 doubt that — ^but he didn't see that I liked being hugged." 
 
 "What did Van say then?" asked Slone, all a^ow with 
 his wonderful joy. 
 
 "He wilted. He slunk away. . . . And so I'll tell them 
 all." 
 
 "But, Lucy, you've always been so — so truthful." 
 239 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Well, to say you liked being hugged that day was — 
 was a story, wasn't it?" 
 
 "That was what made me so furious," she admitted, 
 shyly. "I was surprised when you grabbed me off Wild- 
 fire. And my heart beat — ^beat — ^beat so when you hugged 
 me. And when you kissed me I — I was petrified. I 
 knew I liked it then — and I was furious with myself." 
 
 Slone drew a long, deep breath of utter enchantment. 
 "You'U take back Wildfire?" 
 
 "Oh, Lin — don't — ask — me," she implored. 
 
 "Take him back — ^an' me with him." 
 
 "Then I wUl. But no one must know that yet." 
 
 They drew apart then. 
 
 "An' now you must go," said Slone, reluctantly. 
 "Listen. I forgot to warn you about Joel Creech. 
 Don't ever let him near you. He's crazy an' he means 
 evil." 
 
 "Oh, I know, Lin! I'U watch. But I'm not afraid 
 of him." 
 
 "He's strong, Lucy. I saw him lift bags that were 
 hefty for me. . . . Lucy, do you ride these days?" 
 
 "Every day. If I couldn't ride I couldn't live." 
 
 "I'm afraid," said Slone, nervously. "There's Creech 
 an' Cordts — ^both have threatened you." 
 
 "I'm afraid of Cordts," replied Lucy, with a shiver. 
 "You should have seen him look at me race-day. It 
 made me hot with anger, yet weak, too, somehow. But 
 Dad says I'm never in any danger if I watch out. And 
 I do. Who could catch me on Sarch?" 
 
 "Any horse can be tripped in the sage. You told me 
 how Joel tried to rope Sage King. Did you ever tell 
 your dad that?" 
 
 "I forgot. But then I'm glad I didn't. Dad would 
 shoot for that, quicker than if Joel tried to rope him. . . . 
 Don't worry, Lin, I always pack a gun." 
 
 "But can you use it?" 
 
 240 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Lucy laughed. "Do you think I can only ride?" 
 
 Slon§ remembered that Holley had said he had taught 
 Lucy how to shoot as well as ride. " You'U be watchful — 
 careful,',' he said, earnestly. 
 
 "Oh, Lin, you need to be that more than I. . . . What 
 will you do?" 
 
 "I'U stay up at the little cabin I thought I owned till 
 to-day." 
 
 "Didn't you buy it?" asked Lucy, quickly. 
 
 "I thought I did. But . . . nevermind. Maybe I won't 
 get put out just yet. An' when wUl I see you again?" 
 
 "Here, every night. Wait till I come," she replied. 
 "Goodnight, Lin." 
 
 "I'll — ^wait!" he exclaimed, with a catch in his voice. 
 "Oh, my luck! . . . I'U wait, Lucy, every day — hopin' an' 
 pra5dn' that this trouble wiU Ughten. An' I'll wait at 
 night — ^for you!" 
 
 He kissed her good-by and watched the slight form 
 glide away, flit to and fro, white in the dark patches, 
 grow indistinct and vanish. He was left alone in the 
 silent grove. 
 
 Slone stole back to the cabin and lay sleepless and 
 tranced, watching the stars, tiU late that night. 
 
 All the next day he did scarcely anything but watch 
 and look after his horses and watch and drag the hours 
 out and dream despite his dread. But no one visited 
 him. The cabin was left to him that day. 
 
 It had been a hot day, with great thunderhead, black 
 and creamy white clouds rolling down from the canon 
 country. No rain had fallen at the Ford, though storms 
 near by had cooled the air. At sunset Slone saw a rain- 
 bow bending down, ruddy and gold, connecting the pur- 
 ple of cloud with the purple of horizon. 
 
 Out beyond the valley the clouds were broken, showing 
 rifts of blue, and they rolled low, burjring the heads of 
 the monuments, creating a wild and strange spectacle. 
 
 24X 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Twilight followed, and appeared to rise to meet the dark- 
 ening clouds. And at last the gold on the shafts faded; 
 the monuments faded; and the valley grew dark. 
 
 Slone took advantage of the hour before moonrise to 
 steal down into the grove, there to wait for Lucy. She 
 came so quickly he scarcely felt that he waited at all; 
 and then the time spent with her, sweet, fleeting, precious, 
 left him stronger to wait for her again, to hold himself 
 in, to cease his brooding, to learn faith in something deeper 
 than he could fathom. 
 
 The next day he tried to work, but found idle waiting 
 made the time fly swifter because in it he could dream. 
 In the dark of the rustling cottonwoods he met Lucy; 
 as eager to see him as he was to see her, tender, loving, 
 remorseful — a hundred sweet and bewildering things all 
 so new, so unbelievable to Slone. 
 
 That night he learned that Bostil had started for Du- 
 rango with some of his riders. This trip surprised Slone 
 and relieved him likewise, for Durango was over two hna- 
 dred miles distant, and a journey there even for the hard 
 riders was a matter of days. 
 
 "He left no orders for me," Lucy said, "except to be- 
 have myself. ... Is this behaving?" she whispered, and 
 nestled close to Slone, audacious, tormenting as she had 
 been before this dark cloud of trouble. "But he left 
 orders for HoUey to ride with me and look after me. 
 Isn't that funny? Poor old HoUey! He hates to double- 
 cross Dad, he says." 
 
 "I'm glad Holley's to look after you," replied Slone. 
 "Yesterday I saw you tearin' down into the sage on 
 Sarch. I wondered what you'd do, Lucy, if Cordts or that 
 loon Creech should get hold of you?" 
 
 "I'd fight!" 
 
 " But, child, that's nonsense. You couldn't fight either 
 of them." 
 
 "Couldn't I? Well, I just could. I'd— I'd shoot 
 Cordts. And I'd whip Joel Creech with my qtiirt. And 
 
 242 
 
WILDFlKt 
 
 if he ](cept after me I'd let Sarch run h\m down. Sarch 
 hates him." 
 
 "You're a brave sweetheart," mused Slone. "Sup- 
 pose you were caught an' couldn't get away. Would you 
 leave a trail somehow?" 
 
 "I sure would." 
 
 "Lucy, I'm a wUd-horse hunter," he went on, thought- 
 fully, as if speaking to himself. "I never failed on a 
 trail. I could track you over bare rock." 
 
 "Lin, I'll leave a trail, so never fear," she replied. 
 "But don't borrow trouble. You're always afraid for 
 me. Look at the bright side. Dad seems to have for- 
 gotten you. Maybe it aU isn't so bad as we thought. 
 Oh, I hope so! . . . How is my horse. Wildfire? I want to 
 ride him again. I can hardly keep from going after 
 him." 
 
 And so they whispered while the moments swiftly 
 passed. 
 
 It was early during the afternoon of the next day that 
 Slone, hearing the clip-clop of unshod ponies, went out- 
 side to look. One part of the lane he could see plainly, 
 and into it stalked Joel Creech, leading the leanest and 
 gauntest ponies Slone had ever seen. A man as lean and 
 gaunt as the ponies stalked behind. 
 
 The sight shocked Slone. Joel Creech and his father! 
 Slone had no proof, because he had never seen the elder 
 Creech, yet strangely he felt convinced of it. And grim 
 ideas began to flash into his mind. Creech would hear who 
 was accused of cutting the boat adrift. What would he 
 say? If he believed, as all the villagers believed, then 
 Bostil's Ford would become an unhealthy place for Lin 
 Slone. Where were the great race-horses — Blue Roan and 
 Peg — and the other thoroughbreds ? A pang shot through 
 Slone. 
 
 "Oh, not lost — ^not starved!" he muttered. "That 
 would be hell!" 
 
 17 243 
 
» WILDFIRE 
 
 Yet he believed just this had happened. How strange 
 he had never considered such an event as the rettim of 
 Creech. 
 
 "I'd better look him up before he looks me," said 
 Slone. 
 
 It took but an instant to strap on his belt and gun. 
 .Then Slone strode down his path, out into the lane tow- 
 ard Brackton's. Whatever before boded ill to Slone 
 had been nothing to what menaced him now. He would 
 have a man to face — a man whom repute called just, 
 but stem. 
 
 Before Slone reached the vicinity of the store he saw 
 riders come out to meet the Creech party. It so hap- 
 pened there were more riders than usually frequented 
 Brackton's at that hour. The old storekeeper came stum- 
 bling out and raised his hands. The riders could be heard, 
 loud-voiced and excited. Slone drew nearer, and the 
 nearer he got the swifter he strode. Instinct told him 
 that he was making the right move. He would face this 
 man whom he was accused of ruining. The poor mus- 
 tangs hung their heads dejectedly. 
 
 "Bags of bones," some rider loudly said. 
 
 And then Slone drew close to the excited group. Brack- 
 ton held the center; he was gesticulating; his thin voice 
 rose piercingly. 
 
 " Creech ! Whar's Peg an' the Roan? Gawd Almighty, 
 man ! You ain't meanin' them ca3nises thar are all you've 
 got'left of thet grand bimch of bosses?" 
 
 There was scarcely a sound. All the riders were still. 
 Slone fastened his eyes on Creech. He saw a gaunt, hag- 
 gard face almost black with dust — ^wom and sad — ^with 
 big eyes of terrible gloom. He saw an unkempt, ragged 
 form that had been wet and muddy, and was now dust- 
 caked. 
 
 Creech stood silent in a dignity of despair that wrung 
 Slone's heart. His silence was an answer. It was Joel 
 Creech who broke the suspense. 
 
 244 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 ' "Didn't I tell you-all what'd happen?" he shrilled. 
 "Parched an' starved!" 
 
 "Aw no!" chorused the riders. 
 
 Brackton shook aU over. Tears dimmed his eyes — 
 tears that he had no shame for. "So help me Gawd — I'm 
 sorry!" was his broken exclamation. 
 
 Slone had forgotten himself and possible revelation con- 
 cerning him. But when Holley appeared dose to him, 
 with a significant warning look, Slone grew keen once 
 more on his own account. He felt a hot flame inside 
 him — a deep and burning anger at the man who might 
 have saved Creech's horses. And he, like Brackton, felt 
 sorrow for Creech, and a rider's sense of loss, of pain. 
 These horses — ^these dumb brutes — faithful and some- 
 times devoted, had to suffer an agonizing death because 
 of the selfishness of men. 
 
 "I reckon we'd all like to hear what come off, Creech, 
 if you don't feel too bad to tell us," said Brackton. 
 
 "Gimme a drink," replied Creech. 
 
 "Wal, d — ^n my old head!" exclaimed Brackton. "I'm 
 gittin' old. Come on in. All of you! We're glad to see 
 Creech home." 
 
 The riders filed ia after Brackton and the Creeches. 
 Holley stayed close beside Slone, both of them in the 
 background. , 
 
 "I heerd the flood comin' thet night; " said Creech 
 to his silent and tfense-faced listeners. "I heerd it miles 
 up the caiion. 'Feared a bigger roar than any flood 
 before. As it happened, I was alone, an' it took time 
 to git the bosses up. If there'd been an Indian with 
 me — or even Joel — mebbe — " His voice quavered 
 shghtly, broke, and then he resumed. "Even when I 
 got the bosses over to the landin' it wasn't too late — 
 if only some one had heerd me an' come down. I 
 yelled an' shot. Nobody heerd. The river was risin' 
 fast. An' thet roar had begim to make my hair raise. 
 It seemed like years the time I waited there. . . . Then 
 
 245 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 the flood came down — ^blact an' windy an' awful. I had 
 hell gittin' the hosses back. 
 
 "Next momin' two Piutes come down. They had lost 
 mustangs up on the rocks. AH the feed on my place was 
 gone. There wasn't nothin' to do but try to git out. 
 The Piuties said there wasn't no chance north — ^no water 
 — ^no grass — ^an' so I decided to go south, if we could 
 climb over thet last sUde. Peg broke her leg there, an' — 
 I — I had to shoot her. But we climbed out with the rest 
 of the bunch. I left it then to the Piutes. We traveled 
 five days west to head the canons. No grass an' only a 
 little water, salt at thet. Blue Roan was game if ever I 
 seen a game hoss. Then the Piutes took to workin' in 
 an' out an' around, not to git out, but to find a little 
 grazin'. I never knowed the earth was so barren. One 
 by one them hosses went down. . . . An' at last, I couldn't 
 -^I couldn't see Blue Roan starvin' — dyin' right before 
 my eyes — an' I shot him, too. . . . An' what hurts me most 
 now is thet I didn't have the nerve to kill him fust off." 
 
 There was a long pause in Creech's narrative. 
 
 "Them Piutes will git paid if ever I can pay them. I'd 
 p^arched myself but for them. . . . We circled an' crossed 
 them red cliffs an' then the strip of red sand, an' worked 
 down into the canon. Under the wall was a long stretch 
 of beach — ^sandy — ^an' at the head of this we found 
 Bostil 's boat." 
 
 "Wal, !" burst out the profane Brackton. "Bos- 
 til's boat! . . . Say, 'ain't Joel told you yet about thet 
 boat?" 
 
 "No, Joel 'ain't said a word about the boat," rephed. 
 Creech. "What about it?" 
 
 "It was cut loose jest before the flood." 
 
 Manifestly Brackton expected Ijiis to be staggering to 
 Creech. But he did not even show surprise. 
 
 "There's a rider here named Slone — a wild-hoss 
 wrangler," went on Brackton, "an' Joel swears this 
 Slone cut the boat loose so's he'd have a better chance 
 I 246 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 to win the race. Joel swears he tracked this feller 
 Slone." 
 
 For Slone the moment was fraught with many emo- 
 tions, but not one of them was fear. He did not need the 
 sudden force of Holley's strong hand, pushing him for- 
 ward. Slone broke into the group and faced Creech. 
 
 "It's not true. I never cut that boat loose," he de- 
 clared, ringingly. 
 
 "Who 're you?" queried Creech. 
 
 "My name's Slone. I rode in here with a wild 
 horse, an' he won a race. Thten I was blamed for 
 this trick." 
 
 Creech's steady, gloomy eyes seemed to pierce Slone 
 through. They were terrible eyes to look into, yet they 
 held no menace for him. "An' Joel accused you?" 
 
 "So they say. I fought with him — struck him for an 
 insult to a girl." 
 
 "Come round hyar, Joel," called Creech, sternly. His 
 big, scaly, black hand closed on the boy's shoulder. 
 Joel cringed under it. "Son, you've lied. What for?" 
 
 Joel showed abject fear of his father. "He's gone on 
 Lucy — an' I seen him with her," muttered the boy. 
 
 "An' you lied to hurt Slone?" 
 
 Joel would not reply to this in speech, though that was 
 scarcely needed to show he had lied. He seemed to have 
 no sense of guilt. Creech eyed him pityingly and then 
 pushed him back. 
 
 "Men, my son has done this rider dirt," said Creech. 
 "You-all see thet. Slone never cut the boat loose. . . . 
 An' say, you-all seem to think cuttin' thet boat loose was 
 the crime. . . . No! Thet wasn't the crime. The crime 
 was keepin' the boat out of the water fer days when my 
 bosses could have been crossed." 
 
 Slone stepped back, forgotten, it seemed to him. Both 
 joy and sorrow swayed him. He had been exonerated. 
 But this hard and gloomy Creech— he knew things. And 
 Slone thought of Lucy. 
 
 247 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Who did cut thet thar boat loose?" demanded Brack- 
 ton, incredulously. 
 
 Creech gave him a strange glance. "As I was sayin', 
 we come on the boat fast at the head of the long stretch. 
 I seen the cables had been cut. An' I seen^ore'n thet. 
 . . . Wal, the river was high an' swift. But this was a 
 long stretdi with good landin' way below on the other 
 side. We got the boat in, an' by rowin' hard an' driftin' 
 we got acrost, leadin' the bosses. We had five when we 
 took to the river. Two went down on the way over. 
 We climbed out then. The Piutes went to find some 
 Navajos an' get bosses. An' I headed fer the Ford — 
 made camp twice. An' Joel seen me comin' out a ways." 
 
 "Creech, was there anythin' left in thet boat?" began 
 Brackton, with intense but pondering curiosity. "Any- 
 thin' on the ropes — or so — thet might give an idee who 
 cut her loose?" 
 
 Creech made no reply to that. The gloom burned 
 darker in bis eyes. He seemed a man with a secret. He 
 trusted no one there. These men were all friends of his, 
 but friends under strange conditions. His silence was 
 tragic, and aU about the man breathed vengeance. 
 
CH/PTER XVI 
 
 NO moon showed that night, and few stars twinkled 
 between the slow-moving clouds. The air was thick 
 and oppressive, full of the day's heat that had not blown 
 away. A dry storm moved in dry majesty across the 
 horizon, and the sheets and ropes of lightning, blazing 
 white behind the black monuments, gave weird and beau- 
 tiful grandeur to the desert. 
 
 Lucy Bostil had to evade her aunt to get out of the 
 house, and the window, that had not been the means of 
 exit since Bostil left, once more came into use. Aunt 
 Jane had grown suspicious of late, and Lucy, much as she 
 wanted to trust her with her secret, dared not do it. For 
 some reason unknown to Lucy, HoUey had also been hard 
 to manage, particularly to-day. Lucy certainly did not 
 want HoUey to accompany her on her nightly rendezvous 
 with Slone. She changed her light gown to the darker 
 and thicker riding-habit. 
 
 There was a longed-for, all-satisfying flavor in this 
 night adventure — something that had not all to do with 
 love. The stealth, the outwitting of guardians, the dark- 
 ness, the silence, the risk — all these called to some deep, 
 undeveloped instinct in her, and thriUed along her veins, 
 cool, keen, exciting. She had the blood in her of the 
 greatest adventurer of his day. 
 
 Lucy feared she was a little late. Allaying the sus- 
 picions of ^unt Jane and changing her dress had taken 
 time. Lucy hurried with less cautious steps. Still she 
 had only used caution in the grove because she had 
 promised Slone to do so. This night she forgot or dis- 
 
 249 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 regarded it. And the shadows were thick — darker than 
 at any other time when she had tindertaken this venture. 
 She had always been a little afraid of the dark — a fact 
 that made her contemptuous of herself. Nevertheless, 
 she did not peer into the deeper pits of gloom. She knew 
 her way and could sUp swiftly along with only a rustle of 
 leaves she touched. 
 
 Suddenly she imagined she heard a step and she halted, 
 still as a tree-trunk. There was no reason to be afraid 
 of a step. It had been a surprise to her that she had 
 never encountered a rider walking and smoking under the 
 trees. Listening, she assured herself she had been mis- 
 taken, and then went on. But she looked back. Did 
 she see a shadow — darker than others — amoving? It was 
 only her imagination. Yet she sustained a slight chiU. 
 The air seemed more oppressive, or else there was some 
 intangible and strange thing hovering in it. She went 
 on — ^reached the lane that divided the grove. But she 
 did not cross at once. It was Eghter in this lane; she 
 coiild see quite far. ^ 
 
 As she stood there, listening, keenly responsive to all 
 the influences of the night, she received an impression 
 that did not have its origin in sight nor sound. And 
 only the leaves touched her — and only their dry fragrance 
 came tto her. But she felt a presence — a strange, inde- , 
 finable presence. 
 
 But Lucy was brave, and this feeling, whatever it 
 might be, angered her. She entered the lane and stole 
 swiftly along toward the end of the grove. Paths crossed 
 the lane at right angles, and at these points' she went 
 swifter. It would be something to teU Slone — she had 
 been frightened. But thought of him drove away her 
 fear and nervousness, and her anger with hersdf. 
 
 Then she came to a wider path. She scaroely noted it 
 and passed on. Then came a quick rustle — a swift 
 shadow. Between two steps — as her heart leaped — ^vio- 
 lent arms swept her c& the groimd. A hard hand was 
 
 250 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 dapped over her mouth. She was being carried swiftly 
 through the gloom. 
 
 Lucy tried to struggle. She could scarcely move a 
 muscle. Iron arms wrapped her in coils that crushed her. 
 She tried to scream, but her lips were tight-pressed. 
 Her nostrils were almost closed between two hard fingers 
 that smelled of horse. 
 
 Whoever had her, she was helpless. Lucy's fury ad- 
 mitted of reason. Then both succumbed to a paralyzing 
 horror. Cdrdts had got her! She knew it. She grew 
 limp as a rag and her senses dulled. She almost fainted. 
 The sickening paralysis of her faculties lingered. But 
 she felt her body released — she was placed upon her feet — 
 she was shaken by a rough hand. She swayed, and but 
 for that hand might have fallen. She could see a tall, 
 dark form over her, and horses, and the gloomy gray open 
 of the sage slope. The hand left her face. 
 
 "Don't yap, girl!" This command in a hard, low 
 voice pierced her ears. She saw the glint of a gun held 
 before her. Instinctive fear revived her old faculties. 
 The horrible sick weakness, the dimness, the shaking 
 internal collapse all left her. 
 
 "I'U — ^be-r-quiet!" she faltered. She knew what her 
 father had always feared had come to pass. And though 
 she had been told to put no value on her life, in that event, 
 she could not run. All in an instant — when life had been 
 so sweet — she could not face pain or death. 
 
 The man moved back a step. He was tail, gaunt, 
 ragged. But not like Cordts! Never would she forget 
 Cordts. She peered up at him. In the dim light of the 
 few stars she recognized Jod Creech's father. 
 
 "Oh, thank God!" she whispered, in the shock of 
 blessed relief. "I thought — ^you were — Cordts!" 
 
 "Keep^uiet!" he whispered back, sternly, and with 
 rough ham he shook her. 
 
 Lucy awoke to realities. Something evil menaced 
 her, even though this man was not Cordts. Her mind 
 
 2SI 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 could -not grasp it. She was amazed-r^tmined. She 
 struggled to speak, yet to keep within that warning , 
 command. 
 
 "What — on earth — does this-r-mean?" she gasped, very 
 low. She had no sense of fear of Creech. Once, when he 
 and her father had been friends, she had been a favorite 
 of Creech's. When a little girl she had ridden his knee • 
 many times. Between Creech and Cordts there was im- 
 measurable distance. Yet she had been violently seized 
 and carried out into the sage and menaced. 
 
 Creech leaned down. His gaunt faCe, lighted by ter- 
 rible eyes, made her recoil. "Bostil ruined me — an' 
 killed my hosses," he whisperpd, grimly. "An' I'm tak- 
 in',you away. An' I'U hold you in ransom lor the King-^— 
 an* Sarchedon — an' all his racers!" 
 
 "Oh!" cried Lucy, in startling surprise that. yet held 
 a pang. "Oh, Creech! . . . Then you mean me no 
 harm!" 
 
 The man straightened up and stood a moment, darkly 
 silent, as if her query had presented a new aspect of 
 the case. "Lucy Bostil, I'm a broken man an' wild 
 an' f till ,jpf hate. But God knows I never thought of 
 thet^%f 'jliarm to you. . . . No, child, I won't harm 
 you. But you must obpy an' go quietly, for there's a 
 devil in me." • ;. 
 
 "Where will you take me?" she asked. 
 
 "Down in the canons, where no one can track me," he 
 said. "It '11 be hard goin' fer you, child, an' hard fare.' 
 . . . But I'm strikin' at Bostil's heart as he has broken 
 mine. I'U send him word. An' I'U tell him if he won't 
 give his hosses thet I'U sell you to Cordts." 
 
 "Oh, Creech — ^but you wouldn't!" she whispered, and 
 her hand went to his brawny arm. 
 
 "Lucy, in thet case I'd make as poor a blac kau ard as 
 anythin' else I've been," he said, forlornly, ^ut I'm 
 figgerin' Bostil wiU give up his hosses fer you." 
 
 "Creech, I'm afraid he won't. You'd better give me 
 252 
 
LUCY PONDERED. SHE DIVINED SOME FINENESS OF FEELING IN THIS 
 COARSE MAN. HE WANTED TO SPARE HER NOT ONLY PAIN, BUT 
 THE NECESSITY OF WATCHFUL EYES ON HER EVERY MOVEMENT 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 up. Let me go back. I'll never tell. I don't blame you. 
 I think you're square. My dad is. . . . But, oh, don't 
 make me suffer! You used to — to care for me, when I 
 was little." 
 
 "Thet ain't no use," he replied. "Don't talk no more. 
 . . . Git up hyar now an' ride in front of me." 
 
 He led her to a lean mustang. Lucy swung into the 
 saddle. She thought how singular a coincidence it was 
 that she had worn a riding-habit. It was dark and thick, 
 and comfortable for riding. Suppose she had worn the 
 flimsy dress, in which she had met Slone every night save 
 this one? Thought of Slone gave her a pang. He would 
 wait and wait and wait. He would go back to his cabin, 
 not knowing what had befallen her. 
 
 Suddenly Lucy noticed another man, near at hand, 
 holding two mustangs. He mounted, rode before her, 
 and then she recognized Joel Creech. Assurance of this 
 brought back something of the dread. But the father 
 could control the son! 
 
 "Ride on," said Creech, hitting her horse from behind. 
 
 And Lucy found herself riding single file, with two men 
 and a pack-horse, out upon the windy, dark sage slope. 
 They faced the direction of the monuments, looming now 
 and then so weirdly black and grand against the broad 
 flare of lightning-blazed sky. 
 
 Ever since Lucy had reached her teens there had been 
 predictions that she would be kidnapped, and now the 
 thing had come to pass. She was in danger, she knew, 
 but ia infinitely less than had any other wild character 
 of the uplands been her captor. She believed, if she 
 went quietly and obediently with Creech, that she would 
 be, at least, safe from harm. It was hard luck for Bostil, 
 she thought, but no worse than he deserved. Retribu- 
 tion had overtaken him. How terribly hard he would 
 take the loss of his horses! Lucy wondered if he really 
 ever would part with the King, even to save her from priva- 
 tion and peril Bostil was more likely to trail her with 
 
 253 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 his riders and to kill the Creeches than to concede their 
 demands. Perhaps, though, that threat to sell her to 
 Cordts would frighten the hard old man. 
 
 The horses trotted and svTung up over the slope, turn- 
 ing gradually, evidently to make a wide detour round the 
 Ford, tmtil Lucy's back was toward the monuments. 
 Before her stretched the bleak, barren, dark desert, and 
 through the opaque gloom she could see nothing. Lucy 
 knew she was headed for the north, toward the wild 
 canons, unknown to the riders. Cordts and his gang hid 
 in there. What might not happen if the Creeches fell in 
 with Cordts? Lucy's confidence sustained a check. Still, 
 she remembered the Creeches were like Indians. And 
 what would Slone do? He would ride out on her trail. 
 Lucy shivered for the Creeches if Slone ever caught up 
 with them, and remembering his wild-horse-himter's skill 
 at tracking, and the fleet and tireless Wildfire, she grew 
 convinced that Creech could not long hold her captive. 
 For Slone would be wary. He would give no sign of his 
 pursuit. He would steal upon the Creeches in the dark 
 and — Lucy shivered again. What an awful fate had 
 been that of Dick Sears! 
 
 So as she rode on Lucy's mind was full. She was used 
 to riding, and in the motion of a horse there was some- 
 thing in harmony with her blood. Even now, with 
 worry and dread and plotting strong upon her, habit had 
 such power over her that riding made the hours fleet. 
 She was surprised to be halted, to see dimly low, dark 
 mounds of rock ahead. 
 
 "Git off," said .Creech. 
 
 "Where are we?" asked Lucy. 
 
 "Reckon hyar's the rocks. An' you sleep some, fer 
 you'll need it." He spread a blanket, laid her saddle 
 at the head of it, and dropped another blanket. "What 
 I want to know is — shall I tie you up or not?" asked 
 Creech. "If I do you'll git sore. An' this '11 bathe 
 toughest trip you ever made." 
 
 2.54 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "You mean will I try to get away from you — or not?" 
 tjueried Lucy. 
 
 "Jest that." 
 
 Lucy pondered. She divined some fineness of feeling 
 in this coarse man. He wanted to spare her not only 
 pain, but the necessity of watchful eyes on her every 
 moment. Lucy did not like to promise not to try to 
 escape, if opportunity presented. Still, she reasoned, 
 that once deep in the canons, where she would be in 
 another day, she would be worse off if she did get away. 
 The memory of Cordts's cavernous, hungry eyes upon her 
 was not a small factor in Lucy's decision. 
 
 "Creech, if I give my word not to try to get away, 
 would you believe me?" she asked. 
 
 Creech was slow in replying. "Reckon I would," he 
 said, finally. 
 
 "All right, I'll give it." 
 
 "An' that's sense. Now you lay down." 
 
 Lucy did as she was bidden and pulled the blanket over 
 her. The place was gloomy and still. She heard the 
 sound of mustangs' teeth on grass, and the soft footfalls of 
 the men. Presently these sounds ceased. A cold wind 
 blew over her face and rustled in the sage near her. 
 Gradually the chill passed away, and a stealing warmth 
 took its place. Her eyes grew tired. What had hap- 
 pened to her? With eyes closed she thought it was all 
 a dream. Then the feeling of the hard saddle as a pil- 
 low under her head told her she was indeed far from her 
 comfortable little room. What would poor Aunt Jane 
 do in the morning when she discovered who was missing? 
 What would Holley do? When would Bostil return? It 
 might be soon and it might be days. And Slone — ^Lucy 
 felt sorriest for him. For he loved her best. She thrilled 
 at thought of Slone on that grand horse — on her Wildfire. 
 And with her mind running on and on, seemingly making 
 sleep impossible, the thoughts at last becaqie dreams. 
 
 Lucy awakened at dawn. One hand ached with cold, 
 
 255 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 for it had been outside the blanket. Her hard bed had 
 cramped her muscles. She heard the crackling of fire 
 and smelled cedar smoke. In the gray of morning she 
 saw the Creeches round a camp-fire. 
 
 Lucy got up then. Both men saw her, but made no 
 comment. In that cold, gray dawn she felt her predica- 
 ment more gravely. Her hair was damp. She had rid- 
 den nearly all night without a hat. She had absolutely 
 nothing of her own except what was on her body. But 
 Lucy thanked her lucky stars that she had worn the thick 
 riding-suit and her boots, for otherwise, in a summer 
 dress, her condition would soon have been miserable. 
 
 "Come an' eat," said Creech. "You have sense — aa' 
 eat if it sticks in your throat." 
 
 Bostil had always contended in his arguments w^ 
 riders that a man should eat heartily on the start of a ' 
 trip so that the finish might find him strong. And Lucy ; 
 ate, though the coarse faH^sickened her. Once she looked 
 curiously at Joel Creech. She felt his eyes upon her, but , 
 instantly he averted them. He had grown more haggaird 
 and sullen than ever before. 
 
 The Creeches did not loiter over the camp tasks. Lucy 
 was left to herself. The place appeared to be a kind of 
 depression from which the desert rolled away to a bulge , 
 against the rosy east, and the rocks behind rose broken 
 and yellow, fringed with cedars. 
 
 "Git the bosses in, if you want to," Creech called to 
 her, and then as Lucy started off to where the mustangs 
 grazed she heard him curse his son. "Come back hyar! 
 Leave the girl alone or I'll rap you one !" 
 
 Lucy drove three of the mustangs into camp, whefe 
 
 Creech began to saddle them. The remaining one, the 
 
 pack animal, Lucy found among the scrub cedars at the 
 
 base of the low cliffs. When she drove him in Creech was 
 
 ' talking hard to Joel, who had mounted. 
 
 "When you come back, work up this canon till you git 
 up. It heads on the pine plateau, I can't miss seein' 
 
 256 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 you, or any one, long before you git up on top. An' i 
 you needn't come without Bostil's bosses. You know 
 what to tell Bostil if he threatens you, or refuses to send 
 his hosses, or turns his riders on my trail. Thet's alL | 
 Now git!" 
 
 Joel Creech rode away toward the rise in the rolling, 1 
 barren desert. ' 
 
 "An' now we'll go on," said Creech to Lucy. 
 
 When he had gotten all in readiness he ordered Lucy i 
 to follow closely in his tracks. He entered a narrow cleft 
 in the low cliffs which wound in and out, and was thick 
 with sage and cedars. Lucy, riding close to the cedars, 
 conceived the idea of plucking the Uttle green berries 
 and dropping them on parts of the trail where their 
 tracks would not show. _ Warily she filled the pockets 
 of her jacket. 
 
 Creech led the way without looking back, and did not 
 seem to care where the horses stepped. The time had not 
 yet come, Lucy concluded, when he was ready to hide his 
 trail. Presently the narrow cleft opened into a low-walled 
 canon, full of debris from the rotting cliffs, and this in 
 turn opened into a main canon with mounting yellow 
 crags. It appeared to lead north. Far in the distance 
 above rims and crags rose in a long, black line like a 
 horizon of dark cloud. 
 
 Creech crossed this wide canon and entered one of the 
 many breaks in the wall. This one was full of splintered 
 rock and weathered shale — the hardest kind of travel for 
 both man and beast. Lucy was nothing if not considerate 
 of a horse, and here she began to help her animal in all 
 the ways a good rider knows. Much as this taxed her 
 attention, she remembered to drop some of the cedar 
 berries upon hard ground or rocks. And she knew she 
 was leaving a trail for Slone's keen eyes. 
 
 That day was the swiftest and the most strenuous in 
 all Lucy Bostil's experience in the open. At sunset, when , 
 
 257 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Creech halted in a niche in a gorge between lowering 
 cliffs, Lucy fell off her horse and lay stUl and spent on the 
 grass. 
 
 Creech had a glance of sympathy and admiration for 
 her, but he did not say anythhig about the long day's 
 ride. Lucy never in her Ufe before appreciated rest nor 
 the softness of grass nor the reUef at the end of a ride. 
 She lay still with a throbbing, burning ache in all her body. 
 Creech, after he had turned the horses loose, brought her 
 a drink of cold water from the brook she heard Some- 
 where near by. 
 
 "How — ^far — did — ^we — come?" she whispered. 
 
 "By the way round I reckon nigh onto sixty miles," 
 he Keplied. "But we ain't half thet far from where we 
 camped last night." 
 
 Then he set to work at camp tasks. Lucy shook her 
 head when he brought her food, but he insisted, and she 
 had to force it down. Creech appeared rough but kind. 
 After she had become used to the hard, gaunt, black face 
 she saw sadness and thought in it. One thing Lucy had 
 noticed was that Creech never failed to spare a horse, if 
 it was possible. He would climb on foot over bad places. 
 
 Night soon mantled the gorge in blackness thick as 
 pitch. Lucy could not tell whether her eyes were open 
 or shut, so far as what she saw was concerned. Her eyes 
 seemed filled, however, with a thousand pictures of the 
 wild and tortuous canons and gorges through which she 
 had, ridden that day. The ache in her limbs and the 
 fever in her blood would not let her sleep. It seemed that 
 these were forever to be a part of her. For twelve hours 
 she had ridden and walked with scarce a thought of the 
 nature of the wild country, yet once she lay down to rest 
 her mind was an endless hurrying procession of pictures 
 : — ^narrow red clefts choked with green growths — ^yellow 
 gorges and weathered slides — dusty, treacherous divides 
 connecting canons — jumbles of ruined cliffs and piles of 
 shale — smiles and niles and endless winding miles of 
 
 258 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 yellow, low, beetling walls. And through it all she^hadi 
 left a trail. 
 
 Next day Creech climbed out of that low-walled caiion,i 
 and Lucy saw a wild, rocky country cut by gorges, green 
 and bal-e, or yellow and cedared. The long, black- 
 fringed Une she had noticed the day before loomed closer,' 
 overhanging this crisscrossed region of canons. Every 
 half -hour Creech would lead them downward and pres- 
 ently climb out again. There were sand and hard ground 
 and thick turf and acres and acres of bare rock where 
 even a shod horse would not leave a track. 
 
 But the going was not so hard — there was not so much 
 travel on foot for Lucy — and she finished that day in better 
 condition than the first one. 
 
 Next day Creech proceeded with care and caution. 
 Many times he left the direct route, bidding Lucy wait 
 for him, and he would ride to the rims of canons or the 
 tops of ridges of cedar forests, and from these vantage- 
 points he would survey the country. Lucy gathered 
 after a while that he was apprehensive of what might be 
 encotmtered, and particularly so of what might be feared 
 in pursuit. Lucy thought this strange, because it was 
 out of the question for any one to be so soon on Creech's 
 trail. 
 
 These pequliar actions of Creech were more noticeable 
 on the third day, and Lucy grew apprehensive herself.' 
 She could not divine why. But when Creech halted on 
 a high crest that gave a sweeping vision of the broken 
 table-land they had traversed Lucy made out for herself 
 faint moving specks miles behind. 
 
 "I reckon you see thet," said Creech 
 
 "Horses," replied Lucy. 
 
 He nodded his head gloomily, and seemed pondering a 
 serious question. 
 
 "Is some one .trailing us?" asked Lucy, and she coxdd. 
 not keep the tremor out of her voice. 
 
 "Wal, I should smile! Per two days — ^an' it sure beats 
 
 18 259 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 me. They've never had a sight of us. But they keep 
 comin'." 
 
 "They! Who?" she asked, swiftly. 
 
 "I hate to tell you, but I reckon I ought. Thet's 
 Cordts an' two of his gang." 
 
 "Oh — don't tell me so!" cried Lucy, suddenly terrified. 
 Mention of Cordts had not always had power to frighten 
 her, but this time she had a return of that shaking fear 
 which had overcome her in the grove the night she was 
 captiu"ed. 
 
 "Cordts all right," replied Creech. "I knowed thet 
 before I seen him. Fer two momin's back I seen his hoss 
 grazin in thet wide canon. But I thought I'd slipped by. | 
 Some one seen us. Or they seen our trail. Anjrway,' 
 he's after us. What beats me is how he sticks to thet 
 trail. Cordts never was no tracker. An' since Dick 
 Sears is dead there ain't a tracker in Cordts's outfit. An' 
 Lalways could hide my tracks. . . . Beats me!" 
 
 "Creecht I've been leaving a trail," confessed Lucy. 
 
 "What!" 
 
 Then she told him how she had been dropping cedar 
 berries and bits of cedar leaves along the bare and stony 
 cotirse they had traversed. 
 
 "Wal, I'm—" Creech stifled an oath. Then he 
 laughed, but grufSy. "You air a cute one. But I reckon 
 you didn't promise not to do thet, . . . An' now if Cordts 
 gits you there'll be only yourself to blame." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Lucy, frantically looking back. The 
 moving specks were plainly in sight. " How can he know 
 he's trailing me?" ', 
 
 "Thet I can't say. Mebbe he doesn't know. His' 
 hosses air fresh, though, an' if I can't shake him he'll 
 find out soon enough who he's trailin'." 
 
 "Go on! We must shake him. I'U never do ihat 
 again! . . . For God's sake, Creech, don't let him get me!" 
 
 And Creech led down off the high open land into canons 
 again. 
 
 260 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 The day ended, and the night seemed a black blani to 
 Lucy. Another sunrise found Creech leading on, sparing 
 neither Lucy nor the horses. He kept on a steady walk 
 or trot, and he picked out ground less likely to leave any 
 tracks. Like an old deer he doubled on his trail. He 
 traveled down stream-beds where the water left no trail. 
 That day the mustangs began to fail. The others were 
 ! wearing out. 
 
 The canons ran like the ribs of a wash-board. And 
 they grew deep and verdant, with looming, towered walls. 
 That night Lucy felt lost in an abyss. The dream- 
 ing silence kept her awake many moments while 
 sleep had already seized upon her eyelids. And then 
 she dreamed of Cordts capturing her, of canying her 
 miles deeper into these wild and ptuple cliffs, of Slone in 
 pursuit on the stallion Wildfire, and of a savage fight. 
 And she awoke terrified and cold in the blackness of the 
 night. 
 
 On the next day Creech traveled west. This seemed 
 to Lucy to be far to the left of the direction taken be- 
 fore. And Lucy, in spite of her utter weariness, and the 
 necessity of caring for herself and her horse, could not 
 but wonder at the wild and frowning canon. It was only 
 a tributary of the great canon, she supposed, but it was 
 different, strange, impressive, yet intimate, because all 
 about it was overpowering, near at hand, even the beet- 
 ling crags. And at every turn it seemed impossible to 
 go farther over that narrow and rock-bestrewn floor. Yet 
 Creech fotind a way on. 
 
 Then came hours of climbing such slopes and benches 
 and ledges as Lucy had not yet encountered. The grasp- 
 ing spikes of dead cedar tore her dress to shreds, and many 
 a scratch burned her flesh. About the middle of the 
 afternoon Creech led up over the last declivity, a yellow 
 slope of cedar, to a flat upland covered with pine and 
 high bleached grass. They rested. 
 
 "We've fooled Cordts, you can be sure of thet," said 
 261 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Creech. "You're a game kid, an', by Gawd! if I had this 
 job to do over I'd never tackle it again!" 
 
 "Oh, you're sure we've lost him?" implored Lucy. 
 
 "Sure as I am of death. An' we'll make surer in 
 crossin' this bench. It's miles to the other side where 
 I'm to keep watch fer Joel. An' we won't leave a track 
 all the way." 
 
 "But this grass?" questioned Lucy. "It'll show our 
 tracks." 
 
 "Look at the lanes an' trails between. All pine mats 
 thick an' soft an' springy. Only an Indian could follow 
 us hyar on Wild Hoss Bench." 
 
 Lucy gazed before her under the pines. It was a beau- 
 tifxol forest, with trees standing far apart, yet not so far 
 but that their foliage intermingled. A dry fragrance, 
 thick as_ a heavy perfume, blew into her face. She could 
 not help but think of fire — ^how it wotild race through 
 here, and that recalled Joel Creech's horrible threat. 
 Lucy shuddered and put away the memory. 
 
 "I can't go — any farther — ^to-day," she said. 
 
 Creech looked at her compassionately. Then Lucy 
 became conscious that of late he had softened. 
 
 "You'll have to come," he said. "There's no water 
 on this side, short of thet canon-bed. An' acrost there's 
 water close under the wall." 
 
 So they set out into the forest. And Lucy found that 
 after all she could go on. The horses walked and on the 
 soft, springy ground did not jar her. Deer and wild 
 turkey abounded there and showed little alarm at sight 
 of the travelers. And before long Lucy felt that she' 
 would become intoxicated by the dry odor. It was so 
 strong, so thick, so penetrating. Yet, though she felt 
 she would reel under its influence, it revived her. 
 
 The afternoon passed; the sun set ofE through the 
 pines, a black-streaked, golden flare; twilight shortly 
 changed to night. The trees looked spectral in the 
 gloom, and the forest appeared to grow thicker. Wolves 
 
 262 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 'murmured, and there were wild cries of cat and owl. 
 jLucy fell asleep on her horse. At last, sometime late in 
 jthe night, when Creech lifted her from the saddle and 
 laid her down, she stretched out on the soft mat of pine 
 needles and knew no more. 
 
 She did not awaken until the afternoon of the next day. 
 
 The site where Creech had made his final camp over- 
 looked the wildest of all that wild upland country. The 
 pines had scattered and trooped aroiuid a beautiful park 
 of grass that ended abruptly upon bare rock. Yellow 
 cxags towered above the rim, and under them a yawn- 
 ing narrow gorge, overshadowed from above, blue in its 
 depths, split the end of the great plateau and opened out 
 sheer into the head of the canon, which, according to 
 Creech, stretched away through that wilderness of red 
 stone and green clefts. When Lucy's fascinated gaze 
 looked afar she was stunned at the vast, billowy, bare 
 siuiaces. Every green cleft was a short canon running par- 
 allel with this central and longer one. The dips and breaks 
 showed how all these canons were connected. vThey led 
 the gaze away, descending gradually to the dim purple 
 of distance — ^the bare, rolling desert upland. 
 
 Lucy did nothing but gaze. She was unable to walk 
 or eat that day. Creech hung around her with a remorse 
 he apparently felt, yet could not put into words. 
 
 "Do you expect Joel to come up this big canon?" 
 
 "I reckon I do— some day," replied Creech. "An' I 
 wish he'd hurry." 
 
 " Does he know the way?" 
 
 "Nope. But he's good at findin' places. An' I told 
 him to stick to the main canon. Would you believe you 
 could ride off er this rim, straight down thar fer fifty 
 miles, an' never git off your hoss?" 
 
 "No, I wouldn't believe it possible." 
 
 " Wal, it's so. I've done it. An' I didn't want to come 
 up thet way because I'd had to leave tracks." 
 
 263 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 " Do you think we're safe — ^from Cordts now?" she asked. 
 
 "I reckon so. He's no tracker." 
 
 "But suppose he does trail us?" 
 
 "Wal, I reckon I've a shade the best of Cordts at gun- 
 play, any day." 
 
 Lucy regarded the man in surprise. "Oh, it's so — 
 strange!" she said. "You'd fight for me. Yet you 
 dragged me for days over these awful rocks! . . . Lode 
 at me, Creech. Do I look much like Lucy Bostil?" 
 
 Creech hung his head. "Wal, I reckoned I wasn't a; 
 blackguard, but I am." 
 
 "You used to care for me when I was little. I remem- \ 
 ber how I used to take rides on your knee." 
 
 "Lucy, I never thought of thet when I ketched you. 
 , You was only a means to an end. Bostil hated me.. He 
 ruined me. I give up to revenge. An' I could only git 
 thet through you." 
 
 "Creech, I'm not defending Dad. He's — ^he's no good 
 where horses are concerned. I know he wronged you. 
 Then why didn't you wait and meet him hke a man 
 instead of dragging me to this misery?" 
 
 "Wal, I never thought of thet, either. I wished I had." 
 He grew gloomier then and relapsed into silent watching. 
 
 Lucy felt better next day, and offered to help Creech 
 at the few camp duties. He would not let her. There 
 was nothing to do but rest and wait, and the idleness 
 appeared to be harder on Creech than on Lucy. He had 
 always been exceedingly active. Lucy divined that 
 every hour his remorse grew keener, and she did all she 
 could think of to make it so. Creech made her a rude 
 brush by gathering small roots and binding them tightly 
 and cutting the ends square. And Lucy, after the man- 
 ner of an Indian, got the tangles out of her hair. That 
 day Creech seemed to want to hear Lucy's voice, and so 
 tiiey often fell into conversation. Once he said, thought- 
 fully: 
 
 264 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 " I'm tryin' to remember somethin' I heerd at the Ford. 
 I meant to ask you — " Suddenly he turned to her with 
 animation. He who had been so gloomy and lusterless 
 and dead showed a bright eagerness. "I heerd you beat 
 the King on a red hoss — a wild hoss ! . . . Thet must have 
 been a joke — like one of Joel's." 
 
 "No. It's true. An' Dad nearly had a fit!" 
 
 "Wall" Creech simply blazed with excitement. "I 
 ain't wonderin' if he did. His own girl! Lucy, come 
 to remember, you always said you'd beat thet gray racer. 
 . . . Fer the Lord's sake tell me all about it." 
 
 Lucy warmed to him because, broken as he was, he could 
 be genuinely glad some horse but his own had won a race. 
 Bostil could never have been like that. So Lucy told 
 him about the race — and then she had to tell about Wild- 
 fire, and then about Slone. But at first all of Creech's 
 interest centered round Wildfire and the race that had 
 not really been run. He asked a hundred questions. He 
 was as pleased as a boy listening to a good story. He 
 praised Lucy again and again. He crowed over Bostil's 
 discomfiture. And when Lucy told him that Slone had 
 dared her father to race, had offered to bet Wildfire and his 
 own life against her hand, then Creech was beside himself. 
 
 "This hyar Slone — he called Bostil's hand!" 
 
 "He's a wild-horse hunter. And he can trail us!" 
 
 "Trail us! Slone? . . . Say, Lucy, are you in love with 
 him?" 
 
 Lucy uttered a strange little broken sound, half laugh, 
 half sob. "Love him! Ah!" 
 
 "An' your Dad's ag'in him! Sure Bostil '11 hate any 
 rider with a fast hoss. Why didn't the dam fool sell his 
 stallion to your father?" 
 
 "He gave Wildfire to me." 
 
 "I'd have done the same. Wal, now, when you git 
 back home what's comin' of it all?" 
 
 Lucy shook her head sorrowfully. "God only knows. 
 Dad will never own Wildfire, and he'll never let me 
 
 26s 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 many Slone. And when you take the King away from 
 him to ransom me — then my life will be hell, for if Dad 
 sacrifices Sage King, afterward he'll hate me as the 
 cause of his loss." 
 
 "I can sure see the sense of all that," replied Creech, 
 soberly. And he pondered. 
 
 Lucy saw through this man as if he had been an inch 
 of crystal water. He was no villain, and just, now in 
 his simplicity, in his plodding thought of sympathy for! 
 her he was lovable. 
 
 "It's one hell of a muss, if you'll excuse my talk," said! 
 Creech. "An' I don't Uke the looks of what I 'pear toi 
 be throwin' in your way. . . . But see hyar, Lucy, if Bostil! 
 didn't give up — or, say, he gits the King back,; thetj 
 wouldn't make your chance with Slone any brighter." 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 " Thet race mil have to be run !" 
 
 "What good will that do?" cried Lucy, with tears in 
 her eyes. "I don't want to lose Dad. I — I — ^love him — i 
 mean as he is. And it 'U kill me to lose Lin. Because ' 
 Wildfire can beat Sage King, and that means Dad will be 
 forever against him." 
 
 "Couldn't this wild-horse feller let the King win thet 
 race?" 
 
 "Oh, he could, but he wouldn't." 
 
 "Can't you be sweet round him — ^fetch him over to 
 thet?" 
 
 "Oh, I could, but I won't." 
 
 Creech might have been plotting the happiness of his 
 own daughter, he was so deeply in earnest. 
 
 " Wal, mebbe you don't love each other so much, after 
 all. . . . Fast bosses mean much to a man in this hyar 
 coimtry. I know, fer I lost mine! . . . But they ain't all. '• 
 ... I reckon you young folks don't love so much, after 
 all." 
 
 "But — we — do!" cried Lucy, with a passionate sob.' 
 All this talk had unnerved her. 
 
 266 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Then the only way is fer Slone to lie to Bostil." 
 
 "Lie!" exclaimed Lucy. 
 
 "Thet's it. Fetch about a race, somehow — one Bostil 
 can't see — an' then lie an' say the ICing run Wildfire off 
 his legs." 
 
 Suddenly it occurred to Lucy that one significance of 
 this idea of Creech's had not dawned upon him. "You 
 forget that soon my father will no longer own Sage King 
 or Sarchedon or Dusty Ben — or any racer. He loses them 
 or me, I thought. That's what I am here for." 
 
 Creech's aspect changed. The eagerness and sympathy 
 fled from his face, leaving it once more hard and stem. He 
 got up and stood a tall, dark, and gloomy man, brooding 
 over his loss, as he watched the canon. Still, there was in 
 him then a struggle that Lucy felt. Presently he bent over 
 and put his big hand on her head. It seemed gentle and 
 tender compared with former contacts, and it made Lucy 
 thriU. She could not see his face. What did he mean? 
 She divined something startling, and sat there trembling 
 in suspense. 
 
 "Bostil won't lose his only girl — or his favorite hoss! 
 . . . Lucy, I never had no girl. But it seems I'm remember- 
 in' them rides you used to have on my knee when you was 
 little!" 
 
 Then he strode away toward the forest. Lucy watched 
 him with a full heart, and as she thought of his overcoming 
 the evil in him when her father had yielded to it, she 
 suffered poignant shame. This Creech was not a bad 
 man. He was going to let her go, and he was going to 
 return Bostil's horses when they came. Lucy resolved, 
 with a passionate determination that her father must 
 make ample restitution for the loss Creech had endtired. 
 She meant to tell Creech so. 
 
 Upon his return, however, he seemed so strange and for- 
 bidding again that her heart failed her. Had he recon- 
 sidered his generous thought? Lucy ahnost believed so. 
 These old horse-traders were incomprehensible in any re- 
 
 267 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 lation concerning horses. Recalling Creech's intense in« 
 terest in Wildfire and in the inevitable race to be run 
 between him and Sage King, Lucy almost believed that 
 Creech would sacrifice his vengeance just to see the red 
 stallion beat the gray. If Creech kept the King in ran- 
 som for Lucy he would have to stay deeply hidden in the 
 wild breaks of the canon country or leave the uplands. 
 ' For Bostil would never let that deed go unreckoned with. 
 Like Bostil, old Creech was half horse and half human. 
 The human side had warmed to remorse. He had regret- 
 ted Lucy's plight; he wanted her to be safe at home again 
 and to find happiness; he remembered what she had been 
 to him when she was a little girl. Creech's other side 
 was more complex. 
 
 Before the evening meal ended Lucy divined that 
 Creech was dark and troubled because he had resigned 
 himself to a sacrifice harder than it had seemed in the 
 first flush of noble feeling. But she doubted him no more. 
 She was safe. The King would be returned. She would 
 compel her father to pay Creech horse for horse. And 
 perhaps the lesson to Bostil would be worth all the pain 
 of effort and distress of mind that it had cost her. 
 
 That night as she lay awake listening to the roar of the 
 wind in the pines a strange premonition — ^like a mysterious 
 voice — came to her with the assurance that Slone was on 
 her trail. 
 
 On the following day Creech appeared to have cast ofE 
 the brooding mood. Still, he was not talkative. He ap- 
 plied himself to constant watching from the rim. 
 
 Lucy began to feel rested. That long trip with Creech 
 had made her thin and hard- and strong. She spent the 
 hours under the shade of a cedar on the rim that pro- 
 tected her from sun and wind. The wind, particularly, 
 was hard to stand. It blew a gale out of the west, a dry, 
 odorous, steady rush that roared through the pine-tops 
 and flattened the long, white grass. This day Creech 
 had to build up a barrier of rock rotmd his camp-fire, to 
 
 268 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 keep it from blowing away. And there was a constant 
 danger of firing the grass. 
 
 Once Lucy asked Creech what woiild happen in that 
 case. 
 
 "Wal, I reckon the grass would btim back even ag'in 
 thet wind," repUed Creech. "I'd hate to see fire in the 
 woods now before the rains come. It's been the longest, 
 dryest spell I ever lived through. But fer thet my 
 bosses — This hyar's a west wind, an' it's blowin' harder 
 every day. It '11 fetch the rains." 
 
 Next day about noon, when both wind and heat were 
 high, Lucy was awakened from a doze. Creech was stand- 
 ing near her. When he turned his long gaze away from 
 the canon he was smiling. It was a smile at once trium- 
 phant and sad. 
 
 "Joel's comin' with the bosses!" 
 
 Lucy jumped up, trembUng and agitated. "Oh! . . . 
 Where? Where?" 
 
 Creech pointed carefully with bent hand, like an Indian, 
 and" Lucy either could not get the direction or see far 
 enough. 
 
 "Right down along the base of thet red wall. A line 
 of bosses. Jest like a few crawlin' ants! . . . An' now 
 they're creepin' out of sight." 
 
 "Oh, I can't see them!" cried Lucy. "Are you sure?" 
 
 "Positive an' sartin," he replied. "Joel's comin'. 
 He'U be up hyar before long. I reckon we'd jest as well 
 let him come. Fer there's water an' grass hyar. An' 
 down below grass is scarce." 
 
 It seemed an age to Lucy, waiting there, untH she did 
 see horses zigzagging the ridges below. They disappeared, 
 and then it was another age before they reappeared close 
 under the bulge of wall. She thrilled at sight of Sage 
 King and Sarchedon. She got only a glimpse of them. 
 They must pass round under her to climb a spUt in the 
 wall, and up a long draw that reached level ground back 
 in the forest. But they were near, and Lucy tried to 
 
 269 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 wait. Creech showed eagerness at first, and then went 
 on with his camp-fire duties. While in camp he always 
 cooked a midday meal. 
 
 Lucy saw the horses first. She screamed out. Creech 
 jumped up in alarm. 
 
 Joel Creech, mounted on Sage King, and leading Sarche- 
 don, was coming at a gallop. The other horses were fol- 
 lowing. 
 
 "What's his hurry?" demanded Lucy. "After climb- 
 ing out of that canon Joel ought not to push the horses." 
 
 "He'll git it from me if there's no reason," growled 
 Creech. "Them hossea is wet." 
 
 "Look at Sarch! He's wild. He always hated Joel." 
 
 "Wal, Lucy, I reckon I ain't Hkin' this hyar. Look 
 at Joel!" muttered Creech, and he strode out to meet 
 his son. 
 
 Lucy ran out, too, and beyond him. She saw only 
 Sage King. He saw her, recognized her, and whistled 
 even while Joel was pulling him in. For once the King 
 showed he was glad to see Lucy. He had been having 
 rough treatment. But he was not winded — only hot and 
 wet. She assured herseK of that, then ran to quiet the 
 plunging Sarch. He came down at once, and pushed his 
 big nose almost into her face. She hugged his great, hot 
 neck. He was quivering all over. Lucy heard the other 
 horses pounding up; she recognized Two Face's high 
 whinny, like a squeal; and in her delight she was about 
 to run to them when Creech's harsh voice arrested her. 
 And sight of Joel's face suddenly made her weak. 
 
 "What 'd you say?" demanded Creech. 
 
 "I'd a good reason to nm the bosses up-hiU — ^thet's 
 what!" snapped Joel. He was frothing at the mouth. 
 
 "Out with it!" 
 
 "Cordts an' Hutch!" 
 
 "What?" roared Creech, grasping the pale Jod and 
 shaking him. 
 
 "Cordis an' Hutch rode in behind me down at thet 
 270 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 cross canon. They seen me. An' they're after me 
 hard!" 
 
 Creech gave close and keen scrutiny to the stirange face 
 of his son. Then he wheeled away. 
 
 "Help me pack. An' you, too, Lucy. Weve got to 
 rustle out of hyar." 
 
 Lucy fought a sick faintness that threatened to make 
 her useless. But she tried to help, and presently action 
 made her stronger. 
 
 The Creeches made short work of that breaking of 
 camp. But when it came to getting the horses there 
 appeared danger of delay. Sarchedon had led Dusty 
 Ben and Two Face off in the grass. When Joel went for 
 'them they galloped away toward the woods. Joel ran 
 back. 
 
 "Son, you're a smart hossman!" exclaimed Creech, in 
 disgust. 
 
 "Shall I git on the Ejng an' ketch them?" 
 
 " No. Hold the King." Creech went out after Plume, 
 but the excited and wary horse eluded him. Then Creech 
 gave up, caught Ms own mustangs, and hurried into camp. 
 
 "Lucy, if Cordts gits after Sarch an' the others it'll 
 be as well fer us," he said. 
 
 Soon they were riding into the forest, Creech leading, 
 Lucy in the center, and Joel coming behind on the King. 
 Two unsaddled mustangs carrying the packs were driven 
 in front. Creech limited the gait to the best that the 
 pack-horses could do. They made fast time. The level 
 forest floor, hard and springy, afforded the best kind of 
 going. 
 
 A cold dread had once more clutched Lucy's heart. 
 What would be the end of this flight? The way Creech 
 looked back increased her dread. How horrible it wotild 
 be if Cordts accomplished what he had always threat- 
 ened — ^to run off with both her and the King! Lucy lost 
 her confidence in Creech. She did not glance again at 
 Joel. Once had been enough. She rode on with heavy 
 
 271 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 heart. Anxiety and dread and conjecture and a ^adual 
 sinking of spirit weighed her down. Yet she never had 
 a clearer perception of outside things. The forest loomed 
 thicker and darker. The sky was seen only through a 
 green, crisscross of foliage waving in the roaring gale. 
 This strong wind was like a blast in Lucy's face, and its 
 keen dryness cracked her lips. 
 
 When they rode out of the forest, down a gentle slope 
 of wind-swept grass, to an opening into a canon Lucy was 
 surprised to recognize the place. How quickly the ride 
 through the forest had been made! 
 
 Creech dismounted. "Git off, Lucy. You, Joel,' 
 hurry an' hand me the little pack. . . . Now I'U take Lucy 
 an' the King down in hyar. You go thet way with 
 the hosses an' make as if you was hidin' your trail, but 
 don't. Do you savvy?" 
 
 Joel shook his head. He looked sullen, somber, strange. ' 
 His father repeated what he had said. 
 
 "You're wantin' Cordts to spHt on the trail?" asked 
 Joel. 
 
 "Sure. He'll ketch up with you sometime. But 
 you needn't be af eared if he does." 
 
 "I ain't a-goin' to do thet." 
 
 "Why not?" Creech demanded, slowly, with a rising 
 voice. 
 
 "I'm a-goin' with you. What d'ye mean, Dad, by 
 this move? You'll be headia' back fer the Ford. An' 
 we'd git safer if we go the other way." 
 
 Creech evidently controlled his temper by an effort. 
 "I'm takin' Lucy an' the King back to BostU." 
 
 Joel echoed those words, slowly divining them. "Tak- 
 in' them both! The girl. . . . An' givin' up the King!" 
 
 "Yes, both of them. I've changed my mind, Joel. 
 Now — ^you — " 
 
 But Creech never fini^ed what he meant to say. Joel 
 Creech was suddenly seized by a horrible madness. It 
 was then, perhaps, that the final thread which Hnked his 
 
 272 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 mind to rationality stretched and snapped. His face 
 turned green. His strange eyes protruded. His jaw 
 worked. He frothed at the mouth. He leaped, appar- 
 ently to get near his father, but he missed his direction. 
 Then, as if sight had come back, he wheeled and made 
 strange gestures, all the while cursing incoherently. The 
 father's shocked face began to show disgust. Then part 
 of Joel's ranting became intelligible. 
 
 "Shut up!" suddenly roared Creech. 
 
 "No, I won't!" shrieked Joel, wagging his head in spent 
 passion. "An' you ain't a-goin' to take thet girl home. 
 . . . I'll take her with me. . . . An' you take the bosses 
 home!" 
 
 "You're crazy!" hoarsely shouted Creech, his face 
 going black. "They alius said so. But I never beheved 
 thet." 
 
 "An' if I'm crazy, thet girl made me. . . . You know 
 what I'm a-goin' to do? . . . I'U strip her naked — an' 
 I'll—" 
 
 Lucy saw old Creech lunge and strike. She heard the 
 sodden blow. Joel went down. But he scrambled up 
 with his eyes and mouth resembling those of a mad hound 
 Lucy once had seen. The fact that he reached twice 
 for his gun and could not find it proved the breaking 
 connection of nerve and sense. 
 
 Creech jumped and grappled with Joel. There was 
 a wrestling, strained struggle. Creech's hair stood up 
 and his face had a kind of sick fury, and he continued to 
 curse and command. They fought for the possession 
 of the gim. But Joel seemed to have superhuman 
 strength. His hold on the gun could not be broken. 
 Moreover, he kept straining to point the gun at his father. 
 Lucy screamed. Creech yelled hoarsely. But the boy 
 was beyond reason or help, and he was beyond over- 
 powering! Lucy saw him bend his arm in spite of the 
 desperate hold upon it and fire the gim. Creech's hoarse 
 entreaties ceased as his hold on Joel broke. He stag- 
 
 273 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 gered. His arms went up with a tragic, terrible gesture. 
 He fell. Joel stood over him, shaking and livid, but he 
 showed oiHy the vaguest realization of the deed. His 
 actions were instinctive. He was the animal that had 
 clawed himself free. Further proof of his aberration 
 stood out in the action of sheathing his gun; he made the 
 motion to do so, but he only dropped it in the grass. 
 
 Sight of that dropped gtm broke Lucy's spell of horror, 
 which had kept her silent but for one scream. Suddenly 
 her blood leaped like fire in her veins. She measured the 
 <iistance to Sage King. Joel was turning. Then Lucy 
 darted at the King, reached him, and, leaping, was half 
 up on him when he snorted and jumped, not breaking her 
 hold, but keeping her from getting up. Then iron hands 
 clutched her and threw her, Uke an empty sack, to the 
 grass. 
 
 Joel Creech did not say a word. His distorted face had 
 the deriding s'com of a superior being. Lucy lay flat on 
 her back, watching him. Her mind worked swiftly. She 
 would have to fight for her body and her life. Her terror 
 had fled with her horror. She was not how afraid of this 
 demented boy. She meant to fight, calculating like a 
 cunning Indian, wild as a trapped wildcat. 
 
 Lucy lay perfectly stiU, for she knew she had been 
 thrown near the spot where the gun lay. If she got her 
 hands on that gun she wotild kill Joel. It would be the 
 action of an instant. She watched Joel while he watched 
 h6r. And she saw that he had his foot on the rope round 
 Sage King's neck. The King never liked a rope. He was 
 nervous. He tossed his head to get rid of it. Creech, 
 watching Lucy all the while, reached for the rope, piilled 
 the King closer and closer, and untied the knot. The King 
 stood then, bridle down and quiet. Instead of a saddle 
 he wore a blanket strapped round him. 
 
 It seemed that Lucy located the gun without turning 
 her eyes away from Joel's. She gathered all her force — 
 rolled over swiftly — again — got her hands on the gun just 
 
 274 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 as Creech leaped like a panther upon her. His weight 
 crushed her flat — ^his strength made her hand-hold like 
 that of a child. He threw the gun aside. Lucy lay face 
 down, unable to move her body while he stood over her. 
 Then he struck her, not a stunning blow, but just the 
 hard rap a cruel rider gives to a horse that wants its own 
 way. Under that blow Lucy's spirit rose to a height of 
 terrible passion. Still she did not lose her cunning; the 
 blow increased it. That blow showed Jod to be crazy. 
 She might outwit a crazy man, where a man merely 
 wicked might master her. 
 
 Creech tried to turn her. Lucy resisted. And she was 
 strong. Resistance infuriated Creech. He cuffed her 
 sharply. This action only made him. worse. Then with 
 hands like steel claws he tore away her blouse. 
 
 The shock of his hands on her bare flesh momentarily 
 weakened Lucy, and Creech dragged at her until she lay 
 seemingly helpless before him. 
 
 And Lucy saw that at the sight of her like this some- 
 thing had come between Joel Creech's mad motives and 
 their execution. Once he had loved her — desired her. 
 He looked vague. He stroked her shoulder. His strange 
 eyes softened, then blazed with a different light. Lucy 
 divined that she was lost unless she could recall his insane 
 fury. She must begin that terrible fight in which now 
 the best she could hope for was to make him kill her 
 quickly. 
 
 Swift and vicious as a cat she fastened her teeth in 
 his arm. She bit deep and held on. Creech howled like 
 a dog. He beat her. He jerked and wrestled. Then he 
 lifted her, and the swing of her body tore the flesh loose 
 from his arm and broke her hold. Lucy half rose, 
 crawled, plunged for the gun. She got it, too, only to 
 have Creech kick it out of her hand. The pain of that 
 brutal kick was severe, but when he cut her across the 
 base back with the rope she shrieked out. Supple and 
 quick, she leaped up and ran. In vain! With a few 
 
 19 27s 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 bounds -he had her again, tripped her up. Lucy fell over 
 the dead body of the father. Yet even that did not shake 
 her desperate nerve. All the ferocity of a desert-bred 
 savage culminated in her, fighting for death. 
 
 Creech leaned down, swinging the coiled rope. He 
 meant to do more than lash her with \ it. Lucy's hands 
 flashed up, closed tight in his long hair. Then with a 
 bellow he jerked up and lifted her sheer off the ground. 
 There was an instant in which Lucy felt herself swung 
 and torn; she saw everything as a whirling blur; she 
 felt an agony in her wrists at which Creech was clawing. 
 When he broke her hold there were handfuls of, hair in 
 Lucy's fists. 
 
 She fell again and had not the strength to rise. But 
 Creech was raging, and little of his broken speech was in- ' 
 telligible. He knelt with a sharp knee pressing her down. ' 
 He cut the rope. Nimbly, like a rider ip. moments of 
 needful swiftness, he noosed one end "of the rope round 
 her ankle, then the end of the other piece round her wrist. 
 He might have been tying up an unbroken mustang. 
 Rising, he retained hold on both ropes. He moved back, 
 sliding them through his hands. Then with a quick move 
 he caught up Sage King's bridle. 
 
 Creech paused a moment, darkly triumphant. A 
 hideous success showed in his strange eyes. A long- 
 cherished mad vengeance had reached its fruition. Then 
 he led the horse near to Lucy. 
 
 Warily he reached down. He did not know Lucy's 
 strength was spent. He feared she might yet escape. 
 With hard, quick grasp he caught her, hfted her, 
 threw her over the King's back. He forced her down. 
 
 Lucy's resistance was her' only salvation, because it 
 kept htm on the track of his old threat. She resisted all 
 she could. He pulled her arms down round the King's 
 neck and tied them close. Then he pulled hard on 
 the rope on her ankle and tied that to her other ankle. 
 
 Lucy realized that she was bound fast. Creech had 
 276 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 made good most of his threat. And now in her mind the 
 hope of the death she had sought changed to the hope of 
 life that was possible. Whatever power she had ever had 
 over the King was in her voice. If only Creech would 
 slip the bridle or cut the reins — ^if only Sage King could 
 be free to run! 
 
 Lucy could turn her fa'ce far enough to see Creech. 
 Like a fiend he was reveling in his work. Suddenly he 
 picked up the gun. 
 
 "Look a-hyar!" he called, hoarsely. 
 
 With eyes on her, grinning horribly, he walked a few 
 paces to where the long grass had not been trampled or 
 pressed down. The wind, whipping up out of the canon, 
 was still blowing hard. Creech put the gim down in the 
 grass and fired. 
 
 Sage King plunged. But he was not gun-shy. He 
 steadied down with a pounding of heavy hoofs. Then 
 Lucy cotild see again. A thin streak of yellow smoke 
 rose — a little snaky flame — a slight crackling hiss ! Then 
 as the wind caught the blaze there came a rushing, low 
 roar. Fire, like magic, raced and spread before the wind 
 toward the forest. 
 
 Lucy had forgotten that Creech had meant to drive 
 her into fire. The sudden horror of it almost caused col- 
 lapse. Commotion within — cold and quake and nausea 
 and agony — deadened her hearing and darkened her sight. 
 But Creech's hard hands quickened her. She could see 
 him then, though not clearly. His face seemed inhuman, 
 misshapen, gray. His hands pulled at her arms — a last 
 precaution to see that she was tightly .bound. Then with 
 the deft fingers of a rider he slipped Sage King's bridle. 
 
 Lucy could not trust her sight. What made the King 
 stand so still? His ears went up — stiff — pointed! 
 
 Creech stepped back and laid a violent hand on Lucy's 
 garments. She bent — ^twisted her neck to watch him. 
 But her sight grew no clearer. Still she saw he meant to 
 strip her naked. He braced himself for a strong, ripping 
 
 277 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 pull. His yellow teeth showed deep in his lip. His con- 
 trasting eyes were alight with insane joy. 
 
 But he never pulled. Something attracted his atten- 
 tion. He looked. He saw something. The beast in 
 him became human — ^the madness changed to rationality 
 — ihe devil to a craven! His ashen lips uttered a low, 
 terrible cry. 
 
 Lucy felt the King trembling in every muscle. .She 
 knew that was fright. She expected his loud snort, and 
 was prepared for it when it rang out. In a second he 
 would bolt. She knew that. She thrilled. She tried 
 to call to him, but her lips were weak. Creech seemed 
 paralyzed. The, King shifted his position, and Lucy's 
 last glimpse of Creech was one she would never forget. 
 It was as if Creech faced burning hell ! 
 
 Then the King whistled and reared. Lucy heard swift, 
 dull, throbbing beats. Beats of a fast horse's hoofs on 
 the run! She felt a surging thrill of joy. She could not 
 thiiik. All of her blood and bone and muscle seemed 
 to throb. Suddenly the air split to a high-pitched, wild, 
 whistling blast. It pierced to Lucy's mind. She knew 
 that whistle. 
 
 "Wildfire!" she screamed, with bursting heart. 
 
 The King gave a mighty convulsive bound of terror. 
 He, too, knew that whistle. And in that one great bound 
 he launched out into a run. Straight across the line of 
 burning grass! Lucy felt the sting of flame. Smoke 
 blinded and choked her. Then clear, dry, keen wind 
 sung in her ears and whipped her hair. The light about 
 her darkened. The King had headed into the pines. 
 The heavy roar of the gale overhead struck Lucy with 
 new and torturing dread. Sage King once in his life was 
 running away, bridleless, and behind him there was fire 
 on the wings of the wind. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 FOR the first time in his experience Bostil found 
 that horse-trading palled upon him. This trip to 
 Durango was a failure. Something was wrong. There 
 was a voice constantly calling, into his inner ear — a voice 
 to which he refused to listen. And during the five days 
 of the return trip the strange mood grew upon him. 
 
 The last day he and his riders covered over fifty miles 
 and reached the Ford late at night. No one expected 
 them, and only the men on duty at the corrals knew of 
 the retium. Bostil, much relieved to get home, went to 
 bed and at once fell asleep. 
 
 He awakened at a late hour for him. When he dressed 
 and went out to the kitchen he found that his sister had 
 learned of his return and had breakfast waiting. 
 
 "Where's the girl?" asked Bostil. 
 
 "Not up yet," replied Aunt Jane. 
 
 "What!" 
 
 "Lucy and I had a tifiE last night and she went to her 
 room in a temper." 
 
 "Nothin' new about thet." 
 
 "Holley and I have had our troubles holding her in. 
 Don't you forget that." 
 
 Bostil laughed. "Wal, call her an' tell her I'm home." 
 
 Aunt Jane did as she was bidden. Bostil finished his 
 breakfast. But Lucy did not come. 
 
 Bostil began to feel something strange, and, going to 
 Lucy's door, he knocked. There was no reply. Bostil 
 pushed open the door. Lucy was not in evidence, and 
 her room was not as tidy as usual. He saw her white 
 
 279 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 dress thrown upon the bed she had not slept in. Bostil 
 gazed around with a queer tx)ntraction of the heart. 
 That sense of something amiss grew stronger. Then he 
 saw a chair before the open window. That window was 
 ratha- high, and Lucy had placed a chair before it so that 
 she could lode out or get out. Bostil stretched his neck, 
 looked out, and in the red earth beneath the window he 
 saw fresh tracks of Lucy's boots. Then he roared for 
 Jane. 
 
 She came running, and between BostH's furious ques- 
 tions and her own excited answers there was nothing 
 arrived at. But presently she spied the white dress, and 
 then she ran to Lucy's closet. From there she turned 
 a white face to Bostil. 
 
 "She put on her riding-clothes!" gasped Aunt Jane. 
 
 "Supposin' she did! Where is she?" demanded Bostil. 
 
 "She's run off with Slone!" 
 
 Bostn could not have been shocked or hurt any more 
 acutely by a knife-thrust. He glared at his sister. 
 
 "A-huh! So thet's the way you watch her!" 
 
 "Watch her? It wasn't possible. She's — ^well, she's 
 as smart as you are. . . . Oh, I knew she'd do it! ^e was 
 wild in love with him!" 
 
 Bostil strode out of the room and the house. He went 
 through the grove and directly up the path to Slone's 
 cabin. It was empty, just as Bostil expected to find it. 
 The bars of the corral were down. Both Slone's horses 
 were gone. Presently Bostil saw the black horse Nagger 
 down in Brackton's pasture. 
 
 There were riders in front of Brackton's. AH spoke 
 at once to Bostil, and he only yelled for Brackton. The 
 old man came hurriedly out, alarmed. 
 
 "Where's this Slone?" demanded Bostil. 
 
 "Slone!" ejaculated Brackton. "I'm blessed if I 
 know. Ain't he home?" 
 
 "No. An' he's left his black hoss in your field." 
 
 "Wal, by gdly, thet's news to me. . . . Bostid, there's 
 280 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 been strange doin's lately." Brackton seemed at a loss 
 for words. "Mebbe Slone got out because of somethin' 
 thet come ofE last night. . . . Now, Joel Creech an' — an' — " 
 
 Bostil waited to hear no more. What did he care 
 about the idiot Creech? He strode down the lane to the 
 corrals. Farlane, Van, and other riders were there, 
 leisurely as usual. Then Holley appeared, coming out of 
 the bam. He, too, was easy, cool, natural, lazy. None of 
 these riders knew what was amiss. But instantly a change 
 passed over t^em. It came because Bostil pulled a gun. 
 
 "Holley, I've a mind to bore you!" 
 
 The old hawk-eyed rider did not flinch or turn a shade 
 off color. "What fer?" he queried. But his customary 
 drawl was wanting. 
 
 "I left you to watch Lucy. . . . An' she's gone!" 
 
 Holley showed genuine surprise and distress. The 
 other riders echoed Bostil's last word. Bostil lowered 
 the gun. 
 
 "I reckon what saves you is you're the only tracker 
 thet 'd have a show to find this cussed Slone." 
 
 Holley now showed no sign of sttrprise, but the other 
 riders were astounded. 
 
 "Lucy's run off with Slone," added BostU. 
 
 "Wal, if she's gone, an' if he's gone, it's a cinch," re- 
 pUed Holley, throwing up his hands. "Boss, she double- 
 crossed me same as you! . . . She promised faithful to stay 
 in the house." 
 
 "Promises nothin' !" roared Bostil. "She's in love with 
 this wild-hoss wrangler! She met him last night!" 
 
 "I couldn't help thet," retorted Holley. "An' I 
 trusted the girl." 
 
 BostU tossed his hands. He struggled with his rage. 
 He had no fear that Lucy would not soon be foimd. 
 But the opposition to his will made him furious. 
 
 Van left the group of riders and came close to Bostil. 
 "It ain't an hour back thet I seen Slone ride off alone on 
 his red boss." 
 
 281 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "What of thet?" demanded Bostil. "Stire she was 
 waitin' somewheres. They'd have too much sense to 
 go together. . . . Saddle up, you boys, an' we'll — " 
 
 "Say, Bostil, I happen to know Slone didn't see Lucy 
 last night," interrupted HoUey. 
 
 "A-huh! Wal, you'd better talk out." 
 
 "I trusted Lucy," said HoUey. "But aU the same, 
 knowin' she was in love, I jest wanted to see if any girl 
 in love could keep her word. ... So about dark I went 
 down the grove an' watched fer Slone. Pretty soon I 
 seen him. He sneaked along the upper end an' I foUered. 
 He went to thet bench up by the biggest cottonwood. 
 An' he waited a long time. But Lucy didn't come. He 
 must have waited till midnight. Then he left. I watched 
 him go back — seen him go up to his cabin." 
 
 "Wal, if she didn't meet him, where was she? She 
 wasn't in her room." 
 
 Bostil gazed at HoUey and the other riders, then back 
 to Holley. What was the matter with this old rider? 
 Bostil had never seen HoUey seem so strange. The whole 
 affair began to loom strangely, darkly. Some portent 
 quickened BostU's lumbering pulse. It seemed that 
 HoUey's mind must have found an obstacle to thought. 
 Suddenly the old rider's face changed — the bronze was 
 blotted out — a grayness came, and then a dead white. 
 
 "BostU, mebbe you 'ain't been told yet thet — thet 
 Creech rode in yesterday. . . . He lost aU his racers! He 
 had to shoot both Peg an' Roan!" 
 
 Bostil's thought suffered a sudden, blank halt. Then, 
 with reaUzation, came the shock for which he had long 
 been prepared. 
 , "A-huh! Is thet so? . . . Wal, an' what did he say?" 
 
 HoUey laughed a grim, significant laugh that curdled 
 Bostil's blood. "Creech said a lot! But let thet go 
 now. . . . Come with me." 
 
 HoUey started with rapid strides down the lane. Bostil 
 foUowed. And he heard the riders coming behind. A 
 
 282 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 daxk and gloomy thought settled upon Bostil. He could 
 not check that, but he held back impatience and passion. 
 
 Holley went straight to Lucy's window. He got down 
 on his knees to scrutinize the tracks. 
 
 "Made more 'n twelve hoitrs ago," he said, swiftly.' 
 "She had on her boots, but no sptirs. . . . Now let's see 
 where she went." 
 
 HoUey began to trail Lucy's progress through the 
 grove, silently pointing now and then to a track. He 
 went swifter, till Bostil had to hurry. The other men 
 came whispering after them. 
 
 HoUey was as keen as a hound on scent. 
 
 "She stopped there," he said, "mebbe to listen. Looks 
 like she wanted to cross the lane, but she didn't; here 
 she got to goin' faster." 
 
 HoUey reached an intersecting path and suddenly 
 halted stock-still, pointing at a big track in the dust. 
 
 "My God! . . . Bostil, look at thet!" 
 
 One riving pang tore through BostU — and then he 
 was suddenly his old self, facing the truth of danger to 
 one he loved. He saw beside the big track a faint im- 
 print of Lucy's small foot. That was the last sign of 
 her progress and it told a story. 
 
 "Bostil, thet ain't Slone's track," said HoUey, ringingly. 
 
 "Sure it ain't. Thet's the track of a big man," replied 
 Bostil. 
 
 The other riders, circling round with bent heads, all 
 said one way or another that Slone could not have made 
 the trail. 
 
 "An' whoever he was grabbed Lucy up — ^made off with 
 her?" asked Bostil. 
 
 "Plain as if we seen it done !" exclaimed HoUey. There 
 was fire in the clear, hawk eyes. 
 
 "Cordts!" cried Bostil, hoarsely. 
 
 "Mebbe — mebbe. But thet ain't my idee. . . . Come 
 on. 
 
 HoUey went so fast he almost ran, and he got ahead of 
 283 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Bostil. Finally several hundred yards out in the sage 
 he halted, and again dropped to his knees. Bostil and 
 the riders hurried on. 
 
 "Keep back; don't stamp round so close," ordered 
 Holley. Then like a man searching for lost gold in sand 
 and grass he searched the ground. To Bostil it seemed 
 a long time before he got through. When he arose there 
 was a dark and deadly certainty in his face, by which 
 Bostil knew the worst had befallen Lucy. 
 
 "Four mustangs an' two men last night," said Holley, 
 rapidly. "Here's where Lucy was set down on her feet. 
 Here's where she mounted. . . . An' here's the tracks of a 
 third man — tracks made this momin'." 
 
 Bostil straightened up and faced Holley as if ready to 
 take a death-blow. "I'm reckonin' them last is Slone's 
 tracks." 
 
 "Yes, I know them," replied Holley. 
 
 "An' — ^them — other tracks? Who made them?" 
 
 "Creech an' his son!" 
 
 Bostil felt swept away by a dark, whirling flame. And 
 when it passed he lay in his bam, in the shade of the loft, 
 prostrate on the fragrant hay. His strength with his 
 passion was spent. A dull ache remained. The fight 
 was gone from him. His spirit was broken. And he 
 looked down into that dark abyss which was his own 
 soul. 
 
 By and by the riders came for him, got him up, and led 
 him out. He shook them off and stood breathing slowly. 
 The air felt refreshing; it cooled his hot, tired brain. It 
 did not surprise him to see Joel Creech there, cringing 
 behind Holley. 
 
 Bostil lifted a hand for some one to speak. And Hol- 
 ley came a step forward. His face was haggard, but its 
 white tenseness was gone. He seemed as if he were re- 
 luctant to speak, to inflict more pain. 
 
 "Bostil," he began, huskily, "you're to send the King 
 284 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 — an' Sarch — an' Ben an' Two Face an' Plume to ransom 
 Lucy! ... If you won't — ^then Creech '11 sell her to Cordts!" 
 
 What a strange look came into the faces of the riders! 
 Did they think he cared more for horseflesh than for his 
 own flesh and blood? 
 
 "Send the ICing — an all he wants. . . . An' send word 
 fer Creech to come back to the Ford. . . . Tdl him I said — 
 m.y sin found me out!" 
 
 Bostil watched Joel Creech ride the King out upon the 
 slope, driving the others ahead. Sage King wanted to 
 run. Sarchedon was wild and unruly. They passed out 
 of sight. Then Bostil turned to his silent riders. 
 
 "Boys, seein' the King go thet way wasn't nothin*. . . . 
 But what crucifies me is — will thet fetch her back?" 
 
 "God only knows!" replied HoUey. "Mebbe not — ^I 
 reckon not ! . . . But, Bostil, you forget Slone is out there 
 on Lucy's trail. Out there ahead of Joel! Slone he's 
 a wfld-hoss hunter — ^the keenest I ever seen. Do you 
 think Creech can shake htm on a trail? He'll kiU Creech, 
 an' he'll lay fer Joel goin' back — an' he'll kiU him. . . . 
 An' I'll bet my all he'U ride in here with Lucy- an' the 
 King!" 
 
 "Holley, you ain't figurin' on thet red hoss of Slone's 
 ridin' down the King?" 
 
 HoUey laughed as if Bostil's query was the strangest 
 thing of all that poignant day. "Naw. Slone '11 lay fer 
 Joel an' rope him like he roped Dick Sears." 
 
 "Holley, I reckon you see — clearer 'nme," said Bostil, 
 plaintively. "'Pears as if I never had a hard knock 
 before. Fer my nerve's broke. I can't hope. . . . Lucy's 
 gone! . . . Ain't there anjdihin' to do but wait?" 
 
 "Thet's all. Jest wait. If we went out on Joel's 
 trail we'd queer the chance of Creech's bein' honest. An' 
 we'd queer Slone's game. I'd hate to have him trailia' 
 me. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 ON the day that old Creech repudiated his son, Slone 
 with immeasurable relief left Brackton's without even 
 a word to the rejoicing Holley, and plodded up the path 
 to his cabin. 
 
 After the first flush of elation had passed he found a 
 ■peculiar mood settling down upon him. It was as if aU 
 ■was not so well jas he had impulsively conceived. He 
 began to ponder over this strange depression, to think 
 back. What had happened to dash the cup from his lips? 
 Did he regret being freed from guilt in the simple minds 
 of the -villagers — ^regret it because suspicion would fall 
 upon Lucy's father? No; he was sorry for the girl, but 
 not for Bostil. It was not this new aspect of the situa- 
 tion at the Ford that oppressed him. 
 
 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 sUent, 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 Bostffl's horses and his daughter. 
 
 Slone di^vined it — di^dned 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 
 286 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 of the lane into the sage, evidently leaving the Ford,. 
 This occasioned Slone great rdief , 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 vil- 
 lage 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 com- 
 posure seemed unattainable. The night was stiU, 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 ovei strained, 
 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 inter- 
 cept her on the way. StiU he kept to his post, watchful, 
 listening, his heart fuU. 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 par- 
 ticular 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 
 be always dispelled it, was a dream where Lucy, alone 
 
 287 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 and in peril, fought with Cordts or Joel Creech for more 
 than her life. These vague dreams were Slone's accept- 
 ance of the blood and spirit in Lucy. She was Bostil's 
 daughter. She had no sense of fear. She wotild fight. 
 And though Slone always thrilled with pride, he also 
 trembled with dread. 
 
 At length even wilder dreams of Lucy's rare moments, 
 when she let herself go, like a desert' whirlwind, to en- 
 velop him in all her sweetness, could not avail to keep 
 Slone patient. He began to pace to and fro under the 
 big tree. He waited and waited. What could have de- 
 tained her? Slone inwardly laughed at the idea that 
 either Holley or Aunt Jane could keep his girl indoors 
 when she wanted to come out to meet him. Yet Lucy 
 had always said something might prevent. There was 
 no reason for Slone to be concerned. He was mistaking 
 his thrills and excitement and love and disappointment 
 for something in which there was no reality. Yet he 
 could not help it. The longer he waited the more shadows 
 glided beneath the cottonwoods, the more faint, nameless 
 sounds hfc heard. 
 
 He waited long after he became convinced she would 
 not come. Upon his return through the grove he reached 
 a point where the unreal and imaginative perceptions were 
 suddenly and stunningly broken. He did hear a step! 
 He kept on, as before, and in the deep shadow he turned. 
 He saw a man just faintly outlined. One of the riders 
 had been watching hina — ^had followed him! Slone had 
 always expected this. So had Lucy. And now it had 
 ' happened. But Lucy had been too dever. She had not 
 come. She had found out or suspected the spy and she 
 had outwitted him. Slone had reason to be prouder of 
 Lucy, and he went back to his cabin free from further 
 anxiety. 
 
 Before he went to sleep, however, he heard the clatter 
 
 . of a number of horses in the lane. He could tell they 
 
 were tired horses. Riders returning, he thought, and 
 
 288 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 instantly corrected that, for riders seldom came in at 
 night. And then it occurred to him that it might be 
 Bostil's return. But then it might be the Creeches. 
 Slone had an uneasy return of puzzling thoughts. These, 
 however, did not hinder drowsiness, and, deciding that 
 the first thing in the morning he would trail the Creeches, 
 just to see where they had gone, he fell asleep. 
 
 In the morning the bright, broad day, with its dis- 
 pelling reality, made Slone regard himself differently. 
 Things that oppressed him in the dark of night vanished 
 in the light of the sun. Still, he was curious about the 
 Creeches, and after he had done his morning's work he 
 strolled out to take up their trail. It was not hard to 
 follow in the lane, for no other horses had gone in that 
 direction since the Creeches had left. 
 
 Once up on the wide, windy slope the reach and color 
 and fragrance seemed to call to Slone irresistibly, and he 
 fell to trailing these tracks just for the love of a skill long 
 unused. Half a mile out the road turned toward Diirango. 
 But the Creeches did not continue on that road. They 
 entered the sage. Instantly Slone became curious. 
 
 He followed the tracks to a pile of rocks where the 
 Creeches had made a greasewood fire and had cooked a 
 meal. This was strange — ^within a mile of the Ford, 
 where Brackton and others would have housed them. 
 What was stranger was the fact that the trail started 
 south from there and swung round toward the village. 
 
 Slone's heart began to thump. But he forced himself 
 to think only of these tracks and not any significance they 
 might have. He trailed the men down to a bench on the 
 slope, a few hundred yards from Bostil's grove, and here 
 a trampled space marked where a halt had been made 
 and a wait. 
 
 And here Slone could no longer restrain conjecture 
 and dread. He searched and searched. He got on his 
 knees'. He crawled through the sage all arotmd the 
 trampled space. Suddenly his heart seemed to receive 
 
 289 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 a stab. He had found prints of Lucy's boots in the soft 
 earth! And he leaped up, wild and fierce, needing to 
 know no more. 
 
 He ran back to his cabin. He never thought of Bostil, 
 of HoUey, of anything except the story revealed in those 
 little boot-tracks. He packed a saddle-bag with meat 
 and biscuits, filled a canvas water-bottle, and, taking them 
 and his rifle, he hurried out to the corral. First he took 
 Nagger down to Brackton's pasture and let him in. 
 Then returning, he went at the fiery stallion as he had not 
 gone in many a day, roped him, saddled him, mounted 
 him, and rode off with a hard, grim certainty that in 
 Wildfire was Lucy's .salvation. 
 
 Four hours later Slone halted on the crest of a ridge, 
 in the cover of sparse' cedars, and surveyed a vast, gray, 
 barren basin yawning and reaching out to a rugged, 
 broken plateau. 
 
 He expected to find Joel Creech returning on the back- 
 trail, and he had taken the precaution to ride on one side 
 of the tracks he was following. He did not want Joel 
 to cross his trail. Slone had long ago solved the mean- 
 ing of the Creeches' flight. They wotild use Lucy to ran- 
 som Bostil's horses, and more than likely they would not 
 let her go back. That they had her was enough for 
 Slone. He was grim and implacable. 
 
 The eyes of the wild-horse hunter had not searched that 
 basin long before they picked out a dot which was not a 
 Tock or a cedar, but a horse. Slone watched it grow, and, 
 hidden himself, he held his post until he knew the rider 
 was Joel Creech. Slone drew his own horse back and 
 tied him to a sage-bush amidst some scant grass. Then 
 he retttrned to watch. It appeared Creech was climbing 
 the ridge below Slone, and some distance away. It was 
 a desperate chance Joel ran then, for Slone had set out 
 to kill him. It was certain that if Joel had happened to 
 ride near instead of far, Slone could not have helped but 
 iiU him. As it was, he desisted because he realized that 
 
 290 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Joel would acquaint Bostil with the abducting of Lucy^ 
 and it might be that this would be well. 
 
 Slone was shaking when young Creech passed up and 
 cut of sight over the ridge — shaking with the deadly grip 
 of passion such as he had never known. He waited, slowly 
 gaining control, and at length went back for Wildfire. 
 
 Then he rode boldly forth on the trail. He calculated 
 that old Creech would take Lucy to some wild retreat in 
 the canons and there wait for Joel and the horses. Creech 
 had almost certainly gone on and would be unaware of 
 a pursuer so closely on his trail. Slone took the direction 
 of the trail, and he saw a low, dark notch in the rocky 
 wall in the distance. After that he paid no more attention 
 to choosing good ground for Wildfire than he did to the 
 traU. The stallion was more tractable than Slone had 
 ever found him. He loved the open. He smelled the 
 sage and the wUd. He settled down into his long, easy, 
 swinging lope which seemed to eat up the miles. Slone 
 was obsessed with thoughts centering roimd Lucy, and 
 time and distance were scarcely significant. 
 
 The sun had dipped full red in a golden west when 
 Slone reached the wall of rocks and the cleft where 
 Creech's tracks and Lucy's, too, marked the camp. 
 Slone did not even dismount. Riding on into the cleft, 
 he wound at length into a canon and out of that into a 
 larger one, where he found that Lucy had remembered 
 to leave a trail, and down this to a break in a high wall, 
 and through it to another winding canon. The sun set, 
 but Slone kept on as long as he could see the trail, and after 
 that, until an intersecting canon made it wise for him to 
 halt. 
 
 There were rich grass and sweet water for his horse. 
 He himself was not hungry, but he ate; he was not sleepy, 
 but he slept. And daylight found him itrging Wildfire 
 in pursuit. On the rocky places Slone found the cedar 
 berries Lucy had dropped. He welcomed sight of them, 
 but he did not need them. This man Creech could never 
 
 20 291 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 hide a trail from him, Slone thought grimly, and 
 it stiited him to follow that trail at a rapid trot. If he 
 lost the tracks for a distance he went right on, and he 
 knew where to look for them ahead. There was a vast 
 difference between the cunning of Creech and the cim- 
 ning of a wild horse. And there was an equal difference 
 between the going and staying powers of Creech's mus- 
 tangs and WUdlire. Yes, Slone divined that Lucy's sal- 
 vation would be WUdfire, her horse. The trail grew 
 rougher, steeper, harder, but the stallion kept his eager- 
 ness and his pace. On many an open length of canon 
 or height of wild upland Slone gazed ahead hoping to 
 see Creech's mustangs. He hoped for that even when he 
 knew he was still too far behind. ' And then, suddenly, 
 in the open, sandy flat of an intersecting cafion he came 
 abruptly on a fresh trail of three horses, one of them 
 shod. 
 
 The surprise stunned him. For a moment he gazed 
 stupidly at these strange tracks. Who had made them? 
 Had Creech met allies? Was that likely when the man 
 had no friends? Pondering the thing, Slone went slowly 
 on, realizing that a new and disttirbing feature confronted 
 him. Then when these new tracks met the trail that 
 Creech had left Slone found that these strangers were as 
 interested in Creech's tracks as he was. Slone found their 
 boot-marks in the sand — ^the hand-prints where some one 
 had knelt to scrutinize Creech's trail. 
 
 Slone led his horse and walked on, more and more dis- 
 turbed in mind. When he came to a larger, bare, flat 
 canon bottom, where the rock had been washed clear of 
 sand, he fotmd no more cedar berries. They had been 
 picked up. At the other extreme edge of this stony 
 ground he found crumpled bits of cedar and cedar berries 
 scattered in one spot, as if thrown there by some one who 
 read their meaning. 
 
 This discovery unnerved Slone. It meant so much. 
 And if Slone had any hope or reason to doubt that these 
 
 292 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 strangers had taken up the trail for good, the next few 
 miles dispelled it. They were trailing Creech. 
 
 Suddenly Slone gave a wild start, which made Wildfire 
 plunge. 
 
 "Cordis!" whispered Slone* and the cold sweat oozed 
 out of every pore. 
 
 These canons were the hiding-places of the horse-thief. 
 He and two of his men had chanced upon Creech's trail; 
 and perhaps their guess at its meaning was like Slone's. 
 If they had not guessed they would soon learn. It 
 magnified Slone's task a thousandfold. He had a mo- 
 ment of bitter, almost hopeless realization before a more 
 desperate spirit awoke in him. He had only more men to 
 kill — ^that was all. These upland riders did not pack 
 rifles, of that Slone was sure. And the sooner he came 
 up with Cordts the better. It was then he let Wildfire 
 choose his gait and the trail. Sunset, twilight, dusk, 
 and darkness came with Slone keeping on and on. As 
 long as there were no intersecting canons or clefts or slopes 
 by which Creech might have swerved from his course, 
 just so long Slone would travel. And it was late in the 
 night when he had to halt. 
 
 Early next day the trail led up out of the red and 
 broken gulches to the cedared uplands. Slone saw a 
 black-rimmed, looming plateau in the distance. All these 
 winding canons, and the necks of the high ridges betweeuj 
 must run up to that great table-land. 
 
 That day he lost two of the horse tracks. He did 
 not mark the change for a long time after there had been 
 a split in the party that had been trailing Creech. Then 
 it was too late for him to go back to investigate, even 
 if that had been wise. He kept on, pondering, trying to 
 decide whether or not he had been discovered and was 
 now in danger of ambush ahead and pursuit from behind. 
 He thought that possibly Cordts had split his party, one 
 to trail along after Creech, the others to work around to 
 head him oflf. Undoubtedly Cordts knew this broken 
 
 293 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 canon country and could tell where Creech was going, and 
 knew how to intercept him. 
 
 The uncertainty wore heavily upon Slone. He grew 
 desperate. He had no time to steal along cautiously. 
 He must be the first to get to Creech. So he held to the 
 trail and went as rapidly as the nature of the ground 
 would permit, expecting to be shot at from any clump 
 of cedars. The trail led down again into a narrow canon 
 with low walls. Slone put all his keenness on what lay 
 before him. 
 
 Wildfire's sudden break and upflinging of head and iiis 
 snort preceded the crack of a rifle. Slone knpw he had 
 been shot at, although he neither felt nor heard the bullet. 
 He had no chance to see where the shot came from, for. 
 Wildfire bolted, and needed as much holding and guiding 
 as Slone could give. He ran a mile. Then Slone was 
 able to look about him. Had he been shot at from above 
 or behind? He could not teU. It did not matter, so 
 long as the danger was not in front. He kept a sharp 
 logout, and presently along, the right canon rim, five 
 hundre{|f feet above him, he saw a bay horse, and a rider 
 with a rifle. He had been wrong, then, about these 
 riders and their weapons. Slone did not see any wisdom 
 in halting to shoot up at this pursuer, and he spurred 
 Wildfire just as a sharp crack sounded above. The bullet 
 thudded into the earth a few feet behind him. And then 
 over bad ground, with the stallion almost unmanageable, 
 Slone ran a gantlet of shots. Evidently the man on the 
 .rim had smooth ground to ride over, for he easily kept 
 abreast of Slone. But he could not get the range. - For- 
 tunately for Slone, broken ramparts above checked the 
 tricks of that pursuer, and Slone saw no more of him. • 
 
 It afforded him great relief to find that Creech's trail 
 turned into a canon on the left; and here, with the sun 
 already low, Slone began to watch the clumps of cedars 
 and the jumbles of rock. But he was not ambushed. 
 Darkness set in, and, being tired out, he was about to 
 
 294 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 halt for the night when he caught the flicker of a camp- 
 fire. The stallion saw it, too, but did not snort. Slone 
 dismotuited and, leading him, went cautiously forward 
 on foot, rifle in hand. 
 
 The canon widened at a point where two breaks oc- 
 curred, and the less-restricted space was thick with cedar 
 and pinon. Slone could teU by the presence of these 
 trees and also by a keener atmosphere that he was slowly 
 getting to a higher altitude. This camp-fire must belong 
 to Cordts or the one man who had gone on ahead. And 
 Slone advanced boldly. He did not have to make up 
 his mind what to do. 
 
 But he was amazed to see several dark forms moving 
 to and fro before the bright camp-fire, and he checked 
 himself abruptly. Considering a moment, Slone thought 
 he had better have a look at these fellows. So he tied 
 Wildfire and, taking to the darker side of the canon, he 
 stole cautiously forward. 
 
 The distance was considerable, as he had calculated. 
 Soon, however, he made out the shadowy outline^fof 
 horses feeding in the open. He hugged the canon wall 
 for fear they might see him. As luck would have it the 
 night breeze was in his favor. Stealthily he stole on, in 
 )the deep shadow of the wall, and under the cedars, until 
 he came to a point opposite the camp-fire, and then he 
 tvimed toward it. He went slowly, carefully, noiselessly, 
 and at last he crawled through the narrow aisles between 
 thick sage-brush. Another clump of cedars loomed up, 
 and he saw the flickering of fireUght upon the pale-green 
 foliage. 
 
 He heard gruff voices before he raised himself to look, 
 and by this he gauged his distance. He was close enough 
 — almost too close. But as he crouched in dark shade 
 and there were no horses near, he did not fear discovery. 
 
 When he peered out from his covert the first thing to 
 strike and hold his rapid glance was the slight figure of 
 a girl. Slone stifled a gasp in his throat. He thought he 
 
 295 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 recognized Lucy. Stuimed, he crouched down again 
 with his hands clenched round his rifle. And there he 
 remained for a long moment of agony before reason as- 
 serted itself over emotion. Had he really seen Lucy? 
 He had heard of a girl now and then in the camps of these 
 men, especially Cordts. Maybe Creech had fallen in 
 with comrades. No, he could not have had any com- 
 rades there but horse-thieves, and Creech was above that. 
 If Creech was there he had been held up by Cordts; if 
 Lucy only was with the gang, Creech had been killed. 
 
 Slone had to force himself to look again. The girl 
 had changed her position. But the light shone upon the 
 men. Creech was not one of the three, nor Cordts, nor 
 any man Slone had seen before. They were not honest 
 men, judging from their hard, evil looks. Slone was non- 
 plussed and he was losing self-control. Again he lowered 
 himself and waited. He caught the word "Durango" 
 and "hosses" and "fer enough in," the meaning of which 
 was vague. Then the girl laughed. And Slone foimd 
 himself trembling with joy. Beyond any doubt that 
 laugh could not have been Lucy's. 
 
 Slone stole back as he had corne, reached the shadow 
 of the wall, and drew away until he felt it safe to walk 
 quickly. When he reached the place where he expected 
 to find Wildfire he did not see him. Slone looked and 
 looked. Perhaps he had misjudged distance and place 
 in the gloom. StUl, he never made mistakes of that 
 nature. He searched around tiU he found the cedar 
 stump to which he had tied the lasso. In the gloom^he 
 coidd not see it, and when he reached out he did not 
 feel it. Wildfire was gone! Slone sank down, over- 
 come. He cursed what must have been carelessness, 
 though he knew he never was careless with a horse. 
 What had happened? He did not know. But Wild- 
 fire was gone — and that meant Lucy's doom and his! 
 , Slone shook with cold. 
 
 Then, as he leaned against the stump, wet and shaking, 
 296 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 a familiar sound met his ears. It was made by the teeth 
 of a grazing horse — a shght, keen, tearing cut. Wildfire 
 was dose at hand! With a sweep Slone circled the stump 
 and he found the knot of the lasso. He had missed 
 it. He began to gather in the long rope, and soon felt 
 the horse. In the black gloom against the wall Slone 
 could not distinguish Wildfire. 
 
 "Whew!" he muttered, wiping the sweat off his face. 
 "Good Lord! ... All for nothin'." 
 
 It did not take Slone long to decide to lead the horse 
 and work up the canon past the campers. He must get 
 ahead of them, and once there he had no fear of them, 
 either by night or day. He really had no hopes of getting 
 by undiscovered, and all he wished for was to get far 
 enough so that he could not be intercepted. The grazing 
 horses would scent Wildfire or he would scent them 
 
 For a wonder Wildfire allowed himself to be led as well 
 as if he had been old, faithftil Nagger. Slone could not 
 keep close in to the wall for very long, on account of the 
 cedars, but he managed to stay in the outer edge of 
 shadow cast by the wall. Wildfire winded the horses, 
 halted, threw up his head. But for some reason beyond 
 Slone the horse did not snort or whistle. As he knew 
 Wildfire he could have believed him intelligent enough 
 and hateful enough to betray his master. 
 
 It was one of the other horses that whistled an alarm. 
 This came at a point almost even with the camp-fire. 
 Slone, holding Wildfire down, had no time to get into a 
 stirrup, but leaped to the saddle and let the horse go. 
 There were hoarse yells and then streaks of fire and shots. 
 Slone heard the whizz of heavy bullets, and he feared for 
 Wildfire. But the horse drew swiftly away into the 
 darkness. Slone could not see whether the ground 
 was smooth or broken, and he left that to Wildfire. Luck 
 favored them, and presently Slone pulled him in to a safe 
 gait, and regretted only that he had not had a chance to 
 take a shot at that camp. 
 
 297 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Slone walked the horse for an hour, and v then decided 
 that he could well risk a halt for the night. 
 
 Before dawn he was up, wanning his chilled body by 
 violent movements, and forcing himself to eat. 
 
 The rim of the west wall changed from gray to pink. 
 A mocking-bird bxirst into song. A coyote sneaked away 
 from the light of day. Out in the open Slone found the 
 trail made by Creech's mustangs and by the horse of 
 Cordts's man. The latter could not be very far ahead. 
 In less than an hour Slone came to a cliunp of cedars 
 where this man had camped. An hour behind him! 
 
 This canon was open, with a level and narrow floor 
 divided by a deep wash. Slone put Wildfire to a gallop. 
 The narrow wash was no obstacle to Wildfire; he did not 
 have to be urged or checked. It was not long before 
 Slone saw a horseman a quarter of a mile ahead, and 
 he was discovered almost at the same time. This fellow 
 showed both surprise and fear. He ran his horse. But 
 in comparison with Wildfire that horse seemed sluggish. 
 Slone would have caught up with him very soon but for 
 a change in the lay of the land. The canon split up and 
 all of its gorges and ravines and washes headed upon the 
 pine-fringed plateau, now only a few miles distant. The 
 gait of the horses had to be reduced to a trot, and then 
 a walk. The man Slone was after left Creech's trail and 
 took to a side cleft. Slone, convinced he would soon 
 overhaul him, and then return to take up Creech's trail, 
 kept on, in pursuit. Then Slone was compelled to climb. 
 Wildfire was so superior to the other's horse, and Slone 
 was so keen at choosing ground and short cuts, that he 
 would have been right upon him but for a split in the 
 rock which suddenly yawned across his path. It was im- 
 passable. After a qtiick glance Slone abandoned the di- 
 rect ptu-suit, and, turning along this gulch, he gained a 
 point where the horse-thief would pass under the base 
 of the rim-wall, and hgre Slone would have him within 
 easy rifle-shot. 
 
 2g8 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 And the man, intent on getting out of the canon, rode 
 into the trap, approaching to within a hundred yards of 
 Slone, who suddenly showed himself on foot, rifle in hand. 
 The deep gulch was a barrier to Slone's further progress, 
 but his rifle dominated the situation. 
 
 "Hold on!" he called, wamingly. 
 
 "Hold on yerself !" yelled the other, aghast, as he halted 
 his horse. He gazed down and evidently was quick to 
 take in the facts. 
 
 Slone had meant to kill this man without even a 
 word, yet now when the moment had come a feeling almost 
 of sickness clouded his resolve. But he leveled the rifle. 
 
 "I got it on you," he called. 
 
 "Reckon you hev. But see hyar — " 
 
 "I can hit you an5rwhere." 
 
 "Wal, I'll take yer word fer thet." 
 
 "AH right. Now talk fast. . . . Are you one of Cordts's 
 gang?" 
 
 "Sure." 
 
 "Why are you alone?" 
 
 "We split down hyar." 
 
 "Did you know I was on this trail?" 
 
 "Nope. I didn't sure, or you'd never ketched me, 
 red hoss or no." 
 
 "Who were you trailin'?" 
 
 "Ole Creech an' the girl he kidnapped." 
 
 Slone felt the leap of his blood and the jerk it gave 
 the rifle as his tense finger trembled on the trigger. 
 
 "Girl What girl?" he called, hoarsely. 
 
 "Bostil's giri." 
 
 "Why did Cordts split on the trail?" 
 
 "He an' Hutch went round fer some more of the gang, 
 an' to head off Joel Creech when he comes in with Bostil's 
 hosses." 
 
 Slone was amazed to find how the horse-thieves had 
 calculated; yet, on second thought, the situation, once the 
 Creeches had been recognized, appeared simple enough. 
 
 299 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "What was your game?" he demanded. 
 
 "I was follerin' Creech jest to find out where he'd hole 
 up with the girl." 
 
 "What's Cordts's game — after he heads Joel Creech?" 
 
 " Then he's goin' fer the girl." 
 
 Slone scarcely needed to be told all this, but the de- 
 liberate words from the lips of one of Cordts's gang bore 
 a raw, brutal proof of Lucy's peril. And yet Slone could 
 not bring himself to kill this man in cold blood. He 
 tried, but in vain. 
 
 "Have you got a gun?" called Slone, hoarsely. 
 
 "Sure." 
 
 "Ride back the other way! ... If you don't lose me I'll 
 kill you!" 
 
 The man stared. Slone saw the color return to his 
 pale face. Then he turned his horse and rode back out 
 of sight. Slone heard him rolling the stones down the 
 long, rough slope; and when he felt sxire the horse-thief 
 had gotten a fair start he went back to mount Wildfire 
 in purstdt. 
 
 This trailer of Lucy never got back to Lucy's trail — 
 never got away. 
 
 But Slone, when that day's hard, deadly pursuit 
 ended, foimd himself lost in the canons. How bitterly 
 he cursed both his weakness in not shooting the man 
 at sight, and his strength in. following him with im- 
 placable ptu-pose! For to be fair, to give the horse- 
 thief a chance for his life, Slone had lost Lucy's trail. 
 The fact nearly distracted him. He spent a sleepless 
 night of torture. 
 
 All next day, like a wild man, he rode and climbed and 
 descended, spurred by one purpose, pursued by suspense 
 and dread. That night he tied Wildfire near water and 
 grass and fell into the sleep of exhaustion. 
 
 Morning came. But with it no hope. He had been 
 desperate. And now he was in a frightful state. It 
 
 300 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 seemed that days and days had passed, and nights that 
 were hideous with futile nightmares. 
 
 He rode' down into a canon with sloping walls, and 
 broken, like all of these canons under the great plateau. 
 Every caiion resembled another. The upland was one 
 vast network. The world seemed a labyrinth of canons 
 among which he was hopelessly lost. What would — ^what 
 had become of Lucy.? Every thought in his whirling 
 brain led back to thati — and it was terrible. 
 Then — ^he was gazing transfixed down upon the famihar 
 
 ' tracks left by Creech's mustangs. Days old, but still 
 
 I uofoUowed! 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THAT track led up the narrowing canon to its head 
 at the base of the plateau. 
 
 Slone, mindful of his horse, climbed on foot, halting 
 at the zigzag turns to rest. A long, gradually ascending 
 trail mounted the last slope, which when close at hand 
 was not so precipitous as it appeared from below. Up 
 there the wind, sucked out of the canons, swooped and 
 twisted hard. , 
 
 At last Slone led Wildfire over the rim and halted for 
 another breathing-spell. Before him was a beautiful, 
 gently sloping stretch of waving grass leading up to the 
 dark pine forest from which came a roar of wind. Be- 
 neath Slone the wild and whorled canon breaks extended, 
 wonderful in thousands of denuded surfaces, gold and 
 red and yellow, with the smoky depths between. 
 
 Wildfire sniffed the wind and snorted. Slone turned, ' 
 instantly alert. The wild horse had given an alarm. 
 Like a flash Slone leaped into the saddle. A faint cry, 
 away from the wind, startled Slone. It was hke a cry 
 he had heard in dreams. How overstrained his percep- 
 tions! He was not really sure of anything, yet on the 
 instant he was tense. 
 
 Straggling cedars on his left almost wholly obstructed 
 Slone's view. Wildfire's ears and nose were pointed that 
 way. Slone trotted him down toward the edge of this 
 cedar clump so that he could see beyond. Before he 
 reached it, however, he saw something blue, moving, 
 waving, lifting. 
 
 "Smoke!" muttered Slone. And he thought more of 
 302 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 the danger of fire on that windy height than he did of 
 another peril to himself. 
 
 Wildfire was hard to hold as he rounded the edge of 
 the cedars. 
 
 Slone saw a line of leaping flame, a line of sweeping 
 smoke, the grass on fire . . . horses ! — a man ! 
 
 Wildfire whistled his ringing blast of hate and menace, 
 his desert challenge to another stallion. ' 
 
 The man whirled to look. 
 
 Slone saw Joel Creech — and Sage King — and Lucy, 
 half naked, botmd on his back! 
 
 Joy, agony, terror in lightning-swift turns, paralyzed 
 Slone. But Wildfire lunged out on the run. 
 
 Sage King reared in fright, came down to plunge away, 
 and with a magnificent leap cleared the line of fire. 
 
 Slone, more from habit than thought, sat close in the 
 ■ saddle. A few of Wildfire's lengthening strides quickened 
 Slone's blood. Then Creech moved, also awaking from 
 a stupefying surprise, and he snatched up a gun and 
 fired. Slone saw the spurts of red, the puffs of white. 
 But he heard nothing. The torrent of his changed 
 blood, biiming and terrible, filled his ears with hate and 
 death. 
 
 He guided the running stallion. In a few tremendous 
 strides Wildfire struck Creech, and Slone had one gHmpse 
 of an awful face. The impact was terrific. Creech went 
 hurtling through the air, limp and broken, to go down 
 upon a rock, his skull cracking like a melon. 
 
 ^The horse leaped over the body and the stone, and 
 beyond he leaped the line of burning grass. 
 
 Slone saw the King running into the forest. He saw 
 poor Lucy's white body swinging with the horse's motion. 
 One glance showed the great gray to be running wild. 
 Then the hate and passion cleared away, leaving suspense 
 and terror. 
 
 Wildfire reached the pines. There down the open aisles 
 "between the black trees ran the fleet gray racer. Wildfire 
 
 303 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 saw him and snorted. The King was a hundred yards 
 to the fore. 
 
 "Wildfire — it's come — ^the race — the race!" called 
 Slone. But he could not hear his own caU. There was 
 a roar overhead, heavy, almost deafening. The wind! 
 the wind! Yet that roar did not deaden a strange; 
 shrieking crack somewhere behind. Wildfire leaped in 
 fright. Slone turned. Fire had run up a pine-tree, 
 which exploded as if the trunk were powder! 
 
 "My God! A race with fire! . . . Lucy! Lucy!" 
 
 In that poignant cry Slone uttered his realization of the 
 strange fate that. had waited for the inevitable race be- 
 tween WUdfire and the King; he uttered his despairing 
 love for Lucy, and his acceptance of death for her and 
 himself. No horse could outrun wind-driven fire in a 
 dry pine forest. Slone had no hope of that. How per- 
 fectly fate and time and place and horses, himself and 
 his sweetheart, had met! Slone damned Joel Creech's 
 insane soul to everlasting torment. To think — to think 
 his idiotic and wild threat had come true — and come true 
 with a gale in the pine-tops! Slone grew old at the 
 thought, and the fact seemed to be a dream. But the 
 dry, pine-scented air made breathing hard; the gray 
 racer, carrying that slender, half-naked form, white in 
 the forest shade, lengthened into his fleet and beautiful 
 stride; the motion of Wildfire, so easy, so snaooth, so 
 swift, and the fierce reach of his head shooting forward — 
 aU these proved that it was no dream. 
 
 Tense questions pierced the dark chaos of Slone's 
 mind — ^what could he do? Run the King down! Make 
 him kill Lucy! Save her from horrible death by fire! 
 
 The red horse had not gained a yard on the gray. 
 Slone, keen to judge distance, saw this, and for the first 
 time he doubted Wildfire's power to run down the King. 
 Not with such a lead! It was hopeless — so hopeless. 
 
 He turned to look back. He saw no fire, no smoke — 
 only the dark trunks, and the massed green foliage in 
 
 304 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 ■Nnolent agitation against the blue sky. ' That revived a 
 faint hope. If he cotild get a few miles ahead, before the 
 fire began to leap across the pine-crests, then it niight 
 be possible to run out of the forest if it were not wide. 
 
 Then a stronger hope grew. It seemed that foot by 
 foot Wildfire was gaining on the Kii^. Slone studied the 
 level forest floor sliding toward him. He lost his hope — 
 then regained it again, and then he spurred the horse. 
 Wildfire hated that as he hated Slone. But apparently 
 he did not quicken his strides. And Slone could not tell 
 if he lengthened them. He was not running near his 
 limit but, after the nattu-e of such a horse, left to choose 
 his gait, running slowly, but rising toward his swiftest 
 and fiercest. 
 
 Slone's rider's blood never thrilled to that race, for his 
 blood had curdled. The sickness within rose to his mind. 
 And that flashed up whenever he dared to look forward 
 at Lucy's white form. Slone coiild not bear this sight; 
 it almost made him reel, yet he was driven to look. He 
 saw that the King carried no saddle, so with Lucy on him 
 he was light. He ought to run all day with only that 
 weight. Wildfire carried a heavy saddle, a pack, a water- 
 bag, and a rifle. Slone untied the pack and let it drop. 
 He almost threw aside the water-bag, but something with- 
 held his hand, and also he kept his rifle. What were a 
 few more pounds to this desert stallion in his last run? 
 Slone knew it was Wildfire's greatest and last race. 
 
 Suddenly Slone's ears rang with a terrible on-coming 
 roar. For an instant the unknown sound stiffened him, 
 robbed him of strength. Only the horn of the saddle, 
 hoolong^into him, held him on. Then the years of his 
 desert life answered to a call more than human. 
 
 He had to race against fire. He must beat the flame 
 to the girl he loved. There were nules of dry forest, like 
 powder. Fire backed by a heavy gale could rage through 
 dry pine faster than any horge could run. He might 
 fail to save Lucy. Fate had given him a bitter ride. 
 
 30s 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 But he swore a grim oath that he wotild beat the flame. 
 The intense and abnormal rider's passion in him, like 
 Bostil's, dammed up, but never fuUy controlled, burst 
 within him, and suddenly he awoke to a wild and terri- 
 ble violence of heart and soul. He had accepted death; 
 he had no fear. All that he wanted to do, the last thing 
 he wanted to do, was to ride down the King and kill 
 Lucy mercifully. How he would have gloried to bum 
 there in the forest, and for a mtUiofl years in the dark be- 
 yond, to save the girl! 
 
 He goaded the horse. Then he looked back. 
 
 Through the aisles of the forest he saw a strange, 
 streaky, murky something moving, alive, shifting up and 
 down, never an instant the same. It must have been the 
 wind — ^the heat before the fire. He seemed to see through 
 it, but there was nothing beyond, only opaque, dim; 
 mustering clouds. Hot pufEs shot forward into his face. 
 His eyes smarted and stung. His ears hurt and were 
 growing deaf. The tumult was the roar of avalanches, 
 of maelstroms, of rushing seas, of the wreck of the up- 
 lands and the ruin of the earth. It grew to be so great 
 a roar that he no longer heard. There was only silence. 
 
 And he turned to face ahead. The stallion stretched 
 low on a dead run;" the tips of the pines were bending 
 before the wind; and Wildfire, the terrible thing for which 
 his horse was named, was leaping through the forest. 
 But there was no sound. 
 
 Ahead of Slone, down the aisles, low under the trees 
 spreading over the running King, floated swiftly some 
 medium, like a transparent veil. It was neither smoke 
 nor air. It carried faint pin -points of light, sparks, that 
 resembled atoms of dust floating in simlight. It was a 
 wave of heat driven before the storm of fire. Slone did 
 not feel pain, but he seemed to be drying up, parching. 
 And Lucy must be suffering now. He goaded the stallion; 
 raking his flanks. Wildfire answered with a scream and 
 a greater speed. AH except Lucy and Sage King and 
 
 306 
 
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 SLONE FELT A GHASTLY TRIUMPH WHEN HE BEGAN TO WHIRL THE 
 NOOSE OF THE LASSO ROUND HIS HEAD. . . . AND AS HE HESI- 
 TATED WILDFIRE SUDDENLY WHISTLED ONE SHRIEKING BLAST 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Wildfire seemed so .strange and unreal — ^the swift rush 
 between the pines, now growing ghostly in the dimming 
 light, the sense of a pursuing, overpowering force, and 
 yet absolute silence. 
 
 Slone fought the desire to look back. But he could 
 not resist it. Some horrible fascination compelled him. 
 All behind had changed. A hot wind, like a blast from 
 a furnace, blew light, stinging particles into his face. 
 The fire was racing in the tree-tops, while below 
 all was yet clear. A lashing, leaping flame engvilfed 
 the canopy of pines. It was white, seething, incon- 
 ceivably swift, with a thousand flashing tongues. It 
 traveled ahead of smoke. • It was so thin he could see the 
 branches through it, and the fiery clouds behind. It 
 swept onward, a sublime and an appalling spectacle. 
 Slone could not think of what it looked like. It was fire, 
 Uberated, freed from the bowels of the earth, tremendous, 
 devouring. This, then, was the meaning of fire. This, 
 then, was the horrible fate to befall Lucy. 
 
 But no! He thought he must be insane not to be 
 overcome in spirit. Yet he was not. He wotild beat 
 the flame to Lucy. He felt the loss of something, some 
 kind of a sensation which he ought to have had. Still 
 he rode that race to kUl his sweetheart better than any 
 race he had ever before ridden. He kept his seat; he 
 dodged the snags; he pulled the maddened horse the 
 shortest way, he kept the King running straight. 
 
 No horse had ever run so magnificent a race! Wild- 
 fire was outracing wind and fire, and he was overhauling 
 the most noted racer of the uplands against a tremendous 
 handicap. But now he was no longer racing to kill the 
 King; he was running in terror. For miles he held that 
 long, swift, wonderfid stride without a break. He was 
 running to his death, whether or not he distanced the fire. 
 Nothing could stop him now but a bursting heart. 
 
 Slone untied his lasso and coiled the noose. Almost 
 within reach of the King ! One throw — one sudden swerve 
 
 21 307 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 •—and the King would go down. Lucy would know only 
 a stunning shock. Slone's heart broke. Could he kill 
 her — crush that dear golden head? He could not, yet 
 he must! He saw a long, curved, red welt on Lucy's 
 white shoidders. What was that? Had a branch lashed 
 her? Slone could not see her face. She could not have 
 been dead or in a faint, for she was riding the King, bound 
 as she was ! 
 
 Closer and closer drew Wildfire. He seemed to go 
 faster and faster as that wind of flame gained upon them. 
 The air was too thick to breathe. It had an irresistible 
 weight. It pushed horses and riders onward in their 
 flight — straws on the crest of a cyclone. 
 
 Again Slone looked back and again the spectacle was 
 different. There was a white and golden fury of flame 
 above, beautiful and blinding; and below, farther back, 
 an inferno of glowing fire, black-streaked, with trembling, 
 exploding puffs and streams of yellow smoke. The aisles 
 between the burning pines were smoky, murky caverns, 
 moving and weird. Slone saw fire shoot from the tree- 
 tops down the trunks, and he saw fire shoot up the trunks, 
 like trains of powder. They exploded like huge rockets. 
 And along the forest floor leaped the little flames. His 
 eyes burned and blurred till all merged into a wide, pur- 
 suing storm too awful for the gaze of man. 
 
 Wildfire was running down the King. The great gray 
 had not lessened his speed, but he was breaking. Slone 
 felt a ghastly triumph when he began to whirl the noose 
 of the lasso round his head. Already he was within 
 range. But he held back his throw which meant the 
 end of all. And as he hesitated Wildfire suddenly 
 whistled one shrieking blast. 
 
 Slone looked. Ahead there was light through the 
 forest! Slone saw a white, open space of grass. A park? 
 No — the end of the forest! Wildfire, like a demon, 
 htirtled onward, with his smoothness of action gone, 
 beginning to break, within a length of the King. 
 
 "308 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 A cry escaped Slone — a cry as silent as if there had 
 been no deafening roar — as wild as the race, and as ter- 
 rible as the ruthless fire. It was the cry of life — instead 
 of death. Both Sage King and Wildfire wotild beat the 
 flame. 
 
 Then, with the open just ahead, Slone felt a, wave of 
 hot wind rolling over him. He saw the lashing tongues 
 of flame above him in the pines. The storm had caught 
 him. It forged ahead. He was riding under a canopy 
 of fire. Burning pine cones, like torches, dropped all 
 around him. He had a terrible blank sense of weight, 
 of suffocation, of the air turning to fire. 
 
 Then Wildfire, with his nose at Sage King's flank, 
 flashed out of the pines into the open. Slone saw a grassy 
 wide reach inclining gently toward a dark break in. the 
 ground with crags rising sheer above it, and to the right 
 a great open space. 
 
 Slone felt that dear air as the breath of deliverance. 
 His reeling sense righted. There — the King ran, blindly 
 going to his death. Wildfire was breaking fast. His 
 momentum carried him. He was almost done. 
 
 Slone roped the King, and holding hard, waited for 
 the end. They ran on, breaking, breaking. Slone thought 
 he would have to throw the King, for they were perilously 
 near the deep deft in the rim. But Sage King went to 
 his knees. 
 
 Slone leaped off just as Wildfire fell. How the blade 
 flashed that released Lucy ! She was wet from the horse's 
 sweat and foam. She slid off into Slone's arms, and he 
 called her name. Could she hear above that roar back 
 there in the forest? The pieces of rope hung to her wrists 
 and ,£lone saw dark bruises, raw and bloody. She fell 
 against him. Was she dead? His heart contracted. 
 How white the face ! No ; he saw her breast heave against 
 his! And he cried aloud, incoherently in his joy. She 
 was alive. She was not badly hurt. She stirred. She 
 plucked at him with nerveless hands. She pressed dose 
 
 309 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 to him. He heard a smothered voice, yet so fidl, so won- 
 derful! 
 
 "Put — ^your — coat — on me!" came somehow to his ears. 
 
 Slone started violently' Abashed, shamed to realize 
 he had forgotten she was half nude, he blindly tore ofif 
 his coat, blindly folded it around her. 
 
 "Lin! Lin!" she cried. 
 
 "Lucy — Oh! are y-you — " he replied, huskily. 
 
 "I'm not hurt. I'm all right." 
 
 "But that wretch, Joel. He—" 
 
 "He'd killed his father — ^just a— minute — ^before you 
 came. I fought him! Oh! . . . But I'm all right. . . . Did 
 you — " 
 
 "Wildfire ran him down — smashed nim. . . . Lucy! 
 this can't be true. . . . Yet I feel you! Thank God!" 
 
 With her free hand Lucy returned his clasp. She 
 seemed to be strong. It was a precious moment for 
 Slone, in which he was uplifted beyond all dreams. 
 
 "Let me loose — a second," she said. "I want to — 
 get in your coat." 
 
 She laughed as he released her. She laughed! And 
 Slone thrilled with unutterable sweetness at that laugh. 
 
 As he turned away he felt a swift wind, then a strange 
 impact from an invisible force that staggered hitn, then 
 the rend of flesh. After that came the heavy report of 
 a gun. 
 
 Slone fell. He knew he had been shot. Following the 
 rending of his flesh came a hot agony. It was in his 
 shotilder, high up, and the dark, swift fear for his life 
 was checked. 
 
 Lucy stood staring down at him, unable to compre- 
 hend, slowly paling. Her hands clasped the coat rotmd 
 her. Slone saw her, saw the edge of streaming clouds 
 of smoke above her, saw on the cliff beyond the gorge 
 two men, one with a smoking gun half leveled. 
 
 If Slone had been inattentive to his surroundings be- 
 fore, the sight of Cordts electrified him. 
 
 310 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Lucy! drop down! quick!" 
 
 "Oh, what's happened? You — ^you — " 
 
 "I've been shot. Drop down, I tell you. Get behind 
 the horse an' piill my rifle." 
 
 "Shot!" exclaimed Lucy, blankly. 
 
 "Yes— yes. . . . My God! Lucy, he's goin' to shoot 
 again!" 
 
 It was then Lucy Bostil saw Cordts across the gulch. 
 He was not fifty yards distant, plainly recognizable, tall, 
 gatmt, sardonic. He held the half-leveled gun ready as 
 if waiting. He had waited there in ambush. The clouds 
 of smoke rolled up above him, hiding the crags. 
 
 ' ' Cordts! ' ' Bostil's blood spoke in the girl's thrilling cry. 
 
 " Hunch down, Lucy!" cried Slone. " Pull my rifle. . . . 
 I'm only winged — not hurt. Hurry! He's goin' — " 
 
 Another heavy report interrupted Slone. The bullet 
 missed, but Slone made a pretense, a convulsive flop, 
 as if struck. 
 
 " Get the rifle! Quick!" he called. 
 
 But Lucy misunderstood his ruse to deceive Cordts. 
 She thought he had been hit again. She ran to the 
 fallen Wildfire and jerked the rifle from its sheath. 
 
 Cordts had begim to climb round a ledge, evidently a 
 short cut to get down and across. Hutchinson saw the 
 rifle and yelled to Cordts. The horse-thief halted, his 
 dark face gleaming toward Lucy. 
 
 When Lucy rose the coat fell from her nude shoulders. 
 And Slone, watching, suddenly lost his agony of terror 
 for her and uttered a pealing cry of defiance and of 
 rapture. 
 
 She swept up the rifle. It wavered. Hutchinson was 
 above, and Cordts, reaching up, yelled for help. Hutchin- 
 son was reluctant. But the stronger force dominated. 
 He leaned down — clasped Cordts's outstretched hands,- 
 and pulled. Hutchinson bawled out hoarsely. Cordts 
 turned what seemed a paler face. He had difficulty on 
 the slight footing. He was slow. 
 
 311 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 Slone tried to call to Lucy to shoot low, but his lips 
 had drawn tight after his one yell. Slone saw her white, 
 rounded shoulders bent, with cold, white face pressed 
 against the rifle, with slim arms qmvering and growing 
 tense, with the tangled golden hair blowing out. 
 
 Then she shot. 
 
 Slone's glance shifted. He did not see the btiUet strike 
 up dust. The figures of the men remained the same — 
 Hutchinson straining, Cordts. . . . No, Cordts was not the 
 same! A strange change seemed manifest in his long 
 form. It did not seem instinct with effort. Yet it 
 moved. 
 
 Hutchinson also was acting strangely, yelling, heaving; 
 wrestling. But he could not help Cordts. He lifted 
 violently, raised Cordts a little, and then appeared to be 
 in peril of losing his balance. 
 
 Cordts leaned against the cliff. Then it dawned upon 
 Slone that Lucy had hit the horse-thief. Hard hit! He 
 would not — he could not let go of Hutchinson. His was 
 a death clutch. The burly Hutchinson slipped from his 
 knee-hold, and as he moved Cordts swayed, his feet left 
 the ledge, he hung, upheld only by the tottering comrade. 
 
 What a harsh and terrible cry from Hutchinson! He 
 made one last convulsive effort and it doomed him. 
 Slowly he lost his balance. Cordts's dark, evil, haunting 
 face swung ^ound. Both men became lax and plunged, 
 and separated. The dust rose from the rough steps. 
 Then the dark forms shot down — Cordts falling sheer and 
 straight, Hutchinson headlong, with waving arms — down 
 and down, vanishing in the depths. No sound came up. 
 A little column of yeUow dust curled from the fatal ledge 
 and, catching the wind above, streamed away into .the 
 drifting clouds of smoke. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 A DARKNESS, like the streaming clouds overhead, 
 seemed to blot out Slone's sight, and then passed 
 away, leaving it clearer. 
 
 Lucy was bending over him, binding, a scarf round his 
 shoulder and under his arm. "Lin! It's nothing!" she 
 was saying, earnestly. "Never touched a bone!'.' 
 
 Slone sat up. The smoke was clearing away. Little 
 curves of biuiiing grass were working down along the 
 rim. He put out a hand to grasp Luc^, remembering in a 
 flash. He pointed to the ledge across the chasm. 
 
 "They're — gone!" cried Lucy, with a strange and deep 
 note in her voice. She shook violently. But she did not 
 look away from Slone. 
 
 "Wildfire! The King!" he added, hoarsely. 
 
 "Both where they dropped. Oh, I'm afraid to — ^to 
 look. . . . And, Lin, I saw Sarch, Two Face, and Ben and 
 Plume go down there." 
 
 She had her back to the chasm where the trail led down, 
 and she pointed without looking. 
 
 Slone got up, a little unsteady on his feet and con- 
 scious of a dull pain. 
 
 "Sarch will go straight home, and the others will follow 
 him," said Lucy. "They got away here where Joel came 
 up the trail. The fire chased them out of the woods. 
 Sarch wiU go home. And that'll fetch the riders." 
 
 "We won't need them if only Wildfire and the King — " 
 Slone broke off and grimly, with a catch in his breath, 
 turned to the horses. 
 
 313 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 How strange that Slone should run toward the King 
 while Lucy ran to "Wildfire! 
 
 Sage King was a beaten, broken horse, but he would 
 live to run another race. 
 
 Lucy was kneeling beside Wildfire, sobbing and crying: 
 "Wildfire! Wildfire!" 
 
 All, of Wildfire was white except where »he was red, and 
 that red was not now his glossy, flaming skin. A terrible 
 muscular convulsion as of internal collapse grew slower 
 and slower. Yet choked, blinded, dying, killed on his 
 feet, Wildfire heard Lucy's voice. 
 
 "Oh, Lin! Oh, Lin!" moaned Lucy. 
 
 While they knelt there the violent convulsions changed 
 to slow heaves. 
 
 "He run the King down — carryin' weight — ^with a long 
 lead to overcome !" Slone muttered, and he put a shaking 
 hand on the horse's vv^et neck. 
 
 '* oh, he Jjeat the Kilg !' ' cried Lucy. "But you mustn't 
 — ^you can't tell Dad!" 
 
 "What can we tell him?" 
 
 "Oh, I know. Old Creech told me what to say!" 
 
 A change, both of body and spirit, seenled to pass over 
 the great stallion. 
 
 "Wildfire! Wildfire!" 
 
 Again the rider called to his horse, with a low and pierc- 
 ing cry. But Wildfire did not hear. 
 
 The morning sun glanced brightly over the rippling 
 sage which rolled away from the Ford like a gray sea. 
 
 Bostil sat on his porch, a stricken man. He faced the 
 blue haze of the north, where days before all that he had 
 loved had vanished. Every day, from sunrise till sunset, 
 he had been there, waiting and watching. His riders 
 were grouped near him, silent, awed by his agony, await- 
 ing orders that never came. 
 
 From behind a ridge puffed up a thin cloud of dust. 
 Bostn saw it and gave a start. Above the sage appeared 
 
 314 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 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 bosses 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. 
 
 HoUey 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 aU 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. BostU wheeled to face the north again. His 
 brow was lowering; his cheek was pale and sunken; his 
 jaw was set. 
 ' 315 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 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 ap- 
 peared 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. 
 
 HoUey 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!" 
 
 BostU 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. 
 
 "All' what's — ^he packin'?" queried Bostil, huskily. 
 
 Plain to all keen eyes was the glint of Lucy BostH'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 snoilin' !" he called, and the cool voice was strangely 
 different. 
 
 The riders waited for Bostil. Slone rode into the 
 316 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 cotxrtyard. 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 thimder, 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 beau- 
 tiful. 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 Eling 
 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?" 
 
 317 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Yes. Joel killed his father, fightin' to get Lucy... . .1 
 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 fod 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 other- 
 wise. Yet that dark cold something, almost sullen^ 
 clung round him. 
 
 "Been bored, eh? Wal, it ain't low, an' thet's good.] 
 Who shot you?" 
 
 "Cordts." 
 
 "Cordis!" Bostil leaned forward in sudden, fierce! 
 eagerness. 
 
 "Yes, Cordts. . . . His outfit run across Creech's trail 
 an' we bunched. I can't tell now. . . . But we had — ^hell! 
 An' Cordts is dead — so's Hutch — ^an' that other pard of 
 his. . . . Bostil, they'll never haunt your sleep again!" 
 
 Slone finished with a strange sternness that seemed 
 almost bitter. 
 
 Bostil raised both his huge fists. The blood was bulg- 
 ing his thick neck. It was another kind of passion that 
 obsessed him. Only some violent check to his emotion 
 prevented him from embracing Slone. The huge fists 
 imclenched and the big fingers worked. 
 
 "You mean to tell me you did fer Cordts an' Hutch 
 what you did fer Sears?" he boomed out. 
 
 "They're dead — gone, Bostil — ^honest to God!" replied 
 Slone. 
 
 Holley thrust a quivering, brown hand into Bostil's ' 
 face. "What did I tell you?" he shouted. "Didn't I 
 say wait?" 
 
 Bostil threw away all that deep fury of passion, and 
 there seemed only a resistless and speechless admiration 
 left. Then ensued a moment of silence. .The riders 
 watched Slone's weary face as it drooped, and Bostil, as 
 he loomed over him. 
 
 318 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 "Where's the red stallion?" queried Bostil. That was 
 the question hard to get out. 
 
 Slone raised eyes dark with pain, yet they flashed as 
 he looked straight up into Bostil's face. "Wildfire's 
 dead!" 
 
 "Dead!" ejaculated Bostil. 
 
 Another moment of strained exciting suspense. 
 
 "Shot?" he went on. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What killed him?" 
 
 "The King, sir! . . . Killed him on his feet!" 
 
 Bostil's heavy jaw bulged and quivered. His hand 
 shook as he laid it on Sage King's mane — the first touch 
 since the return of his favorite. 
 
 "Slone — what — ^is it?" he said, brokenly, with voice 
 strangely softened. His face became transfigured. 
 
 " Sage King killed .Wildfire on his feet. ... A grand race, 
 Bostil! . . . But Wildfire's dead — an' here's the King! 
 Ask me no more. I want to forget." 
 
 Bostil put his arm around the young man's shoulder. 
 "Slone, if I don't know what you feel fer the loss of 
 thet grand hoss, no rider on earth knows! ... Go in 
 the house. Boys, take him in — all of you — an' look 
 after him." 
 
 Bostil wanted to be alone, to weicome the King, to 
 lead him back to the home corral, perhaps to hide from 
 all eyes the change and the uplift that would forever keep 
 him from wronging another man. 
 
 The late rains came and like magic, in a few days, the 
 sage grew green and lustrous and fresh, the gray turning 
 to purple. 
 
 Every morning the sun rose white and hot in a blue 
 and cloudless sky. And then soon the horizon line showed 
 creamy clouds that rose and spread and darkened. Every 
 afternoon storms hung along the ramparts and rainbows 
 curved down beautiful and ethereal. The dim blackness 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 of the storm-clouds was split to the blinding zigzag of 
 lightining, and the thunder rolled and boomed, like the 
 Colorado in flood. 
 
 The wind was fragrant, sage-laden, no longer dry and 
 hot, but cool in the shade. 
 
 Slone and Lucy never rode down so far as the stately 
 monuments, though these, held memories as hatmtingly 
 sweet as others were poignantly bitter. Lucy never rode 
 the King again. But Slone rode him, learned to love him. 
 And Lucy did not race any more. When Slone tried to 
 stir in her the old spirit all the response he got was a 
 wistful shake of head or a laugh that hid the truth or an 
 excuse that the strain on her anMes from Joel Creech's 
 lasso had never mended. The girl was imutterably happy, 
 but it was possible that she would never race a horse 
 again. 
 
 She rode Sarchedon, and she liked to trot or lope along 
 beside Slone while they linked hands and watched the 
 <3istance. But her glance shunned the north, that dis- 
 tance which held the wild canons and the broken battle- 
 ments and the long, black, pine-fringed plateau. 
 
 "Won't you ever ride with me, out to the old camp, 
 "where I used to wait for you?" asked Slone. 
 
 "Some day," she said, softly. 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "When — ^when we come back from Durango," she re- 
 plied, with averted eyes and scarlet cheek. And Slone 
 was silent, for that planned trip to Durango, with its 
 wonderful gift to be, made his heart swell. 
 
 And so on this rainbow day, with storms all around 
 them, and blue sky above, they rode only as far as the 
 valley. But from there, before they turned to go back, 
 the monuments appeared close, and they loomed grandly 
 with the background of purple bank and creamy dpud 
 and shafts of golden lightning. They seemed like senti- 
 nels — ^guardians of a great and beautiful love bom under 
 their lofty heights, in the lonely silence of day, in the 
 
 320 
 
WILDFIRE 
 
 star-thrown shadow of night. They were like that love. 
 And they held Lucy and Slone, calling every day, giving 
 a nameless and tranquil content, binding them true to 
 love, true to the sage and the open, true to that wild 
 upland home. 
 
 THE END 
 
ZANE GREY'S NOVELS 
 
 May ha had wherever books «re sold. Ask for Grotset & Dunlap's list 
 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS . 
 
 A New York society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of frontier war- 
 fare. Her loyal superintendent rescues- her when she is captured by bandits, A _ 
 , surprising climax brings the story to a delightful close. 
 
 THE RAINBOW TRAIL 
 
 The story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the great western 
 uplands— until at last love and faith awake. 
 
 DESERT GOLD * 
 
 The story describes the recent uprisiner along the border, and ends with the finding 
 of tlie gold which two prospectors had willea to the girl who is the story's heroine, 
 
 RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 
 
 A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormon authority 
 ruled. The prosecution of Jane Withersteen is the theme .of the story. 
 
 THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN 
 
 This is the record of a trip which the author took with BufiFalo Jones, known as the 
 preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desert and of a hunt in "tliat 
 wonderful coimtry of deep canons and giant pines." 
 
 THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT 
 
 A lovely girl, who has been reared among Mormons, leams to love a young New 
 Knglander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become 
 the second wife of one of the Mormons— Well, that's the problem of this great story. 
 
 THE SHORT STOP 
 
 The young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and fortune aa 
 a professional ball player. His hard knocks at the start are followed by such success 
 as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty ought to win. ' 
 
 BETTY ZANE 
 
 This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautiful young sister of 
 old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers. 
 
 THE LONE STAR RANGER 
 
 After killing a man in self defense_, Buck Duane becomes an outlaw along the 
 Texas border. In a camp on the Mexican side of the river, he finds a young girlheld 
 prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down upon himself the wrath of her 
 captors and henceforth is hunted on one side by honest men, on the other by outlaws. 
 
 THE BORDER LEGION 
 
 Joan Randle, in a spirit of anger, sent Jim Cleve out to a lawless Western mining 
 camp, to prove his mettle. Then realizing that she loved him — she followed him out. 
 On her way, she is captured by a bandit band, and trouble begips when she shooti 
 Kells, the leader— and nurses hmi to health a^n. Here enters another romance— 
 -vhen Joan, disguised as an outlaw, observes Jmi, in the throes of dissipation. A gold 
 strike, a thrilling robbery— gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly. 
 
 T HE LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS, 
 
 By Helen Cody Wetmore and Zane Grey 
 
 The life story of Colonel William F. Cody, " Buffalo Bill," as told by his sister and 
 Zane Grey. It begins with his boyhood in Iowa and his first encounter with an In- 
 dian. We see "BUI" as a pony express rider, then near Fort Sumter as Chief oj 
 the Scouts, and later engaged in the most dangerous Indian camp^gns. There is 
 also a very interesting account of the travels of "The Wild West" Show. No char- 
 acter In public life makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of America than 
 * ' Buffalo Bill," whose daring and bravery made him famous. 
 
 Grosset & DuNLAP, Publishers, New York 
 
NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY 
 
 WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE 
 
 HANDSOMELY BOUND IN CLOTH. ILLUSTRATED. 
 May bo had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list 
 
 MAVERICKS. 
 
 A tale of the westem frontier, where the "rustler," whose dep- 
 redations are so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, 
 abounds. One of the sweetest love stories ever told.^ 
 
 A TEXAS RANGER. 
 
 How a member of the most dauntless border police force carried 
 law into the mesquit, saved the life of an innocent man after a series 
 of thrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to Wyoming, and then 
 passed through deadly peril to ultimate happiness. ^, 
 
 WYOMING. 
 
 In this vivid story of the outdoor West the author has captured 
 the breezy charm of "cattleland," and brings out the turbid life of 
 the frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor. 
 
 RIDGWAY OF MONTANA. 
 
 The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where poli- 
 tics and mining industries are the religion of the country. The 
 political contest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give 
 this story great strength and charm. • 
 
 BUCKY O'CONNOR, 
 
 Every chapter teems with 'wholesome, stirring adventures, re- 
 plete with the dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash 
 and absorbing fascination of style and plot. 
 
 CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT. 
 
 A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of 
 a bitter feud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. The heroine 
 is a most unusual woman and her love story reaches a culmination 
 that is fittingly characteristic of the great free West. 
 
 BRAND BLOTTERS. 
 
 A story of the Cattle Range. This story brings out the turbid 
 life of the frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charm- 
 ing love interest running through its 320 pages. 
 
 Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 
 
JACK LONDON^S NOVELS 
 
 May bs had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list 
 
 JOHN BARLEYCORN. lUiastrated by H. T. Dunn. 
 
 This remarkable book is a record of the author's own amazing 
 experiences. This big, brawny world rover, who has been ac- 
 quainted with alcohol from boyhood, comes out boldly against John 
 Barleycorn. It is a string of exciting adventures, yet it forcefully 
 conveys an unforgetable idea and makes a typical Jack London book. 
 THE VALLEY OF THE MOON. Frontispiece by George Harper. 
 
 The story opens in the city slums where Billy Roberts, teamster 
 and ex-prize fighter, and Saxon Brown, laundry worker, meet and 
 love and marry. They tramp from one end of CaUfomia to the 
 other, and in the Valley of the Moon find the farm paradise that is 
 to be their salvation. 
 BURNING DAYLIGHT. Four illustrations. 
 
 The story of an adventurer who went to Alaska and laid the 
 foundations of his fortune before the gold hunters arrived. Bringing 
 his fortunes to the States he is cheated out of it by a crowd of money 
 kings, and recovers it only at the muzzle of his gun. He then starts 
 out asja merciless exploiter on his own account. Finally he takes to 
 drinking and becomes a picture of degeneration. About this time 
 he falls in love with his stenographer and wins her heart but not 
 her hand and then — ^but read the story! 
 A SON OF THE SUN . Illustrated by A. O. Fischer and C.W. Ashley. 
 
 David Grief was once a light-haired, blue-eyed youth who came 
 from England to the South Seas in search of adventure. Tanned 
 like a native and as lithe as a tiger, he became a real son of the sun. 
 The life appealed to him and he remained and became very wealthy. 
 T HE CALL OF THE WILD. Illustrations by Philip R. Goodwin and 
 Charles Livingston Bull. Decorations by Charles E. Hooper. 
 
 A book of dog adventures as exciting as any man's exploits 
 could bfe. Here is excitement to stir the blood and here is pictur- 
 esque color to transport the reader to primitive scenes.^ 
 THE SEA WOLF. Illustrated by W. J. Aylward. 
 
 Told by a man whom Fate suddenly swings from his fastidious 
 life into the power of the brutal captain of a sealing schooner. A 
 novel of adventure warmed by a beautiful love episode that every 
 reader will hail with delight. 
 WHITE FANG. Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull. 
 
 "White Fang" is part dog, part wolf and all brute, living in the 
 frozen north ; he gradually comes under the spell of man's com- 
 panionship, and surrenders all at the last in a fight with a buU dog. 
 Thereafter he is man's loving slave. ^ 
 
 Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers), New York 
 
STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY 
 
 GENE STRATTON-PORTER 
 
 May be had wherever tooks are sold. Ask for Grossat & Dunlap's list. 
 
 MICHAEL O'HALLORAN, Illustrated by Frances Rogers. 
 
 Michael is a quick-witted little Irish newsboy , living in Northern 
 Indiana. He adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. He also as- 
 sumes the responsibility of leading the entire rural community ui^ 
 ward and onward, 
 
 LADDIE. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. 
 
 This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The 
 story is told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, 
 but it is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love 
 affairs of older members of the family. Chief among them is that 
 of Laddie and the Princess, an English girl who has come to live in 
 the neighborhood and about whose family there hangs a mystery. 
 THE HARVESTER. Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs. 
 
 '■ " The Harvester, " is a man of the woods and fields, and if the 
 book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would 
 be notable. But when the Girl comes to his ''Medicine Woods," 
 there begins a romance of the rarest idyllic quality. 
 FRECKLES . lUustrated. 
 
 1 Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in 
 which he takes hold of life ; the nature friendships he forms in the 
 great Limberlost Swamp ; the manner in which everyone who meets 
 him succumbs to the charm of his engaging personality ; and his 
 love-story with " The Angel " are full of real sentiment, 
 A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. Illustrated. 
 
 The story of a girl of the Michigan woods ; a buoyant, loveable 
 type of the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and 
 kindness towards all things ; her hope is never dimmed. And by 
 the sheer beauty of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from 
 barren and unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. 
 AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. Illustrations in colors. 
 
 The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. 
 The story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing 
 love. The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of 
 nature, and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. 
 THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL. Profusely illustrated. 
 
 • A love ideal of the Cardina.l bird and his mate, told with delicacy 
 and humor. 
 
 Grosset & DuNLAP, Publishers, New York 
 
BOOTH TARKINGTON'S 
 NOVELS 
 
 Hay be had wherovsr boohs are sold. Asklfor Grosset & Dunlap's list. 
 
 SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur WilUam Brown. 
 
 f. 
 
 ( No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed 
 I the immortal young people of this story. Its humor is irre- '■ 
 sistible and reminiscent of the time when the reader was 
 Seventeen. 
 
 PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant. 
 
 This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, hu- 
 morous, tragic things which are locked secrets to most older 
 folks. It is a finished, exquisite work. 
 
 PENROD AND, SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm. 
 
 Like " Penrod " and " Seventeen," this book contains 
 some remarkable phases of real boyhood and some of the best 
 stories of juvenile prankishness that have ever been written. 
 
 THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by C. E. Chambers. 
 
 Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who re- 
 volts against his father's plans for him to be a servitor of 
 big business. The love of a fine girl turns Bibb's life from 
 failure to success. 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Frontispiece. 
 
 A story of love and politics, — more especially a picture of 
 a country editor's Ufe in Indiana, but the charm of the book 
 lies in the love interest. 
 
 THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood. 
 
 The " Flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's 
 engagement, drives one man to suicide, causes the miu-der 
 of another, leads another to lose his fortune, and in the end 
 marries a stupid and unpromising suitor, leaving the really^ 
 worthy one to marry her sister. 
 
 Aak for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction i 
 
 Grosset & DuNLAP, Publishers, New York: 
 
KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIES 
 
 May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 
 
 MOTHER. Illustrated by F. G. Yohn. 
 
 This book has a fairy-story touch, counterbalanced by 
 the sturdy reality of struggle, sacrifice, and resulting peace 
 and power of a mother's experiences. 
 
 SATURDAY'S CHILD. 
 Frontispiece by F. Graham Gootes. 
 
 Out on the Pacific coast a normal girl, obscure and lovely, 
 makes _ a quest for happiness. She passes through three 
 stages — poverty, wealth and service— and works out a 
 creditable salvation. 
 
 THE RICH MRS. BURGOYNE. 
 Illustrated by Lucius H. Hitchcock. 
 
 The story of a sensible woman who^keeps within her 
 means, refuses to be swamped by social engagements, lives 
 a normal human life of varied interests, and has her own 
 romance. 
 
 THE STORY OF JULIA'PAGE. 
 
 Frontispiece by Allan Gilbert. 
 
 How Julia Page, reared in rather unpromising surround- 
 ings, lifted herself through sheer determitiation to a higher 
 plane of life. 
 
 THE HEART OF RACHAEL. 
 
 Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers. 
 
 Rachael is called upon to solve many problems, and in 
 working out these, there is shown the beauty and strength 
 of soul of one of fiction's most appealing characters. 
 
 Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction 
 
 Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 
 
THE NOVELS OF 
 
 GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON 
 
 May lie had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grossot and Dunlap's list. 
 
 GRAUSTARK. Illustrated with Scenes from the Play. 
 
 With the appearance of this novel, the author introduced a new- 
 type of story and won for himself a perpetual reading public. It 
 is the story of love behind a throne in a new and strange country. 
 
 BEVERLY OF GRAUSTARK, lUustrations by Harrison Fisher. 
 
 This is a sequel to " Graustark.'' A bewitching American girl 
 visits the little principality and there has a romantic love affair. 
 
 PRINCE OF GRAUSTARK. lUustrationa by A. I. Keller. 
 
 The Prince of Graustark is none other than the son of the hero- 
 ine of "Graustark." Beverly's daughter, and an American multi- 
 millionaire with a, brilliant and lovely daughter also figure in the 
 story. 
 
 BREWSTER'S MILLIONS. 
 
 Illustrated with Scenes from the Photo-Play. 
 
 A young man, required to spend one million dollars in one year; 
 in order to inherit seven, accomplishes the task in this lively story. 
 
 COWARDICE COURT. 
 
 Illus. by Harrison Fisher and decorations by Theodore Hapgood. 
 
 A romance of love and adventure, the plot forming around a 
 social feud in the Adirondacks in which an English girl is tempted 
 into being a traitor by a romantic young American. 
 
 THE HOLLOW OF HER HAND. Illustrated by A. I. Keller. 
 
 A story of modem New York, built around an ancient enmity; 
 born of the scorn of the aristocrat for one of inferior birth. 
 
 WHAT'S-HIS-NAME . Illustrations by Harrison Fisher. 
 
 " What's-His-Name " is the husband of a beautiful and popular 
 actress who is billboarded on Broadway under an assumed name. 
 The very opposite manner in which these two live their lives brings 
 a dramatic climax to the story. 
 
 As\ far Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction 
 
 Grosset & DuNLAP, Publishers,. New York 
 
SEWELL FORD'S STORIES 
 
 May be had wharever books are sold. Ask for Erosset & Ounlap's list. 
 
 SHORTY McCABE. lUustiated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 
 
 A very humorous story. The hero, an independent and vigorous 
 thinker, sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way. 
 SIDE-STEPPING WITH SHORTY. 
 Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 
 
 Twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. Sympathy 
 with human nature and an abounding sense of humor are the requi- 
 sites for "side-stepping with Shorty." 
 SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB. 
 Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 
 
 Shorty McCabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped 
 right up to the minute. He aids in the right distribution of a 
 " conscience fund," and gives joy to all concerned. 
 SHORTY McCABE'S ODD NTIMBERS. 
 Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 
 
 These further chronicles of Shorty McCabe tell of his studio for 
 physical culture, and of his experiences both on the East side and at 
 swell yachting parties. 
 TORCHY. lUus, by Geo. Biehm and Jas. Montgomery Flagg. 
 
 A red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom pe- 
 culiar to the youths reared on the sidewalks of New York, tells the 
 story of his experiences. 
 TRYING OUT TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincohi. 
 
 ' Torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in 
 the previous book. 
 ON WITH TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. 
 
 Torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever 
 was," but that young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young 
 people apart, which brings about many hilariously funny situations. 
 TORCHY, PRIVATE SEC. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. 
 
 Torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary 
 for the Corrugated Iron Company. The story is full of humor and 
 infectious American slang. 
 WILT THOU TORCHY. Illua. by F. Snapp and A. W. Brown. 
 
 Torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the Florida West 
 Coast, in company with a group of friends of the Corrugated Trust 
 and with his friend's aunt, on which trip Torchy wins the aunt's 
 permission to place an engagement ring on Vee's finger. ] 
 
 Grosset & DuNLAP, Publishers, New York