"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 well set the time," he said, with animation, "an' then pitch into details. … What's the date?"
No one answered, and presently they all looked blankly from one to the other.
"It's April, ain't it?" queried Holley.
That assurance was as close as they could get to the time of year.
"Lucy!" called Bostil, in a loud voice.
She came running in, anxious, almost alarmed.
"Goodness! you made us jump! What on earth is the matter?"
"Lucy, we want to know the date," replied Bostil.
"Date! Did you have to scare Auntie and me out of our wits just for that?"
"Who scared you? This is important, Lucy. What's the date?"
"It's a week to-day since last Tuesday," answered Lucy, sweetly.
"Huh! Then it's Tuesday again," said Bostil, laboriously writing it down. "Now, what's the date?"
"Don't you remember?"
"Remember? I never knew."
"Dad! … Last Tuesday was my birthday—the day you DID NOT give me a horse!"
"Aw, so it was," rejoined Bostil, confused at her reproach. "An' thet date was—let's see—April sixth. … Then this is April thirteenth. Much obliged, Lucy. Run back to your aunt now. This hoss talk won't interest you."
Lucy tossed her head. "I'll bet I'll have to straighten out the whole thing." Then with a laugh she disappeared.
"Three days beginnin—say June first. June first—second, an' third. How about thet for the races?"
Everybody agreed, and Bostil laboriously wrote that down. Then they planned the details. Purses and prizes, largely donated by Bostil and Muncie, the rich members of the community, were recorded. The old rules were adhered to. Any rider or any Indian could enter any horse in any race, or as many horses as he liked in as many races. But by winning one race he excluded himself from the others. Bostil argued for a certain weight in riders, but the others ruled out this suggestion. Special races were arranged for the Indians, with saddles, bridles, blankets, guns as prizes.
All this appeared of absorbing interest to Bostil. He perspired freely. There was a gleam in his eye, betraying excitement. When it came to arranging the details of the big race between the high-class racers, then he grew intense and harder to deal with. Many points had to go by vote. Muncie and Williams both had fleet horses to enter in this race; Holley had one; Creech had two; there were sure to be several Indians enter fast mustangs; and Bostil had the King and four others to choose from. Bostil held out stubbornly for a long race. It was well known that Sage King was unbeatable in a long race. If there were any chance to beat him it must be at short distance. The vote went against Bostil, much to his chagrin, and the great race was set down for two miles.
"But two miles! … Two miles!" he kept repeating. "Thet's Blue Roan's distance. Thet's his distance. An' it ain't fair to the King!"
His guests, excepting Creech, argued with him, explained, reasoned, showed him that it was fair to all concerned. Bostil finally acquiesced, but he was not happy. The plain fact was that he was frightened.
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'll you take for the roan?" Bostil asked, tersely,' as if he had never asked that before.
"Bostil, didn'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 hoss."
"I'm sorry, but I can't."
"You need money an' hosses, don't you?" demanded Bostil, brutally. He had no conscience in a matter of horse-dealing.
"Lord knows, I do," replied Creech.
"Wal, then, here's your chance. I'll give you five hundred in gold an' Sarchedon to boot."
Creech looked as if he had not heard aright. Bostil repeated the offer.
"No," replied Creech.
"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?" This was an unheard-of price to pay for any horse. Creech saw that Bostil was desperate. It was an almost overpowering temptation. Evidently Creech resisted it 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 hundred 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 hundred? To meet thet debt? An' you wouldn't, unless I'd sell the hosses. An' I had to lose my sheep. Now I'm a poor man—gettin' poorer all the time. But I won't sell 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 singular discovery. Coupling that with Joel's appearance in the village incased in a heaving armor of adobe, 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 found 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 rumors. The 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. Finally, 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 her 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 somewhere; 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 canyon 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