ling 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 stallion. She began to compare Wildfire with
Sage King, and if she remembered rightly Wildfire, even in his
disheveled state, had appeared a worthy rival of the King. What would
Bostil say at sight of that flame-colored stallion? Lucy thrilled.

Later she left her room to see if the hour was opportune for her plan
to make up a pack of supplies for the rider. Her aunt was busy in the
kitchen, and Bostil 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 carried 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 circumstance 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