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.

"Lucy, if you are really goin' to race I'll withdraw my hoss so you can
win," said Wetherby, gallantly.

Bostil's sonorous laugh rolled 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. Behind 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.

It was afternoon when all was ready for this race, and the sage was
bright gray in the westering sun. Everybody 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 t