e young man was honest.

"Bostil, I chased this wild horse days an' weeks an' months, hundreds
of miles--across the canyon an' the river--"

"No!" interrupted Bostil, blankly.

"Yes. I'll tell you how later.... Out here somewhere I caught Wildfire,
broke him as much as he'll ever be broken. He played me out an' got
away. Your girl rode along--saved my horse--an' saved my life, too. I
was in bad shape for days. But I got well--an'--an' 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."

"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." Bostil 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 my 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 stiffened, paling slightly as
he faced about to acknowledge the introduction.

"Howdy, Slone," drawled Cordts, with hand outstretched. "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 showed it. Slone 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 blotting out the gold
lights down the valley; the day of the great races was almost done.
Indians were still scattered here and there in groups; others were
turning out the mustangs; a