y
pulled my hat down over my eyes--told me 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?"

The glass could not be found.

"What's makin' them dust-clouds on the sage? Antelope? ... Holley, you
used to have eyes better 'n me. Use them, will you?"

A gray-haired, hawk-eyed rider, lean and worn, approached with clinking
spurs.

"Down in there," said Bostil, pointing.

"Thet's a bunch of hosses," replied Holley.

"Wild hosses?"

"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 your nose--the only hosses on
the sage thet could outrun Buckles."

Farlane knew how to mollify 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 born during a wild 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 well
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 Holley, earnestly. "I know the girl.
She has no use fer Joel. But he jest runs after her."

"An' he's harmless," added Farlane.

"We ain't agreed," rejoined Bostil, quickly. "What do you say, Holley?"

The old rider looked thoughtful and did not speak for long.

"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.... An' maybe Joel's leanin' toward the bad."

"If she meets him again I'll rope her in the house," declared Bostil.

Another clear-eyed rider drew Bostil'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. Sa