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"Where's Lucy?" presently asked Bostil.
As he divided his love, so he divided his anxiety.
Some rider had seen Lucy riding off, with her golden hair flying in the wind.
This was an old story.
"She's up on Buckles?" Bostil queried, turning sharply to the speaker.
"Reckon so," was the calm reply.
Bostil swore. He did not have a rider who could equal him in profanity.
"Farlane, you'd orders. Lucy's not to ride them hosses, least of all Buckles.
He ain't safe even for a man."
"Wal, he's safe fer Lucy."
"But didn't I say no?"
"Boss, it's likely you did, fer you talk a lot," replied Farlane. "Lucy 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.


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