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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.


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