Then the gray King began to run as if
before he had been loping. He was beautiful in action. This was play--a
game--a race--plainly dominated by the spirit of the girl. Lucy's hair was a
bright stream of gold in the wind. She rode bareback. It seemed that she was
hunched low over Buckles with her knees high on his back--scarcely astride
him at all. Yet her motion was one with the horse. Again that wild, gay scream
pealed out--call or laugh or challenge. Sage King, with a fleetness that made
the eyes of Bostil and his riders glisten, took the lead, and then sheered off
to slow down, while Buckles thundered past. Lucy was pulling him hard, and had
him plunging to a halt, when the rider Holley ran out to grasp his bridle.
Buckles was snorting and his ears were laid back. He pounded the ground and
scattered the pebbles.
"No use, Lucy," said Bostil. "You can't beat the King at your own game, even
with a runnin' start."
Lucy Bostil's eyes were blue, as keen as her father's, and now they flashed
like his. She had a hand twisted in the horse's long mane, and as, lithe and
supple, she slipped a knee across his broad back she shook a little gantleted
fist at Bostil's gray racer.
Pages:
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31