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"Sage King, I hate you!" she called, as if the horse were human. "And I'll
beat you some day!"
Bostil swore by the gods his Sage King was the swiftest horse in all that wild
upland country of wonderful horses. He swore the great gray could look back
over his shoulder and run away from any broken horse known to the riders.
Bostil himself was half horse, and the half of him that was human he divided
between love of his fleet racers and his daughter Lucy. He had seen years of
hard riding on that wild Utah border where, in those days, a horse meant all
the world to a man. A lucky strike of grassy upland and good water south of
the Rio Colorado made him rich in all that he cared to own. The Indians, yet
unspoiled by white men, were friendly. Bostil built a boat at the Indian
crossing of the Colorado and the place became known as Bostil's Ford. From
time to time his personality and his reputation and his need brought
horse-hunters, riders, sheep-herders, and men of pioneer spirit, as well as
wandering desert travelers, to the Ford, and the lonely, isolated hamlet
slowly grew.


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