But all the riders who loved horses and all
the women who loved gossip were united in at least one thing, and that was
that something like a race or a romance would soon disrupt the peaceful,
sleepy tenor of Bostil's Ford.
In addition to Bostil's growing hatred for the Creeches, he had a great fear
of Cordts, the horse-thief. A fear ever restless, ever watchful. Cordts hid
back in the untrodden ways. He had secret friends among the riders of the
ranges, faithful followers back in the canyon camps, gold for the digging,
cattle by the thousand, and fast horses. He had always gotten what he wanted
--except one thing. That was a certain horse. And the horse was Sage King.
Cordts was a bad man, a product of the early gold-fields of California and
Idaho, an outcast from that evil wave of wanderers retreating back over the
trails so madly traveled westward. He became a lord over the free ranges. But
more than all else he was a rider. He knew a horse. He was as much horse as
Bostil. Cordts rode into this wild free-range country, where he had been
heard to say that a horse-thief was meaner than a poisoned coyote.
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