"Girl, I--I thought you hadn't no use for Plume," he stammered.
"I haven't--the jade! She threw me once. I've never forgiven her . . . . Dad,
I'm only teasing you. Don't I know you couldn't give one of those racers away?
You couldn't!"
"Lucy, I reckon you're right," Bostil burst out in immense relief.
"Dad, I'll bet if Cordts gets me and holds me as ransom for the King--as he's
threatened--you'll let him have me!"
"Lucy, now thet ain't funny!" complained the father.
"Dear Dad, keep your old racers! But, remember, I'm my father's daughter. I
can love a horse, too. Oh, if I ever get the one I want to love! A wild
horse--a desert stallion--pure Arabian--broken right by an Indian! If I ever
get him, Dad, you look out! For I'll run away from Sarch and Ben--and I'll
beat the King!"
The hamlet of Bostil's Ford had a singular situation, though, considering the
wonderful nature of that desert country, it was not exceptional. It lay under
the protecting red bluff that only Lucy Bostil cared to climb. A hard-trodden
road wound down through rough breaks in the canyon wall to the river.
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