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"No snow on the uplands."
"Holley seen a dry spell comin'. Wal, we can drift along without freighters.
There's grass an' water enough here, even if it doesn't rain."
"Sure, but there ain't none across the river."
"Never was, in early season. An' if there was it'd be sheeped off."
"Creech'll be fetchin' his hosses across soon, I reckon."
"You bet he will. He's trainin' for the races next month."
"An' when air they comin' off?"
"You got me. Mebbe Van knows."
Some one prodded a sleepy rider who lay all his splendid lithe length, hat
over his eyes. Then he sat up and blinked, a lean-faced, gray-eyed fellow,
half good-natured and half resentful.
"Did somebody punch me?"
"Naw, you got nightmare! Say, Van, when will the races come off?"
"Huh! An, you woke me for thet? . . . Bostil says in a few weeks, soon as he
hears from the Indians. Plans to have eight hundred Indians here, an' the
biggest purses an' best races ever had at the Ford."
"You'll ride the King again?"
"Reckon so. But Bostil is kickin' because I'm heavier than I was," replied the
rider.


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