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"Thet old chief, Hawk, is comin'," Holley informed Bostil. "He hasn't been
here fer several years. Recollect thet bunch of colts he had? They're bosses,
not mustangs. . . . So you look out, Bostil!"
No rider or rancher or sheepman, in fact, no one, ever lost a chance to warn
Bostil. Some of it was in fun, but most of it was earnest. The nature of
events was that sooner or later a horse would beat the King. Bostil knew that
as well as anybody, though he would not admit it. Holley's hint made Bostil
look worried. Most of Bostil's gray hairs might have been traced to his years
of worry about horses.
The day he received word from the Indians he sent for Brackton, Williams,
Muncie, and Creech to come to his house that night. These men, with Bostil,
had for years formed in a way a club, which gave the Ford distinction. Creech
was no longer a friend of Bostil's, but Bostil had always been fair-minded,
and now he did not allow his animosities to influence him. Holley, the veteran
rider, made the sixth member of the club.


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