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The vote went
against Bostil, much to his chagrin, and the great race was set down for two
miles.
"But two miles! . . . Two miles!" he kept repeating. "Thet's Blue Roan's
distance. Thet's his distance. An' it ain't fair to the King!"
His guests, excepting Creech, argued with him, explained, reasoned, showed him
that it was fair to all concerned. Bostil finally acquiesced, but he was not
happy. The plain fact was that he was frightened.
When the men were departing Bostil called Creech back into the sitting-room.
Creech appeared surprised, yet it was evident that he would have been glad to
make friends with Bostil.
"What'll you take for the roan?" Bostil asked, tersely,' as if he had never
asked that before.
"Bostil, didn't we thresh thet out before--an' FELL out over it?" queried
Creech, with a deprecating spread of his hands.
"Wal, we can fall in again, if you'll sell or trade the hoss."
"I'm sorry, but I can't."
"You need money an' hosses, don't you?" demanded Bostil, brutally. He had no
conscience in a matter of horse-dealing.


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