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"They're all the same. They like to get in
a bunch an' jeer each other an' bet. They want MEAN hosses. They make good
hosses buck. They haven't any use for a hoss thet won't buck. They all want to
give a hoss a rakin' over. . . . Think of thet fool Van gettin' throwed by a
two-dollar Ute mustang. An' hurt so he can't ride for days! With them races
comin' soon! It makes me sick."
"Dad, weren't you a rider once?" asked Lucy.
"I never was thet kind."
"Van will be all right in a few days."
"No matter. It's bad business. If I had any other rider who could handle the
King I'd let Van go."
"I can get just as much out of the King as Van can," said Lucy, spiritedly.
"You!" exclaimed Bostil. But there was pride in his glance.
"I know I can."
"You never had any use for Sage King," said Bostil, as if he had been wronged.
"I love the King a little, and hate him a lot," laughed Lucy.
"Wal, I might let you ride at thet, if Van ain't in shape," rejoined her
father.
"I wouldn't ride him in the race. But I'll keep him in fine fettle.


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