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"I reckon, Miss Lucy, you--you wouldn't fool me?"
"Why, Farlane!" returned Lucy, reproachfully. "Did I ever do a single thing
around horses that you didn't want me to?"
Farlane rubbed his chin beard somewhat dubiously. "Wal, Miss Lucy, not exactly
while you was around the hosses. But I reckon when you onct got up, you've
sorta forgot a few times."
All the riders laughed, and Lucy joined them.
"I'm safe when I'm up, you know that," she replied.
They brought out the gray, and after the manner of riders who had the care of
a great horse and loved him, they curried and combed and rubbed him before
saddling him.
"Reckon you'd better ride Van's saddle," suggested Farlane. "Them races is
close now, an' a strange saddle--"
"Of course. Don't change anything he's used to, except the stirrups," replied
Lucy.
Despite her antipathy toward Sage King, Lucy could not gaze at him without all
a rider's glory in a horse. He was sleek, so graceful, so racy, so near the
soft gray of the sage, so beautiful in build and action.


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