The day was early in May and promised to grow hot. There was not a cloud in
the blue sky. The wind, laden with the breath of sage, blew briskly from the
west. All before Lucy lay the vast valley, gray and dusky gray, then blue,
then purple where the monuments stood, and, farther still, dark ramparts of
rock. Lucy had a habit of dreaming while on horseback, a habit all the riders
had tried to break, but she did not give it rein while she rode Sarchedon, and
assuredly now, up on the King, she never forgot him for an instant. He shied
at mockingbirds and pack-rats and blowing blossoms and even at butterflies;
and he did it, Lucy thought, just because he was full of mischief. Sage King
had been known to go steady when there had been reason to shy. He did not like
Lucy and he chose to torment her. Finally he earned a good dig from a spur,
and then, with swift pounding of hoofs, he plunged and veered and danced in
the sage. Lucy kept her temper, which was what most riders did not do, and by
patience and firmness pulled Sage King out of his prancing back into the
trail.
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