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Oh, you've had a hard time of it! I understand. That
wonderful flame of a horse! I'd have stayed, too. My father was a rider once.
Bostil. Did you ever hear of him?"
"Bostil. The name--I've heard." Then the rider lay thinking, as he munched a
biscuit. "Yes, I remember, but it was long ago. I spent a night with a
wagon-train, a camp of many men and women, religious people, working into
Utah. Bostil had a boat at the crossing of the Fathers."
"Yes, they called the Ferry that."
"I remember well now. They said Bostil couldn't count his horses--that he was
a rich man, hard on riders--an' he'd used a gun more than once."
Lucy bowed her head. "Yes, that's my dad."
The rider did not seem to see how he had hurt her.
"Here we are talking--wasting time," she said. "I must start home. You can't
be moved. What shall I do?"
"That's for you to say, Bostil's daughter."
"My name's Lucy," replied the girl, blushing painfully, "I mean I'll be glad
to do anything you think best."
"You're very good."
Then he turned his face away.


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