"MINE! . . . So that's the trouble. Well, Wildfire won't be mine when you ride
the race."
"What do you mean?" demanded Lucy. "You'll sell him to Bostil. . . . Bah! you
couldn't . . ."
"Sell Wildfire!--after what it cost me to catch an' break him? . . . Not for
all your father's lands an' horses an' money!"
Slone's voice rolled out with deep, ringing scorn. And Lucy, her temper
quelled, began to feel the rider's strength, his mastery of the situation, and
something vague, yet splendid about him that hurt her.
Slone strode toward her. Lucy backed against the cedar-tree and could go no
farther. How white he was now! Lucy's heart gave a great, fearful leap, for
she imagined Slone intended to take her in his arms. But he did not.
"When you ride--Wildfire in that--race he'll be--YOURS!" said Slone, huskily.
"How can that be?" questioned Lucy, in astonishment.
"I give him to you."
"You--give--Wildfire--to me?" gasped Lucy.
"Yes. Right now."
The rider's white face and dark eyes showed the strain of great and passionate
sacrifice.
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