"Wildfire ought to have several more days' training--then a day of rest--and
then the race," said Lucy, turning again to look at Slone.
A smile was beginning to change the hardness of his face. "Yes, Lucy," he
said.
"And I'll HAVE to ride him?"
"You sure will--if he's ever to beat the King."
Lucy's eyes flashed blue. She saw the crowd--the curious, friendly
Indians--the eager riders--the spirited horses--the face of her father--and
last the race itself, such a race as had never been ran, so swift, so fierce,
so wonderful.
"Then Lin," began Lucy, with a slowly heaving breast, "if I accept Wildfire
will you keep him for me--until . . . and if I accept him, and tell you why,
will you promise to say--"
"Don't ask me again!" interrupted Slone, hastily. "I WILL speak to Bostil."
"Wait, will you . . . promise not to say a word--a single word to ME--till
after the race?"
"A word--to you! What about?" he queried, wonderingly. Something in his eyes
made Lucy think of the dawn.
"About--the--Because--Why, I'm--I'll accept your horse.
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