The river was low. It seemed tired out. It was a dirty red in color, and it
swirled and flowed along lingeringly. At times the current was almost
imperceptible; and then again it moved at varying speed. It seemed a petulant,
waiting, yet inevitable stream, with some remorseless end before it. It had a
thousand voices, but not the one Bostil listened to hear.
He plodded gloomily up the trail, resting in the quiet, dark places of the
canyon, loath to climb out into the clear light of day. And once in the
village, Bostil shook himself as if to cast off an evil, ever-present,
pressing spell.
The races were now only a few days off. Piutes and Navajos were camped out on
the sage, and hourly the number grew as more came in. They were building cedar
sunshades. Columns of blue smoke curled up here and there. Mustangs and ponies
grazed everywhere, and a line of Indians extended along the racecourse, where
trials were being held. The village was full of riders, horse-traders and
hunters, and ranchers. Work on the ranges had practically stopped for the time
being, and in another day or so every inhabitant of the country would be in
Bostil's Ford.
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