Bostil walked into the village, grimly conscious that the presence of the
Indians and riders and horses, the action and color and bustle, the near
approach of the great race-day--these things that in former years had brought
him keen delight and speculation--had somehow lost their tang. He had changed.
Something was wrong in him. But he must go among these visitors and welcome
them as of old; he who had always been the life of these racing-days must be
outwardly the same. And the task was all the harder because of the pleasure
shown by old friends among the Indians and the riders at meeting him. Bostil
knew he had been a cunning horse-trader, but he had likewise been a good
friend. Many were the riders and Indians who owed much to him. So everywhere
he was hailed and besieged, until finally the old excitement of betting and
bantering took hold of him and he forgot his brooding.
Brackton's place, as always, was a headquarters for all visitors. Macomber had
just come in full of enthusiasm and pride over the horse he had entered, and
he had money to wager.
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