"
Bostil uttered a laugh full of pride in his daughter. "Wal, she won't show up
on Blue Roan," he replied, with grim gruffness. "Thet's sure as death. . . .
Come on out now. I want a look at the King."
Bostil went into the village. All day long he was so busy with a thousand and
one things referred to him, put on him, undertaken by him, that he had no time
to think. Back in his mind, however, there was a burden of which he was
vaguely conscious all the time. He worked late into the night and slept late
the next morning.
Never in his life had Bostil been gloomy or retrospective on the day of a
race. In the press of matters he had only a word for Lucy, but that earned a
saucy, dauntless look. He was glad when he was able to join the procession of
villagers, visitors, and Indians moving out toward the sage.
The racecourse lay at the foot of the slope, and now the gray and purple sage
was dotted with more horses and Indians, more moving things and colors, than
Bostil had ever seen there before. It was a spectacle that stirred him.
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