That gave him a shock. Cordts had long wanted
this girl as much probably as he wanted Sage King. There were dark and
terrible stories that stained the name of Cordts. Bostil regretted his impulse
in granting the horse-thief permission to attend the races. Sight of Lucy's
fair, sweet face might inflame this Cordts--this Kentuckian who had boasted of
his love of horses and women. Behind Cordts hung the little dust-colored
Sears, like a coiled snake, ready to strike. Bostil felt stir in him a
long-dormant fire--a stealing along his veins, a passion he hated.
"Lucy, go back to the women till you're ready to come out on your hoss," he
said. "An' mind you, be careful to-day!"
He gave her a meaning glance, which she understood perfectly, he saw, and then
he turned to start the day's sport.
The Indian races run in twos and threes, and on up to a number that crowded
the racecourse; the betting and yelling and running; the wild and plunging
mustangs; the heat and dust and pounding of hoofs; the excited betting; the
surprises and defeats and victories, the trial tests of the principals,
jealously keeping off to themselves in the sage; the endless moving, colorful
procession, gaudy and swift and thrilling--all these Bostil loved
tremendously.
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