Bostil saddled the horse and was long at the task.
Van stood watching. He was pale and nervous. Bostil saw this.
"Van," he said, "it's your race."
The rider reached a quick hand for bridle and horn, and when his foot touched
the stirrup Sage King was in the air. He came down, springy-quick, graceful,
and then he pranced into line with the other horses.
Bostil waved his hand. Then the troop of riders and racers headed for the
starting-point, two miles up the valley. Macomber and Blinn, with a rider and
a Navajo, were up there as the official starters of the day.
Bostil's eyes glistened. He put a friendly hand on Cordts's shoulder, an
action which showed the stress of the moment. Most of the men crowded around
Bostil. Sears and Hutchinson hung close to Cordts. And Holley, keeping near
his employer, had keen eyes for other things than horses.
Suddenly he touched Bostil and pointed down the slope. "There's Lucy," he
said. "She's ridin' out to join the bunch."
"Lucy! Where? I'd forgotten my girl! . .
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