. . An', Bostil--an',
gentlemen, there ain't anythin' more to this race but a red hoss!"
Bostil's heart gave a great leap and then seemed to stand still. He was half
cold, half hot.
What a horrible, sickening disappointment. Bostil rolled out a cursing query.
Holley's answer was short and sharp. The King was out! Bostil raved. He could
not see. He could not believe. After all the weeks of preparation, of
excitement, of suspense--only this! There was no race. The King was out! The
thing did not seem possible. A thousand thoughts flitted through Bostil's
mind. Rage, impotent rage, possessed him. He cursed Van, he swore he would
kill that red stallion. And some one shook him hard. Some one's incisive words
cut into his thick, throbbing ears: "Luck of the game! The King ain't beat!
He's only out!"
Then the rider's habit of mind asserted itself and Bostil began to recover.
For the King to fall was hard luck. But he had not lost the race! Anguish and
pride battled for mastery over him. Even if the King were out it was a Bostil
who would win the great race.
Pages:
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316