"He ain't beat!" muttered Bostil. "It ain't fair! He's run off the track by a
wild stallion!"
His dimmed sight grew clear and sharp. And with a gasp he saw the moving, dark
line take shape as horses. A bright horse was in the lead. Brighter and larger
he grew. Swiftly and more swiftly he came on. The bright color changed to red.
Bostil heard Holley calling and Cordts calling--and other voices, but he did
not distinguish what was said. The line of horses began to bob, to bunch. The
race looked close, despite what Holley had said. The Indians were beginning to
lean forward, here and there uttering a short, sharp yell. Everything within
Bostil grew together in one great, throbbing, tingling mass. His rider's eye,
keen once more, caught a gleam of gold above the red, and that gold was Lucy's
hair. Bostil forgot the King.
Then Holley bawled into his ear, "They're half-way!"
The race was beautiful. Bostil strained his eyes. He gloried in what he
saw--Lucy low over the neck of that red stallion. He could see plainer now.
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