It was Holley himself who verified what Bostil had
heard. The old rider's hawk eyes were warm with delight.
"Boss, he run second!" Holley kept repeating.
Bostil had the heart to shake hands with Holley and say he was glad, when it
was on his lips to blurt out there had been no race. Then Bostil's nerves
tingled at sight of Van trotting the King up the course toward the slope.
Bostil watched with searching eyes. Sage King did not appear to be injured.
Van rode straight up the slope and leaped off. He was white and shaking.
The King's glossy hide was dirty with dust and bits of cactus and brush. He
was not even hot. There did not appear to be a bruise or mark on him. He
whinnied and rubbed his face against Bostil, and then, flinching, he swept up
his head, ears high. Both fear and fire shone in his eyes.
"Wal, Van, get it out of your system," said Bostil, kindly. He was a harder
loser before a race was run than after he had lost it.
"Thet red hoss run in on the King before the start an' scared the race out of
him," replied Van, swiftly.
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