There were horses and Indians on each side
of the race track, and between these lines Lucy appeared reluctant to come.
Bostil strode down and, waving and yelling for everybody to move back to the
slope, he cleared the way and then stood out in front alone.
"Ride up, now," he called to Lucy.
It was then Bostil discovered that Lucy did not wear a spur and she had
neither quirt nor whip. She turned Wildfire and he came prancing on, head and
mane and tail erect. His action was beautiful, springy, and every few steps,
as Lucy touched him, he jumped with marvelous ease and swiftness.
Bostil became all eyes. He did not see his daughter as she paraded the winner
before the applauding throng. And Bostil recorded in his mind that which he
would never forget--a wild stallion, with unbroken spirit; a giant of a horse,
glistening red, with mane like dark-striped, wind-blown flame, all muscle, all
grace, all power; a neck long and slender and arching to the small, savagely
beautiful head; the jaws open, and the thin-skinned, pink-colored nostrils
that proved the Arabian blood; the slanting shoulders and the deep, broad
chest, the powerful legs and knees not too high nor too low, the symmetrical
dark hoofs that rang on the little stones--all these marks so significant of
speed and endurance.
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