Bostil presently
decided, however, that in the case of this red stallion no rider in his right
senses would care for such a fight, simply because of the extraordinary
strengths, activity, and ferocity of the stallion.
The riders were all betting the horse would throw the stranger. And Bostil,
seeing the gathering might of Wildfire's momentum, agreed with them. No
horseman could stick on that horse. Suddenly Wildfire tripped in the sage, and
went sprawling in the dust, throwing his rider ahead. Both man and beast were
quick to rise, but the rider had a foot in the stirrup before Wildfire was
under way. Then the horse plunged, ran free, came circling back, and slowly
gave way to the rider's control. Those few moments of frenzied activity had
brought out the foam and the sweat--Wildfire was wet. The man pulled him in
before Bostil and dismounted.
"Sometimes I ride him, then sometimes I don't," he said, with a smile.
Bostil held out his hand. He liked this rider. He would have liked the frank
face, less hard than that of most riders, and the fine, dark eyes, straight
and steady, even if their possessor had not come with the open sesame to
Bostil's regard--a grand, wild horse, and the nerve to ride him.
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