. . . Put your rider up on the King an' come on, right now. I'll--"
"Slone, shut up an' chase yourself," interrupted Holley
"You go to h--l!" returned Slone, coolly.
There was a moment's silence, in which Slone took Holley's measure. The
hawk-eyed old rider may have been square, but he was then thinking only of
Bostil.
"What am I up, against here?" demanded Slone. "Am I goin' to be shot because
I'm takin' my own part? Holley, you an' the rest of your pards are all afraid
of this old devil. But I'm not--an' you stay out of this."
"Wal, son, you needn't git riled," replied Holley, placatingly. "I was only
tryin' to stave off talk you might be sorry for."
"Sorry for nothin'! I'm goin' to make this great horse-trader, this rich an'
mighty rancher, this judge of grand horses, this BOSTIL! . . . I'm goin' to
make him race the King or take water!" Then Slone turned to Bostil. That
worthy evidently had been stunned by the rider who dared call him to his face.
"Come on! Fetch the King! Let your own riders judge the race!"
Bostil struggled both to control himself and to speak.
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