These he had been used to for
years; he could meet them. But he was handicapped here because it seemed that,
though he could meet Bostil face to face, he could not fight him. For he was
Lucy's father. Slone's position, the impotence of it, rendered him less able
to control his temper.
"Why can't we?" demanded Bostil. "If you wasn't so touchy we could. An' let me
say, young feller, thet there's more reason now thet you DO make a deal with
me."
"Deal? What about?"
"About your red hoss."
"Wildfire! . . . No deals, Bostil," returned Slone, and made as if to pass
him.
The big hand that forced Slone back was far from gentle, and again he felt the
quick rush of blood.
"Mebbe I can tell you somethin' thet'll make you sell Wildfire," said Bostil.
"Not if you talked yourself dumb!" flashed Slone. There was no use to try to
keep cool with this Bostil, if he talked horses. "I'll race Wildfire against
the King. But no more."
"Race! Wal, we don't run races around here without stakes," replied Bostil,
with deep scorn.
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