"An' what can you bet? Thet little dab of prize money is
gone, an' wouldn't be enough to meet me. You're a strange one in these parts.
I've pride an' reputation to uphold. You brag of racin' with me--an' you a
beggarly rider! . . . You wouldn't have them clothes an' boots if my girl
hadn't fetched them to you."
The riders behind Bostil laughed. Wetherby's face was there in the door, not
amused, but hard with scorn and something else. Slone felt a sickening,
terrible gust of passion. It fairly shook him. And as the wave subsided the
quick cooling of skin and body pained him like a burn made with ice.
"Yes, Bostil, I'm what you say," responded Slone, and his voice seemed to fill
his ears. "But you're dead wrong when you say I've nothin' to bet on a race."
"An' what'll you bet?"
"My life an' my horse!"
The riders suddenly grew silent and intense. Bostil vibrated to that. He
turned white. He more than any rider on the uplands must have felt the nature
of that offer.
"Ag'in what?" he demanded, hoarsely.
"YOUR DAUGHTER LUCY!"
One instant the surprise held Bostil mute and motionless.
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