"Wal, mebbe you don't love each other so much, after all. . . . Fast hosses
mean much to a man in this hyar country. I know, fer I lost mine! . . . But
they ain't all. . . . I reckon you young folks don't love so much, after all."
"But--we--do!" cried Lucy, with a passionate sob. All this talk had unnerved
her.
"Then the only way is fer Slone to lie to Bostil."
"Lie!" exclaimed Lucy.
"Thet's it. Fetch about a race, somehow--one Bostil can't see--an' then lie
an' say the King run Wildfire off his legs."
Suddenly it occurred to Lucy that one significance of this idea of Creech's
had not dawned upon him. "You forget that soon my father will no longer own
Sage King or Sarchedon or Dusty Ben--or any racer. He loses them or me, I
thought. That's what I am here for."
Creech's aspect changed. The eagerness and sympathy fled from his face,
leaving it once more hard and stern. He got up and stood a tall, dark, and
gloomy man, brooding over his loss, as he watched the canyon. Still, there was
in him then a struggle that Lucy felt.
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