"What did I tell
you?" he shouted. "Didn't I say wait?"
Bostil threw away all that deep fury of passion, and there seemed only a
resistless and speechless admiration left. Then ensued a moment of silence.
The riders watched Slone's weary face as it drooped, and Bostil, as he loomed
over him.
"Where's the red stallion?" queried Bostil. That was the question hard to get
out.
Slone raised eyes dark with pain, yet they flashed as he looked straight up
into Bostil's face. "Wildfire's dead!"
"DEAD!" ejaculated Bostil.
Another moment of strained exciting suspense.
"Shot?" he went on.
"No."
"What killed him?"
"The King, sir! . . . Killed him on his feet!"
Bostil's heavy jaw bulged and quivered. His hand shook as he laid it on Sage
King's mane--the first touch since the return of his favorite.
"Slone--what--is it?" he said, brokenly, with voice strangely softened. His
face became transfigured.
"Sage King killed Wildfire on his feet. . . . A grand race, Bostil! . . . But
Wildfire's dead--an' here's the King! Ask me no more.
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