Slone and Lucy never rode down so far as the stately monuments, though these
held memories as hauntingly sweet as others were poignantly bitter. Lucy never
rode the King again. But Slone rode him, learned to love him. And Lucy did not
race any more. When Slone tried to stir in her the old spirit all the response
he got was a wistful shake of head or a laugh that hid the truth or an excuse
that the strain on her ankles from Joel Creech's lasso had never mended. The
girl was unutterably happy, but it was possible that she would never race a
horse again.
She rode Sarchedon, and she liked to trot or lope along beside Slone while
they linked hands and watched the distance. But her glance shunned the north,
that distance which held the wild canyons and the broken battlements and the
long, black, pine-fringed plateau.
"Won't you ever ride with me, out to the old camp, where I used to wait for
you?" asked Slone.
"Some day," she said, softly.
"When?"
"When--when we come back from Durango," she replied, with averted eyes and
scarlet cheek.
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