Brackton's place, as always, was a headquarters for all visitors.Macomber had just come in full of enthusiasm and pride over the horse he had entered, and he had money to wager.Two Navajo chiefs, called by white men Old Horse and Silver, were there for the first time in years.They were ready to gamble horse against horse.Cal Blinn and his riders of Durango had arrived; likewise Colson, Sticks, and Burthwait, old friends and rivals of Bostil's.
For a while Brackton's was merry.There was some drinking and much betting.It was characteristic of Bostil that he would give any odds asked on the King in a race; and, furthermore, he would take any end of wagers on other horses.As far as his own horses were concerned he bet shrewdly, but in races where his horses did not figure he seemed to find fun in the betting, whether or not he won.
The fact remained, however, that there were only two wagers against the King, and both were put up by Indians.Macomber was betting on second or third place for his horse in the big race.No odds of Bostil's tempted him.
"Say, where's Wetherby?" rolled out Bostil."He'll back his hoss.""Wetherby's ridin' over to-morrow," replied Macomber."But you gotta bet him two to one.""See hyar, Bostil," spoke up old Cal Blinn, "you jest wait till I git an eye on the King's runnin'.Mebbe I'll go you even money.""An' as fer me, Bostil," said Colson, "I ain't set up yit which hoss I'll race."Burthwait, an old rider, came forward to Brackton's desk and entered a wager against the field that made all the men gasp.
"By George! pard, you ain't a-limpin' along!" ejaculated Bostil, admiringly, and he put a hand on the other's shoulder.
"Bostil, I've a grand hoss," replied Burthwait."He's four years old, I guess, fer he was born wild, an' you never seen him.""Wild hoss?...Huh!" growled Bostil."You must think he can run.""Why, Bostil, a streak of lightnin' ain't anywheres with him.""Wal, I'm glad to hear it," said Bostil, gruffly."Brack, how many hosses entered now for the big race?"The lean, gray Brackton bent earnestly over his soiled ledger, while the riders and horsemen round him grew silent to listen.
"Thar's the Sage King by Bostil," replied Brackton."Blue Roan an' Peg, by Creech; Whitefoot, by Macomber; Rocks, by Holley; Hoss-shoes, by Blinn; Bay Charley, by Burthwait.Then thar's the two mustangs entered by Old Hoss an'
Silver--an' last--Wildfire, by Lucy Bostil.""What's thet last?" queried Bostil.
"Wildfire, by Lucy Bostil," repeated Brackton.
"Has the girl gone an' entered a hoss?"
"She sure has.She came in to-day, regular an' business-like, writ her name an' her hoss's--here 'tis--an' put up the entrance money.""Wal, I'll be d--d!" exclaimed Bostil.He was astonished and pleased."She said she'd do it.But I didn't take no stock in her talk....An' the hoss's name?""Wildfire."
"Huh!...Wildfire.Mebbe thet girl can't think of names for hosses! What's this hoss she calls Wildfire?""She sure didn't say," replied Brackton."Holley an' Van an' some more of the boys was here.They joked her a little.You oughter seen the look Lucy give them.But fer once she seemed mum.She jest walked away mysterious like.""Lucy's got a pony off some Indian, I reckon," returned Bostil, and he laughed."Then thet makes ten hosses entered so far?""Right.An' there's sure to be one more.I guess the, track's wide enough for twelve.""Wal, Brack, there'll likely be one hoss out in front an' some stretched out behind," replied Bostil, dryly."The track's sure wide enough.""Won't thet be a grand race!" exclaimed an enthusiastic rider."Wisht I had about a million to bet!""Bostil, I 'most forgot," went on Brackton, "Cordts sent word by the Piutes who come to-day thet he'd be here sure."Bostil's face subtly changed.The light seemed to leave it.He did not reply to Brackton--did not show that he heard the comment on all sides.Public opinion was against Bostil's permission to allow Cordts and his horse-thieves to attend the races.Bostil appeared grave, regretful.Yet it was known by all that in the strangeness and perversity of his rider's nature he wanted Cordts to see the King win that race.It was his rider's vanity and defiance in the teeth of a great horse-thief.But no good would come of Cordts's presence --that much was manifest.
There was a moment of silence.All these men, if they did not fear Bostil, were sometimes uneasy when near him.Some who were more reckless than discreet liked to irritate him.That, too, was a rider's weakness.
"When's Creech's hosses comin' over?" asked Colson, with sudden interest.
"Wal, I reckon--soon," replied Bostil, constrainedly, and he turned away.
By the time he got home all the excitement of the past hour had left him and gloom again abided in his mind.He avoided his daughter and forgot the fact of her entering a horse in the race.He ate supper alone, without speaking to his sister.Then in the dusk he went out to the corrals and called the King to the fence.There was love between master and horse.Bostil talked low, like a woman, to Sage King.And the hard old rider's heart was full and a lump swelled in his throat, for contact with the King reminded him that other men loved other horses.
Bostil returned to the house and went to his room, where he sat thinking in the dark.By and by all was quiet.Then seemingly with a wrench he bestirred himself and did what for him was a strange action.Removing his boots, he put on a pair of moccasins.He slipped out of the house; he kept to the flagstone of the walk; he took to the sage till out of the village, and then he sheered round to the river trail.With the step and sureness and the eyes of an Indian he went down through that pitch-black canyon to the river and the ford.
