Creech's hosses last year without the King turnin' a hair?"

"Not if I recollect, you didn't. The Blue Roan wasn't runnin'."

Then they argued, after the manner of friendly riders, but all earnest, an
eloquent in their convictions. The prevailing opinion was that Creech's horse
had a chance, depending upon condition and luck.

The argument shifted upon the arrival of two new-comers, leading mustangs and
apparently talking trade. It was manifest that these arrivals were not loath
to get the opinions of others.

"Van, there's a hoss!" exclaimed one.

"No, he ain't," replied Van.

And that diverse judgment appeared to be characteristic throughout. The
strange thing was that Macomber, the rancher, had already traded his mustang
and money to boot for the sorrel. The deal, whether wise or not, had been
consummated. Brackton came out with Red Wilson, and they had to have their
say.

"Wal, durned if some of you fellers ain't kind an' complimentary," remarked
Macomber, scratching his head. "But then every feller can't have hoss sense."
Then, looking up to see Lucy Bostil coming along the road, he brightened as if
with inspiration.

Lucy was at home among them, and the shy eyes of the younger riders,
especially Van, were nothing if not revealing. She greeted them with a bright
smile, and when she saw Brackton she burst out: