them, fine and mettlesome and racy; yet Bostil had eyes only for the blooded
favorites. Strange it was that not one of these was a mustang or a broken wild
horse, for many of the riders' best mounts had been captured by them or the
Indians. And it was Bostil's supreme ambition to own a great wild stallion.
There was Plume, a superb mare that got her name from the way her mane swept
in the wind when she was on the ran; and there was Two Face, like a coquette,
sleek and glossy and running and the huge, rangy bay, Dusty Ben; and the black
stallion Sarchedon; and lastly Sage King, the color of the upland sage, a
racer in build, a horse splendid and proud and beautiful.

"Where's Lucy?" presently asked Bostil.

As he divided his love, so he divided his anxiety.

Some rider had seen Lucy riding off, with her golden hair flying in the wind.
This was an old story.

"She's up on Buckles?" Bostil queried, turning sharply to the speaker.

"Reckon so," was the calm reply.

Bostil swore. He did not have a rider who could equal him in profanity.

"Farlane, you'd orders. Lucy's not to ride them hosses, least of all Buckles.
He ain't safe even for a man."

"Wal, he's safe fer Lucy."

"But didn't I say no?"