Bostil's eyes flashed. He was proud of Lucy's power over a horse. The story
Bostil first told to any stranger happening by the Ford was how Lucy had been
born during a wild ride--almost, as it were, on the back of a horse. That, at
least, was her fame, and the riders swore she was a worthy daughter of such a
mother. Then, as Farlane well knew, a quick road to Bostil's good will was to
praise one of his favorites.

"Reckon you spoke sense for once, Farlane," replied Bostil, with relief. "I
wasn't thinkin' so much of danger for Lucy. . . . But she lets thet
half-witted Creech go with her."

"No, boss, you're wrong," put in Holley, earnestly. "I know the girl. She has
no use fer Joel. But he jest runs after her."

"An' he's harmless," added Farlane.

"We ain't agreed," rejoined Bostil, quickly. "What do you say, Holley?"

The old rider looked thoughtful and did not speak for long.

"Wal, Yes an' no," he answered, finally. "I reckon Lucy could make a man out
of Joel. But she doesn't care fer him, an' thet settles thet. . . . An' maybe
Joel's leanin' toward the bad."

"If she meets him again I'll rope her in the house," declared Bostil.

Another clear-eyed rider drew Bostil's attention from the gray waste of
rolling sage.

"Bostil, look! Look at the King! He's watchin' fer somethin'. . . . An' so's