Sarch."

The two horses named were facing a ridge some few hundred yards distant, and
their heads were aloft and ears straight forward. Sage King whistled shrilly
and Sarchedon began to prance.

"Boys, you'd better drive them in," said Bostil. "They'd like nothin' so well
as gettin' out on the sage. . . . Hullo! what's thet shootin' up behind the
ridge?"

"No more 'n Buckles with Lucy makin' him run some," replied Holley, with a
dry laugh.

"If it ain't! . . . Lord! look at him come!"

Bostil's anger and anxiety might never have been. The light of the upland
rider's joy shone in his keen gaze. The slope before him was open, and almost
level, down to the ridge that had hidden the missing girl and horse. Buckles
was running for the love of running, as the girl low down over his neck was
riding for the love of riding. The Sage King whistled again, and shot off with
graceful sweep to meet them; Sarchedon plunged after him; Two Face and Plume
jealously trooped down, too, but Dusty Ben, after a toss of his head, went on
grazing. The gray and the black met Buckles and could not turn in time to stay
with him. A girl's gay scream pealed up the slope, and Buckles went lower and
faster. Sarchedon was left behind. Then the gray King began to run as if
before he had been loping. He was beautiful in action. This was play--a
game--a race--plainly dominated by the spirit of the girl. Lucy's hair was a
bright stream of gold in the wind. She rode bareback. It seemed that she was
hunched low over Buckles with her knees high on his back--scarcely astride
him at all. Yet her motion was one with the horse. Again that wild, gay scream