him, even to you. Old associations ... a rider's
loyalty ... now, Lucy, you know--"

"Dad, you're afraid I'd train and love Ben into beating the King. Some
day I'll ride some horse out in front of the gray. Remember, Dad! ...
Then give me Two Face."

"Sure not her, Lucy. Thet mare can't be trusted. Look why we named her
Two Face."

"Buckles, then, dear generous Daddy who longs to give his grown-up girl
ANYTHING!"

"Lucy, can't you be satisfied an' happy with your mustangs? You've got
a dozen. You can have any others on the range. Buckles ain't safe for
you to ride."

Bostil was notably the most generous of men, the kindest of fathers. It
was an indication of his strange obsession, in regard to horses, that
he never would see that Lucy was teasing him. As far as horses were
concerned he lacked a sense of humor. Anything connected with his
horses was of intense interest.

"I'd dearly love to own Plume," said Lucy, demurely.

Bostil had grown red in the face and now he was on the rack. The
monstrous selfishness of a rider who had been supreme in his day could
not be changed.

"Girl, I--I thought you hadn't no use for Plume," he stammered.

"I haven't--the jade! She threw me once. I've never forgiven her ....
Dad, I'm only teasing you. Don't I know you couldn't give one of those
racers away? You couldn't!"

"Lucy, I reckon you're right," Bostil burst out in immense relief.

"Dad, I'll bet if Cordts gets me and holds me as ransom for the
King--as he's threatened--you'll let him have me!"

"Lucy, now thet ain't funny!" complained the father.

"Dear Dad, keep your old racers! But, remember, I'm my father's
daughter. I can love a horse, too. Oh, if I ever get the one I want to
love! A wild horse--a desert stallion--pure Arabian--broken right by an
Indian! If I ever get him, Dad, you look out! For I'll run away from
Sarch and Ben--and I'll beat the King!"

The hamlet of Bostil's Ford had a singular situation, though,
considering the wonderful nature of that desert country, it was not
exceptional. It lay under the protecting red bluff that only Lucy
Bostil cared to climb. A hard-trodden road wound down through rough
breaks in the canyon wall to the river. Bostil's house, at the head of
the village, looked in the opposite direction, down the sage slope that
widened like a colossal fan. There was one wide street bordered by
cottonwoods and cabins, and a number of gardens and orchards, beginning
to burst into gre