he horses and mustangs were alike in those points of race
and speed and spirit that proclaimed them thoroughbreds.

Bostil himself took the covering off his favorite. Sage King was on
edge. He stood out strikingly in contrast with the other horses. His
sage-gray body was as sleek and shiny as satin. He had been trained to
the hour. He tossed his head as he champed the bit, and every moment
his muscles rippled under his fine skin. Proud, mettlesome, beautiful!

Sage King was the favorite in the betting, the Indians, who were ardent
gamblers, plunging heavily on him.

Bostil saddled the horse and was long at the task.

Van stood watching. He was pale and nervous. Bostil saw this.

"Van," he said, "it's your race."

The rider reached a quick hand for bridle and horn, and when his foot
touched the stirrup Sage King was in the air. He came down,
springy-quick, graceful, and then he pranced into line with the other
horses.

Bostil waved his hand. Then the troop of riders and racers headed for
the starting-point, two miles up the valley. Macomber and Blinn, with a
rider and a Navajo, were up there as the official starters of the day.

Bostil's eyes glistened. He put a friendly hand on Cordts's shoulder,
an action which showed the stress of the moment. Most of the men
crowded around Bostil. Sears and Hutchinson hung close to Cordts. And
Holley, keeping near his employer, had keen eyes for other things than
horses.

Suddenly he touched Bostil and pointed down the slope. "There's Lucy,"
he said. "She's ridin' out to join the bunch."

"Lucy! Where? I'd forgotten my girl! ... Where?"

"There," repeated Holly, and he pointed. Others of the group spoke up,
having seen Lucy riding down.

"She's on a red hoss," said one.

"'Pears all-fired big to me--her hoss," said another. "Who's got a
glass?"

Bostil had the only field-glass there and he was using it. Across the
round, magnified field of vision moved a giant red horse, his mane
waving like a flame. Lucy rode him. They were moving from a jumble of
broken rocks a mile down the slope. She had kept her horse hidden
there. Bostil felt an added stir in his pulse-beat. Certainly he had
never seen a horse like this one. But the distance was long, the glass
not perfect; he could not trust his sight. Suddenly that sight dimmed.

"Holley, I can't make out nothin'," he complained. "Take the glass.
Give me a line on Lucy's mount."

"Boss, I don't need the glass to see that sh