face whitened and she put a swift hand
upon his arm--a touch that thrilled him. "Lin! there's blood--on your
face. Don't--don't tell me Dad hit you?"

"I should say not," declared Slone, quickly lifting his hand to his
face. "Must be from my cut, that blood. I barked my hand holdin'
Wildfire."

"Oh! I--I was sick with--with--" Lucy faltered and broke off, and then
drew back quickly, as if suddenly conscious of her actions and words.

Then Slone began to relate everything that had been said, and before he
concluded his story his heart gave a wild throb at the telltale face
and eyes of the girl.

"You said that to Dad!" she cried, in amaze and fear and admiration.
"Oh, Dad richly deserved it! But I wish you hadn't. Oh, I wish you
hadn't!"

"Why?" asked Slone.

But she did not answer that. "Where are you going?" she questioned.

"Come to think of that, I don't know," replied Slone, blankly. "I
started back to fetch my things out of my room. That's as far as my
muddled thoughts got."

"Your things? ... Oh!" Suddenly she grew intensely white. The little
freckles that had been so indistinct stood out markedly, and it was as
if she had never had any tan. One brown hand went to her breast, the
other fluttered to his arm again. "You mean to--to go away--for good."

"Sure. What else can I do?"

"Lin! ... Oh, there comes Dad! He mustn't see me. I must run.... Lin,
don't leave Bostil's Ford--don't go--DON'T!"

Then she flew round the corner of the house, to disappear. Slone stood
there transfixed and thrilling. Even Bostil's heavy tread did not break
the trance, and a meeting would have been unavoidable had not Bostil
turned down the path that led to the back of the house. Slone, with a
start collecting his thoughts, hurried into the little room that had
been his and gathered up his few belongings. He was careful to leave
behind the gifts of guns, blankets, gloves, and other rider's
belongings which Bostil had presented to him. Thus laden, he went
outside and, tingling with emotions utterly sweet and bewildering, he
led the horses down into the village.

Slone went down to Brackton's, and put the horses into a large,
high-fenced pasture adjoining Brackton's house. Slone felt reasonably
sure his horses would be safe there, but he meant to keep a mighty
close watch on them. And old Brackton, as if he read Slone's mind, said
this: "Keep your eye on thet daffy boy, Joel Creech. He hangs round my
place, sleeps out somewh