"Wildfire! ... No deals, Bostil," returned Slone, and made as if to
pass him.

The big hand that forced Slone back was far from gentle, and again he
felt the quick rush of blood.

"Mebbe I can tell you somethin' thet'll make you sell Wildfire," said
Bostil.

"Not if you talked yourself dumb!" flashed Slone. There was no use to
try to keep cool with this Bostil, if he talked horses. "I'll race
Wildfire against the King. But no more."

"Race! Wal, we don't run races around here without stakes," replied
Bostil, with deep scorn. "An' what can you bet? Thet little dab of
prize money is gone, an' wouldn't be enough to meet me. You're a
strange one in these parts. I've pride an' reputation to uphold. You
brag of racin' with me--an' you a beggarly rider! ... You wouldn't have
them clothes an' boots if my girl hadn't fetched them to you."

The riders behind Bostil laughed. Wetherby's face was there in the
door, not amused, but hard with scorn and something else. Slone felt a
sickening, terrible gust of passion. It fairly shook him. And as the
wave subsided the quick cooling of skin and body pained him like a burn
made with ice.

"Yes, Bostil, I'm what you say," responded Slone, and his voice seemed
to fill his ears. "But you're dead wrong when you say I've nothin' to
bet on a race."

"An' what'll you bet?"

"My life an' my horse!"

The riders suddenly grew silent and intense. Bostil vibrated to that.
He turned white. He more than any rider on the uplands must have felt
the nature of that offer.

"Ag'in what?" he demanded, hoarsely.

"YOUR DAUGHTER LUCY!"

One instant the surprise held Bostil mute and motionless. Then he
seemed to expand. His huge bulk jerked into motion and he bellowed like
a mad bull.

Slone saw the blow coming, made no move to avoid it. The big fist took
him square on the mouth and chin and laid him flat on the ground. Sight
failed Slone for a little, and likewise ability to move. But he did not
lose consciousness. His head seemed to have been burst into rays and
red mist that blurred his eyes. Then these cleared away, leaving
intense pain. He started to get up, his brain in a whirl. Where was his
gun? He had left it at home. But for that he would have killed Bostil.
He had already killed one man. The thing was a burning flash--then all
over! He could do it again. But Bostil was Lucy's father!

Slone gathered up the packages of supplies, and without looking at the
men he hurried away. He s