e suspicion would fall upon Lucy's father?
No; he was sorry for the girl, but not for Bostil. It was not this new
aspect of the situation at the Ford that oppressed him.

He trailed his vague feelings back to a subtle shock he had sustained
in a last look at Creech's dark, somber face. It had been the face of a
Nemesis. All about Creech breathed silent, revengeful force. Slone
worked out in his plodding thought why that fact should oppress him;
and it was because in striking Bostil old Creech must strike through
Bostil's horses and his daughter.

Slone divined it--divined it by the subtle, intuitive power of his love
for Lucy. He did not reconsider what had been his supposition before
Creech's return--that Creech would kill Bostil. Death would be no
revenge. Creech had it in him to steal the King and starve him or to do
the same and worse with Lucy. So Slone imagined, remembering Creech's
face.

Before twilight set in Slone saw the Creeches riding out of the lane
into the sage, evidently leaving the Ford. This occasioned Slone great
relief, but only for a moment. What the Creeches appeared to be doing
might not be significant. And he knew if they had stayed in the village
that he would have watched them as closely as if he thought they were
trying to steal Wildfire.

He got his evening meal, cared for his horses, and just as darkness
came on he slipped down into the grove for his rendezvous with Lucy.
Always this made his heart beat and his nerves thrill, but to-night he
was excited. The grove seemed full of moving shadows, all of which he
fancied were Lucy. Reaching the big cottonwood, he tried to compose
himself on the bench to wait. But composure seemed unattainable. The
night was still, only the crickets and the soft rustle of leaves
breaking a dead silence. Slone had the ears of a wild horse in that he
imagined sounds he did not really hear. Many a lonely night while he
lay watching and waiting in the dark, ambushing a water-hole where wild
horses drank, he had heard soft treads that were only the substance of
dreams. That was why, on this night when he was overstrained, he
fancied he saw Lucy coming, a silent, moving shadow, when in reality
she did not come. That was why he thought he heard very stealthy steps.

He waited. Lucy did not come. She had never failed before and he knew
she would come. Waiting became hard. He wanted to go back toward the
house--to intercept her on the way. Still he kept to his post