,
watchful, listening, his heart full. And he tried to reason away his
strange dread, his sense of a need of hurry. For a time he succeeded by
dreaming of Lucy's sweetness, of her courage, of what a wonderful girl
she was. Hours and hours he had passed in such dreams. One dream in
particular always fascinated him, and it was one in which he saw the
girl riding Wildfire, winning a great race for her life. Another, just
as fascinating, but so haunting that he always dispelled it, was a
dream where Lucy, alone and in peril, fought with Cordts or Joel Creech
for more than her life. These vague dreams were Slone's acceptance of
the blood and spirit in Lucy. She was Bostil's daughter. She had no
sense of fear. She would fight. And though Slone always thrilled with
pride, he also trembled with dread.

At length even wilder dreams of Lucy's rare moments, when she let
herself go, like a desert whirlwind, to envelop him in all her
sweetness, could not avail to keep Slone patient. He began to pace to
and fro under the big tree. He waited and waited. What could have
detained her? Slone inwardly laughed at the idea that either Holley or
Aunt Jane could keep his girl indoors when she wanted to come out to
meet him. Yet Lucy had always said something might prevent. There was
no reason for Slone to be concerned. He was mistaking his thrills and
excitement and love and disappointment for something in which there was
no reality. Yet he could not help it. The longer he waited the more
shadows glided beneath the cottonwoods, the more faint, nameless sounds
he heard.

He waited long after he became convinced she would not come. Upon his
return through the grove he reached a point where the unreal and
imaginative perceptions were suddenly and stunningly broken. He did
hear a step. He kept on, as before, and in the deep shadow he turned.
He saw a man just faintly outlined. One of the riders had been watching
him--had followed him! Slone had always expected this. So had Lucy. And
now it had happened. But Lucy had been too clever. She had not come.
She had found out or suspected the spy and she had outwitted him. Slone
had reason to be prouder of Lucy, and he went back to his cabin free
from further anxiety.

Before he went to sleep, however, he heard the clatter of a number of
horses in the lane. He could tell they were tired horses. Riders
returning, he thought, and instantly corrected that, for riders seldom
came in at night. And then it