recedence in the examination.

"Wal, thet's a bullet-mark, plain as day," said Holley.

"Who shot him?" demanded Bostil.

Holley shook his gray head.

"He smells of smoke," put in Farlane, who had knelt at the black's
legs. "He's been runnin' fire. See thet! Fetlocks all singed!"

All the riders looked, and then with grave, questioning eyes at one
another.

"Reckon thar's been hell!" muttered Holley, darkly.

Some of the riders led the horses away toward the corrals. Bostil
wheeled to face the north again. His brow was lowering; his cheek was
pale and sunken; his jaw was set.

The riders came and went, but Bostil kept his vigil. The hours passed.
Afternoon came and wore on. The sun lost its brightness and burned red.

Again dust-clouds, now like reddened smoke, puffed over the ridge. A
horse carrying a dark, thick figure appeared above the sage.

Bostil leaped up. "Is thet a gray hoss--or am--I blind?" he called,
unsteadily.

The riders dared not answer. They must be sure. They gazed through
narrow slits of eyelids; and the silence grew intense.

Holley shaded the hawk eyes with his hand. "Gray he is--Bostil--gray as
the sage.... AN' SO HELP ME GOD IF HE AIN'T THE KING!"

"Yes, it's the King!" cried the riders, excitedly. "Sure! I reckon! No
mistake about thet! It's the King!"

Bostil shook his huge frame, and he rubbed his eyes as if they had
become dim, and he stared again.

"Who's thet up on him?"

"Slone. I never seen his like on a hoss," replied Holley.

"An' what's--he packin'?" queried Bostil, huskily.

Plain to all keen eyes was the glint of Lucy Bostil's golden hair. But
only Holley had courage to speak.

"It's Lucy! I seen thet long ago."

A strange, fleeting light of joy died out of Bostil's face. The change
once more silenced his riders. They watched the King trotting in from
the sage. His head drooped. He seemed grayer than ever and he limped.
But he was Sage King, splendid as of old, all the more gladdening to
the riders' eyes because he had been lost. He came on, quickening a
little to the clamoring welcome from the corrals.

Holley put out a swift hand. "Bostil--the girl's alive--she's smilin'!"
he called, and the cool voice was strangely different.

The riders waited for Bostil. Slone rode into the courtyard. He was
white and weary, reeling in the saddle. A bloody scarf was bound round
his shoulder. He held Lucy in his arms. She had on his coat. A wan
smile lighted her haggar