d face.

Bostil, cursing deep, like muttering thunder, strode out. "Lucy! You
ain't bad hurt?" he implored, in a voice no one had ever heard before.

"I'm--all right--Dad," she said, and slipped down into his arms.

He kissed the pale face and held her up like a child, and then,
carrying her to the door of the house, he roared for Aunt Jane.

When he reappeared the crowd of riders scattered from around Slone. But
it seemed that Bostil saw only the King. The horse was caked with dusty
lather, scratched and disheveled, weary and broken, yet he was still
beautiful. He raised his drooping head and reached for his master with
a look as soft and dark and eloquent as a woman's.

No rider there but felt Bostil's passion of doubt and hope. Had the
King been beaten? Bostil's glory and pride were battling with love.
Mighty as that was, it did not at once overcome his fear of defeat.

Slowly the gaze of Bostil moved away from Sage King and roved out to
the sage and back, as if he expected to see another horse. But no other
horse was in sight. At last his hard eyes rested upon the white-faced
Slone.

"Been some--hard ridin'?" he queried, haltingly. All there knew that
had not been the question upon his lips.

"Pretty hard--yes," replied Slone. He was weary, yet tight-lipped,
intense.

"Now--them Creeches?" slowly continued Bostil.

"Dead."

A murmur ran through the listening riders, and they drew closer.

"Both of them?"

"Yes. Joel killed his father, fightin' to get Lucy.... An' I
ran--Wildfire over Joel--smashed him!"

"Wal, I'm sorry for the old man," replied Bostil, gruffly. "I meant to
make up to him.... But thet fool boy! ... An' Slone--you're all bloody."

He stepped forward and pulled the scarf aside. He was curious and
kindly, as if it was beyond him to be otherwise. Yet that dark cold
something, almost sullen clung round him.

"Been bored, eh? Wal, it ain't low, an' thet's good. Who shot you?"

"Cordts."

"CORDTS!" Bostil leaned forward in sudden, fierce eagerness.

"Yes, Cordts.... His outfit run across Creech's trail an' we bunched. I
can't tell now.... But we had--hell! An' Cordts is dead--so's
Hutch--an' that other pard of his.... Bostil, they'll never haunt your
sleep again!"

Slone finished with a strange sternness that seemed almost bitter.

Bostil raised both his huge fists. The blood was bulging his thick
neck. It was another kind of passion that obsessed him. Only some
violent check to