s the stately monuments, though
these held memories as hauntingly sweet as others were poignantly
bitter. Lucy never rode the King again. But Slone rode him, learned to
love him. And Lucy did not race any more. When Slone tried to stir in
her the old spirit all the response he got was a wistful shake of head
or a laugh that hid the truth or an excuse that the strain on her
ankles from Joel Creech's lasso had never mended. The girl was
unutterably happy, but it was possible that she would never race a
horse again.

She rode Sarchedon, and she liked to trot or lope along beside Slone
while they linked hands and watched the distance. But her glance
shunned the north, that distance which held the wild canyons and the
broken battlements and the long, black, pine-fringed plateau.

"Won't you ever ride with me, out to the old camp, where I used to wait
for you?" asked Slone.

"Some day," she said, softly.

"When?"

"When--when we come back from Durango," she replied, with averted eyes
and scarlet cheek. And Slone was silent, for that planned trip to
Durango, with its wonderful gift to be, made his heart swell.

And so on this rainbow day, with storms all around them, and blue sky
above, they rode only as far as the valley. But from there, before they
turned to go back, the monuments appeared close, and they loomed
grandly with the background of purple bank and creamy cloud and shafts
of golden lightning. They seemed like sentinels--guardians of a great
and beautiful love born under their lofty heights, in the lonely
silence of day, in the star-thrown shadow of night. They were like that
love. And they held Lucy and Slone, calling every day, giving a
nameless and tranquil content, binding them true to love, true to the
sage and the open, true to that wild upland home.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Wildfire, by Zane Grey

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