"Cordts seemed to think his word was guarantee of his good faith.He said he'd send an Indian in here to find out if he can come to the races.I reckon, Bostil, thet it wouldn't hurt none to let him come.An' hold your gun hand fer the time he swears he'll be honest.Queer deal, ain't it, men? A hoss-thief turnin' honest jest to see a race! Beats me! Bostil, it's a cheap way to get at least a little honesty from Cordts.An' refusin' might rile him bad.When all's said Cordts ain't as bad as he could be.""I'll let him come," replied Bostil, breathing deep."But it'll be hard to see him, rememberin' how he's robbed me, an' what he's threatened.An' I ain't lettin' him come to bribe a few weeks' decency from him.I'm doin' it for only one reason....Because I know how he loves the King--how he wants to see the King run away from the field thet day! Thet's why!"There was a moment of silence, during which all turned to Creech.He was a stalwart man, no longer young, with a lined face, deep-set, troubled eyes, and white, thin beard.
"Bostil, if Cordts loves the King thet well, he's in fer heartbreak," said Creech, with a ring in his voice.
Down crashed Bostil's heavy boots and fire flamed in his gaze.The other men laughed, and Brackton interposed:
"Hold on, you boy riders!" he yelled."We ain't a-goin' to have any arguments like thet....Now, Bostil, it's settled, then? You'll let Cordts come?""Glad to have him," replied Bostil.
"Good.An' now mebbe we'd better get down to the bizness of this here meetin'."They seated themselves around the table, upon which Bostil laid an old and much-soiled ledger and a stub of a lead-pencil.
"First well set the time," he said, with animation, "an' then pitch into details....What's the date?"No one answered, and presently they all looked blankly from one to the other.
"It's April, ain't it?" queried Holley.
That assurance was as close as they could get to the time of year.
"Lucy!" called Bostil, in a loud voice.
She came running in, anxious, almost alarmed.
"Goodness! you made us jump! What on earth is the matter?""Lucy, we want to know the date," replied Bostil.
"Date! Did you have to scare Auntie and me out of our wits just for that?""Who scared you? This is important, Lucy.What's the date?""It's a week to-day since last Tuesday," answered Lucy, sweetly.
"Huh! Then it's Tuesday again," said Bostil, laboriously writing it down.
"Now, what's the date?"
"Don't you remember?"
"Remember? I never knew."
"Dad!...Last Tuesday was my birthday--the day you DID NOT give me a horse!""Aw, so it was," rejoined Bostil, confused at her reproach."An' thet date was--let's see--April sixth....Then this is April thirteenth.Much obliged, Lucy.Run back to your aunt now.This hoss talk won't interest you."Lucy tossed her head."I'll bet I'll have to straighten out the whole thing."Then with a laugh she disappeared.
"Three days beginnin--say June first.June first--second, an' third.How about thet for the races?"Everybody agreed, and Bostil laboriously wrote that down.Then they planned the details.Purses and prizes, largely donated by Bostil and Muncie, the rich members of the community, were recorded.The old rules were adhered to.Any rider or any Indian could enter any horse in any race, or as many horses as he liked in as many races.But by winning one race he excluded himself from the others.Bostil argued for a certain weight in riders, but the others ruled out this suggestion.Special races were arranged for the Indians, with saddles, bridles, blankets, guns as prizes.
All this appeared of absorbing interest to Bostil.He perspired freely.There was a gleam in his eye, betraying excitement.When it came to arranging the details of the big race between the high-class racers, then he grew intense and harder to deal with.Many points had to go by vote.Muncie and Williams both had fleet horses to enter in this race; Holley had one; Creech had two;there were sure to be several Indians enter fast mustangs; and Bostil had the King and four others to choose from.Bostil held out stubbornly for a long race.It was well known that Sage King was unbeatable in a long race.If there were any chance to beat him it must be at short distance.The vote went against Bostil, much to his chagrin, and the great race was set down for two miles.
"But two miles!...Two miles!" he kept repeating."Thet's Blue Roan's distance.Thet's his distance.An' it ain't fair to the King!"His guests, excepting Creech, argued with him, explained, reasoned, showed him that it was fair to all concerned.Bostil finally acquiesced, but he was not happy.The plain fact was that he was frightened.
When the men were departing Bostil called Creech back into the sitting-room.
Creech appeared surprised, yet it was evident that he would have been glad to make friends with Bostil.
"What'll you take for the roan?" Bostil asked, tersely,' as if he had never asked that before.
"Bostil, didn't we thresh thet out before--an' FELL out over it?" queried Creech, with a deprecating spread of his hands.
"Wal, we can fall in again, if you'll sell or trade the hoss.""I'm sorry, but I can't."
"You need money an' hosses, don't you?" demanded Bostil, brutally.He had no conscience in a matter of horse-dealing.
"Lord knows, I do," replied Creech.
"Wal, then, here's your chance.I'll give you five hundred in gold an'
Sarchedon to boot."
Creech looked as if he had not heard aright.Bostil repeated the offer.
"No," replied Creech.
"I'll make it a thousand an' throw Plume in with Sarch," flashed Bostil.
"No!" Creech turned pale and swallowed hard.
"Two thousand an' Dusty Ben along with the others?" This was an unheard-of price to pay for any horse.Creech saw that Bostil was desperate.It was an almost overpowering temptation.Evidently Creech resisted it only by applying all his mind to the thought of his clean-limbed, soft-eyed, noble horse.
