The lean, gray Brackton bent earnestly over his soiled ledger, while the riders and horsemen round him grew silent to listen. "Thar's the Sage King by Bostil," replied Brackton. "Blue Roan an' Peg, by Creech; Whitefoot, by Macomber; Rocks, by Holley; Hoss-shoes, by Blinn; Bay Charley, by Burthwait. Then thar's the two mustangs entered by Old Hoss an' Silver--an' last--Wildfire, by Lucy Bostil." "What's thet last?" queried Bostil. "Wildfire, by Lucy Bostil," repeated Brackton. "Has the girl gone an' entered a hoss?" "She sure has. She came in to-day, regular an' business-like, writ her name an' her hoss's--here 'tis--an' put up the entrance money." "Wal, I'll be d--d!" exclaimed Bostil. He was astonished and pleased. "She said she'd do it. But I didn't take no stock in her talk.... An' the hoss's name?" "Wildfire." "Huh! ... Wildfire. Mebbe thet girl can't think of names for hosses! What's this hoss she calls Wildfire?" "She sure didn't say," replied Brackton. "Holley an' Van an' some more of the boys was here. They joked her a little. You oughter seen the look Lucy give them. But fer once she seemed mum. She jest walked away mysterious like." "Lucy's got a pony off some Indian, I reckon," returned Bostil, and he laughed. "Then thet makes ten hosses entered so far?" "Right. An' there's sure to be one more. I guess the track's wide enough for twelve." "Wal, Brack, there'll likely be one hoss out in front an' some stretched out behind," replied Bostil, dryly. "The track's sure wide enough." "Won't thet be a grand race!" exclaimed an enthusiastic rider. "Wisht I had about a million to bet!" "Bostil, I 'most forgot," went on Brackton, "Cordts sent word by the Piutes who come to-day thet he'd be here sure." Bostil's face subtly changed. The light seemed to leave it. He did not reply to Brackton--did not show that he heard the comment on all sides. Public opinion was against Bostil's permission to allow Cordts and his horse-thieves to attend the races. Bostil appeared grave, regretful. Yet it was known by all that in the strangeness and perversity of his rider's nature he wanted Cordts to see the King win that race. It was his rider's vanity and defiance in the teeth of a great horse-thief. But no good would come of Cordts's presence--that much was manifest. There was a moment of silence. All these men, if they did not fear Bostil, were sometimes uneasy when near him. Some who were more reckless than discreet liked to irritate him. That, too, was a rider's weakness. "When's Creech's hosses comin' over?" asked Colson, with sudden interest. "Wal, I reckon--soon," replied Bostil, constrainedly, and he turned away.