Then they had dinner, with twelve at table. The wives of Bostil's three friends had been helping Aunt Jane prepare the feast, and they added to the merriment. Bostil was not much given to social intercourse--he would have preferred to be with his horses and riders--but this night he outdid himself as host, amazed his sister Jane, who evidently thought he drank too much, and delighted Lucy. Bostil's outward appearance and his speech and action never reflected all the workings of his mind. No one would ever know the depth of his bitter disappointment at the outcome of the race. With Creech's Blue Roan out of the way, another horse, swifter and more dangerous, had come along to spoil the King's chance. Bostil felt a subtly increasing covetousness in regard to Wildfire, and this colored all his talk and action. The upland country, vast and rangy, was for Bostil too small to hold Sage King and Wildfire unless they both belonged to him. And when old Cal Blinn gave a ringing toast to Lucy, hoping to live to see her up on Wildfire in the grand race that must be run with the King, Bostil felt stir in him the birth of a subtle, bitter fear. At first he mocked it. He--Bostil--afraid to race! It was a lie of the excited mind. He repudiated it. Insidiously it returned. He drowned it down--smothered it with passion. Then the ghost of it remained, hauntingly. After dinner Bostil with the men went down to Brackton's, where Slone and the winners of the day received their prizes. "Why, it's more money than I ever had in my whole life!" exclaimed Slone, gazing incredulously at the gold. Bostil was amused and pleased, and back of both amusement and pleasure was the old inventive, driving passion to gain his own ends. Bostil was abnormally generous in many ways; monstrously selfish in one way. "Slone, I seen you didn't drink none," he said, curiously. "No; I don't like liquor." "Do you gamble?" "I like a little bet--on a race," replied Slone, frankly. "Wal, thet ain't gamblin'. These fool riders of mine will bet on the switchin' of a hoss's tail." He drew Slone a little aside from the others, who were interested in Brackton's delivery of the different prizes. "Slone, how'd you like to ride for me?" Slone appeared surprised. "Why, I never rode for any one," he replied, slowly. "I can't stand to be tied down. I'm a horse-hunter, you know." Bostil eyed the young man, wondering what he knew about the difficulties of the job offered. It was no news to Bostil that he was at once the best and the worst man to ride for in all the uplands. "Sure, I know. But thet doesn't make no difference," went on Bostil, persuasively. "If we got along--wal, you'd save some of thet yellow coin you're jinglin'. A roamin' rider never builds no corral!"