Holley thrust a quivering, brown hand into Bostil's face. "What did I tell you?" he shouted. "Didn't I say wait?" Bostil threw away all that deep fury of passion, and there seemed only a resistless and speechless admiration left. Then ensued a moment of silence. The riders watched Slone's weary face as it drooped, and Bostil, as he loomed over him. "Where's the red stallion?" queried Bostil. That was the question hard to get out. Slone raised eyes dark with pain, yet they flashed as he looked straight up into Bostil's face. "Wildfire's dead!" "DEAD!" ejaculated Bostil. Another moment of strained exciting suspense. "Shot?" he went on. "No." "What killed him?" "The King, sir! ... Killed him on his feet!" Bostil's heavy jaw bulged and quivered. His hand shook as he laid it on Sage King's mane--the first touch since the return of his favorite. "Slone--what--is it?" he said, brokenly, with voice strangely softened. His face became transfigured. "Sage King killed Wildfire on his feet.... A grand race, Bostil! ... But Wildfire's dead--an' here's the King! Ask me no more. I want to forget." Bostil put his arm around the young man's shoulder. "Slone, if I don't know what you feel fer the loss of thet grand hoss, no rider on earth knows! ... Go in the house. Boys, take him in--all of you--an' look after him." Bostil wanted to be alone, to welcome the King, to lead him back to the home corral, perhaps to hide from all eyes the change and the uplift that would forever keep him from wronging another man. The late rains came and like magic, in a few days, the sage grew green and lustrous and fresh, the gray turning to purple. Every morning the sun rose white and hot in a blue and cloudless sky. And then soon the horizon line showed creamy clouds that rose and spread and darkened. Every afternoon storms hung along the ramparts and rainbows curved down beautiful and ethereal. The dim blackness of the storm-clouds was split to the blinding zigzag of lightning, and the thunder rolled and boomed, like the Colorado in flood. The wind was fragrant, sage-laden, no longer dry and hot, but cool in the shade. Slone and Lucy never rode down so far as 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.