One morning in early spring, as was Bostil's custom, he ordered the racers to be brought from the corrals and turned loose on the slope. He loved to sit there and watch his horses graze, but ever he saw that the riders were close at hand, and that the horses did not get out on the slope of sage. He sat back and gloried in the sight. He owned bands of mustangs; near by was a field of them, fine and mettlesome and racy; yet Bostil had eyes only for the blooded favorites. Strange it was that not one of these was a mustang or a broken wild horse, for many of the riders' best mounts had been captured by them or the Indians. And it was Bostil's supreme ambition to own a great wild stallion. There was Plume, a superb mare that got her name from the way her mane swept in the wind when she was on the ran; and there was Two Face, like a coquette, sleek and glossy and running and the huge, rangy bay, Dusty Ben; and the black stallion Sarchedon; and lastly Sage King, the color of the upland sage, a racer in build, a horse splendid and proud and beautiful. "Where's Lucy?" presently asked Bostil. As he divided his love, so he divided his anxiety. Some rider had seen Lucy riding off, with her golden hair flying in the wind. This was an old story. "She's up on Buckles?" Bostil queried, turning sharply to the speaker. "Reckon so," was the calm reply. Bostil swore. He did not have a rider who could equal him in profanity. "Farlane, you'd orders. Lucy's not to ride them hosses, least of all Buckles. He ain't safe even for a man." "Wal, he's safe fer Lucy." "But didn't I say no?" "Boss, it's likely you did, fer you talk a lot," replied Farlane. "Lucy pulled my hat down over my eyes--told me to go to thunder--an' then, zip! she an' Buckles were dustin' it fer the sage." "She's got to keep out of the sage," growled Bostil. "It ain't safe for her out there.... Where's my glass? I want to take a look at the slope. Where's my glass?" The glass could not be found. "What's makin' them dust-clouds on the sage? Antelope? ... Holley, you used to have eyes better 'n me. Use them, will you?" A gray-haired, hawk-eyed rider, lean and worn, approached with clinking spurs. "Down in there," said Bostil, pointing. "Thet's a bunch of hosses," replied Holley. "Wild hosses?" "I take 'em so, seein' how they throw thet dust." "Huh! I don't like it. Lucy oughtn't be ridin' round alone." "Wal, boss, who could catch her up on Buckles? Lucy can ride. An' there's the King an' Sarch right under your nose--the only hosses on the sage thet could outrun Buckles."