"See here," he began, in thick voice, "don't be a d—- fool an' ruin your chance in life. I'll—"
"Bostil, my one chance was ruined—an' you know who did it," replied Slone, as he gathered Nagger's rope and Wildfire's bridle together. "I've no hard feelin's.... But I can't sell you my horse. An' I can't ride for you—because—well, because it would breed trouble."
"An' what kind?" queried Bostil.
Holley and Farlane and Van, with several other riders, had come up and were standing open-mouthed. Slone gathered from their manner and expression that anything might happen with Bostil in such a mood.
"We'd be racin' the King an' Wildfire, wouldn't we?" replied Slone.
"An' supposin' we would?" returned Bostil, ominously. His huge frame vibrated with a slight start.
"Wildfire would run off with your favorite—an' you wouldn't like that," answered Slone. It was his rider's hot blood that prompted him to launch this taunt. He could not help it.
"You wild-hoss chaser," roared Bostil, "your Wildfire may be a bloody killer, but he can't beat the King in a race!"
"Excuse ME, Bostil, but Wildfire did beat the King!"
This was only adding fuel to the fire. Slone saw Holley making signs that must have meant silence would be best. But Slone's blood was up. Bostil had rubbed him the wrong way.