"You're a lair!" declared Bostil, with a tremendous stride forward. Slone saw then how dangerous the man really was. "It was no race. Your wild hoss knocked the King off the track."
"Sage King had the lead, didn't he? Why didn't he keep it?"
Bostil was like a furious, intractable child whose favorite precious treasure had been broken; and he burst out into a torrent of incoherent speech, apparently reasons why this and that were so. Slone did not make out what Bostil meant and he did not care. When Bostil got out of breath Slone said:
"We're both wastin' talk. An' I'm not wantin' you to call me a liar twice. ... Put your rider up on the King an' come on, right now. I'll—"
"Slone, shut up an' chase yourself," interrupted Holley
"You go to h—l!" returned Slone, coolly.
There was a moment's silence, in which Slone took Holley's measure. The hawk-eyed old rider may have been square, but he was then thinking only of Bostil.
"What am I up, against here?" demanded Slone. "Am I goin' to be shot because I'm takin' my own part? Holley, you an' the rest of your pards are all afraid of this old devil. But I'm not—an' you stay out of this."
"Wal, son, you needn't git riled," replied Holley, placatingly. "I was only tryin' to stave off talk you might be sorry for."
"Sorry for nothin'! I'm goin' to make this great horse-trader, this rich an' mighty rancher, this judge of grand horses, this BOSTIL! ... I'm goin' to make him race the King or take water!" Then Slone turned to Bostil. That worthy evidently had been stunned by the rider who dared call him to his face. "Come on! Fetch the King! Let your own riders judge the race!"