"Can't you be sweet round him—fetch him over to thet?"
"Oh, I could, but I won't."
Creech might have been plotting the happiness of his own daughter, he was so deeply in earnest.
"Wal, mebbe you don't love each other so much, after all.... Fast hosses mean much to a man in this hyar country. I know, fer I lost mine! ... But they ain't all.... I reckon you young folks don't love so much, after all."
"But—we—do!" cried Lucy, with a passionate sob. All this talk had unnerved her.
"Then the only way is fer Slone to lie to Bostil."
"Lie!" exclaimed Lucy.
"Thet's it. Fetch about a race, somehow—one Bostil can't see—an' then lie an' say the King run Wildfire off his legs."
Suddenly it occurred to Lucy that one significance of this idea of Creech's had not dawned upon him. "You forget that soon my father will no longer own Sage King or Sarchedon or Dusty Ben—or any racer. He loses them or me, I thought. That's what I am here for."
Creech's aspect changed. The eagerness and sympathy fled from his face, leaving it once more hard and stern. He got up and stood a tall, dark, and gloomy man, brooding over his loss, as he watched the canyon. Still, there was in him then a struggle that Lucy felt. Presently he bent over and put his big hand on her head. It seemed gentle and tender compared with former contacts, and it made Lucy thrill. She could not see his face. What did he mean? She divined something startling, and sat there trembling in suspense.