"Oh, he beat the King!" cried Lucy. "But you mustn't—you CAN'T tell Dad!"
"What CAN we tell him?"
"Oh, I know. Old Creech told me what to say!"
A change, both of body and spirit, seemed to pass over the great stallion.
"WILDFIRE! WILDFIRE!"
Again the rider called to his horse, with a low and piercing cry. But Wildfire did not hear.
The morning sun glanced brightly over the rippling sage which rolled away from the Ford like a gray sea.
Bostil sat on his porch, a stricken man. He faced the blue haze of the north, where days before all that he had loved had vanished. Every day, from sunrise till sunset, he had been there, waiting and watching. His riders were grouped near him, silent, awed by his agony, awaiting orders that never came.
From behind a ridge puffed up a thin cloud of dust. Bostil saw it and gave a start. Above the sage appeared a bobbing, black object—the head of a horse. Then the big black body followed.
"Sarch!" exclaimed Bostil.