Holley shaded the hawk eyes with his hand. "Gray he is—Bostil—gray as the sage.... AN' SO HELP ME GOD IF HE AIN'T THE KING!"
"Yes, it's the King!" cried the riders, excitedly. "Sure! I reckon! No mistake about thet! It's the King!"
Bostil shook his huge frame, and he rubbed his eyes as if they had become dim, and he stared again.
"Who's thet up on him?"
"Slone. I never seen his like on a hoss," replied Holley.
"An' what's—he packin'?" queried Bostil, huskily.
Plain to all keen eyes was the glint of Lucy Bostil's golden hair. But only Holley had courage to speak.
"It's Lucy! I seen thet long ago."
A strange, fleeting light of joy died out of Bostil's face. The change once more silenced his riders. They watched the King trotting in from the sage. His head drooped. He seemed grayer than ever and he limped. But he was Sage King, splendid as of old, all the more gladdening to the riders' eyes because he had been lost. He came on, quickening a little to the clamoring welcome from the corrals.
Holley put out a swift hand. "Bostil—the girl's alive—she's smilin'!" he called, and the cool voice was strangely different.