"Shot?" he went on.
"No."
"What killed him?"
"The King, sir! ... Killed him on his feet!"
Bostil's heavy jaw bulged and quivered. His hand shook as he laid it on Sage King's mane—the first touch since the return of his favorite.
"Slone—what—is it?" he said, brokenly, with voice strangely softened. His face became transfigured.
"Sage King killed Wildfire on his feet.... A grand race, Bostil! ... But Wildfire's dead—an' here's the King! Ask me no more. I want to forget."
Bostil put his arm around the young man's shoulder. "Slone, if I don't know what you feel fer the loss of thet grand hoss, no rider on earth knows! ... Go in the house. Boys, take him in—all of you—an' look after him."
Bostil wanted to be alone, to welcome the King, to lead him back to the home corral, perhaps to hide from all eyes the change and the uplift that would forever keep him from wronging another man.
The late rains came and like magic, in a few days, the sage grew green and lustrous and fresh, the gray turning to purple.