Holley opened his lips to speak, hesitated, looked away from Bostil, and finally said, "No, it sure ain't." Then he turned and walked away, head bent in sober thought. Bostil came toward the open door where Lucy stood. He looked somber. At her greeting he seemed startled.
"What?" he said.
"I just said, 'Hello, Dad,'" she replied, demurely. Yet she thoughtfully studied her father's dark face.
"Hello yourself.... Did you know Van got throwed an' hurt?"
"Yes."
Bostil swore under his breath. "There ain't any riders on the range thet can be trusted," he said, disgustedly. "They're all the same. They like to get in a bunch an' jeer each other an' bet. They want MEAN hosses. They make good hosses buck. They haven't any use for a hoss thet won't buck. They all want to give a hoss a rakin' over.... Think of thet fool Van gettin' throwed by a two-dollar Ute mustang. An' hurt so he can't ride for days! With them races comin' soon! It makes me sick."
"Dad, weren't you a rider once?" asked Lucy.
"I never was thet kind."
"Van will be all right in a few days."
"No matter. It's bad business. If I had any other rider who could handle the King I'd let Van go."