Then they had dinner, with twelve at table.The wives of Bostil's three friends had been helping Aunt Jane prepare the feast, and they added to the merriment.Bostil was not much given to social intercourse--he would have preferred to be with his horses and riders--but this night he outdid himself as host, amazed his sister Jane, who evidently thought he drank too much, and delighted Lucy.Bostil's outward appearance and his speech and action never reflected all the workings of his mind.No one would ever know the depth of his bitter disappointment at the outcome of the race.With Creech's Blue Roan out of the way, another horse, swifter and more dangerous, had come along to spoil the King's chance.Bostil felt a subtly increasing covetousness in regard to Wildfire, and this colored all his talk and action.The upland country, vast and rangy, was for Bostil too small to hold Sage King and Wildfire unless they both belonged to him.And when old Cal Blinn gave a ringing toast to Lucy, hoping to live to see her up on Wildfire in the grand race that must be run with the King, Bostil felt stir in him the birth of a subtle, bitter fear.At first he mocked it.He--Bostil--afraid to race! It was a lie of the excited mind.He repudiated it.Insidiously it returned.He drowned it down--smothered it with passion.Then the ghost of it remained, hauntingly.
After dinner Bostil with the men went down to Brackton's, where Slone and the winners of the day received their prizes.
"Why, it's more money than I ever had in my whole life!" exclaimed Slone, gazing incredulously at the gold.
Bostil was amused and pleased, and back of both amusement and pleasure was the old inventive, driving passion to gain his own ends.
Bostil was abnormally generous in many ways; monstrously selfish in one way.
"Slone, I seen you didn't drink none," he said, curiously.
"No; I don't like liquor."
"Do you gamble?"
"I like a little bet--on a race," replied Slone, frankly.
"Wal, thet ain't gamblin'.These fool riders of mine will bet on the switchin'
of a hoss's tail." He drew Slone a little aside from the others, who were interested in Brackton's delivery of the different prizes."Slone, how'd you like to ride for me?"Slone appeared surprised."Why, I never rode for any one," he replied, slowly.
"I can't stand to be tied down.I'm a horse-hunter, you know."Bostil eyed the young man, wondering what he knew about the difficulties of the job offered.It was no news to Bostil that he was at once the best and the worst man to ride for in all the uplands.
"Sure, I know.But thet doesn't make no difference," went on Bostil, persuasively."If we got along--wal, you'd save some of thet yellow coin you're jinglin'.A roamin' rider never builds no corral!""Thank you, Bostil," replied Slone, earnestly."I'll think it over.It would seem kind of tame now to go back to wild-horse wranglin', after I've caught Wildfire.I'll think it over.Maybe I'll do it, if you're sure I'm good enough with rope an' horse.""Wal, by Gawd!" blurted out Bostil."Holley says he'd rather you throwed a gun on him than a rope! So would I.An' as for your handlin' a hoss, I never seen no better."Slone appeared embarrassed and kept studying the gold coins in his palm.Some one touched Bostil, who, turning, saw Brackton at his elbow.The other men were now bantering with the Indians.
"Come now while I've got a minnit," said Brackton, taking up a lantern."I've somethin' to show you."Bostil followed Brackton, and Slone came along.The old man opened a door into a small room, half full of stores and track.The lantern only dimly lighted the place.
"Look thar!" And Brackton flashed the light upon a man lying prostrate.
Bostil recognized the pale face of Joel Creech."Brack!...What's this? Is he dead?" Bostil sustained a strange, incomprehensible shock.Sight of a dead man had never before shocked him.
"Nope, he ain't dead, which if he was might be good for this community,"replied Brackton."He's only fallen in a fit.Fust off I reckoned he was drunk.But it ain't thet.""Wal, what do you want to show him to me for?" demanded Bostil, gruffly.
"I reckoned you oughter see him."
"An' why, Brackton?"
Brackton set down the lantern and, pushing Slone outside, said: "Jest a minnit, son," and then he closed the door."Joel's been on my hands since the flood cut him off from home," said Brackton."An' he's been some trial.But nobody else would have done nothin' for him, so I had to.I reckon I felt sorry for him.He cried like a baby thet had lost its mother.Then he gets wild-lookin' an' raved around.When I wasn't busy I kept an eye on him.But some of the time I couldn't, an' he stole drinks, which made him wuss.An'
when I seen he was tryin' to sneak one of my guns, I up an' gets suspicious.
Once he said, 'My dad's hosses are goin' to starve, an' I'm goin' to kill somebody!' He was out of his head an' dangerous.Wal, I was worried some, but all I could do was lock up my guns.Last night I caught him confabin' with some men out in the dark, behind the store.They all skedaddled except Joel, but I recognized Cordts.I didn't like this, nuther.Joel was surly an' ugly.
An' when one of the riders called him he said: 'Thet boat NEVER DRIFTED OFF.
Fer the night of the flood I went down there myself an' tied the ropes.They never come untied.Somebody cut them--jest before the flood--to make sure my dad's hosses couldn't be crossed.Somebody figgered the river an' the flood.
An' if my dad's hosses starve I'm goin' to kill somebody!'"Brackton took up the lantern and placed a hand on the door ready to go out.
"Then a rider punched Joel--I never seen who--an' Joel had a fit.I dragged him in here.An' as you see, he ain't come to yet.""Wal, Brackton, the boy's crazy," said Bostil.
"So I reckon.An' I'm afeared he'll burn us out--he's crazy on fires, anyway--or do somethin' like.""He's sure a problem.Wal, we'll see," replied Bostil, soberly.
And they went out to find Slone waiting.Then Bostil called his guests, and with Slone also accompanying him, went home.
