"Dear Dad, keep your old racers! But, remember, I'm my father's daughter.Ican love a horse, too.Oh, if I ever get the one I want to love! A wild horse--a desert stallion--pure Arabian-- broken right by an Indian! If I ever get him, Dad, you look out! For I'll run away from Sarch and Ben--and I'll beat the King!"The hamlet of Bostil's Ford had a singular situation, though, considering the wonderful nature of that desert country, it was not exceptional.It lay under the protecting red bluff that only Lucy Bostil cared to climb.A hard-trodden road wound down through rough breaks in the canyon wall to the river.Bostil's house, at the head of the village, looked in the opposite direction, down the sage slope that widened like a colossal fan.There was one wide street bordered by cottonwoods and cabins, and a number of gardens and orchards, beginning to burst into green and pink and white.A brook ran out of a ravine in the huge bluff, and from this led irrigation ditches.The red earth seemed to blossom at the touch of water.
The place resembled an Indian encampment--quiet, sleepy, colorful, with the tiny-streams of water running everywhere, and lazy columns of blue wood-smoke rising.Bostil's Ford was the opposite of a busy village, yet its few inhabitants, as a whole, were prosperous.The wants of pioneers were few.
Perhaps once a month the big, clumsy flatboat was rowed across the river with horses or cattle or sheep.And the season was now close at hand when for weeks, sometimes months, the river was unfordable.There were a score of permanent families, a host of merry, sturdy children, a number of idle young men, and only one girl--Lucy Bostil.But the village always had transient inhabitants--friendly Utes and Navajos in to trade, and sheep-herders with a scraggy, woolly flock, and travelers of the strange religious sect identified with Utah going on into the wilderness.Then there were always riders passing to and fro, and sometimes unknown ones regarded with caution.Horse-thieves sometimes boldly rode in, and sometimes were able to sell or trade.In the matter of horse-dealing Bostil's Ford was as bold as the thieves.
Old Brackton, a man of varied Western experience, kept the one store, which was tavern, trading-post, freighter's headquarters, blacksmith's shop, and any thing else needful.Brackton employed riders, teamsters, sometimes Indians, to freight supplies in once a month from Durango.And that was over two hundred miles away.Sometimes the supplies did not arrive on time--occasionally not at all.News from the outside world, except that elicited from the taciturn travelers marching into Utah, drifted in at intervals.But it was not missed.
These wilderness spirits were the forerunners of a great, movement, and as such were big, strong, stern, sufficient unto themselves.Life there was made possible by horses.The distant future, that looked bright to far-seeing men, must be and could only be fulfilled through the endurance and faithfulness of horses.And then, from these men, horses received the meed due them, and the love they were truly worth.The Navajo was a nomad horseman, an Arab of the Painted Desert, and the Ute Indian was close to him.It was they who developed the white riders of the uplands as well as the wild-horse wrangler or hunter.
Brackton's ramshackle establishment stood down at the end of the village street.There was not a sawed board in all that structure, and some of the pine logs showed how they had been dropped from the bluff.Brackton, a little old gray man, with scant beard, and eyes like those of a bird, came briskly out to meet an incoming freighter.The wagon was minus a hind wheel, but the teamster had come in on three wheels and a pole.The sweaty, dust-caked, weary, thin-ribbed mustangs, and the gray-and-red-stained wagon, and the huge jumble of dusty packs, showed something of what the journey had been.
"Hi thar, Red Wilson, you air some late gettin' in," greeted old Brackton.
Red Wilson had red eyes from fighting the flying sand, and red dust pasted in his scraggy beard, and as he gave his belt an upward hitch little red clouds flew from his gun-sheath.
"Yep.An' I left a wheel an' part of the load on the trail," he said.
With him were Indians who began to unhitch the teams.Riders lounging in the shade greeted Wilson and inquired for news.The teamster replied that travel was dry, the water-holes were dry, and he was dry.And his reply gave both concern and amusement.
"One more trip out an' back--thet's all, till it rains," concluded Wilson.
Brackton led him inside, evidently to alleviate part of that dryness.
Water and grass, next to horses, were the stock subject of all riders.
"It's got oncommon hot early," said one.
"Yes, an' them northeast winds--hard this spring," said another.
"No snow on the uplands."
"Holley seen a dry spell comin'.Wal, we can drift along without freighters.
There's grass an' water enough here, even if it doesn't rain.""Sure, but there ain't none across the river.""Never was, in early season.An' if there was it'd be sheeped off.""Creech'll be fetchin' his hosses across soon, I reckon.""You bet he will.He's trainin' for the races next month.""An' when air they comin' off?"
"You got me.Mebbe Van knows."
Some one prodded a sleepy rider who lay all his splendid lithe length, hat over his eyes.Then he sat up and blinked, a lean-faced, gray-eyed fellow, half good-natured and half resentful.
"Did somebody punch me?"
"Naw, you got nightmare! Say, Van, when will the races come off?""Huh! An, you woke me for thet?...Bostil says in a few weeks, soon as he hears from the Indians.Plans to have eight hundred Indians here, an' the biggest purses an' best races ever had at the Ford.""You'll ride the King again?"
"Reckon so.But Bostil is kickin' because I'm heavier than I was," replied the rider.
"You're skin an' bones at thet."
