The riders waited for Bostil.Slone rode into the courtyard.He was white and weary, reeling in the saddle.A bloody scarf was bound round his shoulder.He held Lucy in his arms.She had on his coat.A wan smile lighted her haggard face.
Bostil, cursing deep, like muttering thunder, strode out."Lucy! You ain't bad hurt?" he implored, in a voice no one had ever heard before.
"I'm--all right--Dad," she said, and slipped down into his arms.
He kissed the pale face and held her up like a child, and then, carrying her to the door of the house, he roared for Aunt Jane.
When he reappeared the crowd of riders scattered from around Slone.But it seemed that Bostil saw only the King.The horse was caked with dusty lather, scratched and disheveled, weary and broken, yet he was still beautiful.He raised his drooping head and reached for his master with a look as soft and dark and eloquent as a woman's.
No rider there but felt Bostil's passion of doubt and hope.Had the King been beaten? Bostil's glory and pride were battling with love.Mighty as that was, it did not at once overcome his fear of defeat.
Slowly the gaze of Bostil moved away from Sage King and roved out to the sage and back, as if he expected to see another horse.But no other horse was in sight.At last his hard eyes rested upon the white-faced Slone.
"Been some--hard ridin'?" he queried, haltingly.All there knew that had not been the question upon his lips.
"Pretty hard--yes," replied Slone.He was weary, yet tight-lipped, intense.
"Now--them Creeches?" slowly continued Bostil.
"Dead."
A murmur ran through the listening riders, and they drew closer.
"Both of them?"
"Yes.Joel killed his father, fightin' to get Lucy....An' I ran--Wildfire over Joel--smashed him!""Wal, I'm sorry for the old man," replied Bostil, gruffly."I meant to make up to him....But thet fool boy!...An' Slone--you're all bloody."He stepped forward and pulled the scarf aside.He was curious and kindly, as if it was beyond him to be otherwise.Yet that dark cold something, almost sullen clung round him.
"Been bored, eh? Wal, it ain't low, an' thet's good.Who shot you?""Cordts."
"CORDTS!" Bostil leaned forward in sudden, fierce eagerness.
"Yes, Cordts....His outfit run across Creech's trail an' we bunched.Ican't tell now....But we had--hell! An' Cordts is dead--so's Hutch--an'
that other pard of his....Bostil, they'll never haunt your sleep again!"Slone finished with a strange sternness that seemed almost bitter.
Bostil raised both his huge fists.The blood was bulging his thick neck.It was another kind of passion that obsessed him.Only some violent check to his emotion prevented him from embracing Slone.The huge fists unclenched and the big fingers worked.
"You mean to tell me you did fer Cordts an' Hutch what you did fer Sears?" he boomed out.
"They're dead--gone, Bostil--honest to God!" replied.Slone.
Holley thrust a quivering, brown hand into Bostil's face."What did I tell you?" he shouted."Didn't I say wait?"Bostil threw away all that deep fury of passion, and there seemed only a resistless and speechless admiration left.Then ensued a moment of silence.
The riders watched Slone's weary face as it drooped, and Bostil, as he loomed over him.
"Where's the red stallion?" queried Bostil.That was the question hard to get out.
