Wildfire. Zane Grey

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      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."

      "Mebbe you'll need to work a little off, Van. Some one said Creech's Blue Roan was comin' fast this year."

      "Bill, your mind ain't operatin'," replied Van, scornfully. "Didn't I beat Creech's hosses last year without the King turnin' a hair?"

      "Not if I recollect, you didn't. The Blue Roan wasn't runnin'."

      Then they argued, after the manner of friendly riders, but all earnest, an eloquent in their convictions. The prevailing opinion was that Creech's horse had a chance, depending upon condition and luck.

      The argument shifted upon the arrival of two new-comers, leading mustangs and apparently talking trade. It was manifest that these arrivals were not loath to get the opinions of others.

      "Van, there's a hoss!" exclaimed one.

      "No, he ain't," replied Van.

      And that diverse judgment appeared to be characteristic throughout. The strange thing was that Macomber, the rancher, had already traded his mustang and money to boot for the sorrel. The deal, whether wise or not, had been consummated. Brackton came out with Red Wilson, and they had to have their say.

      "Wal, durned if some of you fellers ain't kind an' complimentary," remarked Macomber, scratching his head. "But then every feller can't have hoss sense." Then, looking up to see Lucy Bostil coming along the road, he brightened as if with inspiration.

      Lucy was at home among them, and the shy eyes of the younger riders, especially Van, were nothing if not revealing. She greeted them with a bright smile, and when she saw Brackton she burst out:

      "Oh, Mr. Brackton, the wagon's in, and did my box come? … To-day's my birthday."

      "'Deed it did, Lucy; an' many more happy ones to you!" he replied, delighted in her delight. "But it's too heavy for you. I'll send it up—or mebbe one of the boys—"

      Five riders in unison eagerly offered their services and looked as if each had spoken first. Then Macomber addressed her:

      "Miss Lucy, you see this here sorrel?"

      "Ah! the same lazy crowd and the same old story—a horse trade!" laughed Lucy.

      "There's a little difference of opinion," said Macomber, politely indicating the riders. "Now, Miss Lucy, we-all know you're a judge of a hoss. And as good as thet you tell the truth. Thet ain't in some hoss-traders I know. … What do you think of this mustang?"

      Macomber had eyes of enthusiasm for his latest acquisition, but some of the cock-sureness had been knocked out of him by the blunt riders.

      "Macomber, aren't you a great one to talk?" queried Lucy, severely. "Didn't you get around Dad and trade him an old, blind, knock-kneed bag of bones for a perfectly good pony—one I liked to ride?"

      The riders shouted with laughter while the rancher struggled with confusion.

      "'Pon my word, Miss Lucy, I'm surprised you could think thet of such an old friend of yours—an' your Dad's, too. I'm hopin' he doesn't side altogether with you."

      "Dad and I never agree about a horse. He thinks he got the best of you. But you know, Macomber, what a horse-thief you are. Worse than Cordts!"

      "Wal, if I got the best of Bostil I'm willin' to be thought bad. I'm the first feller to take him in. … An' now, Miss Lucy, look over my sorrel."

      Lucy Bostil did indeed have an eye for a horse. She walked straight up to the wild, shaggy mustang with a confidence born of intuition and experience, and reached a hand for his head, not slowly, nor yet swiftly. The mustang looked as if he was about to jump, but he did not. His eyes showed that he was not used to women.

      "He's not well broken," said Lucy. "Some Navajo has beaten his head in breaking him."

      Then she carefully studied the mustang point by point.

      "He's deceiving at first because he's good to look СКАЧАТЬ