Wildfire. Zane Grey

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СКАЧАТЬ him. A saddle will turn on him. He's not vicious, but he'll never get over his scare. He's narrow between the eyes—a bad sign. His ears are stiff—and too close. I don't see anything more wrong with him."

      "You seen enough," declared Macomber. "An' so you wouldn't own him?"

      "You couldn't make me a present of him—even on my birthday."

      "Wal, now I'm sorry, for I was thinkin' of thet," replied Macomber, ruefully. It was plain that the sorrel had fallen irremediably in his estimation.

      "Macomber, I often tell Dad all you horse-traders get your deserts now and then. It's vanity and desire to beat the other man that's your downfall."

      Lucy went away, with Van shouldering her box, leaving Macomber trying to return the banter of the riders. The good-natured raillery was interrupted by a sharp word from one of them.

      "Look! Darn me if thet ain't a naked Indian comin'!"

      The riders whirled to see an apparently nude savage approaching, almost on a run.

      "Take a shot at thet, Bill," said another rider. "Miss Lucy might see—No, she's out of sight. But, mebbe some other woman is around."

      "Hold on, Bill," called Macomber. "You never saw an Indian run like thet."

      Some of the riders swore, others laughed, and all suddenly became keen with interest.

      "Sure his face is white, if his body's red!"

      The strange figure neared them. It was indeed red up to the face, which seemed white in contrast. Yet only in general shape and action did it resemble a man.

      "Damned if it ain't Joel Creech!" sang out Bill Stark.

      The other riders accorded their wondering assent.

      "Gone crazy, sure!"

      "I always seen it comin'."

      "Say, but ain't he wild? Foamin' at the mouth like a winded hoss!"

      Young Creech was headed down the road toward the ford across which he had to go to reach home. He saw the curious group, slowed his pace, and halted. His face seemed convulsed with rage and pain and fatigue. His body, even to his hands, was incased in a thick, heavy coating of red adobe that had caked hard.

      "God's sake—fellers—" he panted, with eyes rolling, "take this—'dobe mud off me! … I'm dyin'!"

      Then he staggered into Brackton's place. A howl went up from the riders and they surged after him.

      That evening after supper Bostil stamped in the big room, roaring with laughter, red in the face; and he astonished Lucy and her aunt to the point of consternation.

      "Now—you've—done—it—Lucy Bostil!" he roared.

      "Oh dear! Oh dear!" exclaimed Aunt Jane.

      "Done what?" asked Lucy, blankly.

      Bostil conquered his paroxysm, and, wiping his moist red face, he eyed Lucy in mock solemnity.

      "Joel!" whispered Lucy, who had a guilty conscience.

      "Lucy, I never heard the beat of it. … Joel's smarter in some ways than we thought, an' crazier in others. He had the sun figgered, but what'd he want to run through town for? Why, never in my life have I seen such tickled riders."

      "Dad!" almost screamed Lucy. "What did Joel do?"

      "Wal, I see it this way. He couldn't or wouldn't wait for sundown. An' he wasn't hankerin' to be burned. So he wallows in a 'dobe mud-hole an' covers himself thick with mud. You know that 'dobe mud! Then he starts home. But he hadn't figgered on the 'dobe gettin' hard, which it did—harder 'n rock. An' thet must have hurt more 'n sunburn. Late this afternoon he came runnin' down the road, yellin' thet he was dyin'. The boys had conniption fits. Joel ain't over-liked, you know, an' here they had one on him. Mebbe they didn't try hard to clean him off. But the fact is not for hours did they get thet 'dobe off him. They washed an' scrubbed an' curried him, while he yelled an' cussed. Finally they peeled it off, with his skin I guess. He was raw, an' they say, the maddest feller ever seen in Bostil's Ford!"

      Lucy was struggling between fear and mirth. She did not look sorry. "Oh! Oh! Oh, Dad!"

      "Wasn't it great, Lucy?"

      "But what—will he—do?" choked Lucy.

      "Lord only knows. Thet worries me some. Because he never said a word about how he come to lose his clothes or why he had the 'dobe on him. An' sure I never told. Nobody knows but us."

      "Dad, he'll do something terrible to me!" cried Lucy, aghast at her premonition.

CHAPTER III

       Table of Contents

      The days did not pass swiftly at Bostil's Ford. And except in winter, and during the spring sand-storms, the lagging time passed pleasantly. Lucy rode every day, sometimes with Van, and sometimes alone. She was not over-keen about riding with Van—first, because he was in love with her; and secondly, in spite of that, she could not beat him when he rode the King. They were training Bostil's horses for the much-anticipated races.

      At last word arrived from the Utes and Navajos that they accepted Bostil's invitation and would come in force, which meant, according to Holley and other old riders, that the Indians would attend about eight hundred strong.

      "Thet old chief, Hawk, is comin'," Holley informed Bostil. "He hasn't been here fer several years. Recollect thet bunch of colts he had? They're hosses, not mustangs. … So you look out, Bostil!"

      No rider or rancher or sheepman, in fact, no one, ever lost a chance to warn Bostil. Some of it was in fun, but most of it was earnest. The nature of events was that sooner or later a horse would beat the King. Bostil knew that as well as anybody, though he would not admit it. Holley's hint made Bostil look worried. Most of Bostil's gray hairs might have been traced to his years of worry about horses.

      The day he received word from the Indians he sent for Brackton, Williams, Muncie, and Creech to come to his house that night. These men, with Bostil, had for years formed in a way a club, which gave the Ford distinction. Creech was no longer a friend of Bostil's, but Bostil had always been fair-minded, and now he did not allow his animosities to influence him. Holley, the veteran rider, made the sixth member of the club.

      Bostil had a cedar log blazing cheerily in the wide fireplace, for these early spring nights in the desert were cold.

      Brackton was the last guest to arrive. He shuffled in without answering the laconic greetings accorded him, and his usually mild eyes seemed keen and hard.

      "John, I reckon you won't love me fer this here I've got to tell you, to-night specially," he said, seriously.

      "You old robber, I couldn't love you anyhow," retorted Bostil. But his humor did not harmonize with the sudden gravity of his look. "What's up?"

      "Who do you suppose I jest sold СКАЧАТЬ