Wildfire. Zane Grey
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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 at," said Lucy. "But I wouldn't own 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