Wildfire and the Heritage of the Desert Read Online Free PDF Page A

argument shifted upon the arrival of two newcomers, leading mustangs and apparently talking trade. It was manifest that these arrivals were not loath to get the opinions of others.
    â€œVan, there’s a hoss!” exclaimed one.
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œWal, 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:
    â€œOh, Mr. Brackton, the wagon’s in, and did my box come?… To-day’s my birthday.”
    â€œâ€™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:
    â€œMiss Lucy, you see this here sorrel?”
    â€œAh! The same lazy crowd and the same old story—a horse trade!” laughed Lucy.
    â€œThere’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.
    â€œMacomber, 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.
    â€œâ€™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.”
    â€œDad 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!”
    â€œWal, if I get 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.
    â€œHe’s not well broken,” said Lucy. “Some Navajo has beaten his head in breaking him.”
    Then she carefully studied the mustang point by point.
    â€œHe’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.”
    â€œYou seen enough,” declared Macomber. “An’ so you wouldn’t own him?”
    â€œYou couldn’t make me a present of him—even on my birthday.”
    â€œWal,