He swore the great gray could look back over his shoulder and run away from any broken horse known to the riders.
Bostil himself was half horse, and the half of him that was human he divided between love of his fleet racers and his daughter Lucy.

He had seen years of hard riding on that wild Utah border where, in those days, a horse meant all the world to a man.

A lucky strike of grassy upland and good water south of the Rio Colorado made him rich in all that he cared to own.

The Indians, yet unspoiled by white men, were friendly.

Bostil built a boat at the Indian crossing of the Colorado and the place became known as Bostil's Ford.