Oh, if I ever get the one I want to love! A wild horse--a desert stallion--pure Arabian--broken right by an Indian! If I ever get him, Dad, you look out! For I'll run away from Sarch and Ben--and I'll beat the King!" The hamlet of Bostil's Ford had a singular situation, though, considering the wonderful nature of that desert country, it was not exceptional.

It lay under the protecting red bluff that only Lucy Bostil cared to climb.

A hard-trodden road wound down through rough breaks in the canyon wall to the river.

Bostil's house, at the head of the village, looked in the opposite direction, down the sage slope that widened like a colossal fan.

There was one wide street bordered by cottonwoods and cabins, and a number of gardens and orchards, beginning to burst into green and pink and white.