Bulldog Carney

  III.--OWNERS UP

  |Clatawa had put racing in Walla Walla in cold storage.

  You can't have any kind of sport with one individual, horse or man, andClatawa had beaten everything so decisively that the gamblers sat downwith blank faces and asked, "What's the use?"

  Horse racing had been a civic institution, a daily round of joyousthrills--a commendable medium for the circulation of gold. The NezPerces Indians, who owned that garden of Eden, the Palouse country, andwere rich, would troop into Walla Walla long rolls of twenty-dollar goldpieces plugged into a snake-like skin till the thing resembled a blacksausage, and bet the coins as though they were nickels.

  It was a lovely town, with its straggling clap-boarded buildings, its U.S. Cavalry post, its wide-open dance halls and gambling palaces; it wasa live town was Walla Walla, squatting there in the center of a greatluxuriant plain twenty miles or more from the Columbia and Snake Rivers.

  Snaky Dick had roped a big bay with black points that was lord of aharem of wild mares; he had speed and stamina, and also brains; so theynamed him "Clatawa," that is, "The-one-who-goes-quick." When Clatawafound that men were not terrible creatures he chummed in, and enjoyedthe gambling, and the racing, and the high living like any othercreature of brains.

  He was about three-quarter warm blood. How the mixture nobody knew. Somehalf-bred mare, carrying a foal, had, perhaps, escaped from one of thegreat breeding ranches, such as the "Scissors Brand Ranch" where thesires were thoroughbred, and dropped her baby in the herd. And thecolt, not being raced to death as a two-year-old, had grown into a big,upstanding bay, with perfect unblemished bone, lungs like a blacksmith'sbellows and sinews that played through unruptured sheaths. His courage,too, had not been broken by the whip and spur of pin-head jocks. Therewas just one rift in the lute, that dilution of cold blood. He wasn't athoroughbred, and until his measure was taken, until some other equinelooked him in the eye as they fought it out stride for stride, no mancould just say what the cold blood would do; it was so apt to quit.

  At first Walla Walla rejoiced when Snaky Dick commenced to make the NezPerces horses look like pack mules; but now had come the time when therewas no one to fight the "champ," and the game was on the hog, as IronJaw Blake declared.

  Then Iron Jaw and Snaggle Tooth Boone, and

  Death-on-the-trail Carson formed themselves into a committee of three toameliorate the monotony.

  They were a picturesque trio. Carson was a sombre individual,architecturally resembling a leafless gaunt-limbed pine, for he lackedbut a scant half inch of being seven feet of bone and whip-cord.

  Years before he had gone out over the trail that wound among sage bushand pink-flowered ball cactus up into the Bitter Root Mountains with"Irish" Fagan. Months after he came back alone; more sombre, more gaunt,more sparing of speech, and had offered casually the statement that"Fagan met death on the trail." This laconic epitome of a giganticevent had crystallized into a moniker for Carson, and he became solely"Death-on-the-trail."

  Snaggle Tooth Boone had a wolf-like fang on the very doorstep of hisupper jaw, so it required no powerful inventive faculty to rechristenhim with aptitude.

  Blake was not only iron-jawed physically, but all his dealings were ofthe bullheaded order; finesse was as foreign to Iron Jaw as caviare to aSiwash.

  So this triumvirate of decorative citizens, with Iron Jaw as penman,wrote to Reilly at Portland, Oregon, to send in a horse good enoughto beat Clatawa, and a jock to ride him. Iron Jaw's directions werespecific, lengthy; going into detail. He knew that a thoroughbred,even a selling plater, would be good enough to take the measure of anycross-bred horse, no matter how good the latter apparently was, runningin scrub races. He also knew the value of weight as a handicap, and theWalla Walla races were all matches, catch-weights up. So he wrote toReilly to send him a tall, slim rider who could pad up with clothes andlook the part of an able-bodied cow puncher.

  It was a pleasing line of endeavor to Reilly--he just loved that sortof thing; trimming "come-ons" was right in his mitt. He fulfilled thecommission to perfection, sending up, by the flat river steamer, the_Maid of Palouse,_ what appeared to be an ordinary black ranch cow-ponyin charge of "Texas Sam," a cow puncher. From Lewiston, the head ofnavigation, Texas Sam rode his horse behind the old Concord coach overthe twenty-five miles of trail to Walla Walla.

  The endeavor had gone through with swift smoothness. Nobody but IronJaw, Death-on-the-trail, and Snaggle Tooth knew of the possibilitiesthat lurked in the long chapp-legged Texas Jim and the thin rakish blackhorse that he called Horned Toad.

  As one spreads bait as a decoy, Sam was given money to flash, andinstructed in the art of fool talk.

  Iron Jaw was banker in this game; while Snaggle Tooth ran the wheel andfaro lay-out in the Del Monte saloon. So, when Texas dribbled a thousanddollars across the table, "bucking the tiger," it was show money; athousand that Iron Jaw had passed him earlier in the evening, and whichSnaggle Tooth would pass back to its owner in the morning.

  There was no hurry to spring the trap. Texas

  Sam allowed that he himself was an uncurried wild horse from the greatdesert; that he was all wool and a yard wide; that he could lick hisfighting weight in wild cats; and bet on anything he fancied till thecows came home with their tails between their legs. And all the time hedrank: he would drink with anybody, and anybody might drink with him.This was no piking game, for the three students of get-it-in-big-wadshad declared for a coup that would cause Walla Walla to stand up on itshind legs and howl.

  Of course Snaky Dick and his clique cast covetous eyes on the bank rollthat Texas showed an inkling of when he flashed his gold. That Texas hada horse was the key to the whole situation: a horse that he wasnever tired of describing as the king-pin cow-pony from Kalamazoo toKamschatka; a spring-heeled antelope that could run rings around anycayuse that had ever looked through a halter.

  But Snaky Dick went slow. Some night when Texas was full of hop he'drush him for a match. Indeed the Clatawa crowd had the money readyto plunk down when the psychological pitch of Sam's Dutch courage hadarrived.

  It was all going swimmingly, both ends of Walla Walla being playedagainst the middle, so to speak, when the "unknown quantity" driftedinto the game.

  A tall, lithe man, with small placid gray eyes set in a tanned face,rode up out of the sage brush astride a buckskin horse on his way toWalla Walla. He looked like a casual cow-puncher riding into townwith the laudable purpose of tying the faro outfit hoof and horn, and,incidentally, showing what could be done to a bar when a man was inearnest and had the mazuma.

  As the buckskin leisurely loped down the trail-road that ran from thecavalry barracks to the heart of Walla Walla, his rider became aware ofturmoil in the suburbs. In front of a neat little cottage, the windowsof which held flowers partly shrouded by lace curtains, a lathyindividual, standing beside a rakish black horse, was orating withBacchanalian vehemence. Gathered from his blasphemous narrative he knewchronologically the past history of a small pretty woman with peroxidedhair, who stood in the open door. He must have enlarged on thesophistication of her past life, for the little lady, with a crisp oath,called the declaimer a liar and a seven-times misplaced offspring.

  The rider of the buckskin checked his horse, threw his right leg looselyover the saddle, and restfully contemplated the exciting film.

  The irate and also inebriated man knew that he had drawn on hisimagination, but to be told in plain words that he was a liar peevedhim. With an ugly oath he swung his quirt and sprang forward, as if hewould bring its lash down on the decolleted shoulders of the woman.

  At that instant something that looked like a boy shot through the dooras though thrust from a catapult, and landed, head on, in the breadbasket of the cantankerous one, carrying him off his feet.

  The man on the buckskin chuckled, and slipped to the ground.

  But the boy had shot his bolt, so to speak; the big man he had tumbledso neatly, soon turned him, and, rising, was about to drive a boot into
the little fellow's rib. I say about to, for just then certain fingersof steel twined themselves in his red neckerchief, he was yanked volteface, and a fist drove into his midriff.

  Of course his animosity switched to the newcomer; but as he essayed agrapple the driving fist caught him quite neatly on the northeast cornerof his jaw. He sat down, the goggle stare in his eyes suggesting that hecontemplated a trip to dreamland.

  The little woman now darted forward, crying in a voice whosegladsomeness swam in tears: "Bulldog Carney! You always man--you beaut!"She would have twined her arms about Bulldog, but the placid gray eyes,so full of quiet aloofness, checked her.

  But the man's voice was soft and gentle as he said: "The same Bulldog,Molly, girl. Glad I happened along."

  He turned to the quarrelsome one who had staggered to his feet: "Youride away before I get cross; you smell like the corpse of a deadbooze-fighter!"

  The man addressed looked into the gray eyes switched on his own forinspection; then he turned, mounted the black, and throwing over hisshoulder, "I'll get you for this, Mister Butter-in!" rode away.

  The other party to the rough-and-tumble, winded, had erected his fivefeet of length, and with a palm pressed against his chest was emitingbetween wheezy coughs picturesque words of ecomium upon Bulldog, notwithout derogatory reflections upon the man who had ridden away.

  In the midst of this vocal cocktail he broke off suddenly to exclaim inastonishment:

  "Holy Gawd!"

  Then he scuttled past Carney, slipped a finger through the ring of thebuckskin's snaffle and peered into the horse's face as if he had found along-lost friend.

  Perhaps the buckskin remembered him too, for he pressed a velvet,mouse-colored muzzle against the lad's cheek and whispered something.

  The little man ran a hand up and down the horse's canon-bones with theinquisitiveness of a blind man reading raised print.

  Then he turned to Carney who had been chatting with Molly--in fulldignity of Walla Walla nomenclature Molly B'Damn--and asked: "Where thehell d'you get Waster?"

  A faint smile twitched the owner's tawny mustache, chased away by alittle cloud of anger, for in that land of many horse stealings to aska man how he had come by his horse savoured of discourtesy. But it wasonly a little wizen-faced, flat-chested friend of Molly B'Damn's; soCarney smiled again, and answered by asking:

  "Gentle-voiced kidaloona, explain what you mean by the Waster. That chumof mine's name is Pat--Patsy boy, often enough."

  "Pat nothin'! nor Percy, nor Willie; he's just plain old Waster that Iwon the Ranch Stakes on in Butte, four years ago."

  "Guess again, kid," Carney suggested.

  "Holy Mike! Say, boss, if you could think like you can punch you'd beall right. That's Waster. Listen, Mister Cowboy, while I tell you 'bouthis friends and relatives. He's by Gambler's Money out of Scotch Lassie,whose breedin' runs back to Prince Charlie: Gambler's Money was byCounterfeit, he by Spendthrift, and Spendthrift's sire was importedAustralian, whose grandsire was the English horse, Melbourne. D'you getthat, sage-brush rider?"

  "I hear sounds. Tinkle again, little man."

  Molly laughed, her white teeth and honest blue eyes discounting thechemically yellow hair until the face looked good.

  The little man stretched out an arm, at the end of it a thin fingerlevelled at the buckskin's head: "Have you _ever_ took notice of themlop ears?"

  "Once--which was continuous."

  "And you thought there was a jackass strain in him, eh?"

  "Pat looked good to me all the time, ears and all."

  "Well, them sloppy listeners are a throw-back to Melbourne, he was likethat. I've read he was a mean-lookin' cuss, with weak knees; but hewas all horse: and ain't Waster got bad knees? And don't he getthat buckskin from Spendthrift who was a chestnut, same's his dad,Australian?" This seemed a direct query for he broke off to cough.

  "Go on, lad----"

  "Excuse me, sorry"--Molly was speaking--"this is Billy MacKay. My oldschool chum, Bessie, his sister, wished him on me a month ago to seewhat God's country could do for that busted chest."

  The little man was impatient over the switch to himself--the horse wasthe thing.

  "If it wasn't for them dicky forelegs--Gawd! what a horse Waster'd been.And if his owner, Leatherhead Mike Doyle, had kept the weight offenhim he'd've stood up anyway, for he was the truest thing. Say,Bulldog,--don't mind me, I like that name, it talks good,--Waster didn'tneed no blinkers he didn't need no spurs; he didn't need no whip--I'das lief hit a child with the bud as hit him. He'd just break his heartryin'. Waster was Leather-head's meal ticket, dicky knees and all, tillhe threw a splint. It was the weight that broke him down; a hundred andthirty-six pounds the handicapper give him in the Gold Range Stakes ata mile and a quarter; at that he was leadin' into the stretch andfinished, fightin', on three legs. He was beat, of course; andLeatherhead was broke, and I never see Waster again. A trombone playerin a beer garden would have known the little cuss with them hot-jointedknees couldn't pack weight, and would 've scratched him."

  Carney put a hand caressingly on Jockey Mackay's shoulder, saying: "Youstand pat with me, kid--your heart is about human, I guess. What wasthat hostile person's game?"

  Molly explained with a certain amount of asperity:

  "He comes here to-day, Bulldog--Well, you know----"

  Carney nodded placidly.

  "He'd seen me down in the Del Monte joint, and thought--well, he wasfilled up on Chinese rum. He wasn't none too much like a man in anythinghe said or done, but I was standin' for him so long as he don't getplumb Injun."

  "Injun? Cripes! An Injun's a drugstore gent compared to that stiff,Slimy Red," Billy objected.

  "Yes, that's what started it, Bulldog,--Billy knew him."

  "Knew him--huh! Slimy Red was the crookedest rider that ever throweda leg over a horse. He used to give his own father the wrong steer andlaugh when the old man's money was burnt up on a horse that finished inthe ruck."

  "He comes in here palmin' off the moniker of Texas Sam, a big ranchguy that sees blood on the moon when he's out for a time," Molly helpedwith.

  "I didn't know him at first," the little man admitted, "his face bein'a garden of black alfalfa, till I sees that the crop is red for halfan inch above the surface where it had pushed through the dye. Then hesays, 'I'll bet my left eye agin' your big toe,' and I'm on, for that'sa great sayin' with Slimy Red Smith--he was Slimy Red hisself. Andpolitely, not givin' the game away, but callin' him 'Texas,' I suggeststhat me and Molly is goin' to sing hymns for a bit, and that he'd bestpush on."

  "Soon's Billy warbles, 'Good-bye, stranger,'" Molly laughed, "this Texasperson goes up in the air. Well, you see the finish, Bulldog."

  The little man had wrestled a coughing spell into subjection andwith apparent inconsistency asked, "Did you ever hear of it rainin'bullfrogs, Mr. Carney?"

  Carney nodded, a suspicion flashing upon him that the weak chest wastwin brother to a weak brain in Billy the Jock.

  "Well, it's been rainin' discard race-horses about Walla Walla."

  "Much of a storm?"

  "They're comin' kind of thick. There's yours, Waster, and Slimy Red hasgot Ding Dong; he's out of Weddin' Bells by Tambourine."

  "Are you in a hurry, Bulldog?" Molly asked, fancying that Carney'swell-known courtesy was perhaps the father of his apparent interest.

  "I was, Molly, till I saw you," he answered graciously, a gentle smilelighting up his stern features.

  "Oh, you gentleman knight of the road--always the silver-tonguedBulldog. There's a bottle inside with a gold necktie on it, waitin' fora real man to pull the cork. Come on, kid Billy."

  The boy looked at Carney, and the latter said;

  "It's been a full moon since I pattered with anybody about anything butfat pork and sundown. We'll accept the little lady's invitation."

  "I can give Waster four quarts of oats, Mr. Carney; I've been ridin' inthe way of a cure."

  Carney laughed. "You're a sure little bit of all right
, kid; the horsefirst when it comes to grub--that's me; but I'll feed Pat when he'sbedded for the night."

  Inside the cottage Molly and Bulldog jaunted back over the life trailupon which they had met at different times and in divers places.

  But Jockey Mackay had been thrown back into his life's environment atsight of Waster. He was as full of racing as the wine bottle was full ofbubbles; like the wine he effervesced.

  "You been here in Walla Walla before?" he asked Carney, breaking in onthe memory of a funny something that had happened when Molly and Bulldogwere both in Denver.

  "Some time since," Carney replied.

  "D'you know about Clatawa?"

  "Is it a mine or a cocktail, Billy?"

  "Clatawa's a horse."

  "I might have known," Carney murmured resignedly.

  Then the little man narrated of Clatawa, and the fatuous belief WallaWalla held that a horse with cold blood in his veins could gallop fastenough to keep himself warm. He waxed indignant over this, declaringthat boneheads that held such crazy ideas ought to be bled white, thatis in a monetary way.

  Carney, being a Chevalier d'industrie, had a keen nose for obliqueenterprises, but up to the present he had enjoyed the little man'schatter simply because he loved horses himself; but at this, the Clatawadisease, He pricked his ears.

  "What is your unsavory acquaintance, Slimy Red, doing here with DingDong?" he asked.

  A cunning smile twisted the lad's bluish lips as he lighted a cigarette.

  "Slimy Red is padded," he vouchsafed after a puff at the cigarette.

  "Padded!" Molly exclaimed, her blue eyes rounding.

  "Sure thing. That herrin' gut can ride at a hundred and twenty pounds.He's a steeplechase jock, gener'ly, though he's good on the flat, too.He's got a couple of sweaters on under that corduroy jacket to make himlook big."

  Carney laughed. "That explains something. When I pushed my fist againsthis stomach I thought it had gone clean through--it sank to the wrist;it was just as though I had punched a bag of feathers."

  "But the upper cut was all right, Mr. Carney; it was a lallapaloosa."

  "Why all the clothes?" Molly asked.

  "I've been dopin' it out," the boy answered. "It's all match races here,catch weights; there ain't one of them could ride a flat car withoutgivin' it the slows, but they know what weight is in a race; theyknow you can pile enough on to bring a cart horse and a winner of theBrooklyn Handicap together."

  "I see," Carney said contemplatively; "Slimy Red, if he makes a match,figures to get a big pull in the weights."

  "Sure thing, Mike; Walla Walla will bet the family plate on Clatawa;they'll go down hook, line, and sinker, and then some. They'll fall forthe clothes and think Slimy weighs a hundred and seventy. D'you get it?"

  "Fancy I do," Carney chuckled. "The avaricious Mister Red is probablyhere on a missionary venture; he aims to separate these godless onesfrom the root of evil through having a trained thoroughbred, and anample pull in the weight."

  "Now you're talkin'," Jockey Mackay declared. Then he relapsed intoa meditative silence, sipping his wine as he correlated severalpossibilities suggested by the rainfall of racing horses in Walla Walla.

  Carney and Molly drifted into desultory talk again.

  After a time Billy spoke.

  "It ain't on the cards that a lot of money is comin' to Slimy Red--hedon't deserve it; he ought to be trimmed hisself."

  "He sure ought," Molly corroborated.

  "Hell!" the little man exclaimed; "nobody could never trim Red, 'causehe never had nothin'. I got it! Somebody in Walla Walla is the angel;and Red'll get a rakeoff. He don't own Ding Dong; he couldn't own a leadpad; booze gets his."

  "Billy," Molly's face went serious; "I can guess it in once--IronJaw! Oh, gee! I've been blind. Iron Jaw, and Snaggle Tooth, andDeath-on-the-trail ain't men to cotton to a coot like Slimy Red; they'regamblers, and don't stand for anything that ain't a man, only just whilethey take his roll. They've been nursin' this four-flusher. It's been,'Hello, Texas!' and 'Have a drink, Texas.' I've got it."

  "Fancy you have, Molly," Bulldog submitted. "Gawd! that's thecombination," Billy declared. "I was right."

  "And Iron Jaw has got a down on Snaky Dick that owns Clatawa over somebad splits in bets," Molly added.

  "The old game," Carney laughed. "When thieves fall out honest men win abet. It would appear from the evidence that Iron Jaw Blake--I know hismethod of old--has sent out and got some one to ship in a horse andrider to trim Clatawa, and turn an honest penny."

  "You're gettin' warm, Bulldog, as we used to say in that child's game,"Molly declared. "I know the pippin; one Reilly, at Portland. I heardIron Jaw and this Texas talkin' about him."

  Carney turned toward the little man. "What are we going to do about it,Billy--do we draw cards?"

  Billy sprang from his chair, and paced the floor excitedly. "Holy Mike!there never was such a chance. Waster can trim Ding Dong to a certaintyat a mile and a quarter. See, Bulldog, that's his distance; he's astayer from Stayville; but he can't pack weight--don't forget that. Ifyou rode him--let's see----"

  The little man stood back and eyed critically the tall package of boneand muscle, that while it suggested no surplus flesh, would weigh well.

  "You're a hundred and seventy-five pounds, and you ride in one of 'emrockin' chairs that'll tip the beam at forty pounds. What chance? Slimy'll have a five-pound saddle; he could weigh in, saddle and all, ahundred and twenty-five. You'd be takin' on a handicap of ninety pounds.What chance?"

  "I might get an Indian boy," Carney suggested. "You might get a doll ora pet monkey," Billy sneered. "What chance?"

  "And they all work for Iron Jaw," Molly advised; "they'd blow; he'dbribe them to pull the horse."

  "What chance?" Billy repeated with the mournful persistency of a parrot."Guess I'll go out and tell Waster to forget he's a gentleman and go onpluggin' among the sage brush as a cow-pony." Carney rose when Billy hadgone, saying, "Fancy I'll drift on to the rest joint, Molly. I ratherwant to hold converse with a certain man while the seeing's good, ifhe's about."

  "Good-bye, Bulldog," Molly answered, and her blue eyes followed thefigure that slipped so gracefully through the door, their depthsholding a look that was beautiful in its honest admiration. "God!" shewhispered; "why do women like him--gee!" Billy was tickling a lop ear onthe buckskin. "Mr. Carney," he said in a low voice, one eye on the cabindoor, "you heard what Molly said about Bessie wishin' me on her, didn'tyou?"

  "Uh-huh!"

  "Let me give you the straight info. Molly sent the money to Bessieto bring me here; we was both broke. Then I found out Bessie had beengettin' it for a year from her, 'cause I was sick and couldn't ride. Ihadn't saved none, thinkin' I'd got Rockefeller skinned to death as amoney-getter. It was the wastin' to make weight that got me. I don'thave to sweat off flesh now," he added pathetically; "I'm a hundred andtwo."

  "That's Molly Bur-dan" (her right name) "all over--I know her. But don'tworry kid. I haven't got anybody to look after, and having money and nouse for it makes me lonesome. You give me Bessie's address, and don'ttout off Molly that you're doing it."

  "I can get the money myself, Mr. Carney--you just listen now. I didn'tspring it inside 'cause Molly'd get hot under the collar; she'd saythat if I rode in a race I'd bust a lung. Gee! ridin' to me is just likegoin' by-bye in a hammock; it'd do me good."

  Carney put a hand gently on the boy's shoulder, saying: "The size of thepackage doesn't mean much when it comes to being a man, does it, kid?Spring it; get it off your chest."

  Billy made a horseshoe in the sand with the toe of his bootmeditatively; then said:

  "Slimy Red, of course, will be lookin' for a match for Ding Dong. Mostof the races here is sprints, the old Texas game of half-a-mile, andweight don't cut much ice that distance. He'll make it for a mile, ora mile-and-a-quarter, 'cause Ding Dong could stay that distance prettywell himself. If you was to match Waster against the black, and let meride him, I'd bring home the bacon. He's
a fourteen pound better horsethan Ding Dong ever was; a handicapper would separate them that much ontheir form. Gee! I forgot somethin'," and Billy, a shame-faced look inhis eyes, gazed helplessly at Bulldog.

  "What was it dropped out of your think-pan, kid?"

  "The roll. I've been makin' a noise like a man with a bank behind him. Amatch ain't like where a feller can go into the bettin' ring if he knowsa couple of hundred-to-one chances and parley a shoe-string into a blockof city houses; a match is even money, just about. And to win a bigstake you've got to have the long green."

  "How much, Billy?"

  "Well, the Iron Jaw bunch, bein' whisky men and gamblers, naturallywould stand to lose twenty thousand, at least."

  "I could manage it in a couple of days, Billy, by keeping the wireshot."

  "Before I forget it, Mr. Carney, if you do buck this crowd make it catchweights. Slimy Red don't own a hair in Ding Dong's tail, of course, buthe'll have a bill of sale right enough showin' he's the owner, and as hecan ride light they'll word it, 'owners up'."

  Carney was thinking fast, and a glint of light shot athwart his placidgray eyes.

  "Happy thought, Kid; we'll string with them on that; we'll make itowners up."

  "I said catch weights," Billy snapped irritably. Carney answered withonly a quizzical smile, and the boy, turning, walked around the horseeyeing him from every angle. He lifted first one foot and then theothers, examining them critically, pressing a thumb into the frogs.He pinched with thumb and forefinger the tendons of both forelegs; hesqueezed the horse's windpipe till the latter coughed; then he said:

  "Please, Mr. Carney, mount and give him half a furlong at top speed,finishin' up here. Make him break as quick as you can till I see if he'sgot the slows."

  As obedient as a servant Bulldog swung to the saddle, centered thebuckskin down the road, wheeled, brought the horse to a standstill, andthen, with a shake of the rein and a cry of encouragement, came tearingback, the pound of the horse's hoofs on the turf palpitating the airlike the roll of a kettle-drum.

  "Great!" the boy commented when Carney, having gently eased the horsedown, returned. "He's the same old Waster; he flattens out in thatstride of his till he looks like a pony. His flanks ain't pumpin' none.He'll do; he's had lots of work--he's in better condition than DingDong, 'cause Slimy Red's been puttin' in most of his trainin' time atthe bar. I got a three-pound saddle in my trunk that I won the 'KennerStakes' at Saratoga on. Slimy Red will be givin' me about ten pounds ifyou make the match catch weights; it'll be a cinch--like gettin' moneyfrom home. But don't tell Molly."

  "We'll split fifty-fifty," Carney said.

  "Nothin' doin', Mister Mug; you cop the coin for yourself--how much areyou goin' to bet?"

  "Five or ten thousand."

  "Well, you give me ten per cent of the five thousand--five hundredbucks, if we win. That'll square Molly's bill for bringin' me up here."

  "Come inside, kid," Carney said; "I want to write out something."

  Inside Carney said, "Molly, I'm going to give Pat to Billy for a ridinghorse----"

  "What?"

  But Billy's gasp of astonishment was choked by a frowning wink of one ofBulldog's gray eyes.

  "Pat's getting a little old for the hard knocks I have to give a horse,"Carney resumed; "that's partly what I came to Walla Walla for, to get ayoung horse. Let me have a sheet of paper and a pen; it doesn't do for aman to own a horse in this country without handy evidence as how he cameby him; and though this is a gift I'm going to make it out in the formof a bill of sale."

  Carney drew up a simple bill of sale, stating, that for one dollar,paid in hand, he transferred his buckskin horse "Pat" to William Mackay.Molly signed it as witness.

  "I'll have to keep Pat for a day or two till I get a new pony." Bulldogdeclared; "also rather think I'll leave this bill of sale with a friendin town for safe keeping, Billy might lose it," and a wink closed one ofthe gray eyes that were turned on the boy's face.

  As Carney sat the buckskin outside, he whispered, "Do you get it,Billy--owners up?"

  "Gee! I get you."

  The little man had been mystified.

  "Don't be in a hurry over the race," he advised; "make it for one weekaway. That'll give me a chance to give Waster a few lessons in breakin'to bring him back to the old days. I'll put a heavy blanket about hisneck for a gallop or two and sweat some of the fat off his pipes. I canget a set of racin' plates made for him, too, for a pound off his feetis four pounds off his back. We'll give him all the fine touches, Mr.Carney, and Waster 'll do his part."

  The little man watched the buckskin lope down toward Walla Walla, thenhe turned in to the cottage where he was greeted by Molly.

  "Ain't Bulldog some man, Billy?"

  "Will you tell me something, Molly?" the boy asked hesitatingly.

  "Shoot," she commanded.

  "Is he--was he--the man--Bessie told me something?"

  "There ain't no woman on God's footstool, Billy, can say Bulldog Carneywas the man that fell down. That's why we all like him. There ain't awoman on the Gold Coast that ever lamped Bulldog that wouldn't stakehim if she had to put her sparklers in hock. And there ain't a manthat knows him that'll try to put one over--'tain't healthy. He's got atemper as sweet as a bull pup's, but he's lightnin' when he starts.He don't cotton to no girl, 'cause he was once engaged to one of thesweetest you ever see, Billy."

  "Did she die, Molly?"

  "The other man did! And nothin' was done to Bulldog 'cause it was comin'to the hound."

  Carney rode on till he came to the Mountain House. Here he was at homefor the proprietor was an old Gold Range friend.

  First he saw that the buckskin had a worthy supper, then he ate his own.

  When it had grown dark and the gleaming lights of the Del Monte Saloonwere throwing their radiancy out into the street, he put the bridleon his buckskin and rode to the house of "Teddy the Leaper," who wasSheriff of Shoshone County.

  The sheriff welcomed Carney with a differential friendship that showedthey stood well together as man to man; for though Bulldog's reputationvaried in different places, and with different people, it stoodstrongest with those who had known him longest, and who, like most menof the West, were apt to judge men from their own experience.

  Teddy the Leaper admired Bulldog Carney the man; he would have stakedhis life on anything Carney told him. Officially, as sheriff, the Countyof Shoshone was his bailiwick, and the County of Shoshone held nothingon its records against Carney. "Always a gentleman," was Teddy's summingup of Bulldog Carney.

  Carney drew an envelope from his pocket, saying: "Will you take care ofthis for me, Sheriff? Inside is a bill of sale of my horse."

  "What, Bulldog--the buckskin?" Teddy's eyes searched the speaker's face;it was unbelievable. A light dawned upon the sheriff; Bulldog had putmany a practical joke over--he was kidding. Teddy laughed.

  "Bulldog," he said, "I've heard that you was English, a son of one ofthem bloated lords, but faith it's Irish you are. You've as much humoras you've nerve--you're Irish."

  "There's also a note in that envelope"--Carney ignored the chaff--"thatdirects you to pay over to a little lad that's up against it out atMolly's place, any money that might happen to be in your hands if Isuddenly--well, if I didn't need it--see?"

  "I'll do that, Bulldog."

  "Think you'll be at the Del Monte to-night, Sheriff?" Carney askedcasually.

  Teddy's Irish eyes flashed a quizzical look on the speaker; thenhe answered diplomatically: "There ain't no call why I got to bethere--lest I'm sent for, and I ain't as spry gettin' around as I waswhen I made that record of forty-six feet for the hop-step-and-jump. Ifyou've got anything to settle, go ahead."

  Carney rippled one of his low musical laughs: "I'd like to line you upat the bar, Sheriff, for a thimbleful of poison."

  Teddy's eyes again sought the speaker's mental pockets, but the placidface showed no warrant for expected trouble. The Sheriff coughed, thenventured:

  "If you're goi
n' to stack up agin odds, Bulldog, I'll dress for theoccasion; I don't gener'ly go 'round hostile draped."

  Again Carney laughed. "You might bring a roomy pocket, Sheriff; it mightso turn out that I'd like you to hold a few eagle birds till such timesas they're right and proper the property of another man or myself. Doesthat put any kink in your code?"

  "Not when I act for you, Bulldog; 'cause it'll be on the level: I'll bethere."

  Next Carney rode to the Del Monte; and hitching the buckskin to a post,he adjusted his belt till the butt of his gun lay true to the drop ofhis hand.

  As he entered the saloon slowly, his gray eyes flashed over the bar anda group of men on the right of the gaming tables, for there was one manperhaps in Walla Walla he wanted to see before the other saw him. Itwasn't Slimy Red--it was a tougher man.

  Iron Jaw was leaning against the bar talking to Death-on-the-trail, andbehind the bar Snaggle Tooth Boone stood listening to the conversation.

  As Carney entered a quick look of apprehension showed for an instantin Iron Jaw's heavy-browned eyes; then a smile of greeting curled hiscoarse lips. He held out a hand, saying: "Glad to see you, Old Timer.You seem conditioned. Know Carson?"

  "Yes."

  Carney shook hands with the two men, and reached across to clasp Boone'spaw, adding: "We'll sample the goods, Snaggle Tooth."

  Boone winced at the appellation, for Carney did not smile; there waseven the suspicion of a sneer on the lean face.

  "How is Walla Walla?" Carney queried, as the four glasses were heldtoward each other in salute. "Racing relieved by a little gun argumentonce in a while, I suppose. Chief Joseph threatening to let his NezPerces loose on you?"

  "Racin' is on the hog," Iron Jaw growled. "There's a bum over yonderpikin' agin the Wheel that's been stung by the racin' bug, but when hecalls for a show-down some of 'em will trim him. Hear that?"

  Iron Jaw held up a thumb, and they could hear a thin strident voicebabbling:

  "Walla Walla's a nursery for tin horn sports. There ain't a man here gotanythin' but a goose liver pumpin' his system, and a length of rubberhose up his back holdin' his ribs."

  Somebody objected; and the voice, that Carney recognized as Texas Sam'ssnarled:

  "Five birds of liberty! You call that bettin'--a hundred iron men?"

  "Want to see him?" Iron Jaw queried. "I can't place him. Texas Sam hecomes here as; seems to be well fixed; but he's a booze fighter. I guessthat's what gives him dreams."

  Quiescently Bulldog followed the lead of Iron Jaw and Death-on-the-trailacross the room where, with his back to the door, at a roulette tablesat Texas Sam. He was winning; three stacks of chips rose to a topplingheight at his right hand.

  Carney noticed from the color that they were five dollar chips. Knowingfrom Molly that Texas was a stool pigeon he understood the philosophyof the high-priced counters. It was easier to keep tally on what hedrew and what he turned back in after the game, for the losings and thewinnings were all a bluff, and the money furnished him for the show hadto be accounted for Iron Jaw trusted no man. "The game's like roundin'up a bunch of cows heavy in calf," Texas was saying as they approached;"it's too damn slow. I want action."

  He placed five chips on the thirteen as the croupier spun the wheel,bleating:

  "Hoodoo thirteen's my lucky number. I was whelped on Friday thethirteenth, at thirteen o'clock--as you old leatherheads make it, oneA.M." The little ivory ball skipped and hopped as it slid down from thesmooth plane of the wheel to the number chambers. It almost settled intoone, and then, as if agitated by some unseen devil of perversity, rolledover the thin wall and lay, like a bird's egg, in a black nest that wasnumber "13."

  "By a nose!" Texas exulted. "Do I win, Judge?" The croupier's face wasas expressionless as the silver veil of Mahmoud as he built into pillarsover eight hundred dollars in chips, and shoved them across the board toTexas.

  The noisy one swept them to the side of the table, and called for adrink.

  It was a curiously diversified interest that centered on this playof the uncouth Texas. Iron Jaw and Death-on-the-trail viewed it withapathetic interest, much as a trainer might watch a pupil punching thebag--it didn't mean anything.

  Carney, too, knowing its farcical value, looked on, waiting for hisopportunity.

  Snaky Dick sat across the table from Texas, dribbling a few fifty-centchips here and there amongst the numbers, also waiting. To him the playwas real; he had seen it in reality a thousand times--a man loaded withbad liquor and in possession of money running the gamut. Behind SnakyDick sat others of the Clatawa clique waiting for his lead. Their moneywas ready to cinch the match as soon as made.

  Iron Jaw watched Snaky Dick furtively; the time seemed ripening. Theyhad arranged, through some little vagaries of the wheel, vagaries thatcould be brought out by the assistance of the croupier, that apparentlyTexas should make a killing.

  Now the croupier called out: "Make your bets, gentlemen." He gave thewheel a send-off with finger and thumb, his droning voice singingthe cadence of: "Hurry up, gentlemen! Make your bets while themerry-go-round plays on."

  "For a repeat," Texas shrilled, dropping the chips one after another onto the thirteen square until they stood like a candle. Impatiently thecroupier checked him:

  "Mind the limit, Mister."

  "When I play the sky's my limit," Texas answered.

  "Not here," the croupier admonished, sweeping three-quarters of theivory discs from thirteen.

  The little ball of peripatetic fate that had held on its erratic wayduring this, now settled down into a compartment painted green.

  "Double zero!" the croupier remarked, and swept the table bare.

  Texas cursed. "There ain't no double zero in racin'; there ain't nogreen-eyed horse runnin' for the the track--everybody's got a chance.Here! I'm goin' to cash in."

  He shoved the ivory chips irritably across the table, and the croupier,stacking them in his board, said: "A thousand and fifty."

  As methodically as he had built up the chips, from a drawer he erectedlittle golden plinths of twenty-dollar pieces, and with both handspushed them toward the winner. .

  Texas put the palm of his hand on the shiny mound, saying:

  "I'm goin' to orate; I'm gettin' plumb hide-bound 'cause of this longsleep in Walla Walla. To-morrow I'm pullin' my freight down the trail tothe outside where men is. But these yeller-throated singin' birds saysI got a cow-hocked whang-doodle on four hoofs named Horned Toad thatcan outrun anything that eats with molars in Walla Walla, from agrasshopper's jump to four miles. Now I've said it, ladies--who's next?"

  A quiet voice at his elbow answered almost plaintively: "If you willtake your paw off those yellow boys I'll bury them twice."

  At the sound of that drawling voice Texas sprang to his feet, whirled,and seeing Carney, struck at him viciously. Carney simply bent his lithebody, and the next instant Iron Jaw had Texas by the throat, shaking himlike a rat.

  "You damn locoed fool!" he swore; "what d'you mean?--what d'you mean?"each query being emphasized by a vigorous shake.

  "He simply means," explained Carney, "that he's a cheap bluffer--a windgambler. When he's called he quits. That's just what I thought."

  "Give him a chance, Blake," Death-on-the-trail interposed; "let go!"

  Iron Jaw pressed Texas back into his chair, saying:

  "You've got too much booze. If you want to bet on your horse sit thereand cut out this Injun stuff." Snaky Dick had jumped to his feet,startled by the fact that Carney was about to break in on his preserve.Now he said: "If Texas is pinin' for a race Clatawa is waitin'--so ishis backin'."

  Carney turned his gray eyes on the speaker: "There's a rule in thiscountry, Snaky, that when two men have got a discussion on, others keepout. I've undertaken to call this jack rabbit's bluff, and he makesgood, or takes his noisy organ away to play it outside of Walla Walla."

  Texas Sam had received a thumb in the rib from Iron Jaw that meant, "Goahead," so he said, surlily: "There's my money on the table. Anybo
dy cancome in--the game's wide open."

  "That being so," Carney drawled, "there's a little buckskin horse tiedto the post outside, that's carried me for three years around this landof delight, and he looks good to me."

  He unslung from his waist a leather roll, and dropped its snake-likebody across the Texas coin, saying:

  "There's two thousand in twenties, and if this cheap-singing person seesthe raise, it goes for a race at a mile-and-a-quarter between the littlebuckskin outside and this cow-hocked mule he sings about."

  "I want to see this damn buckskin," Texas objected.

  "You don't need to worry," Iron Jaw commented; "the horse is pretty nighas well known as Bulldog."

  But Texas, having been born in a very nest of iniquity, having beenstable boy, tout, half-mile-track ringer, and runner for a wire-tappingbunch, was naturally suspicious.

  "I don't match against an unknown," he objected; "let me lamp thisFlyin' Dutchman of the Plains; it may be Salvator for all I know."

  "Let him get out the door," Carney sneered; "it will be good-bye--we'llnever see him again."

  "And if we don't," Snaky Dick interposed, "I'll cover your money,Carney."

  Bulldog swung the gray eyes, and levelled them at the red-and-yellowstreaked beads that did seeing duty in Snaky's face:

  "You ever hear about the gent who was kicked out of Paradise and told togo scoot along on his belly for butting in?" Then he followed the littlecrowd at Texas Sam's heels.

  In the yellow glare of the Del Monte lights the buckskin looked verylittle like a race horse. He stood about fifteen and a quarter hands,looking not much more than a pony, as, half asleep, he had relaxed hisbody; the lop ears hanging almost at right angles to his lean bony headsuggested humor more than speed. He stood "over" on his front legs, ahabit contracted when he favoured the weak knees. As he was a geldinghis neck was thin, so far removed from a crest that it was almostewe-like; his tremendous width of rump caused the hip bones to project,suggesting an archaic design of equine structure. The direct lamplightthrew cavernous shadows all over his lean form.

  Texas Sam shot one rapid look of appraisement over the sleepy littlehorse; then he laughed.

  "Pinch me, Iron Jaw!" he cried; "am I ridin' on the tail board of anoverland bus seein' things in the desert, and hearin' wings?"

  He pointed a forefinger at the buckskin. "Is that the lopin' jack-rabbitthat runs for your money?" he queried of Carney.

  "That horse's name is Pat," Bulldog answered quietly, "and we've beenpals so long that when any yapping coyote snaps at him I most naturallykick the brute out of the way. But that's the horse, Buckskin Pat,that my money says can outrun, for a mile-and-a-quarter, the horse youdescribe as a cow-hocked cow-pony, the same being, I take it, the horseyou scooted away on when I palmed you on the mouth this morning."

  Texas Sam was naturally of a vicious temper, and this allusion causedhim to flare up again, as Carney meant it to. But Iron Jaw whirled himaround, saying:

  "Cut out the man end of it--let's get down to cases. We ain't had a live'hoss race for so long that I most forget what it looks like. If you twomean business come inside and put up your bets, gentlemen."

  Iron Jaw abrogated to himself the duty of Master of Ceremonies. Firsthe set his croupier to work counting the gold of Texas Sam and BulldogCarney. There were an even hundred twenty-dollar gold pieces in the beltCarney had thrown on the table.

  "You're shy on the raise," Iron Jaw remarked, winking at Texas.

  "I'll see his raise," the latter growled. "You've got more'n that ofmine in your safe, Iron Jaw, so stack 'em up for me till they're level.I might as well win somethin' worth while--there won't be no fun in therace. That jack--that buckskin,"--he checked himself--"won't make me gofast enough to know I'm in the saddle."

  "You let me in that and I'll furnish the speed," Snaky Dick could notresist the temptation to clutch at the money he saw slipping away fromhim. "Make it a three-cornered sweep, Mr. Carney," he pleaded; "I'llante."

  "It would be some race," Iron Jaw encouraged; "some race, boys. I'veseen the little buckskin amble. I don't know nothin' about this Texasperson's caravan, but Clatawa, for a sauce bottle that holds both warmand cold blood, ain't so slow--he ain't so slow, gents."

  The idea caught on; everybody in the saloon rose to the occasion. Yellsof, "Make it a sweep! Let Clatawa in! Wake up old Walla Walla withsomething worth while!" came from many throats.

  Bulldog seemed to debate the matter, a smile twitching his drabmustache.

  "I've said it," Texas cried; "she's wide open. Anybody that's got a peteagle he thinks can fly faster'n my cow-pony can run, can enter him.There ain't no one barred, and the limit's up where the pines point to."

  Snaky Dick had edged around the table till he stood close besideBulldog, where he whispered: "Let me in, Carney; I've been layin' forthis flannel-mouth. I don't want to see him get away with Walla Wallamoney. You save your stake with me, if I'm in."

  Carney pushed the little wizzen-face speaker away, saying:

  "Any kind of a talking bird can swing in on a winning if he's got acopper-riveted, cinch bet. But sport, as I understand it, gentlemen,consists in providing excitement, taking on long chances."

  "That's Bulldog talkin'," somebody interrupted; and they all cheered.

  "That being acknowledged," Carney resumed, "I feel like stealing candyfrom a blind kid when I crowd in on this Texas person. A yellow manwouldn't know how to own a real horse; that money on the table is, soto speak, mine now; but as Snaky Dick is panting to make it a real race,purely out of a kindly feeling for Walla Walla sports, I'm going to lethim draw cards. Clatawa is welcome."

  "The drinks is on the house when I hear a wolf howl like that!" SnaggleTooth yelled. "Crowd up, gentlemen--the drinks is on the house! OldWalla Walla is goin' to sit up and take notice; Bulldog is some livewire."

  Chairs were thrust back; men crowded the bar; liquors were tossed off.Sheriff Teddy the Leaper, who had come in, felt his arm touched byCarney, and inclining his head to a gentle pull at his coat-sleeve, heheard the latter whisper, "Stake holder for my sake." That was all.

  Then the crowd swarmed back to the table where the croupier had remainedbeside the mound of gold.

  "You give Jim, there, a receipt for a thousand, and he'll pass it out,"Iron Jaw told Texas.

  Jim the croupier took from the safe behind him rolls of twenty-dollargold pieces and stood them up in Texas's pile. He removed a few coins,saying, "The pot is right, gentlemen; two thousand apiece."

  "Hold on," Snaky Dick cried; "it ain't called yet--I draw cards."

  "Not till you see the bet and the raise," Carney objected. "Nobodywhispers his way into this game; it's for blood."

  "Give me a cheque book, Snaggle Tooth," Snaky pleaded.

  "Flimsies don't go," Carney objected.

  "Nothin' but the coin weighs in agin me," Texas agreed; "put up thedough-boys or keep out."

  Snaky was in despair. Here was just the softest spot in all the world,and without the cash he couldn't get in.

  "Will you cash my cheque?" he asked Iron Jaw.

  "If Baker'll O.K. it I figger you must have the stuff in his bank--it'llbe good enough for me," Iron Jaw replied.

  There was a little parley between Snaky Dick, his associates, and Baker,who was a private banker. The cheque was made out, endorsed, and cashedfrom the gambling funds, Iron Jaw being a partner of Snaggle Tooth's inthis commercial enterprise.

  When the pot was complete, six thousand on the table, Texas said:

  "We've got to have a stakeholder; put the money in Blake's hands--doesthat go?"

  Snaky Dick coughed, and hesitated. He had no suspicion that Iron Jaw hadany interest with Texas Sam, but knowing the man as he did, he felt surethat before the race was run Iron Jaw and Snaggle Tooth would be in thegame up to the eyes.

  The drawling voice of Carney broke the little hush that followed thisrequest.

  "You're from the outside, Texas; you know all about your own horse,and that
lets you out. The selecting of a stakeholder, and such, mostproperly belongs to Walla Walla, that is to say, such of us interestedas more or less live here. The Sheriff of Shoshone, who is present, ifhe'll oblige, is the man that holds my money, and yours, too, unless youwant to crawfish. Does that suit you, Snaky?"

  "It does," the latter answered cheerfully, for, fully believing thatClatawa was going to show a clean pair of heels to the other horses, hewanted the money where he could get it without gun-play.

  "That's settled, then," Carney said blithely, ignoring Texas completely.He turned to Teddy the Leaper: "Will you oblige, Sheriff?"

  The Sheriff was agreeable, saying that as soon as they had completeddetails they would take the money over to Baker's bank and lock it upin the safe, Baker promising to take charge of it, even if it were atnight.

  "Just repeat the conditions of the match," the Sheriff said, and he drewfrom his pocket a note book and pencil.

  Carney seized the opportunity to say:

  "A three-cornered race between the buckskin gelding Pat, the blackgelding Horned Toad, and the bay horse Clatawa at one mile and aquarter. The stake, two thousand dollars a corner; winner take all. Tobe run one week from to-day."

  "Is that right, gentlemen?" the Sheriff asked; "all agreed?"

  "Owners up--this is a gentleman's race," Texas snapped.

  "Satisfactory?" the Sheriff asked, his eyes on Carney.

  The latter nodded; and Iron Jaw winked at Snaggle Tooth.

  Snaky Dick could scarce credit his ears; surely the gods were lookingwith favor upon his fortunes; the other riders would be giving him manypounds in this self-accepted handicap.

  At Sheriff Teddy's suggestion the gold was carried over to Baker's bank,a stone building almost opposite the Del Monte; the bag containing itwas sealed and placed in a big safe, Baker giving the Sheriff a receiptfor six thousand dollars.

  Then they went back to the Del Monte for target practise at the bottle,each man implicated buying ammunition.

  At this time Carney had taken the buckskin to his stable, going back tothe saloon.

  Snaggle Tooth made a short patriotic speech, the burden of which wasthat the saloon was full of men of eager habit who had not had a chanceto sit into the game, and to ameliorate the condition of these mournfulmavericks he would sell pools on the race, for the mere honorarium offive per cent.

  Fever was in the men's blood; if he had suggested twenty per cent itwould have gone.

  Snaggle Tooth took up his position behind a faro table and called out:

  "The pool is open, with Clatawa, Horned Toad, and Pat in the box. Whatam I bid for first choice?"

  "Twenty dollars," a voice cried.

  "Thirty," another said.

  "Forty."

  "Fifty."

  A dry rasp that suggested an alkaline throat squeaked: "A hundred. Isthis a horse race, or are we dribblin' into the plate at the synagogue?"

  "Sold!" Snaggle Tooth yapped, knowing well that excitement begat quickaction. "Which cayuse do you favor, plunger?"

  "The range horse, Clatawa."

  The croupier at Snaggle Tooth's elbow took the bidder's livetwenty-dollar gold pieces and passed him a slip with Clatawa's name onit.

  "A hundred dollars in the box and second choice for sale," Snaggle Toothdrawled, his prominent fang gleaming in the lamp light as he mouthed thewords.

  Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty was bid like the quick popping of amachine gun; at seventy-five the bids hung fire, and the auctioneer,thumping the table with his bony fist, snapped, "Sold! Name your jackrabbit."

  "Horned Toad!" came from the bidder of the seventy-five.

  "A hundred and seventy-five in the box," Snaggle Tooth droned, "and thebuckskin for sale. What about it, you pikers--what about it?"

  There seemed to be nothing about it, unless silence was something. Thehush seemed to dampen the gambling spirit.

  "What!" yelped Snaggle Tooth; "two thousand golden bucks staked on thehorse now, and no tinhorn with sand enough in his gizzard to open histrap. This is a race, not a funeral--who's dead? Bulldog, you laid evenmoney; here's a hundred and seventy-five goin' a-beggin'. Ain't you gota chance?"

  "Ten dollars!" Carney bid as if driven into it.

  "Ten dollars, ten dollars bid for the buckskin; a hundred andseventy-five in the box, and ten dollars bid for the buckskin. Sold!"

  The first pool was followed by others, one after another: the roulettetable, the keno game, and faro were in the discard--their tables weredeserted.

  It soon became evident that Clatawa was a hot favorite; the public'smoney was all for the Walla Walla champion.

  Noting this, the Horned Toad trio hung back, bidding less. Clatawawas selling for a hundred, Horned Toad about fifty, and the buckskinsometimes knocked down at ten to Carney, or sometimes bid up to twentyby someone tempted by the odds.

  At last Carney slipped quietly away, having bought at least twentypools that stood him between three and four thousand to a matter of twohundred.

  In the morning he rode the buckskin out to Molly's cottage and turnedhim over to Billy.

  The boy's voice trembled with delight when he was told of what had takenplace.

  "Gee! now I will get well," he said; "I'll beat the bug out now--I'llhave heart. You see, Mr. Carney, I got set down in California a yearago. It wasn't my fault; I was ridin' for Timberleg Harley, and he givethe horse a bucket of water before the race; he didn't want to win--waslettin' the horse run for Sweeney, layin' for a big price later on.He had an interest in a book, and they took liberties with the horse'sodds--he was favorite. He didn't dare tell me anything about it, thehound. When I found the horse couldn't raise a gallop, hangin' in myhands like a sea lion, I didn't ride him out, thinkin' he'd broke down.They had me up in the Judges' Stand, and sent for the books. It lookedbad. Timberleg got off by swearin' I'd pulled the horse to let the otherone win; swore that I stood in with the book that overlaid him. I wasgive the gate, and it just broke my heart. I was weak from wastin'anyway. And you can't beat the bug out if your heart's soft; the bug'llwin--it's a hundred-to-one on him. First thing I'm goin' to give Wastera ball to clean him out, give him a bran mash, too. He must be like acurrycomb inside, grass and hay and everything here is full of this damncactus. A week ain't much to ready up a horse for a race, but he ain'tgot no fat to work off, and he knows the game. In a week he'll be asspry as a kitten. I'll just play with him. I'll bunk with him, too. IfSlimy Red got wise to anything he'd slip him a twig of locoe, or put asponge up his nose. Do you know what that thief did once, Mr. Carney? Hewas a moonlighter; he sneaked the favorite for a race that was to berun next day out of his stall at night and galloped him four miles withabout a hundred and sixty in the saddle. That settled the favorite; herun his race same's if he was pullin' a hearse.

  "That's a good idea, Billy. There's half-a-dozen Slimy Reds in WallaWalla: it's a good idea, only I'll do the sleeping with the buckskin.I'd be lonesome away from him."

  The boy objected, but Carney was firm.

  Billy was not only a good rider, but he was a man of much brains. Therewas little of the art of training that he did not know, for his fatherhad been a trainer before him--he had been brought up in a stable.

  Fortunately the buckskin's working life had left little to be desired inthe way of conditioning; it was just that the sinews and muscles mighthave become case-hardened, more the muscles of endurance than activity.

  But then the race was over a distance, a mile-and-a-quarter, where theendurance of the thoroughbred would tell over Clatawa. Indeed, full ofthe contempt which a racing man has for a cold-blooded horse, Billy didnot consider Clatawa in the race at all.

  "That part of it is just found money," he assured Carney. "Clatawa willgo off with a burst of speed like those Texas half-milers, and he'llcommence to die at the mile; he hasn't a chance."

  As to Ding Dong it was simply a question of whether the black hadimproved and Waster gone back enough, through being thrown out oftraining, to bring the two
together. Anywhere near alike in conditionWaster was a fourteen-pound better horse than Ding Dong. It might bethat now, his legs sounder than they had ever been when he was racing,Waster might run the best mile-and-a-quarter of his life.

  Of course this might not be possible in a three-quarter sprint, for, atthat terrific rate of going, running it from end to end at top speed,a certain nervous or muscular system would be called upon that hadpractically become atrophied through the more leisure ways of the trailwork.

  The little man pondered over these many things just as a man of commercemight mentally canvas great markets, conveying his point of view toCarney generally. He would map out the race as they sat together in theevening.

  "Of course Snaky Dick will shoot out from the crack of the pistol, andtry to open up a gap that'll break our hearts. He won't dare topull Clatawa in behind; a cold-blooded horse's got the heart of achicken--he'd quit. Slimy'll carry Ding Dong along at a rate he knowswill leave him enough for a strong run home; but he'll think that he'sonly got Clatawa to beat and he'll pull out of his pace--he'll keepwithin strikin' distance of Clatawa. I'll let them go on. I know 'bouthow fast Waster can run that mile-and-a-quarter from end to end. Don'tyou worry if you see me ten lengths out of it at the mile. Waster wonall his races comin' through his horses from behind--'cause he's game.When Caltawa cracks, and I'm not up, Slimy'll stop ridin' he'll lethis horse down thinkin' he's won. You'll see, Mr. Carney. If aquarter-of-a-mile from the finish post I'm within three lengths of DingDong and not drivin' him you can take all the money in sight. I'll tellyou somethin' else, Mr. Carney; if I'm up with Ding Dong, and Slimy Redthinks I've got him, he'll try a foul."

  "Glad you mentioned it, little man," Carney remarked drily.

  The buckskin was given a long steady gallop the day after he hadreceived the ball of physic; then for three days he was given shortsprinting runs and a little practise at breaking from the gun. Two daysbefore the race he was given a mile and a quarter at a little underfull speed; rated as though he were in a race, the last half a toppinggallop. He showed little distress, and cleaned up his oats an hour laterafter he had been cooled out. Billy was in an ecstasy of happy content.

  Nobody who was a judge of a horse's pace had seen Waster gallop histrial over the full course, for the boy had arranged it cleverly.Texas Sam and Snaky Dick both worked their horses in the morning, andsometimes gave them a slow gallop in the evening. Billy knew that at thefirst peep of day some of the Clatawa people would be on the track,so he waited that morning until everybody had gone home to breakfast,thinking all the gallops were over; then he slipped on to the course andcovered the mile-and-a-quarter without being seen.

  The course was a straightaway, one hundred feet wide, lying outside ofthe town on the open plain, and running parallel to the one long street.The finish post was opposite the heart of the town.

  The week was one long betting carnival; one heard nothing but bettingjargon. It was horse morning, noon, and night.

  Carney had acquired another riding horse, and the Horned Toad caballaughed cynically at his seriousness. Iron Jaw could not understand it,for Bulldog had a reputation for cleverness; but here he was acting likea tenderfoot. Once or twice a suspicion flashed across his mind thatperhaps Bulldog had discovered something, and meant to call them afterthey had won the race. But there was Clatawa; there was nothing to coverup in his case, and surely Carney didn't think he could beat the baywith his buckskin. Besides they weren't racing under Jockey Club rules.They hadn't guaranteed anything; Carney had matched his horse againstthe black, and there he was; names didn't count--the horse was thething.

  Molly had heard about the match and had grown suspicious over Billy'sactive participation, fearing it might bring on a hemorrhage if he rodea punishing race. When she taxed Billy with this he pleaded so hard fora chance to help out, assuring Molly that Waster would run his own race,and would need little help from him, that she yielded. When she talkedto Bulldog about it he told her he was going to give the whole stake toBilly, the four thousand, if he won it.

  And then came the day of the great match. From the time the first goldenshafts of sunlight had streamed over the Bitter Root Mountains, pickingout the forms of Walla Walla's structures, that looked so like a mightypack of wolves sleeping in the plain, till well on into the afternoon,the border town had been in a ferment. What mattered whether therewas gold in the Coeur d'Alene or not; whether the Nez Perces were goodPresbyterians under the leadership, physically, of Chief Joseph, andspiritually, Missionary Mackay, was of no moment. A man lay cold indeath, a plug of lead somewhere in his chest, the result of a gamblingrow, but the morrow would be soon enough to investigate; to-day was_the_ day--the day of the race; minor business was suspended.

  It made men thirsty this hot, parching anticipation; women had a desirefor finery. Doors stood open, for the dwellers could not sit, butprowled in and out, watching the slow, loitering clock hands for fouro'clock.

  One phrase was on everybody's lips: "I'll take that bet."

  Numerically the followers of Clatawa were in the majority; but there wasa weight of metal behind Horned Toad that steadied the market; it camefrom a mysterious source. Texas Sam had been played for a blatantfool; nobody had seen Horned Toad show a performance that would warrantbacking.

  The little buckskin was looked upon as a sacrifice to his owner'swell-known determination, his wild gambling spirit, that once roused,could not be bluffed. They pitied Carney because they liked him; butwhat was the use of stringing with a man who held the weakest hand?And yet when somebody, growing rash, offered ten to one against thebuckskin, a man, quite as calm and serene as Bulldog Carney himself,looking like a placer miner who worked a rocker on some bend of theColumbia, would say, diffidently, "I'll take that bet." And he wouldmake good--one yellow eagle or fifty. It was almost ominous, the quietseriousness of this man who said his name was Oregon, just Oregon.

  "Talk of gamblers," Iron Jaw said with a spluttering laugh, and hepointed to the street where little knots of people stood, close packedagainst some two, who, money in hand, were backing their faith. Then thefatty laugh chilled into a coldblooded sneer:

  "Snaggle Tooth, we'll learn these tin-horns somethin'; tomorrow yoursafe won't be big enough to hold it. But, say, don't let that Texasbrayin' ass have no more booze."

  "If you ask me, Blake, I think he's yeller. He's plumb babyfied nowbecause of Carney--sober he'd quit."

  "Carney won't turn a hair when we win."

  "Course he won't. But you can't get that into Texas's noodle with afunnel--he's hoodooed; wants me to plant a couple of gun men at thefinish for fear Bulldog'll grab him."

  "Look here, Snaggle, that coyote--hell! I know the breed of themoutlaws, they'd rather win a race crooked than by their horse gallopin'in front--he just can't trust himself; he's afraid he'll foul the otherswhen the chance flashes on him. You just tell him that we can't standto kiss twenty thousand good-bye because of any Injun trick; the Sheriffwouldn't stand for it for a minute; he'd turn the money over to thehorse that he thought ought to get it, quick as a wolf'd grab a calf bythe throat."

  That was the atmosphere on that sweet-breathed August day in the archaictown of Walla Walla.

  It was a perfectly conceived race; three men in it and each oneconfident that he held a royal flush; each one certain that, bar crookedwork, he could win.

  The sporting Commandant of the U. S. Cavalry troop had been appointedjudge of the finish at the Sheriff's suggestion; and another officer wasto fire the starting gun.

  It was a springy turf course; just the going to suit Waster, whose legshad been dicky. On a hard course, built up of clay and sand, guiltlessof turf, the fierce hammering of the hoofs might even yet heat up hisjoints, though they looked sound; his clutching hoofs might cup outunrooted earth and bow a tendon.

  An hour before race time people had flocked out to the goal where wouldbe settled the ownership of thousands of dollars by the gallant steedthat first caught the judge's eye as he flashed past the po
st. EvenLieutenant Governor Moore was there; that magnificent Nez Perces, ChiefJoseph, sat his half-blooded horse a six-foot-three bronze Apollo, everyinch a king in his beaded buckskins and his eagle feathers. The picturewas Homeric, grand; and behind the canvas was the subtle duplicity ofgold worshipers.

  At half-past three a hush fell over the chattering, betting,vociferating throng, as the judge, a tall soldierly figure of a man,called:

  "Bring out the horses for this race: it is time to go to the post!"

  Clatawa was the first to push from behind the throng to the coursewhere the judge stood. He was a beautiful, high-spirited bay with blackpoints, and a broad line of white, starting from a star in his forehead,ran down his somewhat Roman nose. Two men led him, one on either side,and a blanket covered his form.

  Then Horned Toad was led forward by a stable man; beneath a looseblanket showed the outlines of a small saddle. The horse walked withthe unconcerned step of one accustomed to crowds, and noise, and blare.Beside him strode Texas Sam, a long coat draping his form.

  Behind Horned Toad came the buckskin, at his heels Bulldog Carney, andbeside Carney a figure that might have been an eager boy out for theholiday. The buckskin walked with the same indifference Horned Toad hadshown.

  As he was brought to a stand he lifted his long lean neck, threw up theflopped ears, spread his nostrils, and with big bright eyes gazed fardown the track, so like a huge ribbon laid out on the plain, as ifwondering where was the circular course he loved so well. He knew itwas a race--that he was going to battle with those of his own kind. Thetight cinching of the little saddle on his back, the bandages on hisshins, the sponging out of his mouth, the little sprinting gallops hehad had--all these touches had brought back to his memory the game hisrich warm, thoroughbred blood loved. His very tail was arched with thethrill of it.

  "Mount your horses; it is time to go to the post!" Judge Cummingscalled, watch in hand.

  The blanket was swept from Clatawa's back, showing nothing but a wide,padded surcingle, with a little pocket either side for his rider's feet.And Snaky Dick, dropping his coat, stood almost as scantily attired; apair of buckskin trunks being the only garment that marked his brown,monkeylike form.

  Horned Toad carried a racing saddle, and from a shaffle bit the reinsran through the steel rings of a martingale.

  At this Carney smiled, and more than one in the crowd wondered at thisget-up for a supposed cow-pony.

  Then when Texas threw his long coat to a stable man, and stood up aslim lath of a man, clad in light racing boots, thin white tight-fittingracing breeches and a loose silk jacket, people stared again. It was asif, by necromancy, he'd suddenly wasted from off his bones forty poundsof flesh.

  But there was still further magic waiting the curious throng, for nowthe buckskin, stripped of his blanket, showed atop his well-ribbed backa tiny matter of pigskin that looked like a huge postage stamp. And thelittle figure of a man, one foot in Carney's hand, was lifted lightly tothe saddle, where he sat in attire the duplicate of Texas Sam's.

  With a bellow of rage Iron Jaw pushed forward, crying:

  "Hold, there! What th' hell are you doin' on that horse, you damn runt?Get down!"

  He reached a huge paw to the rider's thigh, as though he would yank himout of the saddle.

  His fingers had scarce touched the boy's leg when his hands were thrownup in the air, and he reeled back from a scimitar-like cut on hiswind-pipe from the flat open hand of Carney, and choking, sputtering anoath of raging astonishment, he found himself looking into the bore of agun, and heard a voice that almost hissed in its constrained passion:

  "You coarse butcher! You touch that boy and you'll wake up in hell. Nowstand back and make to Judge Cummings any complaint you have."

  Snaggle Tooth and Death-on-the-trail had pushed to Iron Jaw's side,their hands on their guns, and Carney, full of a passion rare with him,turned on them:

  "Draw, if you want that, or lift your hands, damn quick!"

  Surlily they dropped their half-drawn guns back into their pig-skinpockets. And Oregon, who had thrust forward, drew close to the two andsaid something in a low voice that brought a bitter look of hatred intothe face of Snaggle Tooth.

  But Oregon looked him in the eye and said audibly: "That's the last callto chuck--don't forget."

  Iron Jaw was now appealing to the judge:

  "This match was for owners up."

  He beckoned forward the stakeholder:

  "Ain't that so, Sheriff--owners up?"

  "That was the agreement," Teddy sustained. "Wasn't that the bargain,Carney?" Iron Jaw asked, turning on Bulldog.

  "It was."

  "Then what th' hell 're you doin' afoot--and that monkey up?" And IronJaw jerked a thumb viciously over his shoulder at the little man onWaster.

  Carney's head lifted, and the bony contour of his lower jaw thrust outlike the ram of a destroyer: "Mr. Blake," he said quietly, "don't useany foul words when you speak to me--we're not good enough pals forthat; if you do I'll ram those crooked teeth of yours down your throat.Secondly, that's the owner of the buckskin sitting on his back. But theowner of Horned Toad is sitting in a chair down in Portland, a man namedReilly, and that thing on Ding Dong's back is Slimy Red, a man who hasbeen warned off every track in the West. He doesn't own a hair in thehorse's tail."

  Iron Jaw's face paled with a sudden compelling thought that Carney,knowing all this, and still betting his money, held cards to beat him.

  The judge now asked: "Do you object to the rider of Horned Toad, Mr.Carney?"

  "No, sir--let him ride. I'm not trying to win their money on atechnicality, but on a horse."

  "Well, the agreement was owners up, you admit?"

  "I do," Carney answered.

  "Did this boy on the buckskin's back own him when the match was made?"

  "He did."

  "Is there any proof of the transaction, the sale?" Major Cummings asked.

  "Let me have that envelope I asked you to keep," Carney said, addressingthe sheriff.

  When Teddy drew from a pocket the sealed envelope, Carney tore it open,and passed to the judge the bill of sale to MacKay of the buckskin. Itsdate showed that it had been executed the day the match was made, andTeddy, when questioned, said he had received it on that date, and beforethe match was made.

  "It was a plant," Iron Jaw objected; "that proves it. Why did he put itin the sheriff's hands--why didn't the boy keep it--it was his?"

  "Because I had a hunch I was going up against a bunch of crooks," Carneyanswered suavely; "crooks who played win, tie, or wrangle, and knew theywould claim the date was forged when they were beat at their own game.And there was another reason."

  Carney drew a second paper from the envelope, and passed it to theJudge. It was a brief note stating that if anything happened Carney hismoney, if the buckskin won, was to be turned over to the owner, BillyMacKay.

  When the judge lifted his eyes Carney said, with an apologetic littlesmile: "You see, the boy's got the bug, and he's up against it. MollyBurdan is keeping both him and his sister, and she can't afford it."

  Major Cummings coughed; and there was a little husky rasp in his voiceas he said, quietly:

  "The objection to the rider of the buckskin horse is disallowed. Thispaper proves he is the legitimate owner and entitled to ride. Go down tothe post."

  A yell of delight went up from many throats. The men of Walla Walla,and the riders of the plains who had trooped in, were sports; theygrasped the idea that the gambling clique had been caught at their owngame; that the intrepid Bulldog had put one over on them. Besides,now they could see that the race was for blood. The heavy betting hadstarted more than one whisper that perhaps it was a bluff; some of theClatawa people believing in the invincibility of their horse, had hintedthat perhaps there was a job on for the two other horses to foul Clatawaand one of them go on and win; though few would admit that Carney wouldbe party to cold-decking the public.

  But accident had thrown the cards all on the table; it w
as to be a raceto the finish, and the stakes represented real money.

  Before they could start quite openly Carney stepped close to the riderof Horned Toad, and said, in even tones:

  "Slimy Red, if you pull any dirty work I'll be here at the finishwaiting for you. If you can win, win; but ride straight, or you'll neverride again."

  "I'll be hangin' round the finish post, too," Oregon mutteredabstractedly, but both Iron Jaw and Snaggle Tooth could hear him.

  The three horses passed down the course, Clatawa sidling like a boatin a choppy sea, champing at his bit irritably, flecks of white frothsnapping from his lips, and his tail twitching and swishing, indicatinghis excitable temperament; Horned Toad and Waster walked with thatspringy lift to the pasterns that indicated the perfection of breeding.Indians and cowboys raced up and down the plain, either side of thecourse, on their ponies, bandying words in a very ecstasy of delight.Old Walla Walla had come into its own; the greatest sport on earth wason in all its glory.

  After a time the three horses were seen to turn far down the course;they criss-crossed, and wove in and out a few times as they werebeing placed by the starter. The excitable Clatawa was giving trouble;sometimes he reared straight up; then, with a few bucking jumps, foughtfor his head. But the sinewy Snaky Dick was always his master.

  Atop the little buckskin the boy was scarce discernible at thatdistance, as he sat low crouched over his horse's wither. Almost like anequine statue stood Waster, so still, so sleepy-like, that those who hadtaken long odds about him felt a depression.

  Horned Toad was scarcely still for an instant; his wary rider, Texas,was keeping him on his toes--not letting him chill out; but, like thebuckskin's jockey, his eye was always on the man with the gun. They wereold hands at the game, both of them; they paid little attention to theantics of Clatawa--the starter was the whole works.

  Clatawa had broken away to be pulled up in thirty yards. Now, as he cameback, his wily rider wheeled him suddenly short of the starting line,and the thing that he had cunningly planned came off. The starter,finger on trigger, was mentally pulled out of himself by this; hisfinger gripped spasmodically; those at the finish post saw a puff ofsmoke, and a white-nosed horse, well out in front, off to a flyingstart.

  The backers of Clatawa yelled in delight.

  "Good old Snaky Dick!" some one cried.

  "Clatawa beat the gun!" another roared.

  "They'll never catch him!--never catch him! He'll win off by himself!"was droned.

  Behind, seemingly together, half the width of the track separating them,galloped the black and the buckskin. It looked as if Waster raced alone,as if he had lost his rider, so low along his wither and neck lay theboy, his weight eased high from the short stirrups. A hand on eitherside of the lean neck, he seemed a part of his mount. He was saying,"Ste-a-dy boy! stead-d-dy boy! stead-d-dy boy!" a soft, low monotonoussing-song through his clinched teeth, his crouch discounting thehandicap of a strong wind that was blowing down the track.

  He could feel the piece of smooth-moving machinery under him flatten outin a long rhythmic stride, and his heart sang, for he knew it was theold Waster he had ridden to victory more than once; that same powerfulstride that ate up the course with little friction. He was rating hishorse. "Clatawa will come back," he kept thinking: "Clatawa will comeback!"

  He himself, who had ridden hundreds of races, and working gallops andtrials beyond count, knew that the chestnut was rating along of his ownknowledge at a pace that would cover the mile-and-a-quar-ter in under2.12. Methodically he was running his race. Clatawa was sprinting; hehad cut out at a gait that would carry him a mile, if he could keep itup, close to 1.40. Too fast, for the track was slow, being turf.

  He watched Homed Toad; that was what he had to beat, he knew.

  Texas had reasoned somewhat along the same lines; but his brain was moreflighty. As Clatawa opened a gap of a dozen lengths, running like a wildhorse, Texas grew anxious; he shook up his mount and increased his pace.

  The buckskin reached into his bridle at this, as though he coaxed fora little more speed, but the boy called, "Steady, lad, steady!" and letHorned Toad creep away a length, two lengths; and always in front thewhite-faced horse, Clatawa, was galloping on and on with a highdeer-like lope that was impressive.

  At the finish post people were acclaiming the name of Clatawa. Theycould see the little buckskin trailing fifteen lengths behind, andHorned Toad was between the two.

  Carney watched the race stoically. It was being run just as Billy hadforecasted; there was nothing in this to shake his faith.

  Somebody cried out: "Buckskin's out of it! I'll lay a thousand to ahundred against him."

  "I'll take it," Carney declared.

  "I'll lay the same," Snaggle Tooth yelled.

  "You're on," came from Carney.

  And even as they bet the buckskin had lost a length.

  Half-a-mile had been covered by the horses; three-quarters; and now itseemed to the watchers that the black was creeping up on Clatawa, thelatter's rider, who had been almost invisible, riding Indian fashionlying along the back of his horse, was now in view; his shoulders wereup. Surely a quirt had switched the air once.

  Yes, the Toad was creeping up--his rider was making his run; they couldsee Texas's arms sway as he shook up his mount.

  Why was the boy on the little buckskin riding like one asleep? Had helost his whip--had he given up all idea of winning?

  They were at the mile: but a short quarter away.

  A moan went up from many throats, mixed with hoarse curses, for Clatawawas plainly in trouble; he was floundering; the monkey man on his backwas playing the quirt against his ribs, the gyrations checking the horseinstead of helping him.

  And the Toad, galloping true and straight, was but a length behind.

  Watching this battle, almost in hushed silence, gasping in the smotheredtenseness, the throng went mentally blind to the little buckskin. Nowsomebody cried:

  "God! look at the other one comin'! Look at him--lo-ook at him, men!"

  His voice ran up the scale to a shrill scream. Other eyes lengthenedtheir vision, and their owners gasped.

  Clatawa seemed to be running backwards, so fast the little buckskin racedby him as he dropped out of it, beaten.

  And Horned Toad was but three lengths in front now. Three lengths?It was two--it was one. Now the buckskin's nose rose and fell on theblack's quarters; now the mouse-coloured muzzle was at his girth; nowtheir heads rose and fell together, as, stride for stride, they battledfor the lead: Texas driving his mount with whip and spur, cutting theflanks of his horse with cruel blows in a frantic endeavor to lift himhome a winner.

  How still the boy sat Waster; how well he must know that he had the racewon to nurse him like a babe. No swaying of the body to throw him outof stride; no flash of the whip to startle him--to break his heart; thebrave little horse was doing it all himself. And the boy, creature ofbrains, was wise enough to sit still.

  They could hear the pound of hoofs on the turf like the beat of twindrums; they could see the eager strife in the faces of the two brave,stout-hearted thoroughbreds: and then the buckskin's head noddingin front; his lean neck was clear of the black and he was gallopingstraight as an arrow.

  "The Toad is beat!" went up from a dozen throats. "The buckskinwins--the buckskin wins!" became a clamor.

  Pandemonium broke loose. It was stilled by a demoniac cry, a curse,from some strong-voiced man. The black had swerved full in on to thebuckskin; they saw Texas clutch at the rider. Curses; cries of "Foul!"rose; it was an angry roar like caged animals at war.

  Carney, watching, found his fingers rubbing the butt of his gun. Thebuckskin had been thrown out of his stride in the collision: he stumbled;his head shot down--almost to his knees he went: then he was gallopingagain, the two horses locked together.

  Fifty feet away from the finish post they were locked: twenty feet.

  The cries of the throng were hushed; they scarce breathed.

  Locked togethe
r they passed the post, the buckskin's neck in front.Their speed had been checked; in a dozen yards they were stopped,and the boy pitched headlong from the buckskin's back, one foot stilltangled in the martingale of Horned Toad.

  Men closed in frantically. A man--it was Oregon--twisted Carney's gunskyward crying: "Leave that coyote to the boys."

  He was right. In vain Iron Jaw and Death-on-the-trail sought tobattle back the tense-faced men who reached for Texas. Iron Jaw andDeath-on-the-trail were swallowed up in a seething mass of clamoringdevils. Gun play was out of the question: humans were like herringspacked in a barrel.

  Major Cummings, cool and quick-witted, had called shrilly "Troopers!"and a little cordon of men in cavalry uniform had Texas in the centre ofa guarding circle.

  Carney, on his knees beside the boy, was guarding the lad from the mad,trampling, fighting men; striking with the butt of his pistol. And thena woman's shrill voice rose clear above the tumult, crying:

  "Back, you cowards--you brutes: the boy is dying: give him room--givehim air!"

  Her bleached hair was down her back; her silk finery was torn like abattered flag; for she had fought her way through the crowd to the boy'sside.

  "Don't lift him--he's got a hemorrhage!" she shrilled, as Carney puthis arms beneath the little lad. "Drive the men back--give him air!" shecommanded; and turned Billy flat on his back, tearing from her shouldersa rich scarf to place beneath his head. The lad's lips, coated with redfroth, twitched in a weak smile; he reached out a thin hand, and Molly,sitting at his head, drew it into her lap.

  "Just lie still, Billy. You'll be all right, boy; just lie still; don'tspeak," she admonished.

  She could hear the lad's throat click, click, click at each breath, theominous tick tick, of "the bug's" work; and at each half-stifled coughthe red-tinged yeasty sputum bubbled up from the life well.

  The fighting clamor was dying down; shamefaced men were widening thecircle about the lad and Molly.

  The judge's voice was heard saying:

  "The buckskin won the race, gentlemen." And he added, strongcondemnation in his voice: "If Horned Toad had been first I would havedisqualified him: it was a deliberate foul."

  The cavalry men had got Texas away, mounted, and rushed him out to thebarracks for protection.

  "Get a stretcher, someone, please," Molly asked of the crowd. "Billywill be all right, but we must keep him flat on his back.

  "You'll be all right, Billy," she added, bending her head till her lipstouched the boy's forehead, and her mass of peroxided hair hid the hottears that fell from the blue eyes that many thought only capable ofcupidity and guile.