ld Dust maverick was "pocketed!"

A breathless hush fell over the crowd in the grandstand after the first
mighty roar:

"They're off!"

Black devils of torture clutched the throat, the mind, the body of the
Ramblin' Kid. Streams of fire seemed to be flowing through his veins. He
couldn't see--he was blind. "What th'--what th'--hell!" he muttered over
and over. He was vaguely conscious of the thunder of hoofs around
him--under him. Dimly, black shadows were rushing along at his side. He
fought with all his will to master his faculties. Where was he? What was
it? Was it a--a--stampede? What? _Oh, yes, th' race--th'--th'--
sweepstakes--that--that was it_--Over and over the fleeting flashes of
consciousness kept throwing this one supreme idea on the mirror of his
mind!

Not a word was spoken by any of the party at the Clagstone "Six" as the
five fastest horses ever on the Eagle Butte track swept past the car
toward the first quarter-turn of the course.

Carolyn June's face was as white as marble. Her breast heaved and fell
as if it would burst. Dry-eyed, every nerve tense, she stared at the
straining racers. Unconsciously she gripped into hard knots of flesh and
bone, both hands, while she bit at her underlip until a red drop of
blood started from the gash made in the tender skin by her teeth.

"_Drunk_!" she thought, "_drunk!_ Beastly drunk--and throwing away the
greatest race ever run on a Texas track!"

Old Heck sat impassive as though carved from stone and said nothing.

Ophelia nervously chewed at the finger of her glove while her eyes
moistened with sympathy and pity.

Skinny, Chuck and Bert sat gloomily, moodily, on their bronchos and
watched Thunderbolt lead the quintette of running horses.

For the life of him Skinny could not keep from thinking of the five
hundred dollars he had bet with Sabota, on the race, and the number of
white shirts and purple ties he might have bought with the money!

Over in the track-field Parker, Charley and Pedro saw the start of the
race and each swore softly and silently to himself.

Sing Pete, alone of the Quarter Circle KT crowd, in the jam of the
grandstand, stretched his neck and followed with inscrutable eyes the
close-bunched racers. The start had puzzled him, yet he murmured
hopefully:

"Maybe all samee Lamblin' Kid he beatee hell out of 'em yet!"

The loyal Chinese cook had wagered the savings of a dozen years on the
speed of the Gold Dust maverick's nimble le