aced a hundred dollars. The terms of the
race were arranged and the money put in the hands of the foreman.

"Each man to ride his own caballo," suggested Hart slyly.

This brought a laugh. The idea of Ad Miller's two hundred and fifty
pounds in the seat of a jockey made for hilarity.

"I reckon George will have to ride the broomtail. We don't aim to break
its back," replied Miller genially.

His partner was a short man with a spare, wiry body. Few men trusted him
after a glance at the mutilated face. The thin, hard lips gave warning
that he had sold himself to evil. The low forehead, above which the hair
was plastered flat in an arc, advertised low mentality.

An hour later Buck Byington drew Sanders aside.

"Dave, you're a chuckle-haided rabbit. If ever I seen tinhorn sports them
two is such. They're collectin' a livin' off'n suckers. Didn't you sabe
that come-on stuff? Their pack-horse is a ringer. They tried him out
this evenin', but I noticed they ran under a blanket. Both of 'em are
crooked as a dog's hind laig."

"Maybeso," admitted the young man. "But Chiquito never went back on me
yet. These fellows may be overplayin' their hand, don't you reckon?"

"Not a chanct. That tumblebug Miller is one fishy proposition, and his
sidekick Doble--say, he's the kind of bird that shoots you in the stomach
while he's shakin' hands with you. They're about as warm-hearted as a
loan shark when he's turnin' on the screws--and about as impulsive. Me,
I aim to button up my pocket when them guys are around."

Dave returned to the fire. The two visitors were sitting side by side,
and the leaping flames set fantastic shadows of them moving. One of
these, rooted where Miller sat, was like a bloated spider watching its
victim. The other, dwarfed and prehensile, might in its uncanny
silhouette have been an imp of darkness from the nether regions.

Most of the riders had already rolled up in their blankets and fallen
asleep. To a reduced circle Miller was telling the story of how his
pack-horse won its name.

"... so I noticed he was actin' kinda funny and I seen four pin-pricks in
his nose. O' course I hunted for Mr. Rattler and killed him, then give
Bill a pint of whiskey. It ce'tainly paralyzed him proper. He got
salivated as a mule whacker on a spree. His nose swelled up till it was
big as a barrel--never did get down to normal again. Since which the ol'
plug has been Whiskey Bill."

This reminiscence did not greatly enter