was off for home.

Dave was halfway back before he was sure that the thud of Whiskey Bill's
hoofs was almost at his heels. He called on the cowpony for a last spurt.
The plucky little horse answered the call, gathered itself for the home
stretch, for a moment held its advantage. Again Bob Hart's yell drifted
to Sanders.

Then he knew that the bay was running side by side with Chiquito, was
slowly creeping to the front. The two horses raced down the stretch
together, Whiskey Bill half a length in the lead and gaining at every
stride. Daylight showed between them when they crossed the line. Chiquito
had been outrun by a speedier horse.

CHAPTER III

DAVE RIDES ON HIS SPURS

Hart came up to his friend grinning. "Well, you old horn-toad, we got no
kick comin'. Chiquito run a mighty pretty race. Only trouble was his
laigs wasn't long enough."

The owner of the pony nodded, a lump in his throat. He was not thinking
about his thirty-five dollars, but about the futile race into which he
had allowed his little beauty to be trapped. Dave would not be twenty-one
till coming grass, and it still hurt his boyish pride to think that his
favorite had been beaten.

Another lank range-rider drifted up. "Same here, Dave. I'll kiss my
twenty bucks good-bye cheerful. You 'n' the li'l hoss run the best race,
at that. Chiquito started like a bullet out of a gun, and say, boys! how
he did swing round on the turn."

"Much obliged, Steve. I reckon he sure done his best," said Sanders
gratefully.

The voice of George Doble cut in, openly and offensively jubilant. "Me,
I'd ruther show the way at the finish than at the start. You're more
liable to collect the mazuma. I'll tell you now that broomtail never
had a chance to beat Whiskey Bill."

"Yore hoss can run, seh," admitted Dave.

"I _know_ it, but you don't. He didn't have to take the kinks out of his
legs to beat that plug."

"You get our money," said Hart quietly. "Ain't that enough without
rubbin' it in?"

"Sure I get yore money--easy money, at that," boasted Doble. "Got any
more you want to put up on the circus bronc?"

Steve Russell voiced his sentiments curtly. "You make me good and tired,
Doble. There's only one thing I hate more'n a poor loser--and that's a
poor winner. As for putting my money on the pinto, I'll just say this:
I'll bet my li'l' pile he can beat yore bay twenty miles, a hundred
miles, or five hundred."

"Not any, thanks. Whiskey Bill is a race