cation he can run too."

The temper of Sanders began to take an edge. He saw no reason why these
strangers should run on him, to use the phrase of the country. "I don't
claim my pinto's a racer, but he can travel."

"Hmp!" grunted Miller skeptically.

"I'm here to say he can," boasted the owner, stung by the manner of the
other.

"Don't look to me like no racer," Doble dissented. "Why, I'd be 'most
willin' to bet that pack-horse of ours, Whiskey Bill, can beat him."

Buck Byington snorted. "Pack-horse, eh?" The old puncher's brain was
alive with suspicions. On account of the lameness of his horse he had
returned to camp in the middle of the day and had discovered the two
newcomers trying out the speed of the pinto. He wondered now if this
precious pair of crooks had been getting a line on the pony for future
use. It occurred to him that Dave was being engineered into a bet.

The chill, hard eyes of Miller met his. "That's what he said, Buck--our
pack-horse."

For just an instant the old range-rider hesitated, then shrugged his
shoulders. It was none of his business. He was a cautious man, not
looking for trouble. Moreover, the law of the range is that every man
must play his own hand. So he dropped the matter with a grunt that
expressed complete understanding and derision.

Bob Hart helped things along. "Jokin' aside, what's the matter with a
race? We'll be on the Salt Flats to-morrow. I've got ten bucks says the
pinto can beat yore Whiskey Bill."

"Go you once," answered Doble after a moment's apparent consideration.
"Bein' as I'm drug into this I'll be a dead-game sport. I got fifty
dollars more to back the pack-horse. How about it, Sanders? You got
the sand to cover that? Or are you plumb scared of my broomtail?"

"Betcha a month's pay--thirty-five dollars. Give you an order on the boss
if I lose," retorted Dave. He had not meant to bet, but he could not
stand this fellow's insolent manner.

"That order good, Dug?" asked Doble of his half-brother.

The foreman nodded. He was a large leather-faced man in the late
thirties. His reputation in the cattle country was that of a man ill to
cross. Dug Doble was a good cowman--none better. Outside of that his
known virtues were negligible, except for the primal one of gameness.

"Might as well lose a few bucks myself, seeing as Whiskey Bill belongs to
me," said Miller with his wheezy laugh. "Who wants to take a whirl,
boys?"

Inside of three minutes he had pl