window, biting his thin lips. Conniston stood eying him, and
slowly the smile passed from his face, to be followed by a serious
frown.

"I thought you'd kick in for the sport of it," he said, after a
moment, his voice quiet and a trifle cold. "You don't have to if you
feel like that about it. You still have your ticket to San Francisco.
You can have half of that twenty-seven dollars. You can sell your
horse if we win the brutes."

Hapgood had been thinking about that before Conniston spoke. And his
thoughts had gone further. It would not be long, he told himself
shrewdly, before Conniston Senior softened. And then there would be
much money to help spend, many dinners to help eat, much wine to help
drink, a string of glittering functions to attend. And if he broke
with Greek now--

"See here, Greek," he said, affably, forcing a smile. "What's the use
of this nonsense? Why not slip your father a wire now. He'll come
across. And then we can go on as we had intended and--"

"Nothing doing." For once Conniston was stubborn. "I'm going on with
this thing. If those horses come to us I am going to start early in
the morning for the mountains to see what I can see. You can do as you
please."

Hapgood glanced at him quickly, and, despite the wrath boiling up
within him, the shrewder side of his nature prompted a peaceful
answer.

"Then I'll go with you. You didn't think that I was the sort of a
fellow to go back on you now, did you? We'll see this thing through
together."

Conniston put out his hand impulsively, ashamed of having misjudged
his friend.

Long before midnight Jimmie left the saloon and crept away to the
stable to stroke the soft nose of a restive cow-pony, and to swear
soft, endearing curses of eternal farewell. Not long afterward he had
the satisfaction of seeing his fellow-cowboy steal through the
darkness to whisper good-by to his own horse. And in the early dawn
both Jimmie and Bart stood peering out from behind the corner of the
barn at two figures riding rapidly southward into the morning mists.

That day's ride was a matter never to be forgotten by the two men.
Their muscles were soft from dissipation and long years of idleness.
In particular did Hapgood suffer. He was a slight man to whom nature
had given none of the bigness of body which she had bestowed upon
Conniston. His luxury-loving disposition had made him abjure the
sports which the other at one time and another had enjoyed. He was,
be