ames, open when they could and
under cover when they could not. Then there were men with a seasoned old
ringer under a new name, or a couple of skates with which to pull off a
faked match race. There were various races, but the big event was a mile
for horses locally owned. There was some excellent stock in the country,
and great rivalry developed.

In this race each year the Indians had entered some alleged running
horse and backed it gamely. But each year they lost, their horses being
neither trained nor ridden properly, and being completely outclassed as
well; for as a rule they were merely good saddle cayuses and
overweighted at that. This year French's horse, a beautiful, bright bay
named Flambeau, seemed likely to win. Angus had seen him and admired
him. Therefore he shook his head.

"You only think you've got a cooley kuitan," he said. "Keep out of that
race, Paul Sam. You'll only lose money."

"Him good," the Indian insisted. "S'pose him get good rider him win.
Injun boy no good to ride. Injun boy all right in Injun race; no good in
white man's race."

"That's true enough," Angus agreed. "Injun boy don't kumtux the game.
Well, what about it?"

"Mebbe-so you catch white boy to ride um?" Paul Sam suggested.

"Do you mean Turkey?" Angus queried.

"Ha-a-lo," Paul Sam negatived. "White boy, all same ride white man's
horse."

"A jockey! Where would I get you a jockey?"

But that detail was none of Paul Sam's business.

"You catch um jock!" he said hopefully.

"But I don't know where to get one. A jockey would cost money, and you
wouldn't win, anyway. You Injuns start a horse every year, and you never
have one that has a lookin. You'd better get the idea out of your head."

But an idea once implanted in an Indian's head is apt to stay. Paul Sam
grinned complacently.

"Me got dam' good cooley kuitan. Me kumtux kuitan."

He told Angus the history of his horse, as he knew it. Stripped of
details, it amounted to this: Some five years before a fine English mare
which had been the property of a deceased remittance man, had been
auctioned off. She was in foal, and the colt in due course had been
sold, and in some obscure and involved cattle deal had become the
property of Paul Sam, who had let him run with his cayuses. When he
broke him to the saddle he found him remarkably fast. Being a real fox,
he said nothing about the colt's turn of speed, but bided his time. Now,
in his opinion, he could make a killing