lor Valley."

"From which?"

"From the Ballor Valley. You even named the irrigation and sand and all
that. But you'd seen her brand before, I s'pose?"

"Hoofs like hers never came out of these mountains," smiled Ben Connor.
"See the way she throws them and how flat they are."

"Well, that's true," nodded Jack Townsend. "It seems simple, now you say
what it was, but it had me beat up to now. That is the way with most
things. Take a fine hand with a rope. He daubs it on a cow so dead easy
any fool thinks he can do the same. No, Mr. Connor, I'd still like to
have you come out and take a look at them hosses. Besides"--he lowered
his voice--"you might pick up a bit of loose change yourself. They's a
plenty rolling round to-day."

Connor laughed, but there was excitement behind his mirth.

"The fact is, Townsend," he said, "I'm not interested in racing now. I'm
up here for the air."

"Sure--sure," said the hotel man. "I know all that. Well, if you're dead
set it ain't hardly Christian to lure you into betting on a hoss race, I
suppose."

He munched at his sandwich in savage silence, while Connor looked out
the window and began to whistle.

"They race very often up here?" he asked carelessly.

"Once in a while."

"A pleasant sport," sighed Connor.

"Ain't it, now?" argued Townsend. "But these gents around here take it
so serious that it don't last long."

"That so?"

"Yep. They bet every last dollar they can rake up, and about the second
or third race in the year the money's all pooled in two or three
pockets. Then the rest go gunnin' for trouble, and most generally find a
plenty. Any six races that's got up around here is good for three
shooting scrapes, and each shooting's equal to one corpse and half a
dozen put away for repairs." He touched his forehead, marked with a
white line. "I used to be considerable," he said.

"H-m," murmured Connor, grown absentminded again.

"Yes, sir," went on the other. "I've seen the boys come in from the
mines with enough dust to choke a mule, and slap it all down on the
hoss. I've seen twenty thousand cold bucks lost and won on a dinky
little pinto that wasn't worth twenty dollars hardly. That's how crazy
they get."

Connor wiped his forehead.

"Where do they race?" he asked.

"Right down Washington Avenue. That is the main street, y'see. Gives 'em
about half a mile of runnin'."

A cigarette appeared with magic speed between the fingers of Connor, and
he began to