murmured Miller. "He'd ought to put him in a show and not keep him to
chase cow tails with."

"At that, I've seen circus hosses that weren't one two three with
Chiquito. He'll shake hands and play dead and dance to a mouth-organ and
come a-runnin' when Dave whistles."

"You don't say." The voice of the fat man was heavy with sarcasm. "And on
top of all that edjucation 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