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,