“Dorsey said, Tell Old Heck Thunderbolt’s a pretty good saddle horse,’” Flip explained, “’and he’d do to change off with Quicksilver once in a while!  So he sent him over as a sort of keepsake!’”

The Ramblin’ Kid did not return to the Quarter Circle KT until late Sunday night.  After the two-mile sweepstakes he was horribly ill.  All Friday night he laid, in a semi-conscious condition, in the stall with Captain Jack and the Gold Dust maverick.

Parker and some of the cowboys visited the stall after the race, but they thought the Ramblin’ Kid was drunk and the best thing was to allow him to sleep it off.

“I can’t figure it out,” Chuck said as they turned away, “he never did get drunk before that I knew of—­”

“You can’t tell what he’s liable to do,” Charley interrupted, “he sure took an awful chance getting on a tear at the time he did!”

“Well, he won the race,” Parker said admiringly, “drunk or sober, you’ve got to give him credit for that!”

Saturday the Ramblin’ Kid got Pedro to stay with the horses while he went over to the Elite Amusement Parlor.  He had nothing to say to Sabota or any of the loafers in the place.

He was looking for Gyp Streetor.

Until Sunday afternoon he searched Eagle Butte, trying to find the tout.  All he wanted was to locate the man who had sold him that cup of coffee—­he could remember drinking the coffee; after that until the following morning all was hazy.

But Gyp was gone.

When the Gold Dust maverick, with the Ramblin’ Kid swaying uncertainly on her back, had appeared on the track for the two-mile run, the tout, his eyes like those of a harried rat, sneaked out of the crowd in front of the book-makers’ booths and hurried toward the Santa Fe railroad yards.  An hour later he slipped into an empty freight car—­part of a train headed for the West—­and Eagle Butte saw him no more.

It was midnight Sunday when the Ramblin’ Kid reached the Quarter Circle KT, turned Captain Jack and the outlaw filly into the circular corral, and without disturbing Old Heck, Parker, or the cowboys, already asleep in the bunk-house, sought his bed.

Monday morning he was at breakfast with the others.

Throughout the meal the Ramblin’ Kid was silent.  Carolyn June, still shocked by what she thought was his intoxication the day of the race, and believing he had remained in Eagle Butte over Saturday night and Sunday to continue the debauch, ignored him.

None of the others cared to question him and the Ramblin’ Kid himself volunteered no information.

Once only, Old Heck mentioned the race.

“That was a pretty good ride you made in the two-mile event,” he said, addressing the Ramblin’ Kid; “it looked at first like the filly—­”

“You won your money, didn’t you?” the Ramblin’ Kid interrupted in a tone that plainly meant there was nothing further to be said.