It was on this trip, while Ophelia and Carolyn June were in the Golden Rule doing some shopping, that Old Heck and Skinny strolled into the Elite Amusement Parlor.  Lafe Dorsey, owner of the Y-Bar outfit and to whom belonged the black Thunderbolt horse; Newt Johnson, Dave Stover and “Flip” Williams—­the latter three cowboys on the big Vermejo ranch—­were playing a four-handed game of billiards at one of the tables near the front of the place.

Dorsey noticed the entrance of the pair from the Quarter Circle KT.  All were range men and were well known to one another.  The Y-Bar owner had been drinking.  Boot-leg liquor was obtainable, if one knew how and where, in Eagle Butte.

“Hello, there, Old Heck!” Dorsey greeted them hilariously and with a half-leer.  “Howdy, Skinny!  How’s the Cimarron?  Don’t reckon you’ve taught Old Quicksilver to run yet, have you?” with a boisterous laugh as he referred to the race in which Thunderbolt had defeated Old Heck’s crack stallion.

The taunt stung Old Heck while it called out a suppressed snicker from the cowboys who were with Dorsey and the loafers in the pool-room.  The bull-like guffaw of Mike Sabota, the gorilla-built, half-Greek proprietor of the Amusement Parlor roared out above the ripple of laughter from the others.  The racing feud between the Y-Bar and the Quarter Circle KT was well known to all and Sabota himself had cleaned up a neat sum when the black horse from the Vermejo had outstepped the runner from the Quarter Circle KT.

Old Heck reddened at Dorsey’s words but replied quietly: 

“The Cimarron is middling—­just middlin’.  No, we ain’t been paying much attention to teaching horses how to run lately.  Old Quicksilver’s pretty fair.  Of course he ain’t the best horse in the world but he’ll do for cows and general knocking around.  Horses are a good deal like men, you know, Dorsey—­there’s always one that’s a little bit better!”

The Vermejo cow-man colored at the thrust.

“Any of you Quarter Circle KT fellers going in on anything at the Rodeo, this year?” one of the Y-Bar riders asked Skinny before Dorsey could reply.

“Charley said he might go in on the ‘bull-dogging’ and Bert is figuring some on the bucking events—­but I don’t reckon they’ll either one enter,” Skinny carelessly; “both of them got first money in them entries last year and they ain’t caring much.  The Mexican,” referring to Pedro, “will probably do some roping—­”

“What about you and the Ramblin’ Kid?” Flip Williams interrupted, “ain’t neither of you going to take part?”

“Probably not,” Skinny drawled.  “I ain’t aiming to, and I don’t know what th’ Ramblin?  Kid is figuring on.  He ain’t much for showing off.  He only rode in the bucking contest last year because after that Cyclone horse killed Dick Stanley everybody said there wasn’t any one that could ride him and the blamed little fool just wanted to demonstrate that there was.  You never can tell what he’ll do, though.  He may be intending to go in on something or other.”