“Is that so? Is that so?  You got another guess, Racey, and it’s me that will get the most out of that laugh.  If it’s like I say, even if Lanpher and Tweezy are trying a game you don’t get paid a nickel if Jack Harpe and his cattle ain’t in on the deal.  You done put in the Jack Harpe end of it yoreself.  I heard you.  So did Tom Loudon, and Swing, too.  Jack Harpe.  Yeah.  He is the tune you was playing alla time.  And up to now I can’t see that Jack Harpe has made a move, not a move.”

“But—­”

“Lanpher and Tweezy wasn’t in the bet,” insisted Mr. Saltoun.  “It was Jack Harpe, and you know it.  ’If Jack Harpe don’t start trying to get Dale’s ranch away from him and run cattle in on you inside of six months you don’t have to pay us.’  Them was yore very words, Racey.  I got ’em wrote down all so careful.  I know ’em by heart.”

“I’ll bet you do,” Racey told him, heartily.  “I’ll gamble you been studying those words in all yore spare time.”

“It pays to be careful,” smiled Mr. Saltoun.  “Always bear that in mind.  I ain’t wanting to rub anything in, Racey, but if you’d been a mite more careful, just a mite more careful, you wouldn’t be out so much at the finish.  Drinks are on you, cowboy.  And when you stop to think that I’d ‘a’ made the bet just the same if you’d wanted Lanpher and Tweezy in on it.  Only you didn’t.”

“Guess I must ‘a’ overlooked ’em, huh?” grinned Racey.  “Feller can’t think of everything, can he?”

“I’m glad to see yo’re taking it thisaway,” approved Mr. Saltoun.  “Working for six months for nothing don’t seem to bother you a-tall.”

“I ain’t worked six months for nothing—­yet,” pointed out Racey.  “The six months ain’t up—­yet.  You wanna remember, Salt, that a race ain’t over till the horses cross the line.”

“You gotta prove Jack Harpe’s connection,” began Mr. Saltoun.

Racey topped his mount, but as the horse started he held him up.

“Lessee who’s coming,” he suggested, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

He and Mr. Saltoun both turned their heads.  Someone was riding toward them along the trail from the direction of the Lazy River ford—­Racey had caught the clatter of the horse’s hoofs on the rocks of a wash wherein the trail lay concealed.

“Siftin’ right along,” said Mr. Saltoun.

Racey nodded.  Horse and rider slid into sight above the side of the wash and trotted toward them.

“Looks like Punch-the-breeze Thompson,” said Mr. Saltoun.

“It is Thompson,” confirmed Racey.  “Didn’t it strike you he sort of hesitated a li’l bit when he first seen us—­like a man would whose breakfast didn’t rest easy on his stomach, as you might say.”

Mr. Saltoun nodded.  “He did sway back on them lines at the top.”

“And he ain’t boiling along quite as fast now as he was in the wash,” elaborated Racey.

“I noticed that, too,” admitted Mr. Saltoun.