And he laughed with great good nature.

“What’s your name?” asked Werther, his small eyes growing round and wide.

“Anthony Woodbury.”

“Mine’s Werther.”

They shook hands.

“City raised?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t know they came in this style east of the Rockies, Woodbury.  I hope I lose my thousand, but if there was any betting I’d stake ten to one against you.”

In the meantime, some of the range-riders had thrown a coat over the head of the stallion, and while he stood quivering with helpless rage they flung a saddle on and drew the cinches taut.

Anthony Woodbury was saying with a smile:  “Just for the sake of the game, I’ll take you on for a few hundred, Mr. Werther, if you wish, but I can’t accept odds.”

Werther ran a finger under his collar apparently to facilitate breathing.  His eyes, roving wildly, wandered over the white, silent mass of faces, and his glance picked out and lingered for a moment on the big-shouldered figure of Drew, erect in his box.  At last his glance came back with an intent frown to Woodbury.  Something in the keen eyes of the laid raised a responsive flicker in his own.

“Well, I’ll be damned!  Just a game, eh?  Lad, no matter on what side of the Rockies you were born, I know your breed and I won’t lay a penny against your money.  There’s the hoss saddled and there’s the floor you’ll land on.  Go to it—­and God help you!”

The other shook his shoulders back and stepped toward the horse with a peculiarly unpleasant smile, like a pugilist coming out of his corner toward an opponent of unknown prowess.

He said:  “Take off the halter.”

One of the men snapped viciously over his shoulder:  “Climb on while the climbing’s good.  Cut out the bluff, partner.”

The smile went out on the lips of Woodbury.  He repeated:  “Take off the halter.”

They stared at him, but quickly began to fumble under the coat, unfastening the buckle.  It required a moment to work off the heavy halter without giving the blinded animal a glimpse of the light; then Woodbury caught the bridle reins firmly just beneath the chin of the horse.  With the other hand he took the stirrup strap and raised his foot, but he seemed to change his mind about this matter.

“Take off the blinder,” he ordered.

It was Werther who interposed this time with:  “Look here, lad, I know this hoss.  The minute the blinder’s off he’ll up on his hind legs and bash you into the floor with his forefeet.”

“Let him go,” growled one of the cowboys.  “He’s goin’ to hell making a gallery play.”