Flood met us at noon about seven miles out from the Republican with the superintendent of a cattle company in Montana, and, before we started the herd after dinner, had sold our remuda, wagon, and mules for delivery at the nearest railroad point to the Blackfoot Agency sometime during September.  This cattle company, so we afterwards learned from Flood, had headquarters at Helena, while their ranges were somewhere on the headwaters of the Missouri.  But the sale of the horses seemed to us an insignificant matter, compared with the race which was on the tapis; and when Stallings had made the ablest talk of his life for the loan of the brown, Flood asked the new owner, a Texan himself, if he had any objections.

“Certainly not,” said he; “let the boys have a little fun.  I’m glad to know that the remuda has fast horses in it.  Why didn’t you tell me, Flood?—­I might have paid you extra if I had known I was buying racehorses.  Be sure and have the race come off this evening, for I want to see it.”

And he was not only good enough to give his consent, but added a word of advice.  “There’s a deadfall down here on the river,” said he, “that robs a man going and coming.  They’ve got booze to sell you that would make a pet rabbit fight a wolf.  And if you can’t stand the whiskey, why, they have skin games running to fleece you as fast as you can get your money to the centre.  Be sure, lads, and let both their whiskey and cards alone.”

While changing mounts after dinner, Stallings caught out the brown horse and tied him behind the wagon, while Flood and the horse buyer returned to the river in the conveyance, our foreman having left his horse at the ford.  When we reached the Republican with the herd about two hours before sundown, and while we were crossing and watering, who should ride up on the Spanish mule but our Tennessee friend.  If anything, he was a trifle more talkative and boastful than before, which was easily accounted for, as it was evident that he was drinking; and producing a large bottle which had but a few drinks left in it, insisted on every one taking a drink with him.  He said he was encamped half a mile down the river, and that he would race his mare against our horse for fifty dollars; that if we were in earnest, and would go back with him and post our money at the tent, he would cover it.  Then Stallings in turn became crafty and diplomatic, and after asking a number of unimportant questions regarding conditions, returned to the joint with the old man, taking Fox Quarternight.  To the rest of us it looked as though there was going to be no chance to bet a dollar even.  But after the herd had been watered and we had grazed out some distance from the river, the two worthies returned.  They had posted their money, and all the conditions were agreed upon; the race was to take place at sundown over at the saloon and gambling joint.  In reply to an earnest inquiry by Bob Blades, the outfit were informed that we might get some side bets with the gamblers, but the money already posted was theirs, win or lose.  This selfishness was not looked upon very favorably, and some harsh comments were made, but Stallings and Quarternight were immovable.