“Oh, I reckon he’ll git over ther ground fast ernough,” said Bud, with a sly wink at the girl.  “But he won’t do it with me on his back.  I’m a trifle heavy fer fast work.  I’ll hev ter git Kit ter pilot him, I reckon.”

“I reckon you won’t,” said Stella.  “If any one rides him it will be me.  I’m a good many pounds lighter than Kit.”

“All right, Stella.  I wanted yer ter ride him, but I didn’t like ter impose on good nature by askin’ yer ter do it.”

“Why, I’d love to ride the race.  You ought to know me by this time.”

“It’s a go, an’ if yer win, as win yer must, ther magpie hoss is yours.”

“Oh, Bud, you don’t mean it!  Then I’ll certainly ride to win.”

So it was settled, and the old man and his grandson were accorded the hospitality of the camp.

After a hearty supper, while they were all sitting around the fire, and the old man was telling stories of his trip into the Southwest, for the broncho boys were now herding a big bunch of range cattle in what is known as No Man’s Land, an arm of northern Texas lying west of Oklahoma, and claimed by both, the day watch rode into camp, and, stripping their saddles from their ponies, turned them loose.  Then the boys threw themselves upon the ground to rest after several hours of constant riding.

One of the cowboys in the outfit, Sol Flatbush by name, stood staring at the old man and the boy.

He was scratching his forelock in a meditative sort of way, as if trying to remember something.

“What is it, Solly?  I reckon what yer tryin’ ter think of is that ye’ve forgot yer supper,” said Bud.

“No, ’tain’t that,” said the cow-puncher, staring harder at the old man.

“Hear about ther race, Sol?” asked Ben.

“Now, don’t yer expect me ter ask yer what race an’ then spring thet ole gag about ther ‘human race.’  I won’t stand fer it.  I’ve got troubles enough.  Thet buckskin pony o’ mine hez hed ther very divil in him all day, an’ I ain’t feelin’ none too amiable.”

“This is on the square.”

“Well, cut loose.”

“Bud is going to race Hatrack against that magpie horse grazing out there, and throw in a six-shooter if the old gent wins.”

Sol Flatbush turned and looked at the magpie pony, then at the old man.  Suddenly a gleam of intelligence illuminated his face, and he grinned.

“Say, Bud, I wisht ye’d come over yere an’ look at this buckskin’s off hind foot, an’ tell me what ye thinks o’ it.  He’s been actin’ powerful queer on it all day.”

Bud rose lazily and followed Sol out of camp.  The buckskin was grazing peacefully a few hundred yards away, and as they walked toward it Sol Flatbush said: 

“Bud, d’ye know that ole maverick?”

“I shore don’t.  Never even ast him his name,” answered Bud.

“Well, I do.  That’s ole ‘Cap’ Norris.  He’s a hoss sharp fer fair.  He an’ that boy don’t do nothin’ but ride the country with that magpie hoss, pickin’ up races at cow camps an’ ranches an’ in towns.  That hoss o’ hisn is a ‘ringer.’  His real name is Idlewild, an’ he’s a perfessional race hoss.  Boy, yer stung!”