“I ain’t no professional racer,” said Bud slowly, “an’ I ain’t in this race fer what I kin make out o’ it.  Yer made yer brag about yer hoss an’ slurred mine, an’ I’m jest game enough ter lose him if he can’t beat that calcimined hoss o’ yours, but I don’t go in fer bettin’ er none o’ thet sort o’ thing.”

“I ain’t said nothin’ about bettin’,” said the old man, in an injured tone.

“I know yer ain’t, an’ I ain’t accused yer o’ it none.  What I wuz goin’ ter say wuz thet if yer hard up an’ need ther money ter take yer home I’m ther first feller ter jump in ter help yer.”

“We’re all willing to help on a thing like that,” said Ted.

“Then ye’ll consent ter pull off ther race in Snyder?” asked the old man eagerly.

“I am, if ther other boys will consent ter it,” said Bud.

“All right with me,” said Ted, and the other boys voiced their assent.

It looked as if there was a good bit of fun in prospect.

“Thanks, boys,” said the old man, with a catch in his voice, as if he was deeply touched.  “Ye’ll do a good turn fer me an’ little Bill here.  Bill, we’ll git home fer Christmas yit.”

“If you’re going to make it a public race, you’ll have to get over to Snyder early to make arrangements,” said Ted.

“I’ll leave before sunup in ther mornin’, an’ we’ll have the race at three o’clock.  Is that all satisfactory?”

This proved satisfactory to the boys, and, having agreed to be on hand in time with Hatrack, every one turned in.

When the boys turned out in the morning the blankets which the old man and the boy had occupied were empty and cold, showing that they had departed long before daylight.

“There’s something fishy about that old chap,” said Ben Tremont, as they were at breakfast.

“Of course, there is,” said Ted.  “He’s an old horse sharp.  Sol Flatbush knows him.  He wants a race in town, thinking he can draw us into betting.  He doesn’t know that we never gamble, but he evidently believes that in the excitement of the moment he will be able to get some of our money.”

“Well, he’ll get fooled on that,” said Ben.

“He’ll git fooled in several other ways, too,” grunted Bud.

After breakfast Bud went out and roped Hatrack, and after a tussle that lasted several strenuous minutes, brought him into camp.  Hatrack certainly was a sorry-looking beast.

His long, dirty, yellowish-brown hair was rumpled and fluffed up.  His ribs showed sharp, and his tail was full of burs, while his short and scraggy mane was missing in spots.

His flanks had been rubbed bare of hair where he had lain for many nights on the rocks and in the sands of the desert.

“Well, dog my cats, if he ain’t ther orneriest-lookin’ beast what ever toted a saddle,” said Bud, looking him over, as Hatrack stood with drooping head and ears.

“Bud, he isn’t worth making cat’s meat out of,” said Ben.  “I guess you made that race to get rid of him.  It’s easier and more humane than shooting him or abandoning him to the prairie wolves.”