“What horse are you going to take?” asked Chip, to turn the subject.

“Glory.  I’m thinking of putting him up against Bert Rogers’ Flopper.  Bert’s getting altogether too nifty over that cayuse of his.  He needs to be walked away from, once; Glory’s the little horse that can learn ’em things about running, if—­”

“Yeah—­if!” This from Cal, who had recovered speech.  “Have yuh got a written guarantee from Glory, that he’ll run?”

“Aw,” croaked Happy Jack, “if he runs at all, it’ll likely be backwards—­if it ain’t a dancing-bear stunt on his hind feet.  You can gamble it’ll be what yuh don’t expect and ain’t got any money on; that there’s Glory, from the ground up.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Weary drawled placidly.  “I’m not setting him before the public as a twin to Mary’s little lamb, but I’m willing to risk him.  He’s a good little horse—­when he feels that way—­and he can run.  And darn him, he’s got to run!”

Shorty quit snoring and rolled over.  “Betche ten dollars, two to one, he won’t run,” he said, digging his fists into his eyes like a baby.

Weary, dead game, took him up, though he knew what desperate chances he was taking.

“Betche five dollars, even up, he runs backwards,” grinned Happy Jack, and Weary accepted that wager also.

The rest of the afternoon was filled with Glory—­so to speak—­and much coin was hazarded upon his doing every unseemly thing that a horse can possibly do at a race, except the one thing which he did do; which goes to prove that Glory was not an ordinary cayuse, and that he had a reputation to maintain.  To the day of his death, it may be said, he maintained it.

Dry Lake was nothing if not patriotic.  Every legal holiday was observed in true Dry Lake manner, to the tune of violins and the swish-swish of slippered feet upon a more-or-less polished floor.  The Glorious Fourth, however, was celebrated with more elaborate amusements.  On that day men met, organized and played a matched game of ball with much shouting and great gusto, and with an umpire who aimed to please.

After that they arranged their horseraces over the bar of the saloon, and rode, ran or walked to the quarter-mile stretch of level trail beyond the stockyards to witness the running; when they would hurry back to settle their bets over the bar where they had drunk to the preliminaries.

Bert Rogers came early, riding Flopper.  Men hurried from the saloon to gather round the horse that held the record of beating a “real race-horse” the summer before.  They felt his legs sagely and wondered that anyone should seem anxious to question his ability to beat anything in the country in a straightaway quarter-mile dash.

When the Flying U boys clattered into town in a bunch, they were greeted enthusiastically; for old Jim Whitmore’s “Happy Family” was liked to a man.  The enthusiasm did not extend to Glory, however.  He was eyed askance by those who knew him or who had heard of his exploits.  If the Happy Family had not backed him loyally to a man, he would not have had a dollar risked upon him; and this not because he could not run.