The chill, hard eyes of Miller met his.  “That’s what he said, Buck—­our pack-horse.”

For just an instant the old range-rider hesitated, then shrugged his shoulders.  It was none of his business.  He was a cautious man, not looking for trouble.  Moreover, the law of the range is that every man must play his own hand.  So he dropped the matter with a grunt that expressed complete understanding and derision.

Bob Hart helped things along.  “Jokin’ aside, what’s the matter with a race?  We’ll be on the Salt Flats to-morrow.  I’ve got ten bucks says the pinto can beat yore Whiskey Bill.”

“Go you once,” answered Doble after a moment’s apparent consideration.  “Bein’ as I’m drug into this I’ll be a dead-game sport.  I got fifty dollars more to back the pack-horse.  How about it, Sanders?  You got the sand to cover that?  Or are you plumb scared of my broomtail?”

“Betcha a month’s pay—­thirty-five dollars.  Give you an order on the boss if I lose,” retorted Dave.  He had not meant to bet, but he could not stand this fellow’s insolent manner.

“That order good, Dug?” asked Doble of his half-brother.

The foreman nodded.  He was a large leather-faced man in the late thirties.  His reputation in the cattle country was that of a man ill to cross.  Dug Doble was a good cowman—­none better.  Outside of that his known virtues were negligible, except for the primal one of gameness.

“Might as well lose a few bucks myself, seeing as Whiskey Bill belongs to me,” said Miller with his wheezy laugh.  “Who wants to take a whirl, boys?”

Inside of three minutes he had placed a hundred dollars.  The terms of the race were arranged and the money put in the hands of the foreman.

“Each man to ride his own caballo,” suggested Hart slyly.

This brought a laugh.  The idea of Ad Miller’s two hundred and fifty pounds in the seat of a jockey made for hilarity.

“I reckon George will have to ride the broomtail.  We don’t aim to break its back,” replied Miller genially.

His partner was a short man with a spare, wiry body.  Few men trusted him after a glance at the mutilated face.  The thin, hard lips gave warning that he had sold himself to evil.  The low forehead, above which the hair was plastered flat in an arc, advertised low mentality.

An hour later Buck Byington drew Sanders aside.

“Dave, you’re a chuckle-haided rabbit.  If ever I seen tinhorn sports them two is such.  They’re collectin’ a livin’ off’n suckers.  Didn’t you sabe that come-on stuff?  Their pack-horse is a ringer.  They tried him out this evenin’, but I noticed they ran under a blanket.  Both of ’em are crooked as a dog’s hind laig.”

“Maybeso,” admitted the young man.  “But Chiquito never went back on me yet.  These fellows may be overplayin’ their hand, don’t you reckon?”

“Not a chanct.  That tumblebug Miller is one fishy proposition, and his sidekick Doble—­say, he’s the kind of bird that shoots you in the stomach while he’s shakin’ hands with you.  They’re about as warm-hearted as a loan shark when he’s turnin’ on the screws—­and about as impulsive.  Me, I aim to button up my pocket when them guys are around.”