“I’m through,” said the liveryman.

“Sold to—­name, please—­sold to Doctor John Andover for two hundred and fifty dollars,” said the auctioneer.  Then, after a facetious dissertation on thoroughbreds as against cow-ponies, Blue Smoke was led out.  Pete’s face went red.  Then he paled.  He had not forgotten that Blue Smoke was to be sold, but he had taken it for granted that he would be allowed to reclaim him.  Pete stepped over to the sheriff and was about to enter a protest—­offer to pay the board-bill against Blue Smoke, when the bidding began with an offer of twenty-five dollars.  This was quickly run up to seventy-five when Pete promptly bid one hundred, which was a fair auction price, although every man there knew that Blue Smoke was worth more.

“I’m bid one hundred twenty-five,” cried the auctioneer, as a young, bow-legged cowboy raised Pete’s bid.

“One-fifty,” said Pete without hesitation.

The sheriff glanced at Pete, wondering if he would borrow the money from Andover to make good his bid.  But Pete was watching the auctioneer’s gavel—­which happened to be a short piece of rubber garden-hose.  “Third and last chance!” said the auctioneer.  “Nobody want that pony as a present?  All right—­goin’, I say!  Goin’, I say ag’in!  Gone!  B’ Gosh! at one hundred an’ fifty dollars, to that young gent over there that looks like he could ride him.  What’s the name?”

“Pete Annersley.”

Several in the crowd turned and gazed curiously at Pete.  But Pete’s eyes were upon Blue Smoke—­his horse—­the horse that had carried him faithfully so many desert miles—­a cow-pony that could “follow a mountain trail all day and finish, a-steppin’ high.”

“Much obliged for your advice about the thoroughbred,” said Andover as he stepped close to Pete.  “Is that the pony you used to ride?”

“He sure is.  Say, Doc, I got the money to pay for him, but would you mind writin’ out a check.  I ain’t wise to this bankin’ business yet.”

“Why—­no.  I’ll do that.  I—­er—­of course—­I’m a little short myself.  New car—­and this horse for my daughter.  But I think I can manage.  You want to borrow a hundred and fifty?”

“Say, Doc, you got me wrong!  I got the makin’s all right, but I don’t jest sabe rollin’ ’em.”  Pete dug into his coat-pocket and fetched up a check-book.  “Same as you paid for your hoss with.”

“This is Stockmen’s Security.  You have an account there?”

“That’s what the president was callin’ it.  I call it dough.  I got the book.”  And Pete dug into his pocket again, watching Andover’s face as that astonished individual glanced at the deposit to Pete’s credit.

“Well, you’re the limit!”—­and the doctor whistled.  “What will you spring next?”

“Oh, it’s mine, all right.  A friend was leavin’ it to me.  He’s crossed over.”

“I s-e-e.  Twenty-four thousand dollars!  Young man, that’s more money than I ever had at one time in my life.”