Don Mike halted in his tracks.  “I have heard of such men.  I observed the two who talked with you and the jefe politico assured me yesterday that they are reliable gentlemen.  I am prepared to trust them.  Why not?  Should they attempt to escape with my money when Panchito wins—­as win he will—­I would quickly stop those fine fellows.”  He tapped his left side under the arm-pit, and while the policeman was too lazy and indifferent to feel this spot himself, he assumed that a pistol nestled there.

“I will myself guard your bet,” he promised.

They had reached the two book-makers and the policeman promptly communicated to them Don Mike’s ultimatum.  The pair exchanged glances.

“If we don’t take this lunatic’s money,” one of them suggested presently, “some other brave man will.  I’m game.”

“It’s a shame to take it, but—­business is business,” his companion laughed.  Then to the policeman:  “How much is our high-toned Mexican friend betting and what odds does he expect?”

The policeman put the question.  The high-toned Mexican gentleman bowed elaborately and shrugged deprecatingly.  Such a little bet!  Truly, he was ashamed, but the market for steers down south had been none too good lately, and as for hides, one could not give them away.  The American gentlemen would think him a very poor gambler, indeed, but twelve hundred and twenty-eight dollars was his limit, at odds of ten to one.  If they did not care to trifle with such a paltry bet, he could not blame them, but—­

“Holy Mackerel.  Ten to one.  Joe, this is like shooting fish on a hillside.  I’ll take half of it.”

“I’ll take what’s left.”

They used their cards to register the bet and handed the memorandum to Don Mike, who showed his magnificent white teeth in his most engaging smile, bowed, and insisted upon shaking hands with them both, after which the quartet sauntered back to the grand-stand and sat down among the old shepherd and his flock.

As the bugle called out the horses for the handicap, Father Dominic ceased praying and craned forward.  There were ten horses in the race, and the old priest’s faded eyes popped with wonder and delight as the sleek, beautiful thoroughbreds pranced out of the paddock and passed in single file in front of the grand-stand.  The fifth horse in the parade was Panchito—­and somebody had cleaned him up, for his satiny skin glowed in the semi-tropical sun.  All the other horses in the race had ribbons interlaced in their manes and tails, but Panchito was barren of adornment.

“Well, Don Quixote has had him groomed and they’ve combed the cactus burrs out of his mane and tail, at any rate.  He’d be a beautiful animal if he was dolled up like the others,” the book-maker, Joe, declared.

“Got racing plates on to-day, and that cholo kid sits him like he intended to ride him,” his companion added.  “Joe, I have a suspicion that nag is a ringer. He looks like a champion.”