Quite a feature of the present celebration was to be a one-mile running race.  As a rule ranchmen and cowboys are not noted for their running abilities, generally being more at home upon the back of a horse than upon their own feet.  But among the neighboring ranches there were several fair runners, and among the townspeople there were others.  The last year or two a hot rivalry had existed between the ranchmen and “townies” over the outcome of the running race, for in this event everybody, no matter what his daily occupation, could be interested.

The last year one of the men from the Bar X Ranch had taken the prize money, and the ranchers had all been jubilant.  They imagined they had a fair chance to win this year’s event with the same runner, and Mr. Melton’s men thought so too.  But one day late in June Chip returned from a trip to town with clouded brow.

“What do yuh think them low-down Piutes that calls themselves citizens of Helena has been an’ done now?”

“What’s bitin’ yuh, Chip?” asked Sandy.  “Did somebody get your wad, or what?”

“No, nothin’ like that,” answered Chip.  “I’ll tell it to you jest the way one o’ the boys handed it to me.  He says t’ me, ’Waal, Chip, I reckon you boys on the ranches hereabouts won’t pick off the prize money this year in the footrace, will yuh?’

“‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I answers him.  ’Yuh never kin tell what’s going to happen, but we-all have a sneakin’ idea that our man is jest goin’ to run away from any shorthorn you guys kin put up.’

“‘Oh, is that so?’ he jeers, real triumphant-like, ’well, I got a little piece o’ change that I’m willin’ to put up on our man.  How do yuh feel?’

“Waal, I wasn’t goin’ to let the guy bluff me, so I covers his money to the tune o’ fifty bucks.  ’I s’pose Jenkins, the feller that nearly pulled down the prize last year, is goin’ to run fer you, ain’t he’ I asks, never suspicionin’ that he’d say anythin’ but ‘yes.’

“‘Not any,’ he answers, grinnin’ satisfied like; ’we’ve got another man this year, an’ a streak o’ greased lightnin’ is plumb slow an’ ploddin’ alongside him.’

“‘An’ who is this yere maverick?’ I asks him, feelin’ like somebody’d hit me when I wasn’t lookin’.

“‘Johnson is his brand,’ says the sport; ‘stick around a while an’ I’ll point him out t’ yuh.  There he is now,’ he says sudden-like, pointin’ to a guy amblin’ along the sidewalk with half a dozen kids taggin’ at his heels, ‘there’s the guy what’s goin’ to make your runners look like candidates from a young ladies’ finishing school.  Take a good look at him, Chip, so yuh’ll know him the next time yuh see him.’

“Waal, boys, I took a good look, as this sport suggests, and I’m a pop-eyed tenderfoot if I didn’t recognize the guy right off.  I couldn’t jest place him at first, but in a few seconds I remembered where I’d seen him last.”

“An’ where was that?” questioned Sandy, while everybody listened eagerly for his answer.