“It was at a function thet come near bein’ a lynchin’ party,” answered Chip.  “I was up in a little town over the Canada border at the time, an’ they had jest had a race like this yere one we-all has on the Fourth o’ July, only they ain’t no sech institution there, them folks bein’ nothin’ but benighted Britishers and Frenchmen.  Howsum-ever, they’d had a race, and this maverick what’s pointed out to me in Helena had won the race, together with most o’ the loose change in the town.  Suddenly a guy in the crowd yells out:  ’That feller’s a ‘ringer.’  I seen him run in an Eastern professional race onct.’”

“Waal, thet was like puttin’ a match to powder, and them people was goin’ to string the guy up, only the sheriff came along jest then and stopped the proceedin’s.  So that’s when I see this party last.”

“Yes, but he might not have been a ’ringer’,” suggested Bert, who had come up and joined the group while Chip was speaking.  “He might have been square, but the man that accused him probably had lost money, and may have accused him just to get even.  You don’t have to prove much to an angry mob when they want to believe what you’re telling them, anyway.”

“Yes, I thought o’ that,” replied Chip, “but a few weeks arterward I come across an old newspaper with this party’s picture engraved on the sportin’ page, an’ underneath it said, ’Albert Summers, the well-known professional one-mile runner,’ or words meanin’ the same thing.  I’d clean forgot about it, though, until I sees this yere hoss thief paradin’ the streets o’ Helena followed by the admirin’ glances o’ the populace.”

The cowboys exchanged indignant glances, and Sandy said, “Mebbe the folks in Helena don’t know this maverick’s a professional.”

“I suppose most o’ them don’t,” replied Chip, “but the officials thet have charge o’ the race are wise, all right.  It looks as though I was goin’ to be out fifty hard-earned dollars, but it will keep the rest o’ yuh boys from losin’ any o’ your money, anyhow.”

“Seems t’ me it’s up to us t’ give this here shell game away,” remarked Buck; “it riles me plumb fierce t’ think of anybody puttin’ over a game like that an’ gettin’ away with it.”

“The best thing to do, I should think,” remarked Bert, “would be to let this Summers, or Johnson, or whatever his name is, run, and get somebody to beat him.  That would be doing things artistically, as you might say.”

“What do yuh mean?” queried Sandy, speaking for his surprised companions, “yuh think we ought t’ get a ‘ringer’ on our own account to beat this professional sharp?”

“Not at all,” said Bert with a grin.  “I don’t want to seem to boast, but I’ve done a little running myself at times, and I think if I entered against this ‘profesh’ I might be able to give him a run for his money.”

The cowboys looked somewhat incredulous, and Chip said, “I seen this feller run, m’ lad, and he sure is fast, I got to admit that much.  Have yuh ever done much runnin’?”