After the boys had finished luncheon, they and Mr. Melton repaired to the meeting place.  The race was to be run around a one-mile oval track, and five men were entered as contestants.  Besides Bert and Johnson, the winner of the previous race, Jed Barnes, was to race, and two other men from neighboring ranches.  As soon as the boys and Mr. Melton reached the track they parted, the former seeking out the dressing room, and the latter securing a seat in the grand stand.

Bert got into his racing togs immediately, and his comrades left him and walked out to secure seats for themselves.  This was soon done, and they settled themselves, waiting as best they could for the start.

The stand and field filled rapidly until at last, when the gates were closed, every available space was occupied by a tightly packed, expectant throng.  Suddenly a whistle blew and a few seconds afterward the runners walked out and proceeded to draw lots for the choice of position.  Bert drew third from the inside rail, Jed Barnes second, and Johnson secured the best place next to the rail.

“That makes a rather bad handicap for Bert,” said Tom anxiously.  “I wish he could have gotten a better position.”

“Oh, well, it might be worse,” said Dick, but it must be confessed he was a little worried also.  Johnson was a well-built athlete, and seemed to be in the best of condition.  Dick recalled that Bert had not gone through any special training, and was assailed with misgivings.  However, he had not long to wait.  The runners took their places, and the starter raised his pistol in the air.

“Get set!” he called, and amid a breathless silence the racers crouched over, their fingers barely touching the ground.

Crack! went the pistol, and amid a roar from the spectators the five athletes sprang ahead as though released from a catapult.  Elbows pressed against their sides, heads up, they made a thrilling picture, and the crowd cheered wildly.  At first they kept well together, but they were setting a fast pace, and soon one of the men began to lag behind.  But little attention was paid him, for interest was concentrated on Bert, Johnson and Barnes.  Before they were half way around the oval the fourth man had dropped out, so the race had narrowed down to these three.

Suddenly Bert increased his stride a little, and spurted ahead.  A wild shout went up from the spectators, and those who had not already done so leaped to their feet.  “Wilson!  Wilson!” chanted the cowboy contingent, while the townspeople no less vociferously reiterated the name of their favorite.

But the “ringer” was not to be shaken off, and he in turn put on a burst of speed that carried him into the lead.  As the runners rounded the three-quarter mile mark he was still leading, and Barnes was lagging far to the rear, evidently done for as far as the race was concerned.  Chip had said that Johnson could “move some,” and the professional did not belie his reputation.  Apparently, Bert was unable to close up the gap of nearly a yard that now separated him from his rival, and the yells and cheers of the citizens redoubled, while those of the cowboys died down.  Mr. Melton chewed the end of his cigar fiercely, and swore softly to himself.