Bostil was among the last to ride down to the high bench that overlooked the home end of the racecourse.  He calculated that there were a thousand Indians and whites congregated at that point, which was the best vantage-ground to see the finish of a race.  And the occasion of his arrival, for all the gaiety, was one of dignity and importance.  If Bostil reveled in anything it was in an hour like this.  His liberality made this event a great race-day.  The thoroughbreds were all there, blanketed, in charge of watchful riders.  In the center of the brow of this long bench lay a huge, flat rock which had been Bostil’s seat in the watching of many a race.  Here were assembled his neighbors and visitors actively interested in the races, and also the important Indians of both tribes, all waiting for him.

As Bostil dismounted, throwing the bridle to a rider, he saw a face that suddenly froze the thrilling delight of the moment.  A tall, gaunt man with cavernous black eyes and huge, drooping black mustache fronted him and seemed waiting.  Cordts!  Bostil had forgotten.  Instinctively Bostil stood on guard.  For years he had prepared himself for the moment when he would come face to face with this noted horse-thief.

“Bostil, how are you?” said Cordts.  He appeared pleasant, and certainly grateful for being permitted to come there.  From his left hand hung a belt containing two heavy guns.

“Hello, Cordts,” replied Bostil, slowly unbending.  Then he met the other’s proffered hand.

“I’ve bet heavy on the King,” said Cordts.

For the moment there could have been no other way to Bostil’s good graces, and this remark made the gruff old rider’s hard face relax.

“Wal, I was hopin’ you’d back some other hoss, so I could take your money,” replied Bostil.

Cordts held out the belt and guns to Bostil.  “I want to enjoy this race,” he said, with a smile that somehow hinted of the years he had packed those guns day and night.

“Cordts, I don’t want to take your guns,” replied Bostil, bluntly.  “I’ve taken your word an’ that’s enough.”

“Thanks, Bostil.  All the same, as I’m your guest I won’t pack them,” returned Cordts, and he hung the belt on the horn of Bostil’s saddle.  “Some of my men are with me.  They were all right till they got outside of Brackton’s whisky.  But now I won’t answer for them.”

“Wal, you’re square to say thet,” replied Bostil.  “An’ I’ll run this race an’ answer for everybody.”

Bostil recognized Hutchinson and Dick Sears, but the others of Cordts’s gang he did not know.  They were a hard-looking lot.  Hutchinson was a spare, stoop-shouldered, red-faced, squinty-eyed rider, branded all over with the marks of a bad man.  And Dick Sears looked his notoriety.  He was a little knot of muscle, short and bow-legged, rough in appearance as cactus.  He wore a ragged slouch-hat pulled low down.  His face and stubby beard were dust-colored, and his eyes seemed sullen, watchful.