certain this year.  I’ve Creech’s an’ Bostil’s word for thet.’  Cordts put his hand on my shoulder.  You ought to ’ve seen his eyes!. . .’I want to see thet race. . . .  I’m goin’ to.’  ‘Wal,’ I said, ‘you’ll have to stop bein’—­You’ll need to change your bizness.’  Then, Bostil, what do you think?  Cordts was sort of eager an’ wild.  He said thet was a race he jest couldn’t miss.  He swore he wouldn’t turn a trick or let a man of his gang stir a hand till after thet race, if you’d let him come.”

A light flitted across Bostil’s face.

“I know how Cordts feels,” he said.

“Wal, it’s a queer deal,” went on Brackton.  “Fer a long time you’ve meant to draw on Cordts when you meet.  We all know thet.”

“Yes, I’ll kill him!” The light left Bostil’s face.  His voice sounded differently.  His mouth opened, drooped strangely at the corners, then shut in a grim, tense line.  Bostil had killed more than one man.  The memory, no doubt, was haunting and ghastly.

“Cordts seemed to think his word was guarantee of his good faith.  He said he’d send an Indian in here to find out if he can come to the races.  I reckon, Bostil, thet it wouldn’t hurt none to let him come.  An’ hold your gun hand fer the time he swears he’ll be honest.  Queer deal, ain’t it, men?  A hoss-thief turnin’ honest jest to see a race!  Beats me!  Bostil, it’s a cheap way to get at least a little honesty from Cordts.  An’ refusin’ might rile him bad.  When all’s said Cordts ain’t as bad as he could be.”

“I’ll let him come,” replied Bostil, breathing deep.  “But it’ll be hard to see him, rememberin’ how he’s robbed me, an’ what he’s threatened.  An’ I ain’t lettin’ him come to bribe a few weeks’ decency from him.  I’m doin’ it for only one reason. . . .  Because I know how he loves the King—­how he wants to see the King run away from the field thet day!  Thet’s why!”

There was a moment of silence, during which all turned to Creech.  He was a stalwart man, no longer young, with a lined face, deep-set, troubled eyes, and white, thin beard.

“Bostil, if Cordts loves the King thet well, he’s in fer heartbreak,” said Creech, with a ring in his voice.

Down crashed Bostil’s heavy boots and fire flamed in his gaze.  The other men laughed, and Brackton interposed: 

“Hold on, you boy riders!” he yelled.  “We ain’t a-goin’ to have any arguments like thet. . . .  Now, Bostil, it’s settled, then?  You’ll let Cordts come?”

“Glad to have him,” replied Bostil.

“Good.  An’ now mebbe we’d better get down to the bizness of this here meetin’.”

They seated themselves around the table, upon which Bostil laid an old and much-soiled ledger and a stub of a lead-pencil.

“First well set the time,” he said, with animation, “an’ then pitch into details. . . .  What’s the date?”

No one answered, and presently they all looked blankly from one to the other.