“But — .  Can you — ?”

“It does not matter.  Your extremity is greater than mine.”

He stood looking after the slim girl who carried her head so high.  “How like a Kentucky Laughton.  Thoroughbred stock, all!” He tossed the bag in his hand. “’Tis why they are where they are today.”  Then his keen old eyes softened.  “And why they are what they are, today.  Bless her tender heart to stoop to an old cattle man in the mire.  As for this — I must see Irish Mike,” and he hurried off with surprising speed.

Bets rose.  Every gambler had been apprised of the sure thing and flocked to the betting like bears to a honey tree.

“Have ye put up ye’r money, Eric?” asked Irish Mike, late the next night.

“Yes,” said Eric, briefly.

“Ah.  So.”  Mike’s shrewd gave slid from the young man’s face.

“They do say that Slick-heels Saul is beginnin’ to worry over the $20,000 he’s staked.  The shoestring gang have gathered in the information fr’m th’ express agent that the auld cattle man owns a big Spanish grant down in the valley, and has $50,00 to his credit in certificates of deposit from the express company.  ’Tis as good as gold.”

“Mike, have you ever seen him before?”

“I never spile sport, me boy.”

It was the last day of the fiesta and the famous race was at hand.

“There is the old cattle man with his vaqueros.”

“Faith, they’re a tough lookin’ lot, all armed with a brace o’ Colts apiece.  ‘Tis fun they’d have, cleanin’ out a Fandango House.”

“Patty, girl, you are pale today.”

“Oh, Eric, ’tis the last day of grace.  Heaven help us if — "

“See, Patty, gir-r-rl, they’re fixin’ for the foot race between Cherokee Bob an’ that Australian squirt fr’m Sacramento.”

“Why are they placing men with guns every ten feet along the track?”

“The Indian can beat the Australian, but he thried to sell the boys out, an’ if he slackens his gait by ever so little, the b’ys will begin shootin’ sthraight before them.  An’ maybe afther the race, he’d better be runnin’ right on into the next county.”

“What next?”

“Next is a jackass fight, an’ then, the race!”

After the billigerent jacks had been led away, Red Pete suddenly took to the brush, accelerated by a fusillade of bullets.

“Welchin’ his bets, he is, an’ ivery man he owes is lettin’ him have it.”

“Nary a hit!” wailed old Jack Horner.  “The shootin’ in this camp is a-gittin’ vile!  Time we was quittin so d — much pick handlin, an’ a-practicin’ up.  It’s a reflection on the community.  Why, there ain’t been a Chinaman drilled with a bullet decent an’ clean for weeks!”

“They’re leading out the horses!  Where did that little nigger jockey come from?  The mare’s got more ginger today.”

“Eric, surely your horse can win!”

“I don’t know, dear.”