ttle bet--on a race," replied Slone, frankly.

"Wal, thet ain't gamblin'. These fool riders of mine will bet on the
switchin' of a hoss's tail." He drew Slone a little aside from the
others, who were interested in Brackton's delivery of the different
prizes. "Slone, how'd you like to ride for me?"

Slone appeared surprised. "Why, I never rode for any one," he replied,
slowly. "I can't stand to be tied down. I'm a horse-hunter, you know."

Bostil eyed the young man, wondering what he knew about the
difficulties of the job offered. It was no news to Bostil that he was
at once the best and the worst man to ride for in all the uplands.

"Sure, I know. But thet doesn't make no difference," went on Bostil,
persuasively. "If we got along--wal, you'd save some of thet yellow
coin you're jinglin'. A roamin' rider never builds no corral!"

"Thank you, Bostil," replied Slone, earnestly. "I'll think it over. It
would seem kind of tame now to go back to wild-horse wranglin', after
I've caught Wildfire. I'll think it over. Maybe I'll do it, if you're
sure I'm good enough with rope an' horse."

"Wal, by Gawd!" blurted out Bostil. "Holley says he'd rather you
throwed a gun on him than a rope! So would I. An' as for your handlin'
a hoss, I never seen no better."

Slone appeared embarrassed and kept studying the gold coins in his
palm. Some one touched Bostil, who, turning, saw Brackton at his elbow.
The other men were now bantering with the Indians.

"Come now while I've got a minnit," said Brackton, taking up a lantern.
"I've somethin' to show you."

Bostil followed Brackton, and Slone came along. The old man opened a
door into a small room, half full of stores and track. The lantern only
dimly lighted the place.

"Look thar!" And Brackton flashed the light upon a man lying prostrate.

Bostil recognized the pale face of Joel Creech. "Brack! ... What's
this? Is he dead?" Bostil sustained a strange, incomprehensible shock.
Sight of a dead man had never before shocked him.

"Nope, he ain't dead, which if he was might be good for this
community," replied Brackton. "He's only fallen in a fit. Fust off I
reckoned he was drunk. But it ain't thet."

"Wal, what do you want to show him to me for?" demanded Bostil, gruffly.

"I reckoned you oughter see him."

"An' why, Brackton?"

Brackton set down the lantern and, pushing Slone outside, said: "Jest a
minnit, son," and then he closed the door. "Joel's been on my hands
since the