comes ter a hoss
race."

"What'll we race fer?"

"Nag an' nag. If yer beats me, yer takes Hatrack, an' if he gits away
with ther spotted pony, why, yer turns her over ter me. Is it a go?"

"If yer throw in a six-shooter fer odds."

"All right, pard, jest ter show yer thet I ain't no shorthorn, I'll go
yer. I've got a shooter in my war-bag up ter camp what'll kick ther arm
outer yer socket every time yer pulls ther trigger, but she'll send a
bullet through a six-inch oak beam."

"Anything, so it's odds. I'll go yer. I reckon I could sell it fer a
dollar er so."

"I reckon yer could," said Bud sarcastically. "I wuz offered ten dollars
fer it by a hombre down ter Las Vegas a month ago. But he was a husky
feller, an' wanted a strong shooter. He wanted ter go out huntin' fer a
feller with it, an' I wouldn't let him hev it. Is it a go, shore
enough?"

"It be."

"All right; come over ter ther camp an' stay overnight, an' fill yer
pale American hides with ther best grub what ever wuz cooked on ther
range. Our cook is an artist."

Bud led the way on his little, flea-bitten skeleton of a pony that
snorted and reared, kicked, and showed the whites of its eyes when he
woke it from the drooping position it had held while he was talking to
the old man.

In half an hour they were in sight, from the hill they had topped, of a
vast band of cattle grazing in a broad valley.

In a sheltered spot below the hill was a typical cow camp. A
white-covered chuck wagon shone in the rays of the departing sun, and
the smoke arose from the cook's fire, where he was baking biscuit in a
Dutch oven, while the fragrant odors of frying bacon and steaming
coffee filled the air.

"What have you found this time?" asked Ben Tremont, as Bud came into
camp.

"This yere gent is a maverick from Missouri what I found wanderin'
across the peerarie searchin' fer Yaller Fork, an' he hez bantered me
ter a hoss race, I ast him ter come in an' stay overnight, an' eat, an'
we'll run ther hosses in ther mornin'."

"What horses?"

"I'm goin' ter run Hatrack agin' thet magpie mare o' hisn, an' throw in
a six-shooter with Hatrack if I lose."

"Say, are you going altogether dippy?" growled Ben. "Why, that little
mare will run away from you as if Hatrack was tied to a post."

"Reckon so? Well, maybe I want to lose Hatrack, an' maybe all I want is
ter capture thet magpie pony."

"Oh, what a lovely pony!"

Stella Fosdick had ridden into camp, and he