r exclamation of admiration
for the magpie pony drew the attention of the boys to her.

"D'ye like thet thar pony?" asked Bud.

"I think it's beautiful," answered Stella enthusiastically.

"Then it's yours."

"What do you mean?"

"This old gent an' me is goin' ter hev a race in ther mornin', hoss fer
hoss, an' when it's over ther magpie hoss is yours."

A peal of rippling laughter greeted this.

"See yere, gal, what is all this noise about?" asked Bud huffily. "If
yer laughin' at ther idea o' Hatrack beatin' ther magpie hoss, don't yer
do it, fer thet's showin' ignerance o' hossflesh, an' I thought yer wuz
too well brought up at Moon Valley ter think thet pretty spots on a
hoss hez anythin' ter do with his ability ter make a race er hold a
cow."

"Forgive me, Bud, I didn't mean to laugh at Hatrack, but, really, he
doesn't look as if he could run any faster than a lame dog."

"Oh, I reckon he'll git over ther ground fast ernough," said Bud, with a
sly wink at the girl. "But he won't do it with me on his back. I'm a
trifle heavy fer fast work. I'll hev ter git Kit ter pilot him, I
reckon."

"I reckon you won't," said Stella. "If any one rides him it will be me.
I'm a good many pounds lighter than Kit."

"All right, Stella. I wanted yer ter ride him, but I didn't like ter
impose on good nature by askin' yer ter do it."

"Why, I'd love to ride the race. You ought to know me by this time."

"It's a go, an' if yer win, as win yer must, ther magpie hoss is yours."

"Oh, Bud, you don't mean it! Then I'll certainly ride to win."

So it was settled, and the old man and his grandson were accorded the
hospitality of the camp.

After a hearty supper, while they were all sitting around the fire, and
the old man was telling stories of his trip into the Southwest, for the
broncho boys were now herding a big bunch of range cattle in what is
known as No Man's Land, an arm of northern Texas lying west of Oklahoma,
and claimed by both, the day watch rode into camp, and, stripping their
saddles from their ponies, turned them loose. Then the boys threw
themselves upon the ground to rest after several hours of constant
riding.

One of the cowboys in the outfit, Sol Flatbush by name, stood staring at
the old man and the boy.

He was scratching his forelock in a meditative sort of way, as if
trying to remember something.

"What is it, Solly? I reckon what yer tryin' ter think of is that ye've
forgot yer supper," said Bu