too, an' I want that magpie pony
for Stella. She ain't got no hoss of her own down yere, an' that spotted
pony is jest ther sort o' showy hoss what a gal likes."

"Well, I ain't wantin' ter be buttin' in none," said Sol, in a
crestfallen way.

"Yer ain't butted in none, Sol. I'm obliged ter yer fer givin' me ther
tip erbout ther old sharp. When he fust braced me I sized him up fer a
sharp, an' when he told me he was a hoss trader from Missouri I had a
straight line on him."

They returned to camp, where the old man was still regaling the boys
with anecdotes, having proved himself a most entertaining story-teller.

The boy sat close beside him listening, but never saying a word, except
when he was addressed. He was small and slender, and evidently weighed
much less than a hundred pounds.

His face was small and thin, and apparently youthful, but his eyes were
old and shrewd, and there was a crafty look about his face at times when
the old man brought out a point in a story. Evidently he had heard these
stories many times before. When he smiled it was in a sly and furtive
way.

Ted Strong had come in from riding around the herd, having inspected it
before it was bedded down for the night. He had heard all about the
proposed race, and smiled quietly as Ben joshed Bud about the loss of
his pony Hatrack on the morrow.

He had looked the boy over carefully, and his impression was not
pleasant.

"I tell yer what, boys," said the old man, when conversation began to
lag. "S'posin' we put this race off until to-morrow afternoon, an' run
it over at Snyder, across the line in Oklahomy?"

"What's ther occasion?" asked Bud.

"Jest ter give ther people over thar a chance ter see a real live race.
Besides, I'm out o' money, an' I reckon we could have a reg'lar race,
an' charge admission. That would enable me an' my grandson ter git back
ter ole Missou' again. We ain't much use out here. What d'yer say?"

"I ain't no professional racer," said Bud slowly, "an' I ain't in this
race fer what I kin make out o' it. Yer made yer brag about yer hoss an'
slurred mine, an' I'm jest game enough ter lose him if he can't beat
that calcimined hoss o' yours, but I don't go in fer bettin' er none o'
thet sort o' thing."

"I ain't said nothin' about bettin'," said the old man, in an injured
tone.

"I know yer ain't, an' I ain't accused yer o' it none. What I wuz goin'
ter say wuz thet if yer hard up an' need ther money ter take yer ho