ay. Inside of ten minutes, you said," Shorty of the Keystone
reminded Hollister. "An' this Sunday, you recollect."

Dud's gaze rested on a figure of a horseman moving slowly up the road
toward them. The approaching rider was the Reverend Melanchthon T.
Browning, late of Providence, Rhode Island. He had come to the frontier
to teach it the error of its ways and bring a message of sweetness and
light to the unwashed barbarians of the Rockies. He was not popular. This
was due, perhaps, to an unfortunate manner. The pompous little man
strutted and oozed condescension.

"W-what's up?" asked Blister.

"Dud's bettin' he'll get the sky pilot to race him from here to Monty's
place," explained Reeves. "Stick around. He'll want to borrow a coupla
dollars from you to buy the drinks."

It was Sunday afternoon. The missionary was returning from South Park,
where he had been conducting a morning service. He was riding Tex
Lindsay's Blue Streak, borrowed for the occasion.

"What deviltry you up to now, Dud?" Blister inquired.

"Me?" The young puncher looked at him with a bland face of innocence.
"Why, Blister, you sure do me wrong."

Dud sauntered to the hitching-rack, easy, careless, graceful. He selected
a horse and threw the rein over its head. The preacher was just abreast
of the hotel.

The puncher swung to the saddle and brought the pony round. A wild whoop
came from his throat. The roan, touched by a spur, leaped to a canter.
For an instant it was side by side with Blue Streak. Then it shot down
the road.

Blue Streak was off in an eyeflash. It jumped to a gallop and pounded
after the roan. The Reverend Melancthon T. Browning was no rider. His
feet lost the stirrups. A hymn-book went off at a wild tangent.
Coat-tails flew into the air. The exponent of sweetness and light leaned
forward and clung desperately to the mane, crying, "Whoa! Stop! Desist!"

But Blue Streak had no intention of desisting as long as the roan was in
front. Tex Lindsay's horse was a racer. No other animal was going to pass
it. The legs of the dark horse stretched for the road. It flew past the
cowpony as though the latter had been trotting. The Reverend Melancthon
stuck to the saddle for dear life.

At the blacksmith shop Dud pulled up. He rode back at a road gait to the
hotel. His companions greeted him with shouts of gayety.

"Where's the parson?" some one asked.

"Between here an' 'Frisco somewheres. He was travelin' like he was in a
hurr