cigarette-stained forefinger against Bud's chest and
whispered slyly: "My son Dave, he 's got a horse in the stable that's
been cleanin' everything in the valley. I'll slip him out and up the
creektrail to the track, and you run that horse of yourn agin him. Dave,
he can't git a race outa nobody around here, no more, so he won't run
next Sunday. We'll jest see how yore horse runs alongside Boise. I
kin tell purty well how you kin run agin the rest--Pop, he ain't s'
thick-headed they kin fool him much. What say we try it?"

Bud stood back and looked him over. "You shook hands with me on it," he
said gravely. "Where I came from, that holds a man like taking oath on
a Bible in court. I'm a stranger here, but I'm going to expect the same
standard of honor, grandpa. You can back out now, and I'll run Smoky
without any tryout, and you can take your chance. I couldn't expect you
to stand by a stranger against your own folks--"

"Sho! Shucks a'mighty!" Grandpa spat and wagged his head furiously. "My
own forks'd beat me in a horse race if they could, and I wouldn't hold
it agin 'em! Runnin' horses is like playin' poker. Every feller fer
himself an' mercy to-ward none! I knowed what it meant when I shook with
yuh, young feller, and I hold ye to it. I hold ye to it! You lay low if
I tell ye to lay low, and we'll make us a few dollars, mebby. C'm on and
git that horse outa here b'fore somebuddy comes. It's mail day."

He waved Bud toward his saddle and took himself off in a shuffling kind
of trot. By the time Bud had saddled Smoky grandpa hailed him cautiously
from the brush-fringe beyond the corral. He motioned toward a small gate
and Bud led Smoky that way, closing the gate after him.

The old man was mounted on a clean-built bay whose coat shone with
little glints of gold in the dark red. With one sweeping look Bud
observed the points that told of speed, and his eyes went inquiringly to
meet the sharp blue ones, that sparkled under the tufted white eyebrows
of grandpa.

"Do you expect Smoky to show up the same day that horse arrives?" he
inquired mildly. "Pop, you'll have to prove to me that he won't run
Sunday--"

Pop snorted. "Seems to me like you do know a speedy horse when you see
one, young feller. Beats me't you been overlookin' what you got under
yore saddle right now. Boise, he's the best runnin' horse in the
valley--and that's why he won't run next Sunday, ner no other Sunday
till somebuddy brings in a strange hor