want to see the old black mare come
in across the line and you on her! My! what a hot one yer'll be! The
fellers will never call yer tenderfoot again!"

It was a big temptation to Job, the biggest the boy had ever known--to
beat Pete; to show off Bess; to prove he was no "tenderfoot" or "kid"
any more. But--oh, that but!--how could he deceive Mr. Malden! And
then, Sunday, too!

"Gold nugget! Whew! Such a chance!" insidious Dan still kept crying,
till Job shut his teeth together, turned from his mother's face which,
somehow, persisted in haunting him just then, laughed a sort of hollow
laugh, and said with an oath--the first he had ever uttered out
loud--that sure he would be there and show these Gold City bullies and
Pete and the whole crowd he was nobody's slave. Yet, as he said it,
there came a sort of feeling into his soul which he repelled, but
which yet came back again, that he was now indeed a slave--a slave to
Dan, a slave to the Evil One.

* * * * *

Coyote Valley was all alive. Vaqueros from the foot-hill ranches were
tearing up and down the dusty road along Coyote Creek from Wilkins'
ranch to the foot of the valley, buckboards loaded with Mexicans,
Joe's stage creaking beneath the weight of half the roughs of Gold
City, groups of excited miners on foot, were making their way as fast
as possible to Wilkins' old hay barn, which had been turned into a
combination of saloon and grand stand. Under the shade of an immense
live-oak just west of the barn, the big waiter at the Miners' Home was
running an opposition saloon to the one inside, with a plank on two
kegs for a bar. The center of the barn was already filled with
dark-skinned Senoritas and tall, gawky miners dancing to the music of
a squeaky violin.

The air was filled with dust and bets and oaths, when on that strange
Sunday morning Job galloped up Coyote Valley and pulled up in time to
hear Dan's voice in high pitch cry out:

"There she is, the best mare in Grizzly county; ten to one against the
crowd! Come in, Job; come up, boys! Let's have a drink around to the
success of the Hon. Job Malden, the slickest rider in all the hills!"

Almost before he knew it. Job was hauled bodily up to the bar and had
a beer glass in his hand. How strange he felt! How queer it all was!
He had been in the mountains three years, but this was his first
Sunday picnic.

Andrew Malden, though he had no religion, had always seen that Job