ich they in turn could signal the word
to the crowd at the Bar L-M.

"Go!" said Venable listlessly.

There was a little puff of white smoke, the crack of a revolver, and
Hume, laughing again, struck in his spurs and rode swiftly down the
long slope. The men upon the ridge two miles off, as listless as
Venable had been, ran up a big white sheet to flutter from a dead pine.
This was the signal that the race was on, and that just one man was
riding.

Suddenly Willie Dart was galvanized into excited action. He ran to
Dick Venable, grasped him by the arm with both shaking hands, thrusting
up a red face, and whispered eagerly. Venable started, stared at him
and demanded sharply:

"_What's that_!"

But Dart had fled wildly to Jimmie Denbigh, the second starter and had
whispered the same words to him. Denbigh stared as Venable had done
and then with swift, long strides returned from his horse to Venable's
side, close to the starting line.

Big Bill had mounted and was riding away, his eyes on the ground,
refusing to follow the figure of a man he had come to hate most
thoroughly. MacKelvey had gone to his horse and was jerking loose its
tie rope. Dart was now close to MacKelvey's side.

Venable and Denbigh, conversing swiftly in undertones, looked blankly
at each other, then at Dart's noncommittal back.

"The biggest little liar," began Venable disgustedly--

Hume was already a quarter of a mile on his way, riding on at a rocking
gallop, a little eager, as was his way, to have the money waiting for
him in his possession. But suddenly he turned abruptly in his saddle.
There had come to him a great shout, the clamour of men's voices.

From the fringe of trees just back of the knoll, not a hundred yards
from where MacKelvey and Dart stood, a great red bay horse shot from
the thick shadows into the bright sunlight, floating mane and tall spun
silk that flashed out like shimmering gold. And the same sunlight
splashed like fire on the red, red hair of the man sitting straight in
the saddle come at this late hour to ride his race at his own meet.

"Good God, it's Red Reckless!" boomed a startled voice.

Little Saxon cleared the fallen log in his way and as men swung hastily
to their horses or drew back from before him he came on, running like a
great, gaunt greyhound. Many voices were lifted, shouting. MacKelvey
heard and understood. He shoved his foot into its stirrup and as he
leaped into the saddle his revo