. Taterleg Wilson, the bow-legged camp cook of the
Syndicate, circulated himself like a petition to gain consent to this
unusual proposal.

It was asking a great deal of those men to give up their established
diversion, no matter how distinguished the man in whose favor they were
requested to stand aside. That Sunday afternoon race had become as much
a fixed institution in the Bad Lands as the railroad itself. With some
argument, some bucking and snorting, a considerable cost to Taterleg for
liquor and cigars, they agreed to it. Taterleg said he could state,
authoritatively, that this would be the Duke's first, last, and only
ride against the flier. It would be worth money to stand off and watch
it, he said, and worth putting money on the result. When, where, would
a man ever have a chance to see such a race again? Perhaps never in his
life.

On time, to a dot, the station agent told the committee headed by
Taterleg, which had gone to inquire in the grave and important manner of
men conducting a ceremony. The committee went back to the saloon, and
pressed the Duke to have a drink. He refused, as he had refused politely
and consistently all day. A man could fight on booze, he said, but it
was a mighty poor foundation for business.

There was a larger crowd in Misery that day than usual for the time of
year, it being the first general holiday after the winter's hard
exactions. In addition to visitors, all Misery turned out to see the
race, lining up at the right-of-way fence as far as they would go, which
was not a great distance along. The saloon-keeper could see the finish
from his door. On the start of it he was not concerned, but he had money
up on the end.

Lambert hadn't as much flesh, by a good many pounds, as he had carried
into the Bad Lands on his bicycle. One who had known him previously
would have thought that seven years had passed him, making him over
completely, indeed, since then. His face was thin, browned and
weathered, his body sinewy, its leanness aggravated by its length. He
was as light in the saddle as a leaf on the wind.

He was quite a barbaric figure as he waited to mount and ride against
the train, which could be heard whistling far down the road. Coatless,
in flannel shirt, a bright silk handkerchief round his neck; calfskin
vest, tanned with the hair on, its color red and white; dressed leather
chaps, a pair of boots that had cost him two-thirds of a month's pay.
His hat was like forty o