t have scaled two
hundred.

"Which was the one hoss in your eyes?" asked the hotel man eagerly.

"The gray. But with that weight up the little fellow will be anchored."

He pointed to a gray gelding which nosed confidently at the back hip
pockets of his master.

"Less than fifteen hands," continued Connor, "and a hundred and eighty
pounds to break his back. It isn't a race; it's murder to enter a horse
handicapped like that."

"The gray?" repeated Jack Townsend, and he glanced from the corner of
his eyes at his companion, as though he suspected mockery. "I never seen
the gray before," he went on. "Looks sort of underfed, eh?"

Connor apparently did not hear. He had raised his head and his nostrils
trembled, so that Townsend did not know whether the queer fellow was
about to break into laughter or a trade.

"Yet," muttered Connor, "he might carry it. God, what a horse!"

He still looked at the gelding, and Townsend rubbed his eyes and stared
to make sure that he had not overlooked some possibilities in the
gelding. But he saw again only a lean-ribbed pony with a long neck and a
high croup. The horse wheeled, stepping as clumsily as a gangling
yearling. Townsend's amazement changed to suspicion and then to
indifference.

"Well," he said, smiling covertly, "are you going to bet on that?"

Connor made no answer. He stepped up to the owner of the gray, a swarthy
man of Indian blood. His half sleepy, half sullen expression cleared
when Connor shook hands and introduced himself as a lover of fast
horse-flesh.

He even congratulated the Indian on owning so fine a specimen, at which
apparently subtle mockery Townsend, in the rear, set his teeth to keep
from smiling; and the big Indian also frowned, to see if there were any
hidden insult. But Connor had stepped back and was looking at the
forelegs of the gelding.

"There's bone for you," he said exultantly. "More than eight inches,
eh--that Cannon?"

"Huh," grunted the owner, "I dunno."

But his last shred of suspicion disappeared as Connor, working his
fingers along the shoulder muscles of the animal, smiled with pleasure
and admiration.

"My name's Bert Sims," said the Indian, "and I'm glad to know you. Most
of the boys in Lukin think my hoss ain't got a chance in this race."

"I think they're right," answered Connor without hesitation.

The eyes of the Indian flashed.

"I think you're putting fifty pounds too much weight on him," explained
Connor.

"Y