eh?"

"Can't another man ride your horse?"

"Anybody can ride him."

"Then let that fellow yonder--that youngster--have the mount. I'll back
the gray to the bottom of my pocket if you do."

"I wouldn't feel hardly natural seeing another man on him," said the
Indian. "If he's rode I'll do the riding. I've done it for fifteen
years."

"What?"

"Fifteen years."

"Is that horse fifteen years old?" asked Connor, prepared to smile.

"He is eighteen," answered Bert Sims quietly.

The gambler cast a quick glance at Sims and a longer one at the gray. He
parted the lips of the horse, and then cursed softly.

"You're right," said Connor. "He is eighteen."

He was frowning in deadly earnestness now.

"Accident, I suppose?"

The Indian merely stared at him.

"Is the horse a strain of blood or an accident? What's his breed?"

"He's an Eden gray."

"Are there more like him?"

"The valley's full of 'em, they say," answered Bert Sims.

"What valley?" snapped the gambler.

"I ain't been in it. If I was I wouldn't talk."

"Why not?"

In reply Sims rolled the yellow-stained whites of his eyes slowly toward
his interlocutor. He did not turn his head, but a smile gradually began
on his lips and spread to a sinister hint at mirth. It put a grim end to
the conversation, and Connor turned reluctantly to Townsend. The latter
was clamoring.

"They're getting ready for the start. Are you betting on that runt of a
gray?"

_CHAPTER FIVE_

Conner shook his head almost sadly. "A horse that stands not a hair more
than fourteen-three, eighteen years old, with a hundred and eighty
pounds up--No, I'm not a fool."

"Which is it--the roan or the bay?" gasped Townsend. "Which d'you say?
I'll tell you about the valley after the race. Which hoss, Mr. Connor?"

Thus appealed to, the gambler straightened and clasped his hands behind
his back. He looked coldly at the horses.

"How old is that brown yonder--the one the boy is just mounting?"

"Three. But what's he got to do with the race?"

"He's a shade too young, or he'd win it. That's what he has to do with
it. Back Haig's horse, then. The roan is the best bet."

"Have you had a good look at Lightnin'?"

"He won't last in this going with that weight up."

"You're right," panted Townsend. "And I'm going to risk a hundred on
him. Hey, Joe, how d'you bet on Charlie Haig?"

"Two to one."

"Take you for a hundred. Joe, meet Mr. Connor."

"A hundred it is, Jack.