“While I want every man to do his best to win, and give the crowd a good race, I don’t want any dirty work,” said Ashton. “I don’t want any pinching or jockeying that might cripple a team of leaders or smash a wheel! The track is just wide enough to accommodate all five hitches abreast, and every man must keep his place. He’ll draw for place, and he must hold that position through the race!” The driver nodded. After the old man and the wagon boss had retired to talk over other matters, Flynn and Dwyer suggested a few side bets. Neeson and Buckley agreed. Nobody spoke to Morgan, the knife fighter. “Reckon my grays is the fastest, ef they wanta work,” said Flynn, and he laid his bet accordingly. “We’re all about even,” said Neeson, “but I got purty heavy wheelers, however----” And he bet on himself, of course. “Huh,” muttered Morgan, completely left out, “I ain’t got no chance to gather up no money exceptin’ the prize. Waal, I’ll take that. If Imp and Blackie ain’t the fastest leaders in this bunch I’ll eat my hat! An’ I’ll wallop the swing and the wheelers to keep up with ’em. They’ll have to do it!” Just as the race was called, the big boss, Ashton, came up, mounted on a sorrel mule, borrowed for the occasion. “The committee wants me to start the race,” he explained, “so to be in style I’m going to do it from mule back. When you hear the revolver shot, go!” “Excuse me, sir,” said Morgan, leaning down from his wagon seat and staring hard at the sorrel mule that Ashton rode, “that mule, sir--he’s a bad un--if I were you, sir--I’d----” “Mind your mules!” said Ashton crisply, coloring under the driver’s warning, “I can handle my business!” Flynn and Dwyer and Neeson and Buckley exchanged glances and smirks--the knife thrower was getting in bad already. Flynn shrugged as he recalled that the big boss had ordered clean driving. Otherwise he and Neeson would pinch Morgan out of the race for sure, seeing that Morgan had fourth place from the rail between Flynn, who would drive the outer circle, and Neeson, who had drawn third place. Dwyer had the rail and Buckley was second from the pole. At a word from McCarthy the five wagons rumbled out on the half-mile track to be greeted with a great cheer. The band was playing, and the leaders of the hitches danced and shied, none more than Imp and Blackie, the leaders of Morgan’s hitch. The burnished mules, the trim wagons and the sparkling harness made a splendid impression on the crowd. Ashton, on his sorrel mule, swelled up with pride. McCarthy, leaning over the rail, reflected that pride. Flynn, Dwyer, Neeson, and Buckley bowed and smiled at the applause as they maneuvered into position. Only Morgan took his place silently and calmly. He had made up his mind to win, despite all odds. He’d show his tormentors something!