When all was apparently in readiness for the dash, some of the cowboys called Judge Lynn to one side for a conference. His backers withdrew and surrounded him. To the great throngs of spectators it was evident that the cattlemen had some special instructions for the judge, and so they had. One wild-looking fellow, Orth Hudson by name, with leather leggins, spurs, sombrero, and a brace of revolvers, acted as spokesman. “Judge Lynn,” he said, “on the other race, which ye pretendid to run, most of us fellers bet heavy and lost a month’s wages on ye. Some say as how ye throwed that race fur a gallon of whiskey. If ye did, you’se ought to be killed. Now, we’re still b’lievin’ in ye—money talks—an’ we’re goin’ to back ye agin an’ put up our last dollar on ye. We’re proposin’ to git every cent these ‘ere farmers hev got; but, Judge, it’s up to you—do ye savey? it’s up to you. We’re not lustin’ fur trouble, Judge, and I don’t like much to say it, but I has to, ‘cause I’s been picked out by the fellers to spechully tell ye plain that ye’ll win this ‘ere race or be shot. I tell ye this so there’ll be no mis-onderstandin’. We’re proposin’ to be ca’m, but if ye lose this ‘ere race, there’ll be a stampede ensue, an’ you’ll not last long to pester the landscape with yer explainin’ o’ things.” Judge Lynn turned pale. “Gentlemen,” said he, “I’ll win this race or die.” “Yes,” said the cowboys in chorus, “that’s what we’ve ‘greed on,” and they carelessly laid their drawn revolvers across the pommels of their saddles. “Judge,” continued the spokesman, “we’re predictin’ if ye cross that ‘ere tape line behind Bill Mounce, we’ll fill ye fuller o’ holes than the top end of an old-fashioned tin pepper-box. Do you see?” The judge saw. He was easily the worst scared man in the big Southwest at that very minute. The cowboys wheeled their ponies around and galloped for position, and the judge, unattended, walked thoughtfully back to the starting-place, still retaining his distinguished robe. Now, when time was called, the people were treated to a number not on the program—a sight that must ever remain vividly fixed in the recollection of every man who witnessed the incident. It was the judge. He stepped out from under his huge cloak, and behold “the little man in red”—he underwent, as if by magic, a strange metamorphosis. He was clad in a skin-tight suit of flaming red material, and looked a veritable Mephistopheles. The people saw the grotesqueness of his make-up, and sent up deafening yells. The blacksmith looked upon his athletic rival and trembled. The fantastic attire of the judge was evidently driving terror into his heart. Judge Linus Lynn had come to win, even if it took blood, or the appearance of it, to encompass his adversary’s defeat. Now, the burly horse-shoer was attired in his usual clothing, save his leathern apron used at the forge had been laid aside. His feet were bare and his trousers rolled up to his knees.