Smoky stood quiet, and Bud's hand lingered there, smoothing the slender ankle. Bud's fingers felt the fine-haired tail, then gave a little twitch. He was busy for a minute, kneeling in the sand with one knee, his head bent. Then he stood up, went forward to Smoky's head, and stood rubbing the horse's nose thoughtfully. “I hate to do it, old boy--but I'm working to make's a home--we've got to work together. And I'm not asking any more of you than I'd be willing to do myself, if I were a horse and you were a man.” He gave the three horses a hasty pat apiece and started back across the meadow to the fence. They followed him like pet dogs--and when Bud glanced back over his shoulder he saw in the dim light that Smoky walked with a slight limp. CHAPTER TWELVE: SPORT O' KINGS Sunday happened to be fair, with not too strong a wind blowing. Before noon Little Lost ranch was a busy place, and just before dinner it became busier. Horse-racing seemed to be as popular a sport in the valley as dancing. Indeed, men came riding in who had not come to the dance. The dry creek-bed where the horses would run had no road leading to it, so that all vehicles came to Little Lost and remained there while the passengers continued on foot to the races. At the corral fresh shaven men, in clean shirts to distinguish this as a dress-up occasion, foregathered, looking over the horses and making bets and arguing. Pop shambled here and there, smoking cigarettes furiously and keeping a keen ear toward the loudest betting. He came sidling up to Bud, who was leading Smoky out of the stable, and his sharp eyes took in every inch of the horse and went inquiringly to Bud's face. “Goin' to run him, young feller--lame as what he is?” he demanded sharply. “Going to try, anyway,” said Bud. “I've got a bet up on him, dad.” “Sho! Fixin' to lose, air ye? You kin call it off, like as not. Jeff ain't so onreason'ble 't he'd make yuh run a lame horse. Air yuh, Jeff?” Jeff strolled up and looked Smoky over with critical eyes. “What's the matter? Ain't the kid game to run him? Looks to me like a good little goer.” “He's got a limp--but I'll run him anyway.” Bud glanced up. “Maybe when he's warmed up he'll forget about it.” “Seen my Skeeter?” “Good horse, I should judge,” Bud observed indifferently. “But I ain't worrying any.” “Well, neither am I,” Jeff grinned. Pop stood teetering back and forth, plainly uneasy. “I'd rub him right good with liniment,” he advised Bud. “I'll git some't I know ought t' help.” “What's the matter, Pop? You got money up on that cayuse?” Jeff laughed. Pop whirled on him. “I ain't got money up on him, no. But if he wasn't lame I'd have some! I'd show ye 't I admire gameness in a kid. I would so.” Jeff nudged his neighbor into laughter. “There ain't a gamer old bird in the valley than Pop,” Jeff cried. “C'm awn, Pop, I'll bet yuh ten dollars the kid beats me!”