“Shucks! Don't go 'n-” Pop began, and bit the sentence in two, dropping immediately into a deep study. The kid was getting beyond Pop's understanding. A crowd of perhaps a hundred men and women--with a generous sprinkling of unruly juveniles--lined the sheer bank of the creek-bed and watched the horses run, and screamed their cheap witticisms at the losers, and their approval of those who won. The youngster with the mysterious past and the foolhardiness to bet on a lame horse they watched and discussed, the women plainly wishing he would win--because he was handsome and young, and such a wonderful musician. The men were more cold-blooded. They could not see that Bud's good looks or the haunting melody of his voice had any bearing whatever upon his winning a race. They called him a fool, and either refused to bet at all on such a freak proposition as a lame horse running against Skeeter, or bet against him. A few of the wise ones wondered if Jeff and his bunch were merely “stringing the kid along “; if they might not let him win a little, just to make him more “chancey.” But they did not think it wise to bet on that probability. While three races were being run Bud rode with the Little Lost men, and Smoky still limped a little. Jerry Myers, still self-appointed guardian of Bud, herded him apart and called him a fool and implored him to call the race off and keep his money in his own pocket. Bud was thinking just then about a certain little woman who sat on the creek bank with a wide-brimmed straw hat shading her wonderful eyes, and a pair of little, high-arched feet tapping heels absently against the bank wall. Honey sat beside her, and a couple of the valley women whom Bud had met at the dance. He had ridden close and paused for a few friendly sentences with the quartette, careful to give Honey the attention she plainly expected. But it was not Honey who wore the wide hat and owned the pretty little feet. Bud pulled his thoughts back from a fruitless wish that he might in some way help that little woman whose trouble looked from her eyes, and whose lips smiled so bravely. He did not think of possession when he thought of her; it was the look in her eyes, and the slighting tones in which Honey spoke of her. “Say, come alive! What yuh going off in a trance for, when I'm talking to yuh for your own good?” Jerry smiled whimsically, but his eyes were worried. Bud pulled himself together and reined closer. “Don't bet anything on this race, Jerry,” he advised “Or if you do, don't bet on Skeeter. But--well, I'll just trade you a little advice for all you've given me. Don't bet!” “What the hell!” surprise jolted out of Jerry. “It's my funeral,” Bud laughed. “I'm a chancey kid, you see--but I'd hate to see you bet on me.” He pulled up to watch the next race--four nervy little cow-horses of true range breeding, going down to the quarter post.