"If you'll step over to the bunk-house, Gabby, we'll dig up some personal perquisites and family heirlooms." Stover nodded toward his men's quarters, and Gallagher grinned joyously. "That shore listens like a band from where I set. We aim to annex the wages, hopes, and personal ambitions of y'all, along with your talkin'-machine." "Excuse me." Willie pushed his way forward. "How's she gettin' along?" "Fine!" "You mule-skinners ain't broke her?" "No; we plays her every evenin'." The little man shifted his feet; then allowed himself to inquire, as if regarding the habits of some dear departed friend: "Have you chose any favorite records?" "We all has our picks. Speakin' personal, I'm stuck on that baggage coach song of Mrs. More's." "Mo_ray!_" Willie corrected. "M-o-r-a! Heleney Mo_ray_ is the lady's name." "Mebbe so. Our foot-runner likes that Injun war-dance best of all." Carara smiled at Cloudy, who nodded, as if pleased by the compliment. Then it was that the Flying Heart spokesman made an inquiry in hushed, hesitating tones. "How do you like _The Holy City_"--he removed his hat, as did those back of him. "As sung by Madam-o-sella Melby?" "Rotten!" Gallagher said promptly. "That's a bum, for fair." During one breathless instant the wizened man stood as if disbelieving his ears, the enormity of the insult robbing him of speech and motion. Then he uttered a snarl, and Stover was barely in time to intercept the backward fling of his groping hand. "No voylence, Willie! There's ladies present." Stover's captive ground his teeth and struggled briefly, then turned and made for the open prairie without a word. "It's his first love," said Stover, simply. The other foreman exploded into hoarse laughter, saying: "I didn't reckon I was treadin' on the toes of no bereafed relatif's, but them church tunes ain't my style. However, we're wastin' time, gents. Where's that bunk-house? Nothin' but money talks loud enough for me to hear. Good-day, white folks!" Gallagher saluted Miss Chapin and her friends with a flourish, and moved away in company with the cowboys. "I never," said Glass, "seen so many tough guys outside of a street-car strike." "Gallagher has been in prison," Jean informed him. "He's a wonderful shot." "I _knew_ it!" Speed spoke up brightly: "Well, let's go back to the house and wait for Covington." "But you were getting ready to go running," said Helen. "No more running for me! I'm in good enough shape, eh, Larry?" "Great! Barring the one thing." "What's that?" queried Fresno. "A little trouble with one of his nerve-centres, that's all. But even if it got worse during the night, Covington could run the race for him." The Californian started. At last all was plain. He had doubted from the first, now he was certain; but with understanding came also a menace to his own careful plans. If Covington ran in Speed's place, how could he effect his rival's exposure? On the way back to the house he had to think rapidly.