"Sure--sure," said the hotel man. "I know all that. Well, if you're dead set it ain't hardly Christian to lure you into betting on a hoss race, I suppose." He munched at his sandwich in savage silence, while Connor looked out the window and began to whistle. "They race very often up here?" he asked carelessly. "Once in a while." "A pleasant sport," sighed Connor. "Ain't it, now?" argued Townsend. "But these gents around here take it so serious that it don't last long." "That so?" "Yep. They bet every last dollar they can rake up, and about the second or third race in the year the money's all pooled in two or three pockets. Then the rest go gunnin' for trouble, and most generally find a plenty. Any six races that's got up around here is good for three shooting scrapes, and each shooting's equal to one corpse and half a dozen put away for repairs." He touched his forehead, marked with a white line. "I used to be considerable," he said. "H-m," murmured Connor, grown absentminded again. "Yes, sir," went on the other. "I've seen the boys come in from the mines with enough dust to choke a mule, and slap it all down on the hoss. I've seen twenty thousand cold bucks lost and won on a dinky little pinto that wasn't worth twenty dollars hardly. That's how crazy they get." Connor wiped his forehead. "Where do they race?" he asked. "Right down Washington Avenue. That is the main street, y'see. Gives 'em about half a mile of runnin'." A cigarette appeared with magic speed between the fingers of Connor, and he began to smoke, with deep inhalations, expelling his breath so strongly that the mist shot almost to the ceiling before it flattened into a leisurely spreading cloud. Townsend, fascinated, seemed to have forgotten all about the horse race, but there was in Connor a suggestion of new interest, a certain businesslike coldness. "Suppose we step over and give the ponies a glance?" he queried. "That's the talk!" exclaimed Townsend. "And I'll take any tip you have!" This made Connor look at his host narrowly, but, dismissing a suspicion from his mind, he shrugged his shoulders, and they went out together. The conclave of riders and the betting public had gathered at the farther end of the street, and it included the majority of Lukin. Only the center of the street was left religiously clear, and in this space half a dozen men led horses up and down with ostentatious indifference, stopping often to look after cinches which they had already tested many times. As Connor came up he saw a group of boys place their wagers with a stakeholder--knives, watches, nickels and dimes. That was a fair token of the spirit of the crowd. Wherever Connor looked he saw hands raised, brandishing greenbacks, and for every raised hand there were half a dozen clamorous voices. "Quite a bit of sporting blood in Lukin, eh?" suggested Townsend.