“You made me eat dirt square enough,” said Jim, jerking off his silver-mounted bridle and tossing it to Bud. “That’s a good horse you’ve got.” “Yes, ’n he kin beat any cayuse in this hole,” boasted Bud. “Got anything beside talk to stake on that?” “My saddle ’gin yours.” “Pull ’er off, and stack her here with mine.” Jim loosed the cinches as he spoke, jerked off his saddle and flung it over by Pat. “Here, Teddy, get your little mare. Let’s take the cackle out of this crow.” “All right, Jim, if you say so; but I don’t know what Brownie can do. I’ve never run a race with her.” “That’s my risk. Get yer mare.” Fred went back to the shack, took a pan of oats, and walked over to the pasture bars to call Brownie. Hearing him, she raised her pretty head and trotted nimbly up to him. He threw his arm over her glossy neck while she enjoyed the taste of grain, then slipped the bit into her willing mouth, leaped on her and rode over to the boys. He reached them just in time to see a “joke race” pulled off between Freckles, a pinto squaw pony belonging to Hen Sikes, a big cow-puncher from the Morgan ranch, and Meg Murphy, a tall and lanky old mare that Pat had purchased for five dollars from a stranded emigrant who was passing through the valley. It was a comical sight to see the plump cook perched on his high-backed steed, his smooth face held sober, but his bright eyes twinkling with fun; and beside him tall Hen, with his long legs dangling almost to the ground over the little pony’s back. The race was funnier still. The cowboys howled and whooped to see the two coming, Pat making clown antics to keep his big mare going; the little Indian pony struggling to carry his big load through first; but in spite of all Pat’s efforts, Freckles won the race, leaving Meg full fifty yards behind. “Home at last!” cried Pat as he reined his mare, galloping stiffly, to a sudden standstill at the finish. “Give us a drink to cheer our droopin’ spirits.” “Have a swig on me,” said Bud; “I kin stan’ it, fer we’re goin’ to skin you good and proper to-day.” “Not so sure of that,” said Jim; “here, Teddy, let me fix things for you.” “Goin’ to ride ’er stripped, air ye?” said Bud, as Jim began to put a surcingle around the mare and over Fred’s knees. “Well, tie the kid on tight, for I’m--goin’ to--sha--shake ’im up.” He took another drink of whisky. “You’d better tie yourself on, old soak.” “Oh, I kin stick all right,--all right,” said Nixon, staggering toward his horse, “and I’ll beat thet cow-kid so fer he’ll never know he started. Gimme a leg up, Ticky, ole boy.” Tick helped Bud to mount, and he rode off with Fred toward the starting point, swaggering and boasting all the way.