Red Wilson had red eyes from fighting the flying sand, and red dust pasted in his scraggy beard, and as he gave his belt an upward hitch little red clouds flew from his gun-sheath. "Yep. An' I left a wheel an' part of the load on the trail," he said. With him were Indians who began to unhitch the teams. Riders lounging in the shade greeted Wilson and inquired for news. The teamster replied that travel was dry, the water-holes were dry, and he was dry. And his reply gave both concern and amusement. "One more trip out an' back--thet's all, till it rains," concluded Wilson. Brackton led him inside, evidently to alleviate part of that dryness. Water and grass, next to horses, were the stock subject of all riders. "It's got oncommon hot early," said one. "Yes, an' them northeast winds--hard this spring," said another. "No snow on the uplands." "Holley seen a dry spell comin'. Wal, we can drift along without freighters. There's grass an' water enough here, even if it doesn't rain." "Sure, but there ain't none across the river." "Never was, in early season. An' if there was it'd be sheeped off." "Creech'll be fetchin' his hosses across soon, I reckon." "You bet he will. He's trainin' for the races next month." "An' when air they comin' off?" "You got me. Mebbe Van knows." Some one prodded a sleepy rider who lay all his splendid lithe length, hat over his eyes. Then he sat up and blinked, a lean-faced, gray-eyed fellow, half good-natured and half resentful. "Did somebody punch me?" "Naw, you got nightmare! Say, Van, when will the races come off?" "Huh! An' you woke me for thet? ... Bostil says in a few weeks, soon as he hears from the Indians. Plans to have eight hundred Indians here, an' the biggest purses an' best races ever had at the Ford." "You'll ride the King again?" "Reckon so. But Bostil is kickin' because I'm heavier than I was," replied the rider. "You're skin an' bones at thet." "Mebbe you'll need to work a little off, Van. Some one said Creech's Blue Roan was comin' fast this year." "Bill, your mind ain't operatin'," replied Van, scornfully. "Didn't I beat Creech's hosses last year without the King turnin' a hair?" "Not if I recollect, you didn't. The Blue Roan wasn't runnin'." Then they argued, after the manner of friendly riders, but all earnest, an eloquent in their convictions. The prevailing opinion was that Creech's horse had a chance, depending upon condition and luck. The argument shifted upon the arrival of two new-comers, leading mustangs and apparently talking trade. It was manifest that these arrivals were not loath to get the opinions of others. "Van, there's a hoss!" exclaimed one. "No, he ain't," replied Van.