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GOING SOME

A ROMANCE OF STRENUOUS AFFECTION

BY

REX BEACH

SUGGESTED BY THE PLAY BY REX BEACH AND PAUL ARMSTRONG

ILLUSTRATED BY MARK FENDERSON




CHAPTER I

Four cowboys inclined their bodies over the barbed-wire fence
which marked the dividing-line between the Centipede Ranch and
their own, staring mournfully into a summer night such as only
the far southwestern country knows. Big yellow stars hung thick
and low--so low that it seemed they might almost be plucked by an
upstretched hand--and a silent air blew across thousands of open
miles of land lying crisp and fragrant under the velvet dark.

And as the four inclined their bodies, they inclined also their
ears, after the strained manner of listeners who feel anguish at
what they hear. A voice, shrill and human, pierced the night like
a needle, then, with a wail of a tortured soul, died away amid
discordant raspings: the voice of a phonograph. It was their own,
or had been until one overconfident day, when the Flying Heart
Ranch had risked it as a wager in a foot-race with the
neighboring Centipede, and their own man had been too slow. As it
had been their pride, it remained their disgrace. Dearly had they
loved, and dearly lost it. It meant something that looked like
honor, and though there were ten thousand thousand phonographs,
in all the world there was not one that could take its place.

The sound ceased, there was an approving distant murmur of men's
voices, and then the song began:

  "Jerusalem, Jerusalem,
  Lift up your voice and sing--"

Higher and higher the voice mounted until it reached again its
first thin, ear-splitting pitch.

"Still Bill" Stover stirred uneasily in the darkness. "Why 'n
'ell don't they keep her wound up?" he complained. "Gallagher's
got the soul of a wart-hog. It's criminal the way he massacres
that hymn."

From a rod farther down the wire fence Willie answered him, in a
boy's falsetto:

"I wonder if he does it to spite me?"

"He don't know you're here," said Stover.

The other came out of the gloom, a little stoop-shouldered man
with spectacles.

"I ain't noways sure," he piped, peering up at his lanky foreman.
"Why do you reckon he allus lets Mrs. Melby peter out on my
favorite record? He done the same thing last night. It looks like
an insult."

"It's nothing but ignorance," Stover replied. "He don't want no
trouble with you. None of 'em do."

"I'd like to know for certain." The small man seemed torn by
doubt. "If I only knew he done it a-purpose, I'd git him. I bet I
could do it from here."

Stover's voice was gruff as he commanded: "Forget it! Ain't it
bad enough for us fellers to hang around like this every night
without advertising our idiocy by a gun-play?"

"They ain't got no right to that phonograph," Willie averred,
darkly.

"Oh yes, they have; they won it fair and square."

"Fair and square! Do you mean to say Humpy Joe run that foot-race
on the square?"

"I never said nothin' like that whatever. I mean we bet it, and
we lost it. Listen! There goes Carara's piece!"

Out past the corral floated the announcement in a man's metallic
syllables:

"_The Baggage Coach Ahead,_ as sung by Helena Mora for the
Echo Phonograph, of New York and Pa-a-aris!"

From the dusk to the right of the two listeners now issued soft
Spanish phrases.

"_Madre de Dios!_ 'The Baggage Car in Front!' T'adora Mora!
God bless 'er!"

During the rendition of this affecting ballad the two cow-men
remained draped uncomfortably over the barbed-wire barrier, lost
in rapturous enjoyment. When the last note had died away, Stover
roused himself reluctantly.

"It's time we was turnin' in." He called softly, "Hey, Mex!"

"_Si, Senor!_"

"Come on, you and Cloudy. _Vamos!_ It's ten o'clock."

He turned his back on the Centipede Ranch that housed the
treasure, and in company with Willie, made his way to the ponies.
Two other figures joined them, one humming in a musical baritone
the strains of the song just ended.

"Cut that out, Mex! They'll hear us," Stover cautioned.

"_Caramba!_ This t'ing is brek my 'eart," said the Mexican,
sadly. "It seem like the Senorita Mora is sing that song to me.
Mebbe she knows I'm set out 'ere on cactus an' listen to her. Ah,
I love that Senorita ver' much."

The little man with the glasses began to swear in his high
falsetto. His ear had caught the phonograph operator in another
musical mistake.

"That horn-toad let Mrs. Melby die again to-night," said he.
"It's sure comin' to a runnacaboo between him and me. If somebody
don't kill him pretty soon, he'll wear out that machine before we
git it back."

"Humph! It don't look like we'd ever get it back," said Stover.

One of the four sighed audibly, then vaulting into his saddle,
went loping away without waiting for his companions.

"Cloudy's sore because they didn't play _Navajo,"_ said
Willie. "Well, I don't blame 'em none for omittin' that war-
dance. It ain't got the class of them other pieces. While it's
devised to suit the intellect of an Injun, perhaps; it ain't in
the runnin' with _The Holy City,_ which tune is the sweetest
and sacredest ever sung."

Carara paused with a hand upon the neck of his cayuse.

"Eet is not so fine as _The Baggage Car in Front,"_ he
declared.

"It's got it beat a mile!" Willie flashed back, harshly.

"Here you!" exclaimed Stover, "no arguments. We all have our
favorites, and it ain't up to no individual to force his likes
and dislikes down no other feller's throat." The two men he
addressed mounted their broncos stiffly.

"I repeat," said Willie: "_The Holy City_, as sung by Mrs.
Melby, is the swellest tune that ever hit these parts."

Carara muttered something in Spanish which the others could not
understand.

"They're all fine pieces," Stover observed, placatingly, when
fairly out of hearing of the ranch-houses. "You boys have each
got your preference. Cloudy, bein' an Injun, has got his, and I
rise to state that I like that monologue, _Silas on Fifth
Avenoo_, better than all of 'em, which ain't nothin' ag'inst
my judgment nor yours. When Silas says, 'The girl opened her
valise, took our her purse, closed her valise, opened her purse,
took out a dime, closed her purse, opened her valise, put in her
purse, closed her valise, give the dime to the conductor, got a
nickel in change, then opened her valise, took out her purse,
closed her valise-'" Stover began to rock in his saddle, then
burst into a loud guffaw, followed by his companions. "Gosh!
That's awful funny!"

"_Si! si!_" acknowledged Carara, his white teeth showing
through the gloom.

"An' it's just like a fool woman," tittered Willie. "That's sure
one ridic'lous line of talk."

"Still Bill" wiped his eyes with the back of a bony hand. "I know
that hull monologue by heart, but I can't never get past that
spot to save my soul. Right there I bog down, complete." Again he
burst into wild laughter, followed by his companions. "I don't
see how folks can be so dam' funny!" he gasped.

"It's natural to 'em, like warts," said Willie; "they're born
with it, the same as I was born to shoot straight with either
hand, and the same as the Mex was born to throw a rope. He don't
know how he does it, and neither do I. Some folks can say funny
things, some can sing, like Missus Melby; some can run
foot-races, like that Centipede cook--" Carara breathed an eloquent
Mexican oath.

"Do you reckon he fixed that race with Humpy Joe?" inquired
Stover.

"Name's Skinner," Willie observed. "It sure sounds bad."

"I'm sorry Humpy left us so sudden," said Still Bill. "We'd ought
to have questioned him. If we only had proof that the race was
crooked--"

"You can so gamble it was crooked," the little man averred. "Them
Centipede fellers never done nothin' on the square. They got
Humpy Joe, and fixed it for him to lose so they could get that
talkin'-machine. That's why he pulled out."

"I'd hate to think it," said the foreman, gloomily; then after a
moment, during which the only sound was that of the muffled
hoof-beats: "Well, what we goin' to do about it?"

"Humph! I've laid awake nights figurin' that out. I reckon we'll
just have to git another foot-racer and beat Skinner. He ain't
the fastest in the world."

"That takes coin. We're broke."

"Mebbe Mr. Chapin would lend a helpin' hand."

"No chance!" said Stover, grimly. "He's sore on foot-racin'. Says
it disturbs us and upsets our equalubrium."

Carara fetched a deep sigh.

"It's ver' bad t'ing, Senor. I don' feel no worse w'en my
gran'mother die."

The three men loped onward through the darkness, weighted heavily
with disappointment.

Affairs at the Flying Heart Ranch were not all to Jack Chapin's
liking. Ever since that memorable foot-race, more than a month
before, a gloom had brooded over the place which even the
presence of two Smith College girls, not to mention that of Mr.
Fresno, was unable to dissipate. The cowboys moped about like
melancholy shades, and neglected their work to discuss the
disgrace that had fallen upon them. It was a task to get any of
them out in the morning, several had quit, the rest were
quarrelling among themselves, and the bunk-house had already been
the scene of more than one encounter, altogether too sanguinary
to have originated from such a trivial cause as a foot-race. It
was not exactly an auspicious atmosphere in which to entertain a
houseful of college boys and girls, all unversed in the ways of
the West.

The master of the ranch sought his sister Jean, to tell her
frankly what was on his mind.

"See here, Sis," he began, "I don't want to cast a cloud over
your little house-party, but I think you'd better keep your
friends away from my men."

"Why, what is the matter?" she demanded.

"Things are at a pretty high tension just now, and the boys have
had two or three rows among themselves. Yesterday Fresno tried to
'kid' Willie about _The Holy City;_ said it was written as a
<DW53> song, and wasn't sung in good society. If he hadn't been a
guest, I guess Willie would have murdered him."

"Oh, Jack! You won't let Willie murder anybody, not even
Berkeley, while the people are here, will you?" coaxed Miss
Chapin, anxiously.

"What made you invite Berkeley Fresno, anyhow?" was the
rejoinder. "This is no gilded novelty to him. He is a Western
man."

Miss Chapin numbered her reasons sagely. "In the first place--
Helen. Then there had to be enough men to go around. Last and
best, he is the most adorable man I ever saw at a house-party.
He's an angel at breakfast, sings perfectly beautifully--you know
he was on the Stanford Glee Club--"

"Humph!" Jack was unimpressed. "If you roped him for Helen Blake
to brand, why have you sent for Wally Speed?"

"Well, you see, Berkeley and Helen didn't quite hit it off, and
Mr. Speed is--a friend of Culver's." Miss Chapin blushed
prettily.

"Oh, I see! I thought myself that this affair had something to do
with you and Culver Covington, but I didn't know it had lapsed
into a sort of matrimonial round-up. Suppose Miss Blake shouldn't
care for Speed after he gets here?"

"Oh, but she will! That's where Berkeley Fresno comes in. When
two men begin to fight for her, she'll have to begin to form a
preference, and I'm sure it will be for Wally Speed. Don't you
see?"

The brother looked at his sister shrewdly. "It seems to me you
learned a lot at Smith."

Jean tossed her head. "How absurd! That sort of knowledge is
perfectly natural for a girl to have." Then she teased: "But you
admit that my selection of a chaperon was excellent, don't you,
Jack?"

"Mrs. Keap and I are the best of friends," Jack averred, with
supreme dignity. "I'm not in the market, and a man doesn't marry
a widow, anyhow. It's too old and experienced a beginning."

"Nonsense! Roberta Keap is only twenty-three. Why, she hardly
knew her husband, even! It was one of those sudden, impulsive
affairs that would overwhelm any girl who hadn't seen a man for
four years. And then he enlisted in the Spanish War, and was
killed."

"Considerate chap!"

"Roberta, you know, is my best friend, after Helen. Do be nice to
her, Jack." Miss Chapin sighed. "It is too bad the others
couldn't come."

"Yes, a small house-party has its disadvantages. By-the-way,
what's that gold thing on your frock?"

"It's a medal. Culver sent it to me."

"Another?"

"Yes, he won the intercollegiate championship again." Miss Chapin
proudly extended the emblem on its ribbon.

"I wish to goodness Covington had been here to take Humpy Joe's
place," said the young cattle-man as he turned it over. "The boys
are just brokenhearted over losing that phonograph."

"I'll get him to run and win it back," Jean offered, easily. Her
brother laughed. "Take my advice, Sis, and don't let Culver mix
up in this game! The stakes are too high. I think that Centipede
cook is a professional runner, myself, and if our boys were
beaten again--well, you and mother and I would have to move out
of New Mexico, that's all. No, we'd better let the memory of that
defeat die out as quickly as possible. You warn Fresno not to
joke about it any more, and I'll take Mrs. Keap off your hands.
She may be a widow, she may even be the chaperon, but I'll do it;
I will do it," promised Jack--"for my sister's sake."




CHAPTER II

Helen Blake was undeniably bored. The sultry afternoon was very
long--longer even than Berkeley Fresno's autobiography, and quite
as dry. It was too hot and dusty to ride, so she took refuge in
the latest "best seller," and sought out a hammock on the vine-
shaded gallery, where Jean Chapin was writing letters, while the
disconsolate Fresno, banished, wandered at large, vaguely injured
at her lack of appreciation.

Absent-mindedly, the girls dipped into the box of bonbons between
them. Jean finished her correspondence and essayed conversation,
but her companion's blond head was bowed over the book in her
lap, and the effort met with no response. Lulled by the
somniferous droning of insects and lazy echoes from afar, Miss
Chapin was on the verge of slumber, when she saw her guest
rapidly turn the last pages of her novel, then, with a chocolate
between her teeth, read wide-eyed to the finish. Miss Blake
closed the book reluctantly, uncurled slowly, then stared out
through the dancing heat-waves, her blue eyes shadowed with
romance.

"Did she marry him?" queried Jean.

"No, no!" Helen Blake sighed, blissfully. "It was infinitely
finer. She killed herself."

"I like to see them get married."

"Naturally. You are at that stage. But I think suicide is more
glorious, in many cases."

Miss Chapin yawned openly. "Speaking of suicides, isn't this
ranch the deadest place?"

"Oh, I don't think so at all." Miss Blake picked her way
fastidiously through the bonbons, nibbling tentatively at several
before making her choice. "Oh yes, you do, and you needn't be
polite just because you're a guest." "Well, then, to be as
truthful as a boarder, it _is_ a little dull. Not for our
chaperon, though. The time doesn't seem to drag on her hands.
Jack certainly is making it pleasant for her."

"If you call taking her out to watch a lot of bellowing calves
get branded, entertainment," Miss Chapin sighed.

"I wonder what makes widows so fascinating?" observed the
youthful Miss Blake.

"I hope I never find out." Jean clutched nervously at the gold
medal on her dress. "Wouldn't that be dreadful!"

"My dear, Culver seems perfectly healthy. Why worry?"

"I--I wish he were here."

Miss Blake leaned forward and read the inscription on her
companion's medal. "Oh, isn't it heavy!" feeling it reverently.

"Pure gold, like himself! You should have seen him when he won
it. Why, at the finish of that race all the men but Culver were
making the most horrible faces. They were simply _dead_."

Miss Blake's hands were clasped in her lap. "They all make
faces," said she. "Have you told Roberta about your engagement?"

"No, she doesn't dream of it, and I don't want her to know. I'm
so afraid she'll think, now that mother has gone, that I asked
her here just as a chaperon. Perhaps I'll tell her when Culver
comes."

"I adore athletes. I wouldn't give a cent for a man who wasn't
athletic."

"Does Mr. Speed go in for that sort of thing?"

"Rather! The day we met at the Yale games he had medals all over
him, and that night at the dance he used the most wonderful
athletic language--we could scarcely understand him. Mr.
Covington must have told you all about him; they are chums, you
know."

Miss Chapin furrowed her brows meditatively.

"I have heard Culver speak of him, but never as an athlete. Have
you and Mr. Speed settled things between you, Helen? I mean, has
he--said anything?"

Miss Blake flushed.

"Not exactly." She adjusted a cushion to cover her confusion,
then leaned back complacently. "But he has stuttered dangerously
several times."

A musical tinkle of silver spurs sounded in the distance, and
around the corner of the cook-house opposite came Carara, the
Mexican, his wide, spangled sombrero tipped rakishly over one
ear, a corn-husk cigarette drooping from his lips. Evidently his
presence was inspired by some special motive, for he glanced
sharply about, and failing to detect the two girls behind the
distant screen of vines, removed his cigarette and whistled
thrice, like a quail, then, leaning against the adobe wall,
curled his black silken mustaches to needle-points.

"It's that romantic Spaniard!" whispered Helen. "What does he
want?"

"It's his afternoon call on Mariedetta, the maid," said Jean.
"They meet there twice a day, morning and afternoon."

"A lovers' tryst!" breathed Miss Blake, eagerly. "Isn't he
graceful and picturesque! Can we watch them?"

"'Sh-h! There she comes!"

From the opposite direction appeared a slim, swarthy Mexican
girl, an Indian water-jug balanced upon her shoulders. She was
clad in the straight-hanging native garment, belted in with a
sash; her feet were in sandals, and she moved as silently as a
shadow.

During the four days since Miss Blake's arrival at the Flying
Heart Ranch she had seen Mariedetta flitting noiselessly here and
there, but had never heard her speak. The pretty, expressionless
face beneath its straight black hair had ever retained its wooden
stolidity, the velvety eyes had not laughed nor frowned nor
sparkled. She seemed to be merely a part of this far southwestern
picture; a bit of inanimate yet breathing local color. Now,
however, the girl dropped her jug, and with a low cry glided to
her lover, who tossed aside his cigarette and took her in his
arms. From this distance their words were indistinguishable.

"How perfectly romantic," said the Eastern girl, breathlessly. "I
had no idea Mariedetta could love anybody."

"She is a volcano," Jean answered.

"Why, it's like a play!"

"And it goes on all the time."

"How gentle and sweet he is! I think he is charming. He is not at
all like the other cowboys, is he?"

While the two witnesses of the scene were eagerly discussing it,
Joy, the Chinese cook, emerged from the kitchen bearing a bucket
of water, his presence hidden from the lovers by the corner of
the building. Carara languidly released his inamorata from his
embrace and lounged out of sight around the building, pausing at
the farther corner to waft her a graceful kiss from the ends of
his fingers, as with a farewell flash of his white teeth he
disappeared. Mariedetta recovered her water-jug and glided onward
into the court in front of the cook-house, her face masklike, her
movements deliberate as usual. Joy, spying the girl, grinned at
her. She tossed her head coquettishly and her step slackened,
whereupon the cook, with a sly glance around, tapped her gently
on the arm, and said:

"Nice l'il gally."

"The idea!" indignantly exclaimed Miss Blake from her hammock.

But Mariedetta was not offended. Instead she smiled over her
shoulder as she had smiled at her lover an instant before.

"Me like you fine. You like pie?" Joy nodded toward the door to
the culinary department, as if to make free of his hospitality,
at the instant that Carara, who had circled the building, came
into view from the opposite side, a fresh cigarette between his
lips. His languor vanished at the first glimpse of the scene, and
he strode toward the white-clad Celestial, who dove through the
open door like a prairie dog into its hole. Carara followed at
his heels.

"It serves him right!" cried Miss Blake, rising. "I hope Mr.
Carara--"

A din of falling pots and pans issued from the cook-house,
mingled with shrill cries and soft Spanish imprecations; then,
with one long-drawn wail, the pandemonium ceased as suddenly as
it had commenced, and Carara issued forth, black with anger.

"Ha!" said he, scowling at Mariedetta, who had retreated, her
hand upon her bosom. He exhaled a lungful of cigarette smoke
through his nostrils fiercely. "You play wit' me, eh?"

"No! no!" Mariedetta ran to him, and, seizing his arm, cooed
amorously in Spanish.

"Bah! _Vamos!"_ Carara flung her from him, and stalked away.

"Well, of all the outrageous things!" said Miss Blake. "Why, she
was actually flirting with that Chinaman."

"Mariedetta flirts with every man she can find," said Jean,
calmly, "but she doesn't mean any harm. She'll marry Carara some
time--if he doesn't kill her."

"Kill her!" Miss Blake's eyes were round. "He wouldn't do
_that!"_

"Indeed, yes. He is a Mexican, and he has a terrible temper."

Miss Blake sank back into the hammock. "How perfectly dreadful!
And yet--it must be heavenly to love a man who would kill you."

Miss Chapin lost herself in meditation for an instant. "Culver is
almost like that when he is angry. Hello, here comes our
foreman!"

Stover, a tall, gangling cattle-man with drooping grizzled
mustache, came shambling up to the steps. His weather-beaten
chaps were much too short for his lengthy limbs, the collar of
his faded flannel shirt lacked an inch of meeting at the throat,
its sleeves were shrunken until his hairy hands hung down like
tassels. He was loose and spineless, his movements tempered with
the slothfulness of the far Southwest. His appearance gave one
the impression that ready-made garments are never long enough. He
dusted his boots with his sombrero and cleared his throat.

"'Evening, Miss Jean. Is Mr. Chapin around?"

"I think you'll find him down by the spring-house. Can I do
anything for you?"

"Nope!" Stover sighed heavily, and got his frame gradually into
motion again.

"You're not looking well, Stover. Are you ill?" inquired Miss
Chapin.

"Not physical," said the foreman, checking the movement which had
not yet communicated itself the entire length of his frame. "I
reckon my sperret's broke, that's all."

"Haven't you recovered from that foot-race?"

"I have not, and I never will, so long as that ornery Centipede
outfit has got it on us."

"Nonsense, Stover!"

"What have they done?" inquired Miss Blake, curiously. "I haven't
heard about any foot-race."

"You tell her," said the man, with another sigh, and a hopeless
gesture that told the depth of his feelings.

"Why, Stover hired a fellow a couple of months ago as a
horse-wrangler. The man said he was hungry, and made a good impression,
so we put him on."

Here Stover slowly raised one booted foot and kicked his other
calf. "The boys nicknamed him Humpy Joe--"

"Why, poor thing! Was he humpbacked?" inquired Helen.

"No," answered Still Bill. "Humpback is lucky. We called him
Humpy Joe because when it came to running he could sure get up
and hump himself."

"Soon after Joseph went to work," Jean continued, "the Centipede
outfit hired a new cook. You know the Centipede Ranch--the one
you see over yonder by the foot-hills."

"It wasn't 'soon after,' it was simuletaneous," said Stover,
darkly. "We're beginnin' to see plain at last." He went on as if
to air the injury that was gnawing him. "One day we hear that
this grub-slinger over yonder thinks he can run, which same is as
welcome to us as the smell of flowers on a spring breeze, for
Humpy Joe had amused us in his idle hours by running jack-rabbits
to earth--"

"Not really?" said Miss Blake.

"Well, no, but from what we see we judge he'd ought to limp a
hundred yards in about nothing and three-fifths seconds, so we
frame a race between him and the Centipede cook."

"As a matter of fact, there has been a feud for years between the
two outfits," Jean offered.

"With tumulchous joy we bet our wages and all the loose gear we
have, and in a burst of childish enthusiasm we put up--the
talking-machine."

"A phonograph?"

"Yes. An Echo Phonograph," said Miss Chapin.

"Of New York and Paris," added Stover.

"Our boys won it from this very Centipede outfit at a
bronco-busting tournament in Cheyenne."

"Wyoming." Stover made the location definite.

"The Centipede crowd took their defeat badly on Frontier Day, and
swore to get even."

"And was Humpy Joe defeated?" asked Helen.

"Was he?" Still Bill shook his head sadly, and sighed for a third
time. "It looked like he was running backward, miss."

"But really he was only beaten a foot. It was a wonderful race. I
saw it," said Jean. "It made me think of the races at college."

Miss Blake puckered her brows trying to think.

"Joseph," she said. "No, I don't think I have seen him."

Stover's lips met grimly. "I don't reckon you have, miss. Since
that race he has been hard to descry. He passed from view
hurriedly, so to speak, headed toward the foot-hills, and leaping
from crag to crag like the hardy shamrock of the Swiss Yelps."

Miss Blake giggled. "What made him hurry so?"

"Us!" Stover gazed at her solemnly. "We ain't none of us been the
same since that foot-race. You see, it ain't the financial value
of that Echo Phonograph, nor the 'double-cross' that hurts: it's
the fact that the mangiest outfit in the Territory has trimmed us
out of the one thing that stands for honor and excellence and
'scientific attainment,' as the judge said when we won it. That
talking-machine meant more to us than you Eastern folks can
understand, I reckon."

"If I were you I would cheer up," said Miss Blake, kindly, and
with some importance. "Miss Chapin has a college friend coming
this week, and he can win back your trophy."

Stover glanced up at Jean quickly.

"Is that right, Miss Chapin?"

"He can if he will," Jean asserted.

"Can he run?"

"He is the intercollegiate champion," declared that young lady,
with proud dignity.

"And do you reckon he'd run for us and the Echo Phonograph of New
York and Paris, if we framed a race? It's an honor!"

But Miss Chapin suddenly recalled her brother's caution of the
day before, and hesitated.

"I--I don't think he would. You see, he is an amateur--he might
be out of training--"

"The idea!" exclaimed Miss Blake, indignantly. "If Culver won't
run, I know who will!" She closed her lips firmly, and turned to
the foreman. "You tell your friends that we'll see you get your
trophy back."

"Helen, I--"

"I mean it!" declared Miss Blake, with spirit.

Stover bowed loosely. "Thank you, miss. The very thought of it
will cheer up the gang. Life 'round here is blacker 'n a spade
flush. I think I'll tell Willie." He shambled rapidly off around
the house.

"Helen dear, I don't want Culver to get mixed up in this affair,"
explained Miss Chapin, as soon as they were alone. "It's all
utterly foolish. Jack doesn't want him to, either."

"Very well. If Culver doesn't feel that he can beat that cook
running, I know who will try. Mr. Speed will do anything I ask.
It's a shame the way those men have been treated."

"But Mr. Speed isn't a sprinter."

"Indeed!" Miss Blake bridled. "Perhaps Culver Covington isn't the
only athlete in Yale College. I happen to know what I'm talking
about. Naturally the two boys have never competed against each
other, because they are friends--Mr. Speed isn't the sort to race
his room-mate. Oh! he wouldn't tell me he could run if it were
not true."

"I don't think he will consent when he learns the truth."

"I assure you," said Miss Blake, sweetly, "he will be delighted."




CHAPTER III

It was still early in the afternoon when Jack Chapin and the
youthful chaperon found the other young people together on the
gallery.

"Here's a telegram from Speed," began Jack.

"It's terribly funny," said Mrs. Keap. "That Mexican brought it
to us down at the spring-house."

Miss Blake lost her bored expression, and sat up in the hammock.

"'Mr. Jack Chapin,'" read the owner of the Flying Heart Ranch.
"'Dear Jack: I couldn't wait for Covington, so meet with
brass-band and fireworks this afternoon. Have flowers in bloom in the
little park beside the depot, and see that the daisies nod to
me.--J. Wallingford Speed.'"

"Park, eh?" said Fresno, dryly. "Telegraph office, water-tank,
and a cattle-chute. Where does this fellow think he is?"

"Here is a postscript," added Chapin.

"'I have a valet who does not seem to enjoy the trip. Divide a
kiss among the girls.'"

"Well, well! He's stingy with his kisses," observed Berkeley.
"Who is this humorous party?"

"He was a Freshman at Yale the year I graduated," explained Jack.

"Too bad he never got out of that class." It was evident that Mr.
Speed's levity made no impression upon the Glee Club tenor. "He
hates to talk about himself, doesn't he?"

"I think he is very clever," said Miss Blake, warmly.

"How well do you know him?"

"Not as well as I'd like to."

Fresno puffed at his little pipe without remarking at this.

"Well, who wants to go and meet him?" queried Jack.

"Won't you?" asked his sister.

"I can't. I've just got word from the Eleven X that I'm wanted.
The foreman is hurt. I may not be back for some time."

"<DW65> Mike met me," observed Fresno, darkly.

"Then <DW65> Mike for Speed," laughed the cattle-man. "I've told
Carara to hitch up the pintos for me. I must be going."

"I'll see that you are safely started," said the young widow; and
leaving the trio on the gallery, they entered the house.

When they had gone, Jean smiled wisely at Helen. "Roberta's such
a thoughtful chaperon," she observed, whereupon Miss Blake
giggled.

As for Mrs. Keap, she was inquiring of Jack with genuine
solicitude:

"Do you really mean that you may be gone for some time?"

"I do. It may be a week; it may be longer; I can't tell until I
get over there."

"I'm sorry." Mrs. Keap's face showed some disappointment.

"So am I."

"I shall have to look out for these young people all by myself."

"What a queer little way you have of talking, as if you were
years and years old."

"I do feel as if I were. I--I--well, I have had an unhappy
experience. You know unhappiness builds months into years."

"When Jean got up this house-party," young Chapin began,
absently, "I thought I should be bored to death. But--I haven't
been. You know, I don't want to go over there?" He nodded vaguely
toward the south.

"I thought perhaps it suited your convenience." His companion
watched him gravely. "Are you quite sure that your sister's
guests have not--had something to do with this sudden
determination?"

"I am quite sure. I never liked the old Flying Heart so much as I
do to-day. I never regretted leaving it so much as I do at this
moment."

"We may be gone before you return."

Young Chapin started. "You don't mean that, really?" Mrs. Keap
nodded her dark head. "It was all very well for me to chaperon
Helen on the way out from the East, but--it isn't exactly regular
for me to play that part here with other young people to look
after."

"But you understand, of course--Jean must have explained to you.
Mother was called away suddenly, and she can't get back now. You
surely won't leave--you _can't_." Chapin added, hopefully:
"Why, you would break up Jean's party. You see, there's nobody
around here to take your place."

"But--"

"Nonsense! This is an unconventional country. What's wrong with
you as a chaperon, anyway? Nobody out here even knows what a
chaperon is. And I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Do you really think that would help?" Roberta's eyes laughed
humorously.

"I'm not thinking of the others, I'm thinking of myself,"
declared the young man, boldly. "I don't want you to go before I
return. You must not! If you go, I--I shall follow you." He
grasped her hand impulsively.

"Oh!" exclaimed the chaperon. "This makes it even more impossible.
Go! _Go!_" She pushed him away, her color surging. "Go to your
old Eleven X Ranch right away."

"But I mean it," he declared, earnestly. Then, as she retreated
farther: "It's no use, I sha'n't go now until--"

"You have known me less than a week!"

"That is long enough. Roberta--"

Mrs. Keap spoke with honest embarrassment. "Listen! Don't you see
what a situation this is? If Jean and Helen should ever discover--"

"Jean planned it all; even this."

Mrs. Keap stared at him in horrified silence.

"You do love me, Roberta?" Chapin undertook to remove the girl's
hands from her face, when a slight cough in the hall behind
caused him to turn suddenly in time to see Berkeley Fresno
passing the open door.

"There! You see!" Mrs. Keap's face was tragic. "_You see!_"
She turned and fled, leaving the master of the ranch in the
middle of the floor, bewildered, but a bit inclined to be happy.
A moment later the plump face of Berkeley Fresno appeared
cautiously around the door-jamb. He coughed again gravely.

"I happened to be passing," said he. "You'll pardon me?"

"This is the most thickly settled spot in New Mexico!" Chapin
declared, with an artificial laugh, choking his indignation.

Fresno slowly brought his round body out from concealment.

"I came in to get a match."

"Why don't you carry matches?"

Fresno puffed complacently upon his pipe. "This," he mused, as
his host departed, "eliminates the chaperon, and that helps
some."

Still Bill Stover lost no time in breaking the news to the boys.

"There's something comin' off," he advised Willie. "We've got
another foot-runner!"

If he had hoped for an outburst of rapture on the part of the
little gun man he was disappointed, for Willie shifted his
holster, smiled evilly through his glasses, and inquired, with
ominous restraint:

"Where is he?"

Being the one man on the Flying Heart who had occasion to wear a
gun, Willie seldom smiled from a sense of humor. Here it may be
said that, deceived at first by his scholarly appearance, his
fellow-laborers had jibed at Willie's affectation of a swinging
holster, but the custom had languished abruptly. When it became
known who he was, the other ranch-hands had volubly declared that
this was a free country, where a man might exercise a wide
discretion in the choice of personal adornment; and as for them,
they avowed unanimously that the practice of packing a Colts was
one which met with their most cordial approbation. In time
Willie's six-shooter had become accepted as a part of the local
scenery, and, like the scenery, no one thought of remarking upon
it, least of all those who best knew his lack of humor. He had
come to them out of the Nowhere, some four years previously, and
while he never spoke of himself, and discouraged reminiscence in
others, it became known through those vague uncharted channels by
which news travels on the frontier, that back in the Texas
Panhandle there was a limping marshal who felt regrets at mention
of his name, and that farther north were other men who had a
superstitious dread of undersized cow-men with spectacles. There
were also stories of lonesome "run-ins," which, owing to Willie's
secretiveness and the permanent silence of the other
participants, never became more than intangible rumors. But he
was a good ranchman, attended to his business, and the sheriff's
office was remote, so Willie had worked on unmolested.

"This here is a real foot-runner," said Stover.

"Exactly," agreed the other. "Where is he?"

"He'll be here this afternoon. <DW65> Mike's bringin' him over
from the railroad. He's a guest."

"Oh!"

"Yep! He's intercollegit champeen of Yale."

"Yale?" repeated the near-sighted man. "Don't know's I ever been
there. Much of a town?"

"I ain't never travelled East myself, but Miss Jean and the
little yaller-haired girl say he's the fastest man in the world.
I figgered we might rib up something with the Centipede." Still
Bill winked sagely.

"See here, do you reckon he'd run?"

"Sure! He's a friend of the boss. And he'll run on the level,
too. He can't be nothin' like Humpy."

"If he is, I'll git him," said the cowboy. "Oh, I'll git him
sure, guest or no guest. But how about the phonograph?"

"The Centipede will put it up quick enough; there ain't no
sentiment in that outfit."

"Then it sounds good."

"An' it'll work. Gallagher's anxious to trim us again. Some folks
can't stand prosperity."

Willie spat unerringly at a grasshopper. "Lord!" said he, "it's
too good! It don't sound possible."

"Well, it is, and our man will be here this evenin'. Watch out
for <DW65> Mike, and when he drives up let's give this party a
welcome that'll warm his heart on the jump. There's nothin' like
a good impression."

"I'll be on the job," assured Willie. "But I state right here and
now, if we do get a race there ain't a-goin' to be no chance of
our losin' for a second time."

And Stover went on his way to spread the tidings.

It was growing dark when the rattle of wheels outside the
ranch-house brought the occupants to the porch in time to see <DW65>
Mike halt his buck-board and two figures prepare to descend.

"It's Mr. Speed!" cried Miss Blake. Then she uttered a scream as
the velvet darkness was rent by a dozen tongues of flame, while a
shrill yelping arose, as of an Apache war-party.

"It's the boys," said Jean. "What on earth has possessed them?"

But Stover had planned no ordinary reception, and the pandemonium
did not cease until the men had emptied their weapons.

Then Mr. J. Wallingford Speed came stumbling up the steps and
into the arms of his friends, the tails of his dust-coat
streaming.

"Really? This is more than I expected," he gasped; then turning,
doffed his straw hat to the half-revealed figures beyond the
light, and cried, gayly: "Thank you, gentlemen! Thank you for
missing me!"

"Yow--ee!" responded the cowboys.

"How do you do, Miss Chapin!" Speed shook hands with his hostess,
and in the radiance from the open doorway she saw that his face
was round and boyish, and his smile peculiarly engaging.

She welcomed him appropriately; then said: "This reception is
quite as startling to us as to you. You know, Mr. Speed, that we
have with us a friend of yours." She slightly drew Helen forward.
"And this is Mrs. Keap, who is looking after us a bit while
mother is away. Roberta, may I present Mr. Covington's friend,
and ask you to be good to him?"

"Don't forget me," said Fresno, pushing into the light.

"Mr. Berkeley Fresno, of Leland Stanford University."

"Hello, Frez!" Speed thrust out his hand warmly. Not so the
Californian. He replied, with hauteur:

"Fresno! F-r-e-s-n-o"; and allowed the new-comer to grasp a limp,
moist hand.

"Ah! Go to the head of the class! I'm sorry you broke your wrist,
however." The Eastern lad spoke lightly, and gave the palm a
hearty squeeze, then turned to Jean.

"I dare say you are all disappointed, Miss Chapin, that Culver
didn't come with me, but he'll be along in a day or so. I simply
couldn't wait." He avoided glancing at Helen Blake, whose
answering blush was lost in the darkness.

"I did think when you drove up that might be Mr. Covington with
you," Miss Chapin remarked, wistfully.

"Oh no, that's my man." Speed glanced around him. "And,
by-the-way, where is he?"

The sound of angry voices came through the gloom, then out into
the light came Still Bill Stover, Willie, and Carara, dragging
between them a globular person who was rebelling loudly.

"Stover, what is this?" questioned Miss Chapin, stepping to the
edge of the veranda.

"This gent stampedes in the midst of our welcome," explained the
foreman, "so we have to rope him before he gets away." It was
seen now that Carara's lariat was tightly drawn about the new
arrival's waist.

Then the valet broke into coherent speech, but he spoke a tongue
not common to his profession.

"Nix on that welcome stuff," he burst forth, in husky, alcoholic
accents; "that goes on the door-mat!" It was plain that he was
very angry. "If that racket means welcome, I don't want it. Take
that clothes-line off of me." Carara loosened the noose, and his
captive rolled up the steps mopping his face with his
handkerchief.

"What made you run away?" demanded Speed.

"Any time a bunch of bandits unhitch their gats, I'm on my way,"
sputtered the fat man. "I'm gun-shy, see? And when this hold-up
comes off I beat it till that Cuban rummy with the medals on his
dicer rides a live horse up my back."

"You don't appreciate the honor," explained his employer; then
turning to the others, he announced: "Will you allow me to
introduce Mr. Lawrence Glass? He isn't really a valet, you know,
Miss Chapin, and he doesn't care for the West yet. It is his
first trip."

"I have heard my brother speak of Larry Glass," said Jean,
graciously.

Mr. Glass courtesied awkwardly, and swinging his right foot back
of his left, tapped the floor with his toe. "You were a trainer
at Yale when Jack was there?"

"That's me," Mr. Glass wheezed. "I'm there with the big rub, too.
Wally said he was going to train during vacation, so he staked me
to a trip out here, and I came along to look after him."

"Come into the house," said Jean. "Stover will see to your
baggage."

As they entered, Mr. Berkeley Fresno saw the late arrival bend
over Helen Blake, and heard him murmur:

"The same unforgettable eyes of Italian blue."

And Mr. Fresno decided to dislike Wally Speed, even if it
required an effort.




CHAPTER IV

It was on the following morning that Miss Blake made bold to
request her favor from J. Wallingford Speed. They had succeeded
in isolating themselves upon the vine-shaded gallery at the rear
of the house, and the conversation had been largely of athletics,
but this, judging from the rapt expression of the girl, was a
subject of surpassing interest. Speed, quick to take a cue,
plunged on.

"I would have made the Varsity basket-ball team myself if I
hadn't been so tiny," said Helen. "I have always wanted to be
tall, like Roberta."

"I shouldn't care for that," said the young man.

"You know she was a wonderful player?"

"So I've heard."

"Do you know," mused Helen, "I have never forgotten what you told
me that first day we met. I think it was perfectly lovely of
you."

"What was that?" Now it must be admitted that J. Wallingford
Speed, in his relations with the other sex, frequently found
himself in a position requiring mental gymnastics of a high
order; but, as a rule, his memory was good, and he seldom crossed
his own trail, so to speak. In this instance he was utterly
without remembrance, however, and hence was non-committal.

"What you told me about your friendship for Mr. Covington. I
think it is very unselfish of you."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," ventured the young man, vainly racking
his brain. "Nobody could help liking Culver."

"Yes; but how many men would step aside and let their best friend
win prize after prize and never undertake to compete against
him?" Speed blushed faintly, as any modest man might have done.

"Did I tell you that?" he inquired.

"Indeed you did."

"Then please don't speak of it to a mortal soul. I must have said
a great deal that first day, but--"

"But I _have_ spoken of it, and I said I thought it was fine
of you."

"You have spoken of it?"

"Yes; I told Jean."

The Yale man undertook to change the conversation abruptly, but
Miss Blake was a determined young lady. She continued:

"Of course, it was very magnanimous of you to always step aside
in favor of your best friend; but it isn't fair to yourself--it
really isn't. And so I have arranged a little plan whereby you
can do something to prove your prowess, and still not interfere
with Mr. Covington in the least."

Speed cleared his throat nervously. "Tell me," he said, "what it
is."

And Miss Blake told him the story of the shocking treachery of
Humpy Joe, together with the miserable undoing of the Flying
Heart. "Why, those poor fellows are broken-hearted," she
concluded. "Their despair over losing that talking-machine would
be funny if it were not so tragic. I told them you would win it
back for them. And you will, won't you? Please!" She turned her
blue eyes upon him appealingly, and the young man was lost.

"I'll take ten chances," he said. "Where does the raffle come
off?"

"Oh, it isn't a raffle, it's a foot-race. You must run with that
Centipede cook."

"I! Run a race!" exclaimed the young college man, aghast.

"Yes, I've promised that you would. You see, this isn't like a
college event, and Culver isn't here yet."

"But he'll be here in a day or so." Speed felt as if a very large
man were choking him; he decided his collar was too tight.

"Oh, I've talked it all over with Jean. She doesn't want Culver
to run, anyhow."

"Why not?" inquired he, suspiciously.

"I don't know, I'm sure."

"If Miss Chapin doesn't want Culver to run, you surely wouldn't
want me to."

"Not at all. If Mr. Covington knew the facts of the case, he
would be only too happy to do it. And, you see, _you_ know
the facts."

Speed was about to shape a gracious but firm refusal of the
proffered honor when Still Bill Stover appeared at the steps,
doffed his faded Stetson, and bowed limply.

"Mornin', Miss Blake." To the rear Speed saw three other men--an
Indian, tall, swart, and saturnine, who walked with a limp; a
picturesque Mexican with a spangled hat and silver spurs,
evidently the captor of Lawrence Glass on the evening previous;
and an undersized little man with thick-rimmed spectacles and a
heavy-hanging holster from which peeped a gun-butt. All were
smiling pleasantly, and seemed a bit abashed.

"Good-morning, Mr. Stover," said Helen, pleasantly. "This is Mr.
Speed, of whom I spoke to you yesterday." Stover bowed again and
mumbled something about the honor of this meeting, and Miss Blake
cast her eyes over the other members of the group, saying,
graciously: "I'm afraid I can't introduce your friends; I haven't
met them."

The loquacious foreman came promptly to the rescue, rejoicing in
an opportunity of displaying his oratorical gifts.

"Then I'll make you acquainted with the best brandin' outfit in
these parts." He waved a long, bony arm at the Mexican, who
flashed his white teeth. "This Greaser is Aurelio Maria Carara.
Need I say he's Mex, and a preemeer roper?" Carara bowed, and
swept the ground with his high-peaked head-piece. "The Maduro
gent yonder is Mr. Cloudy. His mother being a Navajo squaw, named
him, accordin' to the rights and customs of her tribe, selecting
the title of Cloudy-but-the-Sun-Shines, which same has proved a
misnomer, him bein' a pessimist for fair."

Miss Blake and her companion smiled and nodded, at which Stover,
encouraged beyond measure, elaborated.

"He's had a hist'ry, too. When he reaches man's real-estate the
Injun agent ropes, throws, and hog-ties him, then sends him East
to be cultivated. He spends four years kickin' a football--"
Speed interrupted, with an exclamation of genuine interest.

"Oh, it's true as gospel," the foreman averred. "When he goes
lame in his off leg they ship him back, and in spite of them
handicaps he has become one rustlin' savage at a round-up."

"What college did you attend?" inquired Speed, politely. The
question fell upon unresponsive ears. Cloudy did not stir nor
alter the direction of his sombre glance.

"He don' talk none," Stover explained. "Conversation, which I
esteem as a gift deevine, is a lost art with him. I reckon he
don't average a word a week. What language he did know he has
forgot, and what he ain't forgot he distrusts."

Turning to the near-sighted man who had been staring at the
college youth meanwhile, the spokesman took a deep breath, and
said, simply yet proudly, as if describing the _piece de
resistance_ of this exhibition:

"The four-eyed gent is Willie, plain Willie, a born range-rider,
_and the best hip shot this side of the Santa Fe trail!_"

Speed beheld an undersized man of indeterminate age, hollow-
chested, thin-faced, gravely benignant. It was not alone his
glasses that lent him a scholarly appearance; he had the stooped
shoulders, the thoughtful intensity of gaze, the gentle,
hesitating backwardness of a book-raised man. There were tutors
at Yale quite as colorless, characterless and indefinite, and
immensely more forceful. In place of the revolver at his belt, it
seemed as if Willie should have carried a geologist's pick, a
butterfly-net, or a magnifying-glass: one was prepared to hear
him speak learnedly of microscopy, or even, perhaps, of
settlement work. As a cowboy he was utterly out of place, and it
was quite impossible to take Stover's words seriously.
Nevertheless, Speed acknowledged the introduction pleasantly,
while the benevolent little man blinked back of his lenses.
Stover addressed himself to Miss Blake.

"I told the boys what you said, miss, and we four has come as a
delegation to find out if it goes."

"Mr. Speed and I were just talking about it when you came," said
Helen. "I'm sure he will consent if you add your entreaties to
mine."

"It would sure be a favor," said the cow-man, at which the others
drew nearer, as if hanging on Speed's answer. Even Cloudy turned
his black eyes upon the young man.

The object of their co-operate gaze shifted his feet
uncomfortably and felt minded to flee, but the situation would
not permit of it. Besides, the affair interested him. His mind
was working rapidly, albeit his words were hesitating.

"I--I'm afraid I'm not in shape to run," he ventured. But Stover
would have none of this modesty, admirable as it might appear.

"Oh, I talked with your trainer just now. I told him you was
tipped off to us as a sprinter."

"What did he say?" inquired Speed, with alarm.

"He said 'no' at first, till I told him who let it out; then he
laughed, and said he guessed you was a runner, but you didn't
work at it regular. I asked him how good you was, and he said
none of the college teams would let you run. That's good enough
for us, Mr. Speed."

"But I'm not in condition," objected the youth, with a sigh of
gratitude at Glass's irony.

"I reckon he knows more about that than you do. We covered that
point too, and Mr. Glass said you was never better than you are
right now. Anyhow, you don't have to bust no records to beat this
cook. He ain't so fast."

"It would sure be a kind-hearted act if you'd do it for us," said
the little man in his high, boyish voice. It was a shock to
discover that he spoke in a dialect. "There's a heap of sentiment
connected with this affair. You see, outside of being a prize
that we won at considerable risk, there goes with this phonograph
a set of records, among which we all have our special favorites.
Have you ever heard Madam-o-sella Melby sing _The Holy
City_?"

"I didn't know she sang it," said Speed.

"Take it from me, she did, and you've missed a heap."

"You bet," Stover agreed, in a hushed, awed tone.

"Well, you must have heard Missus Heleney Moray in _The Baggage
Coach Ahead_?" queried the scholarly little man. At mention of
his beloved classic, Carara, the Mexican, murmured, softly:

"Ah! _The Baggage Car_--Te'adora Mora! God bless 'er!"

"I must confess I've never had the pleasure," said Speed,
whereupon the speaker regarded him pityingly, and Stover, jealous
that so much of the conversation had escaped him, inquired:

"Can it be that you never heard that monologue, _Silas on Fifth
Avenoo_?"

Again Speed shook his head.

As if the very memory were hilariously funny, Still Bill's
shoulders heaved, and stifled laughter caused his Adam's apple to
race up and down his leathern throat. Swallowing his merriment at
length, he recited, in a choking voice, as follows: "Silas goes
up Fifth Avenoo and climbs into a bus. There is a girl settin'
opposite. He says, 'The girl opened her valise, took out her
purse, closed her valise, opened her purse, took out a dime,
closed her purse, opened her valise, put in her purse, closed her
valise, handed the dime to the conductor, got a nickle in change,
opened her valise, took out her purse, closed her valise, opened
her purse--'"

At this point the speaker fell into ungovernable hysteria and
exploded, rocking back and forth, slapping his thighs and
hiccoughing with enjoyment. Willie followed him, as did Carara.
Even Cloudy showed his teeth, and the two young people on the
porch found themselves joining in from infection. It was patent
that here lay some subtle humor sufficient to convulse the Far
Western nature beyond all reason; for Stover essayed repeatedly
to check his laughter before gasping, finally: "Gosh 'lmighty! I
never can get past that place. He! He! He! Whoo-hoo! That's sure
ridic'lous, for fair." He wiped his eyes with the back of a
sun-browned hand, and his frame was racked with barking coughs. "I
know the whole blame thing by heart, but--I can't recite it to
you. I bog down right there. Seems like some folks is the
darndest fools!"

Speed allowed this good-humor to banish his trepidation, and
assured the foreman that _Silas on Fifth Avenue_ must indeed
be a very fine monologue.

"It's my favorite," said Still Bill, "but we all have our picks.
Cloudy here likes _Navajo_, which I agree is attuned to
please the savage year, but to my mind it ain't in the runnin'
with _Silas._"

"You see what the phonograph means to these gentlemen," said Miss
Blake. "I think it's a crying shame that they were cheated out of
it, don't you?"

Speed began to outline a plan hastily in his mind.

"I assured them that you would win it back for them, and--"

"We sure hope you will," said Willie, earnestly.

"Amen!" breathed the lanky foreman, his cheeks still wet from his
tears of laughter, but his face drawn into lines of eagerness.

"Please! For my sake!" urged Helen, placing a gentle little hand
upon her companion's arm.

Speed closed his eyes, so to speak, and leaped in the dark.

"All right, I'll do it!"

"Yow-ee!" yelled Stover. "We knew you would!" Willie was beaming
benignantly through his glasses, while both Carara and Cloudy
showed their heartfelt gratitude. "Thank you, Miss Blake. Now
we'll show up that shave-tail Centipede crowd for what it is."

"Wait!" Speed checked the outburst. "I'll consent upon
conditions. I'll run, provided you can arrange the race for an
'unknown.'"

"What does that mean?" Helen asked.

"It means that I don't want my name known in the matter. Instead
of arranging for Mr. Whatever-the-Cook's-Name-Is to run a race
with J. W. Speed, he must agree to compete against a
representative of the Flying Heart ranch, name unknown."

"I don't think that is fair!" cried the girl. "Think of the
honor."

"Yes, but I'm an amateur. I'd lose my standing."

"That goes for us," said Stover. "We don't care what name you run
under. We'll frame the race. Lordy! but this is a glorious
event."

"We can't thank you enough," Willie piped. "You're a true sport,
Mr. Speed, and we aim to see that you don't get the worst of it
in no way. This here race is goin' to be on the square-you hear
me talk-in'. No double-cross this time." Unconsciously the
speaker's hand strayed to the gun at his belt, while his smile
was grim. Speed started.

"What day shall we set?" inquired Stover.

Wally rapidly calculated the date of Culver's arrival, and said:
"A week from Saturday." Covington would soon be _en route_,
and was due to arrive a few days thereafter.

"We'd like to make it to-morrow," ventured Willie.

"Oh, but I must have a chance to get in trim," said the college
man.

"One week from Saturday goes," announced Stover, "and we thank
you again." Turning to Carara, he directed: "Rope your buckskin,
and hike for the Centipede. Tell 'em to unlimber their coin. I'll
draw a month's wages in advance for every son-of-a-gun on the
Flying Heart, and we'll arrange details to-night."

"_Si_," agreed Carara. "I go."

"And don't waste no time neither," directed Willie. "You tear
like a jack-rabbit ahead of a hot wind."

Carara tossed his cigarette aside, and the sound of his spurs was
lost around the corner of the house.

"This makes a boy of me," the last speaker continued. "I can hear
the plaintiff notes of Madam-o-sella Melby once again."




CHAPTER V

Larry Glass discovered his protege on the rear porch engrossed
with Miss Blake, and signalled him from afar; but the young man
ignored the signal, and the trainer strolled up to the steps.

"Hello, Larry! What's on your mind?" inquired Speed.

"I'd like to see you." Glass, clad in his sportiest garments,
seemed utterly lacking in the proper appreciation of a valet's
position. He treated his employer with a tolerant good-nature.

Miss Blake excused herself and went into the house, whereupon her
companion showed his irritation. "See here, Larry, don't you know
better than to interrupt me in the midst of a hammock talk?"

"Oh, that's all right," wheezed the trainer. "As long as you
didn't spill her out, she'll be back."

"Well, what is it?"

"I had a stomach-laugh slipped to me just now." He began to
shake.

"So you broke up my tete-a-tete to tell me a funny story?"

"Listen here. These cowboys have got you touted for a foot-
runner." This time Glass laughed aloud, hoarsely. "They have
framed a race with a ginny down the block."

"All right, I'll run."

Mr. Glass's face abruptly fell into solemn lines. "Quit your
kiddin', Wally; you couldn't run a hundred yards in twenty
minutes. These guys are on the level. They've sent General Garcia
over to cook it."

"Yes. The race comes off in ten days."

Glass allowed his mouth to drop open and his little eyes to peer
forth in startled amazement.

"Then it's true? I guess this climate is too much for you," he
said. "When did you feel this comin' on?"

Speed laughed. "I know what I'm doing." With an effort at
restraint, the trainer inquired:

"What's the idea?"

"I'll tell you how it came up, Larry. I--I'm very fond of Miss
Blake. That's why I broke the record getting out here as soon as
I was invited. Well, she believes, from something I said--one of
those odd moments, you know--that I'm a great athlete, and she
told those cowboys that I'd gladly put on my spiked shoes and
carry their colors to victory. You've heard about the
phonograph?"

Glass smiled wearily. "I can't hear nothing else. The gang is
daffy on grand opera."

"When I was accused of being an athlete I couldn't deny it, could
I?"

"I see. You was stringin' the gal, and she called you, eh?"

"I wouldn't express it in quite those terms. I may have
exaggerated my abilities slightly." Glass laughed. "She is such a
great admirer of athletics, it was quite natural. Any man would
have done the same. She got me committed in front of the cowboys,
and I had to accept--or be a quitter."

Glass nodded appreciatively. "All the same," said he, "you've got
more nerve than a burglar. How you goin' to side-step?"

"I made the match for an 'unknown.'" Speed winked. "Covington
will be here in a day or two. I'll wire him to hurry up.
Fortunately I brought a lot of athletic clothes with me, so I'll
go into training under your direction. When Covington gets here
I'll let _him_ run."

The fat man sighed with relief. "Now I'm hep. I was afraid you'd
try to go through with it."

"Hardly. I'll sprain an ankle, or something. She'll be there with
the sympathy. See? Covington will run the race; the cowboys will
get their phonograph; and I'll get--well, if I can beat out this
Native Son tenor singer, I'll invite you to the wedding. There
wasn't any other way out."

Glass mopped his brow. "You had me wingin' for a while, but I
plugged your game with the cowboys. Pawnee Bill and his Congress
of Rough Riders think you're a cyclone."

"It's the first chance I ever had to wear that silk running-suit.
Who knows, maybe I _can_ run!"

"Nix, now! Don't kid yourself too far. This thing is funny enough
as it stands."

"Oh, I dare say it looks like a joke to you, but it doesn't to
me, Larry. If I don't marry that girl, I--I'll go off my balance,
that's all, and I'm not going to overlook any advantage whatever.
Fresno sings love-songs, and he's got a mint of money. Well, I'm
going to work this athletic pose to death. I'm going into
training, I'm going to talk, eat, sleep, live athletics for a
week, and when I'm unexpectedly crippled on the eve of the race,
it is going to break my heart. Understand! I am going to be so
desperately disappointed that I'll have to choose between suicide
and marriage. The way I feel now, I think I'll choose marriage.
But you must help."

"Leave it to me, Bo!"

"In the first place, I want some training-quarters."

"That's right, don't be a piker."

"And I want you to boost."

"I'm there! When do we begin?"

"Right away. Unpack my running-suit and rub some dirt on it--it's
too new. I think I'll limber up, and let her get a look at the
clothes."

"It's a bright idea; but don't let these animal-trainers see you
run, or the stuff will be cold in a minute."

"Fine! We'll have secret practice! That suits me perfectly."
Speed laughed with joy.

From inside the house came the strains of _Dearie_, sung in
a sympathetic tenor, and upon the conclusion Berkeley Fresno's
voice inquiring:

"Miss Blake, did I ever tell you about the time I sang
_Dearie_ to the mayor's daughter in Walla Walla?"

Miss Blake appeared on the gallery with her musical admirer at
her elbow.

"Yes," said she, sweetly. "You told me all about the mayor's
daughter a week ago." Then spying Speed and his companion, she
exclaimed: "Mr. Fresno has a fine voice, hasn't he? He sings with
the Stanford Glee Club."

"Indeed."

"Sure!" The Native Son of the Golden West shook up a hammock-
cushion for the girl. "Tenor!" said he, sententiously.

"Say no more," Speed remarked; "it's all right with us!"

Fresno looked up.

"What's wrong with my singing?"

"Oh, I've just told the girls that you're going to run that foot-
race," Helen interposed, hurriedly, at which Fresno exploded.

"What's wrong with my running?" inquired Speed.

"I can beat you!"

Larry Glass nudged his employer openly, and seemed on the verge
of hysteria. "Let him go," said he. "Let him go; he's funny."

Speed addressed Helen, with a magnanimous smile:

"Suppose we allow Frez to _sing_ this foot-race? We'll pull
it off in the treble cleff."

"Oh, I mean it!" maintained the tenor, stubbornly. "I don't want
to run Skinner, the cook, but I'll run you to see who does meet
him."

Speed shrugged his shoulders indulgently.

"I'm afraid you're a little overweight."

"I'll train down."

"Perhaps if you wait until I beat this cook, I'll take you on."

Glass broke out, in husky indignation: "Sure! Get a rep, Cull,
get a rep!" Then to his employer: "Come on, Wally, you've got to
warm up." He mounted the steps heavily with his protege.

When they had gone, Miss Blake clapped her hands.

"I'm so excited!" she exclaimed. "You see, it's all my doings!
Oh, how I adore athletes!"

"Most young girls do," Fresno smiled, sourly. "My taste runs more
to music." After a moment's meditation, he observed: "Speed
doesn't look like a sprinter to me. I--I'll wager he can't do a
hundred yards in fifteen-two."

"'Fifteen-two' is cribbage," said Miss Blake.

"Fifteen and two-fifths seconds is what I mean."

"Is that fast?"

Fresno smiled, indulgently this time. "Jean's friend Covington
can go the distance in nine and four-fifths seconds. He's a real
sprinter. I think this fellow is a joke."

"Indeed he is _not!_ If Mr. Covington can run as fast as
that, Mr. Speed can run faster. He told me so."

"Oh!" Fresno looked at her curiously. "The world's record is nine
and _three_-fifths; that's the limit of human endurance."

"I hope he doesn't injure himself," breathed the girl, and the
tenor wandered away, disgusted beyond measure. When he was out of
hearing, he remarked, aloud:

"I'll bet he runs so slow we'll have to wind a stop-watch on him.
Anyhow, I think I'll find out something more about this race."

Once in his room, Mr. J. Wallingford Speed made a search for
writing materials, while Larry Glass overhauled a trunk filled
with athletic clothing of various descriptions. There were
running-suits, rowing-suits, baseball and football suits,
sweaters, jerseys, and bath robes--all of which were new and
unstained. At the bottom Glass discovered a box full of bronze
and near-gold emblems.

"Here's your medals," said he.

"Good! I'll wear them."

"Nix! You can't do that. Those gals will get wise." He selected
one, and read on the reverse side. "Clerk of the course"; another
was engraved "Starter." All were official badges of some sort or
other. "You always were strong on the 'Reception Committee'
stuff. There's six of them," said he.

Speed pointed to the bureau. "Try a nail-file. See if you can't
scratch off the lettering. How's this?" He read what he had
written for the wire. "'Culver Covington, and so forth. Come
quick. First train. Native Son making love to Jean.--Wally.' Ten
words, and it tells the whole story. I can hardly explain why I
want him, can I? He expects to stop off in Omaha for a day or
two, but he'll be under way in an hour after he gets this. I hate
to spoil his little visit, but he can take that in on his way
home. Now I'll ring for somebody, and have this taken over to the
station by the first wagon."

"Say, you better scratch this Fresno," said Larry.

"Why?"

"He's hep to you."

"Nonsense!"

Glass looked up at a sound, to discover Mariedetta, the Mexican
maid, who had come in answer to Speed's call.

"In the doorway'" the trainer said, under his breath. "Pipe the
Cuban Queen!"

"You call?" inquired Mariedetta of the younger man.

"Yes, I want this telegram to go to the depot as soon as
possible."

Mariedetta took the message and turned silently, but as she went
she flashed a look at Glass which caused that short-waisted
gentleman to wink at his companion.

"Some frill! Eh? I'm for her! She's strong for me, too."

"How do you know?"

"We talked it over. I gave her a little kiss to keep for me."

"Careful, Larry! She may have a cowboy sweetheart."

Glass grunted, disparagingly.

"Them ginnys is jokes to me."

As Speed talked he clad himself in his silken uniform, donned his
spiked shoes, and pinned the medals upon his chest.

"How do I look?" he queried.

"Immense! If she likes athletes, it's a walk-away for you."

"Then give me the baby-blue bath robe with the monogram. We'll go
out and trot around a little."

But his complacency received a shock as he stepped out upon the
veranda. Not only Helen Blake awaited him, but the other girls as
well, while out in front were a dozen or more cowboys whom Fresno
had rallied. "Goin' to take a little run, eh?" inquired Stover.
"We allowed we'd lay off a few minutes and watch you."

"Thanks!"

"Yes," Fresno spoke up. "I told the boys we'd better hold a stop-
watch on you and see what shape you're in."

"A stop-watch?" said Glass, sharply.

"Yes. I have one."

"Not to-day," said Speed's trainer. "No!" he admonished, as his
protege turned upon him. "Some other time, mebbe. You're just off
a long trip, and I can't risk gettin' you stove up."

"To-morrow, perhaps," urged Fresno.

"I wouldn't promise."

"Then the next day. I've timed lots of men. The watch is
correct."

"Let's see it." Glass held out his hand.

"Oh, it's a good watch. It cost me one hundred and twenty-five
dollars."

As Glass reached for the timepiece an unfortunate accident
occurred. Speed struck his elbow, and the watch fell. Fresno dove
for it, then held it to his ear and shook it.

"You've broken it!" he cried, accusingly.

"Oh, I'm sorry! My fault," Speed apologized.

"If it was your fault, maybe you'll fix it," suggested the tenor.

"Gladly!" Speed turned to his trainer. "Buy a new alarm-clock
for our little friend." He stripped off his bath robe, and handed
it to his trainer. "Is she looking at me?" he whispered.

"Both eyes, big as saucers."

Speed settled his spikes into the dirt as he had seen other
sprinters do, set himself for an instant, then loped easily
around the house and out of sight.

To the cowboys this athletic panoply was vastly impressive. With
huge satisfaction they noticed the sleeveless shirt, the loose
running-trunks, and, above all, the generous display of medals.
With a wild yell of delight they broke out upon the trail of
their champion, only to have Glass thrust his corpulent body in
their path. With an upflung arm he stemmed the tide.

"It's no use, boys," he cried, "he's a mile away!"




CHAPTER VI

"This doesn't look much like our storehouse, does it?" Jean
paused in her task, and, seating herself upon the summit of a
step-ladder, scrutinized with satisfaction the transformation
wrought by a myriad of college flags, sofa cushions, 
shawls, and bunting.

Roberta Keap dropped her hammer with an exclamation of pain.

"Ouch!" she cried, "I've hurt my thumb. I can't hit where I look
when people are talking."

"Why don't you pin them up?" queried Miss Blake, sweetly. "A
hammer is so dangerous."

Mrs. Keap mumbled something, but her enunciation was indistinct,
owing to the fact that her thumb was in her mouth. Helen finished
tying a bow of ribbon upon the leg of a stool, patted it into
proper form, then said:

"It looks cheerful."

"And restful," added Jean.

"I think a gymnasium should be restful, above all things," agreed
Helen. "Most of them are so bare and strenuous-looking they give
one a headache." She spied a Whiteley exerciser fastened against
the wall, the one bit of gymnastic apparatus in the room. 'Oh,
the puller!' she cried. "I mustn't forget the puller!" She
selected a pink satin ribbon, and tied a chic bow upon one of the
wooden handles. "There! We can let him in now."

"Oh dear!" Jean descended from her precarious position and
admitted, "I'm tired out."

All that morning the three had labored, busily transforming the
store-room into training-quarters for Speed, who had declared
that such things were not only customary but necessary. To be
sure, it adjoined the bunk-room, where the cowboys slept, and
there were no gymnastic appliances to give it character, but it
was the only space available, and what it lacked in horizontal
bars, dumb-bells, and Indian clubs it more than compensated for
by a cosey-corner, a window-seat, and many cushions. Speed had
expressed his delight with the idea, and agreed to wait for a
glimpse of it.

And the atmosphere at the Flying Heart Ranch was clearing. The
gloom of the cowboys had given way to a growing excitement, a
part of which communicated itself to the occupants of the house.
The lassitude of previous days was gone, the monotony had
disappeared, and Miss Chapin had cause to rejoice at the presence
of her latest guest, for Speed was like a tonic. He was
everywhere, he inspired them all, laughter followed in his wake.
Even in the bunk-house the cowboys retailed his extravagant
stories with delight. The Flying Heart had come into its own at
last; the Centipede, most scorned and hated of rivals, was due
for lasting defeat. Even Cloudy, the Indian, relaxed and spoke at
rare intervals, while Willie worked about the place gleefully,
singing snatches of _Sam Bass_ in a tuneless falsetto.
Carara had come back from the Centipede with news that gladdened
the hearts of his hearers: not only would that despicable outfit
consent to run a foot-race, but they clamored for it. They did
not dicker over details nor haggle about terms, but consented to
put up the phonograph again, and all the money at their disposal
as well. The cook was in training.

Of all the denizens of the Flying Heart but two failed to enter
fully into the spirit of the thing. Berkeley Fresno looked on
with a cynicism which he was too wise to display before Miss
Blake. Seeing the lady of his dreams monopolized by a rival,
however, inspired him to sundry activities, and he spent much of
his time among the cowboys, whom he found profitable to the point
of mystery.

Mrs. Keap, the youthful chaperon, seemed likewise mastered by
some private trouble, and puzzled her companions vaguely. Helen
reported that she did not sleep, and once Jean found her crying
softly. She seemed, moreover, to be apprehensive, in a tremulous,
reasonless ways but when with friendly sympathy they brought the
subject up, she dismissed it. In spite of secret tears, she had
lent willing hands to the decoration of the gymnasium, and now
nursed her swollen thumb with surprising good nature.

"Shall we let them in?" she inquired. "We have done all we can."

"Yes; we have finished."

In a flutter of anticipation Jean and Helen put the final touches
to their task, while Mrs. Keap stepped to the door and called
Speed.

He came at once, followed by Larry Glass, who, upon grasping the
scheme of decoration, smote his brow and balanced dizzily upon
his heels. Speed was lost in admiration.

"Its wonderful!" ejaculated the young athlete. "Those college
flags give it just the right touch. And see the cosey-corner!"

Glass regained his voice sufficiently to murmur, sarcastically,
"Say, ain't this a swell-looking drum?"

"We've used every bit of bunting on the ranch," said Jean.

"See the Mexican shawls!" Mrs. Keap added.

"And look," cried Miss Blake, "I brought you my prayer-rug!" She
displayed a small Persian rug, worn and faded, evidently a thing
of great age, at which Speed uttered an exclamation. "I always
carry it with me, and put it in front of my bed wherever I happen
to be."

Berkeley Fresno, drawn by the irresistible magnetism of Miss
Blake's presence, wandered in and ran his eyes over the room.

Speed took the rug and examined it curiously. "It's an old-timer,
isn't it? Must be one of the first settlers."

"Yes. It's thousands and thousands of years old. Father picked it
up somewhere in Asia."

"How does it work?" queried Glass, feeling of it gingerly.

"It's a very holy thing," Helen explained. "The Mohammedan stands
on it facing the East and cries 'Allah!'"

"Alley!" repeated the trainer. "No. Allah!"

"'Allah' is the Mohammedan divinity," explained Speed.

"I've got you." Glass was greatly interested.

"Then he makes his prayer. It is such a sacred thing that when
one's feet are on it no harm can come to one."

"Well, what d'you think of that?" murmured the trainer.

Fresno laughed pleasantly. "It's too bad it isn't long enough to
run this footrace on."

"Do you believe in the charm?" inquired Speed of Helen.

"Of course I do," she answered.

He laughed sceptically, whereupon Larry Glass broke in with husky
accents:

"Nix on the comedy! I bet it's a wizard!"

His employer gazed warmly at the owner of the priceless treasure,
and, taking the rug tenderly, pressed his lips to it.

Fresno shook his head in disgust; the brazen methods of this
person were unbearable.

"Why all the colors?" asked he. "You can sing best where there is
a piano. I can train best under the shadow of college emblems. I
am a temperamental athlete."

"You'll be a dead athlete if you don't beat this cook." The
Californian was angry.

"Indeed!" exclaimed his rival, airily.

"That's what I remarked. Did they tell you what happened to Humpy
Joe, your predecessor?"

"It must have been an accident, judging from his name." At which
Miss Blake tittered. She was growing to enjoy these passages at
arms; they thrilled her vaguely.

"The only accident connected with the affair was that Still Bill
and Willie didn't have their guns."

Glass started nervously. "Did these rummies want to shoot him?"
he inquired.

"Certainly," said Fresno. "He lost a foot-race."

In spite of his assurance, J. Wallingford Speed felt a tremor of
anxiety, but he laughed it off, saying: "One would think a foot-
race in this country was a pearl necklace."

"These cowboys ain't good losers, eh?" queried Glass.

"It's win or die out here."

During the ensuing pause Mrs. Keap took occasion to call Speed
aside. "I have something to contribute to the training-quarters
if you will help me bring it out," said she.

The young man bowed. "Most gladly."

"We'll be back in a little while," the chaperon announced to the
others, and a moment later, when she and Speed had reached the
veranda of the house, she paused.

"I--I want to speak to you," she began, hesitatingly. "It was
just an excuse."

Wally looked at her with concern, for it was plain that she was
deeply troubled.

"What is it?"

"I have been trying to get a word alone with you ever since I
heard about this foot-race." The young man chilled with
apprehension as Mrs. Keap turned her dark eyes upon him
searchingly.

"Why do you want to run?"

"To win back the cowboys' treasure. My heart is touched," he
declared, boldly. Mrs. Keap smiled.

"I believe the latter, but are you sure you can win?"

"Abso-blooming-lutely."

"I didn't know you were a sprinter."

Speed shrugged his shoulders.

"Have you had experience?"

"Oceans of it!"

Mrs. Keap mused for a moment. "Tell me," said she, finally, "at
what intercollegiate game did you run last?"

"I didn't run last; I ran first." It was impossible to resent the
boy's smile.

"Then at what game did you last run? I hope I'm not too curious?"

"Oh no, not at all!" Speed stammered.

"Or, if it is easier, at what college games did you first run?"
Mrs. Keap was laughing openly now.

"Why the clear, ringing, rippling laughter?" asked the young man,
to cover his confusion.

"Because I think it is very funny."

"Oh, you do!" Speed took refuge behind an attitude of unbending
dignity, but the young widow would have none of it.

"I know all about you," said she. "You are a very wonderful
person, of course; you are a delightful fellow at a house-party,
and a most suitable individual generally, but you are not an
athlete, in spite of those beautiful clothes in your trunk."

"Who told you?"

"Culver Covington."

"I didn't know you two were acquainted."

Mrs. Keap flushed. "He told me all about you long ago. You wear
all the athletic clothes, you know all the talk, you have tried
to make the team a dozen times, but you are not even a
substitute. You are merely the Varsity cheer-leader. Culver calls
you 'the head-yeller.'"

"Columbus has discovered our continent!" said Speed. "You are a
very wise chaperon, and you must have a corking memory for names,
but even a head-yeller is better than a glee-club quarter-back."
He nodded toward the bunk-house, whence they had come. "You
haven't told anybody?"

"Not yet."

"'Yet,'" he quoted. "The futurity implied in that word disturbs
me. Suppose you and I keep it for a little secret? Secrets are
very delightful at house-parties."

"Don't you consider your action deceitful?"

"Not at all. My motto is 'We strive to please.'"

"Think of Helen."

"That's it; I can't think of anything else! She's mad about
athletics, and I had to do something to stand off this weight-
lifting tenor."

"Is it any wonder a woman distrusts every man she meets?" mused
the chaperon. "Helen might forgive you, I couldn't."

"Oh, it's not that bad. I know what I'm doing."

"You will cause these cowboys to lose a lot more money."

"Not at all. When Culver arrives--"

"Oh, that is what I want to talk over with you," Mrs. Keap broke
in, nervously.

"Then it isn't about the foot-race? You are not angry?" Speed
brightened amazingly.

"I'm not exactly angry; I'm surprised and grieved. Of course, I
can't forgive deceit--I dare say I am more particular than most
people."

"But you won't tell?" Mrs. Keap indicated in some subtle manner
that she was not above making terms, whereupon her companion
declared, warmly: "I'm yours for life! Ask me for my watch, my
right eye, anything! I'll give it to you!"

"I assure you I sha'n't ask anything so important as that, but I
_shall_ ask a favor."

"Name it and it is yours!" Speed wrung the hand she offered.

"And perhaps I can do more than keep silent--although I don't see
what good it will do. Perhaps I can help your suit."

"Gracious lady, all I ask is that you thrust out your foot and
trip up Berkeley Fresno whenever he starts toward her. Put him
out of the play, and I shall be the happiest man in the world."

"Agreed."

"Now, in what way can I serve you?"

Mrs. Keap became embarrassed, while the same shadowy trouble that
had been observed of late settled upon her.

"I simply hate to ask it," she said, "but I suppose I must. There
seems to be no other way out of it." Turning to him suddenly, she
said, in a low, intense voice: "I--I'm in trouble, Mr. Speed,
such dreadful trouble!"

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" he answered her, with genuine solicitude.
"You needn't have made any conditions. I would have done anything
I could for you."

"That's very kind, for I don't like our air of conspiracy, but"--
Mrs. Keap was wringing her slender hands--"I just can't tell the
girls. You--you can help me."

Speed allowed her time to grow calm, when she continued:

"I--I am engaged to be married."

"Felicitations!"

"Not at all," said the young widow, wretchedly. "That is the
awful part of it. I am engaged to _two_ men!" She turned her
brown eyes full upon him; they were strained and tragic.

Speed felt himself impelled to laugh immoderately, but instead he
observed, in a tone to relieve her anxiety:

"Nothing unusual in that; it has been done before. Even I have
been prodigal with my affections. What can I do to relieve the
congestion?"

"Please don't make light of it. It means so much to me. I--I'm in
love with Jack Chapin."

"With Jack!"

"Yes. When I came here I thought I cared for somebody else. Why,
I wanted to come here just because I knew that--that somebody
else had been invited too, and we could be together."

"And he couldn't come--"

"Wait! And then, when I got here, I met Jack Chapin. That was
less than a week ago, and yet in that short time I have learned
that he is the only man I can ever love--the one man in all the
world."

"And you can't accept because you have a previous engagement. I
see! Jove! It's quite dramatic. But I don't see why you are so
excited? If the other chap isn't coming--"

"But he is! That is what makes it so dreadful! If those two men
should meet"--Mrs. Keap buried her face in her hands and
shuddered--"there would be a tragedy, they are both so
frightfully jealous." She began to tremble, and Speed laid a
comforting hand upon her shoulder.

"I think you must be exciting yourself unduly," said he, "Jean's
other friends didn't come. There's nobody due now but Culver Cov--"

"That's who it is!" Roberta raised her pallid face as the young
man fell back.

"Culver! Great Scott! Why, he's engaged--"

"What!"

"Nothing! I--I--" Speed paused, at an utter loss for words. "You
see, he'll discover the truth."

"Does he know you are here?"

"No. I intended to surprise him. I was jealous. I couldn't bear
to think of his being here with other girls--men are so
deceitful! That's why I consented to act as chaperon to Helen.
And now to think that I should have met my fate in Jack Chapin!"

"I see. You want me to break the news to Culver."

"No! no!" Mrs. Keap was aghast. "If he even suspected the truth
he'd become a raging lion. Oh, I've been quite distracted ever
since Jack left!"

"Well, what am I to do? You must have some part laid out for me?"

"I have. A desperate situation demands a desperate remedy. I've
lost all conscience. That's why I agreed to protect you if you'd
protect me."

"Go ahead."

"Culver is your friend."

"We're closer than a chord in G."

"Then you must wire him--"

"I have--"

"--not to come."

"What!" J. Wallingford Speed started as if a wasp had stung him.

"You must wire him at once not to come. I don't care what excuse
you give, but stop him. _Stop_ him!"

Speed reached for a pillar; he felt that the porch was spinning
slowly beneath his feet.

"Oh, see here, now! I can't do that!"

"You promised!" cried Mrs. Keap, fiercely. "I have tried to think
of something to tell him, but I'm too frightened."

"Yes, but--but I--want him here--for this foot-race." Wally
swallowed bravely.

"Foot-race!" stormed the widow, indignantly. "Would you allow an
insignificant thing like a foot-race to wreck a human life? Two
human lives? _Three?_"

"Can't you--wire him?"

Mrs. Keap stamped her foot. "If he dreamed I was here he would
hire a special train. No! It must come from you. You are his best
friend."

"What can I say?" demanded the bewildered Speed, unhappily. "I
don't care what you say, I don't care what you do--only do
_something_, and do it quickly before he has time to leave
Chicago." Then sensing the hesitation in her companion's face:
"Or perhaps you prefer to have Helen know the deceit you have
practiced upon her? And I fancy these cowboys would resent the
joke, don't you? What do you think would happen if they
discovered their champion to be merely a cheerleader with a
trunkful of new clothes, who can't do a single out-door sport--
not one!"

"Wait!" Speed mopped his brow with a red-and-blue silk
handkerchief. "I'll do my best."

"Then I shall do my part." And Mrs. Keap, who could not bear
deception, turned and went indoors while J. Wallingford Speed, a
prey to sundry misgivings, stumbled down the steps, his head in a
whirl.




CHAPTER VII

Berkeley Fresno was devoting himself to Miss Blake.

"What do you think of our decorations?" she inquired.

"They are more or less athletic," he declared. "Was it Mr.
Speed's idea?"

"Yes. He wanted training-quarters."

"It's a joke, isn't it?"

"I don't think so. Mr. Fresno, why do you dislike Mr. Speed?"

Fresno bent a warm glance upon the questioner. "Don't you know?"

Helen shook her head with bland innocence. "Then you _do_
dislike him?"

"No, indeed! _I_ like him--he makes me laugh." Helen bridled
loyally. "Did you see those medals he wore yesterday?" the young
man queried.

"Of course, and I thought them beautiful."

"How were they inscribed? He wouldn't let me examine them."

"Naturally. If I had trophies like that I would guard them too."

Fresno nodded, musingly. "I gave mine away."

"Oh, are you an athlete?"

"No, but I timed a foot-race once. They gave me a beautiful
nearly-bronze emblem so that I could get into the infield."

"And did you win?"

"No! no! I didn't run! Don't you understand? I was an official."
Fresno was vexed at the girl's lack of perception. "I'm not an
athlete, Miss Blake. I'm just an ordinary sort of a chap." He led
her to a seat, while Jean enlisted the aid of Larry Glass and
completed the finishing touches to the decorations. "Athletics
don't do a fellow any good after he leaves college. I'm going
into business this fall. Have you ever been to California?" Miss
Blake admitted that she had never been so far, and Fresno
launched himself upon a glowing description of his native State;
but before he could shape the conversation to a point where his
hearer might perchance express a desire to see its wonders, Still
Bill Stover thrust his head cautiously through the door to the
bunk-house, and allowed an admiring eye to rove over the
transformation.

"Looks like a bazaar!" he exclaimed. "What's the idea?"

"Trainin'-quarters," said Glass.

"Mr. Speed goin' to _live_ here?" inquired the foreman,
bringing the remainder of his lanky body into view.

"No, indeed," Jean corrected, "he will merely use this room to
train in."

"How do you train in a room?" Stover asked her.

"Why, you--just train, I suppose." Miss Chapin turned to Glass.
"How does a person train in a room?"

"Why, he--just trains, that's all. A guy can't train without
trainin'-quarters, can he?"

"We thought it would make a nice gymnasium," offered Miss Blake.

"Looks like business." Stover's admiration was keen. "I rode over
to Gallagher's place last night and laid our bets."

"How much have you wagered?" asked Fresno.

"More'n we can afford to lose."

"But you aren't going to lose," Miss Blake said,
enthusiastically.

"I got Gallagher to play some records for me."

"_Silas on Fifth Avenue?_"

"Sure! And _The Holy City_, too! Willie stayed out by the
barb-wire fence; he didn't dast to go in. When I come out I found
him ready to cry. That desperado has sure got the heart of a
woman. I reckon he'd commit a murder for that phonograph--he's so
full of sentiment."

Fresno spoke sympathetically.

"It's a fortunate thing for you fellows that Speed came when he
did. I'm anxious for him to beat this cook, and I hate to see him
so careless with his training."

"Careless!" cried Helen.

"What's he done?" inquired Stover.

"Nothing, so far. That's the trouble. He's sure he can win, but"
--Fresno shook his head, doubtfully--"there's such a thing as
overconfidence. No matter how good a man may be, he should take
care of himself."

"What's wrong with his trainin'?" demanded Glass.

"I think he ought to have more rest. It's too noisy around the
house; he can't get enough sleep."

"Nor anybody else," agreed Glass, meaningly; "there's too much
singin'."

"That's funny," said Stover. "Music soothes me, no matter how bad
it is. Last night when we come back from the Centipede Mr. Fresno
was singin' _Dearie_, but I dozed right off in the middle of
it. An' it's the same way with cattle. They like it. It's part of
a man's duty when he's night-ridin' a herd to pizen the
atmosphere with melody."

"What I mean to say is this," Fresno hastened to explain. "We
keep late hours at the house, whereas an athlete ought to retire
early and arise with the sun. I thought it would be a good scheme
to have Mr. Speed sleep out here until the race is over, where he
won't be disturbed. Nine o'clock is bedtime for a man in
training."

"Oh, I don't think that is at all necessary," said Miss Blake
quickly.

"We can't afford to spoil his chances," argued the young man.
"There is too much at stake. Am I right, Mr. Glass?"

Now, like most fat men, Lawrence Glass was fond of his rest, and
since his arrival at the Flying Heart his sleeping-hours had been
shortened considerably, so for once he agreed with the
Californian. "No question about it," said he. "And I'll sleep
here with him if you'll put a couple of cots in the place."

"But suppose Mr. Speed won't do it?" questioned Miss Blake.

"You ask him, and he won't refuse," said Jean.

"We don't want to see him defeated," urged Helen's other suitor;
at which the girl rose, saying doubtfully:

"Of course I'll do my best, if you think it's really important."

"Thank you," said Stover gratefully, while Fresno congratulated
himself upon an easy victory. "I'll ask him at once, but you must
come along, Jean, and you too, Mr. Glass."

The two girls took Speed's trainer with them, and went forth in
search of the young man.

"It's up to you fellows to see that he gets to bed early," said
Fresno, when he and Stover were alone.

"Leave it to us. And as for gettin' up, we turn out at daylight.
I don't reckon he could sleep none after that if he tried."
Stover pointed to the striped elastic coils of the exerciser
against the wall. "I didn't want to speak about it while they was
here," said he, "but one of them young ladies lost her garters."

"That's not a pair of garters, that's a chest-weight."

"Jest wait for what?"

"Chest-weight--chest-developer."

"Oh!" Stover examined the device curiously, "I thought a chest-
developer came in a bottle."

Fresno explained the operation of the apparatus, at which the
cow-man remarked, admiringly: "That young feller is all right,
ain't he?"

"Think so?"

"Sure! Don't you?"

Fresno explained his doubts by a crafty lift of his brows and a
shrug. "I thought so--at first."

Stover wheeled upon him abruptly. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing."

After a pause the foreman remarked, vaguely, "He's the
intercollegit champeen of Yale."

"Oh no, hardly that, or I would have heard of him."

"Ain't he no champeen?"

"Champion of the running broad smile and the half-mile talk
perhaps."

"Ain't he a foot-runner?"

"Perhaps. I've never seen him run, but I have my doubts."

"Good Lord!" moaned Stover, weakly.

"He may be the best sprinter in the country, mind you, but I'll
lay a little bet that he can't run a hundred yards without
sustenance."

"Without what?"

"Sustenance--something to eat."

"Well, we've got plenty for him to eat," said the mystified
foreman.

"You don't understand. However, time will tell."

"But we ain't got no time. We've made this race 'pay or play,' a
week from Saturday, and the bets are down. We was afraid the
Centipede would welsh when they seen who we had, so we framed it
that-away. What's to be done?"

Again Fresno displayed an artistic restraint that was admirable.
"It's none of my business," said he, with a careless shrug.

"I--I guess I'll tell Willie and the boys," vouchsafed Bill
apprehensively.

"No! no! Don't breathe a word I've said to you. He may be a
crackerjack, and I wouldn't do him an injustice for the world.
All the same, I wish he hadn't broken my stop-watch."

"D'you think he broke it a-purpose?"

"What do you think?"

Stover mopped the sweat from his brow.

"Can't we time him with a ordinary watch?"

"Sure. We can take yours. It won't be exact, but--"

"I ain't got no watch. I bet mine last night at the Centipede.
Willie's got one, though."

"Mind you, he may be all right," Fresno repeated, reassuringly;
then hearing the object of their discussion approaching with his
trainer, the two strolled out through the bunk-room, Stover a
prey to a new-born suspicion, Fresno musing to himself that
diplomacy was not a lost art.

"You're a fine friend, you are!" Speed exploded, when he and
Glass were inside the gymnasium. "What made you say 'yes'?"

"I had to."

"Rot, Larry! You played into Fresno's hands deliberately! Now
I've got to spend my evenings in bed while he sits in the hammock
and sings _Dearie_." He shook his head gloomily. "Who knows
what may happen?"

"It will do you good to get some sleep, Wally."

"But I don't want to sleep!" cried the exasperated suitor. "I
want to make love. Do you think I came all the way from New York
to sleep? I can do that at Yale."

"Take it from me, Bo, you've got plenty of time to win that dame.
Eight hours is a workin' day anywhere."

"My dear fellow, the union hours for courting don't begin until 9
P.M. I've got myself into a fine mess, haven't I? Just when Night
spreads her sable mantle and Dan Cupid strings up his bow, I must
forsake my lady-love and crawl into the hay. Oh, you're a good
trainer!"

"You'd better can some of this love-talk and think more about
foot-racin'."

"It can't be done! Nine o'clock! The middle of the afternoon.
It's rather funny, though, isn't it?" Speed was not the sort to
cherish even a real grievance for any considerable time. "If it
had happened to anybody else I'd laugh myself sick."

Glass chuckled. "The whole thing is a hit. Look at this joint,
for instance." He took in their surroundings with a comprehensive
gesture. "It looks about as much like a gymnasium as I look like
a contortionist. Why don't you get a Morris chair and a
mandolin?"

"There are two reasons," said Speed, facetiously. "First, it
takes an athlete to get out of a Morris chair; and, second, a
mandolin has proved to be many a young man's ruin."

Glass examined the bow of ribbon upon the lonesome piece of
exercising apparatus.

"It looks like the trainin'-stable for the Colonial Dames. What a
yelp this place would be to Covington or any other athlete."

"It is not an athletic gymnasium." Speed smiled as he lighted a
cigarette. "It is a romantic gymnasium. As Socrates once
observed--"

"Socrates! I'm hep to him," Glass interrupted, quickly. "I
trained a Greek professor once and got wised up on all that
stuff. Socrates was the--the Hemlock Kid."

"Exactly! As Socrates, the Hemlock Kid, deftly put it, '_In hoc
signature vintage_.'"

"I don't get you."

"That is archaic Scandinavian, and, translated, means, 'Love
cannot thrive without her bower.'"

"No answer to that telegram yet, eh?"

"Hardly time."

"Better wire Covington again, hadn't you? Mebbe he didn't get
it?"

"I promised Mrs. Keap that I would, but--" Speed lost himself
abruptly in speculation, for he did not know exactly how to
manage this unexpected complication. Of one thing only was he
certain: it would require some thought.

"Say, Wally, suppose Covington don't come?"

"Then I shall sprain my ankle," said the other. "Hello! What in
the world--" Still Bill Stover and Willie came into the room
carrying an armful of lumber. Behind them followed Carara with a
huge wooden tub, and Cloudy rolling a kerosene barrel.

"Where do you want it, gents?" inquired the foreman.

"Where do we want what?"

"The shower-bath."

"Shower--I didn't order a shower-bath!"

"No; but we aim to make it as pleasant for you as we can."

"If there is anything I abhor, it's a shower-bath!" exclaimed the
athlete.

"You just got to have one. Mr. Fresno said all this gymnasium
lacked was a shower-bath, a pair of scales, and a bulletin-board.
He said you'd sure need a bath after workin' that chest-
developer. We ain't got no scales, nor no board, but we'll toggle
up some sort of a bath for you. The blacksmith's makin' a
squirter to go on the bar'l."

"Very well, put it wherever you wish. I sha'n't use it."

"I wouldn't overlook nothin', if I was you," said Willie, in even
milder tones than Stover had used.

"You overwhelm me with these little attentions," retorted Mr.
Speed.

"Where you goin' to run to-day?" inquired the first speaker.

"I don't know. Why?"

"We thought you might do a hundred yards agin time."

"Nix!" interposed Glass, hurriedly. "I can't let him overdo at
the start. Besides, we ain't got no stop-watch."

"I got a reg'lar watch," said Willie, "and I can catch you pretty
close. We'd admire to see you travel some, Mr. Speed."

But Glass vowed that he was in charge of his protege's health,
and would not permit it. Once outside, however, he exclaimed:
"That's more of Fresno's work, Wally! I tell you, he's Jerry.
He'll rib them pirates to clock you, and if they do--well, you'd
better keep runnin', that's all."

"You can do me a favor," said Speed. "Buy that watch."

"There's other watches on the farm."

"Buy them all, and bring me the bill."

Before setting out on his daily grind, Speed announced to his
trainer that he had decided to take him along for company, and
when that corpulent gentleman rebelled on the ground that the day
was too sultry, his employer would have none of it, so together
they trotted away later in the morning, Speed in his silken suit,
Glass running flat-footed and with great effort. But once safely
hidden from view, they dropped into a walk, and selecting a
favorable resting-place, paused. Speed lighted a cigarette, Glass
produced a deck of cards from his pocket, and they played seven-
up. Having covered five miles in this exhausting fashion, they
returned to the ranch in time for luncheon. Both ate heartily,
for the exercise had agreed with them.




CHAPTER VIII

Lawrence Glass was beginning to like New Mexico. Not only did it
afford a tinge of romance, discernable in the deep, haunting eyes
of Mariedetta, the maid, but it offered an opportunity for
financial advancement--as, for instance, the purchase of Willie's
watch. This timepiece cost the trainer twenty-one dollars, and he
sold it to Speed for double the amount, believing in the luck of
even numbers. Nor did young Speed allow his trainer's efforts to
cease here, for in every portable timepiece on the ranch he
recognized a menace, and not until Lawrence had cornered the
market and the whole collection was safely locked in his trunk
did he breathe easily. This required two days, during which the
young people at the ranch enjoyed themselves thoroughly. They
were halcyon days for the Yale man, for Fresno was universally
agreeable, and seemed resigned to the fact that Helen should
prefer his rival's company to his own. Even when Speed had
regretfully dragged himself off to bed in the evening, the plump
tenor amused Miss Blake by sounding the suitor's praises as an
athlete, reports of which pleased Wally intensely. Mr. Fresno was
a patient person, who realized fully the fact that a fall is not
painful unless sustained from a considerable height.

As for Glass, he recounted tales of Mariedetta's capitulation to
his employer, and wheezed merrily over the discomfiture of the
Mexican girl's former admirers.

"She's a swell little dame," he confided to Speed one afternoon,
as they lounged luxuriously in the shade at their customary
resting-place. "Yes, and I'm aces with her, too." They had set
out for their daily run, and were now contesting for the seven-up
supremacy of the Catskill Mountains. Already Glass had been
declared the undisputed champion of the Atlantic Coast, while
Speed on the day previous had wrested from him the championship
of the Mississippi Valley.

"But Mariedetta is dark!" said the college man, as he cut the
cards. "She is almost a mulatto."

"Naw! She's no dinge. She's an Aztec, an' them Aztec's is swell
people. Say, she can play a guitar like a barber!"

"Miss Blake told me she was in love with Carara."

Glass grunted contemptuously. "I've got it on that insurrects
four ways. Why, I'm learning to talk Spanish myself. If he gets
flossy, I'll cross one over his bow." The trainer made a vicious
jab at an imaginary Mexican. "He ain't got a good wallop in him."

Like all New Yorkers, no matter what their station, Lawrence
cherished a provincial contempt for such people as are not of
Manhattan. While he was woefully timid in the presence of
firearms, and the flash of steel reduced him to a panic, he was a
past master at the "manly art," and carried a punch in which he
reposed unlimited faith. The deference with which the cowboys
treated him, their simple, child-like faith in his every
utterance, combined to exaggerate his contempt for them. Even
Carara, disappointed in love, treated him with a smiling,
backward sort of courtesy which the trainer misconstructed as
timidity.

"I thought cowboys was tough guys," continued he, "but it's a
mistake. That little Willie, for instance, is a lamb. He packs
that Mauser for protection. He's afraid some farmer will walk up
and poke his eye out with a corn-cob. One copper with a night-
stick could stampede the whole outfit. But they're all right, at
that," he acknowledged, magnanimously. "They're a nice bunch of
fellers when you know how to take 'em."

"The flies are awful to-day," Speed complained. "They bite my
legs."

"I'll bring out a bath robe to-morrow, and we'll hide it in the
bushes. I wish there was some place to keep this beer cool."
Glass shifted some bottles to a point where the sunlight did not
strike them. "I'm getting tired of training, Larry," acknowledged
the younger man, with a yawn. "It takes so much time."

Glass shook his head in sympathy. "Seems like we'd ought to hear
from Covington," said he.

"He's on his way, no doubt. Isn't it time to go back to the
ranch?"

Glass consulted his watch. "No, we ain't done but three miles.
Here goes for the rubber."

It was Berkeley Fresno who retreated cautiously from the shelter
of a thicket a hundred yards up the arroyo and started briskly
homeward, congratulating himself upon the impulse that had
decided him to follow the training partners upon their daily
routine. He made directly for the corral.

"Which I don't consider there's no consideration comin' to him
whatever," said Willie that evening. "He ain't acted on the
level."

"Now, see here," objected Stover, "he may be just what he claims
he is. Simply because he don't go skally-hootin' around in the
hot sun ain't no sign he _can't_ run."

"What about them empty beer bottles?" demanded Willie. "No feller
can train on that stuff. I went out there myself and seen 'em.
There was a dozen."

"Mebbe Glass drank it. What I claim is this: we ain't got no
proof. Fresno is stuck on Miss Blake, and he's a knocker."

"Then let's _git_ some proof, and dam' quick."

"_Si, Senores_," agreed Carara, who had been an interested
listener.

"I agree with you, but we got to be careful--"

Willie grunted with disgust.

"--we can't go at it like we was killin' snakes. Mr. Speed is a
guest here."

Again the little gun man expressed his opinion, this time in
violet-tinted profanity, and the other cowboys joined in.

"All the same he _is_ a guest, and no rough work goes. I'm
in charge while Mr. Chapin is away, and I'm responsible."

"Senor Bill," Carara ventured, "the fat vaquero, he is no guest.
He is one of us."

"That's right," seconded Willie. "He's told us all along that Mr.
Speed was a Merc'ry-footed wonder, and if the young feller can't
run he had ought to have told us."

Mr. Cloudy showed his understanding of the discussion by nodding
silently.

"We'll put it up to him in the morning," said Stover.

"If Mr. Speed cannot r-r-run, w'at you do, eh?" questioned the
Mexican.

Nobody answered. Still Bill seemed at a loss for words, Mr.
Cloudy stared gloomily into space, and Willie ground his teeth.

On the following morning Speed sought a secluded nook with Helen,
but no sooner had he launched himself fairly upon the subject
uppermost in his mind than he was disturbed by a delegation of
cowboys, consisting of the original four who had waited upon him
that first morning after his arrival. They came forward with
grave and serious mein, requesting a moment's interview. It was
plain there was something of more than ordinary importance upon
their minds from the manner in which Stover spoke, but when Helen
quickly volunteered to withdraw, Speed checked her.

"Stay where you are; I have no secrets from you," said he. Then
noting the troubled face of the foreman, quoted impatiently:

"'You may fire when ready, Gridley.'"

Still Bill shifted the lump in his cheek, and cleared his throat
before beginning formally.

"Mr. Speed, while we honor you a heap for your accomplishments,
and while we believe in you as a man and a champeen, we kind of
feel that it might make you stretch your legs some if you knew
just exactly what this foot-race means to the Flying Heart
outfit."

"I assured you that the Centipede cook would be beaten," said the
college man, stiffly.

"Isn't Mr. Speed's word sufficient?" inquired the girl.

Stover bowed. "It had sure ought to be, and we thank you for them
new assurances. You see, our spiritual on-rest is due to the fact
that Humpy Joe's get-away left us broke, and we banked on you to
pull us even. That first experience strained our credulity to the
bustin' point, and--well, in words of one syllable, we come from
Joplin."

"Missouri," said Willie.

"My dear sirs, I can't _prove_ that you are going to win
your wagers until the day of the race. However, if you are broke
to start with, I don't see how you can expect to lose a great
deal."

"You ain't got the right angle on the affair," Stover explained.
"Outside of the onbearable contumely of losin' twice to this
Centipede outfit, which would be bad enough, we have drawn a
month's wages in advance, and we have put it up. Moreover, I have
bet my watch, which was presented to me by the officials of the
Santa Fe for killin' a pair of road-agents when I was Depity
Sheriff."

Miss Blake uttered a little scream, and Speed regarded the lanky
speaker with new interest. "It's a Waltham movement, solid gold
case, eighteen jewels, and engraved with my name."

"No wonder you prize it," said Wally.

"I bet my saddle," informed Carara, in his slow, soft dialect.
"Stamp' leather wit' silver filagree. It is more dear to me than
--well--I love it ver' much, Senor!"

"Seems like Willie has made the extreme sacrifice," Stover
followed up. "While all our boys has gone the limit, Willie has
topped 'em all: he's bet his gun."

"Indeed! Is it a good weapon?"

"It's been good to me," said the little man, dryly. "I took it
off the quivering remains of a Sheriff in Dodge City, up to that
time the best hip shot in Kansas."

Speed felt a cold chill steal up his spine, while Miss Blake went
pale and laid a trembling hand upon his arm.

"You see it ain't intrinsic value so much as association and
sentiment that leads to this interview," Stover continued. "It
ain't no joke--we don't joke with the Centipede--and we've relied
on you. The Mex here would do murder for that saddle," Carara
nodded, and breathed something in his own tongue. "I have parted
with my honor, and Willie is gamblin' just as high."

"But I notice Mr.--Willie still has his revolver."

"Sure I got it!" Willie laughed, abruptly. "And I don't give it
up till we lose, neither. That's the understandin'." His voice
was surprisingly harsh for one so high-pitched. He looked more
like a professor than ever.

"Willie has reasons for his caution which we respect," explained
the spokesman.

J. Wallingford Speed, face to face with these serious-minded
gentlemen, began to reflect that this foot-race was not a thing
to be taken too lightly.

"I can't understand," he declared, with a touch of irritation,
"why you should risk such priceless things upon a friendly
encounter."

"_Friendly!_" cried Willie and Stover in a tone that made
their listeners gasp. "The Centipede and the Flying Heart is just
as friendly as a pair of wild boars."

"You see, it's a good thing we wised you up," added the latter.

Carara muttered fiercely: "Senor, I works five year' for that
saddle. I am a good gambler, _si, si!_ but I keel somebody
biffore I lose it to the Centipede."

"And is that Echo Phonograph worth all this?" inquired Helen.

"We won that phonograph at risk of life and limb," said Willie,
doggedly, "from the Centipede-"

"--and twenty other outfits, Senor."

"It's a trophy," declared the foreman, "and so long as it ain't
where it belongs, the Flying Heart is in disgrace."

"Even the 'Leven X treats us scornful!" cried the smallest of the
trio angrily. "We're a joke to the whole State."

"I know just how these gentlemen must feel," declared Miss Blake,
tactfully, at which Stover bowed with grateful awkwardness.

"And it's really a wonderful instrument," said he. "I don't
reckon there's another one like it in the world, leastways in
these parts. You'd ought to hear it--clear as a bell--"

"And sweet," said Willie. "God! It's sure sweet!"

"Why, we was a passel of savages on this ranch till we got it--no
sentiment, no music, no nothin' in our souls--except profanity
and thirst. Then everything changed." Stover nodded gravely. "We
got gentle. That music mellered us up. We got so we was as full
of brotherly love as a basket of kittens. Some of the boys
commenced writin' home; Cloudy begin to pay his poker debts.
You'd scarcely hear enough profanity to make things bearable. I
tell you it was refined. It got so that when a man came steamin'
in after a week's high life and low company in town, his wages
gone, and his stummick burnin' like he'd swallered all his cigar-
butts, it didn't make no difference if he found a herd of purple
crocodiles in his blankets, or the bunk-house walls a-crawlin'
with Gila monsters. Little things like that wouldn't phaze him!
He'd switch on the Echo Phonograph and doze off like a babe in
arms, for the tender notes of Madam-o-sella Melby in _The Holy
City_ would soothe and comfort him like the caressin' hand of
a young female woman."

"I begin to feel your loss," said Speed, gravely. "Gentlemen, I
can only assure you I shall do my best."

"Then you won't take no chances?" inquired Willie, mildly.

"You may rely upon me to take care of myself."

"Thank you!" The delegation moved away.

"What d'you think of him?" inquired Stover of the little man in
glasses, when they were out of hearing.

"I think he's all right," Willie hesitated, "only kind of crazy,
like all Eastern boys. It don't seem credible that no sane man
would dast to bluff after what we've said. He'd be flyin' in the
face of Providence."

But this comforting conclusion wavered again, when Berkeley
Fresno, who had awaited their report, scoffed openly.

"He can't run! If he could run he'd be running. I tell you, he
can't run as fast as a sheep can walk."

"Senor, you see those beautiful medal he have?" expostulated
Carara.

"Sure," agreed Willie. "His brisket was covered with 'em. He had
one that hung down like a dewlap."

"Phony!"

"I've killed men for less," muttered the stoop-shouldered man.

"Did you see his legs?" Fresno was bent upon convincing his
hearers.

"Couldn't help but see 'em in that runnin'-suit."

"Nice and soft and white, weren't they?"

"They didn't look like dark meat," Stover agreed, reluctantly.
"But you can't go nothin' on the looks of a feller's legs."

"Well, then, take his wind. A runner always has good lungs, but
I'll bet if you snapped him on the chest with a rubber band he'd
cough himself to death."

"Mebbe he ain't in good shape yet."

Fresno sneered. "No, and he'll never get into good condition with
those girls hanging around him all the time. Don't you know that
the worst thing in the world for an athlete is to talk to a
woman?"

"That's the worst thing in the world for anybody," said Willie,
with cynicism. "But how can we stop it?"

"Make him eat as well as sleep in his training-quarters; don't
let him spend any time whatever in female company. Keep your eyes
on him night and day."

Willie spoke his mind deliberately. "I'm in favor of that. If
this is another Humpy Joe affair I'm a-goin' to put one more
notch in my gun-handle, and it looks like a cub bear had chawed
it already."

"There ain't but one thing to do," Stover announced, firmly.
"We've got to put it up to Mr. Glass and learn the truth."

"You'll find him in the bunk-house," directed Fresno. "I think
I'll trail along and hear what he has to say."




CHAPTER IX

Glass had gone to the cowboys' sleeping-quarters in search of his
employer, and was upon the point of leaving when the delegation
filed in. He regarded them with careless contempt, and removed
his clay pipe to exclaim, cheerfully:

"B--zoo gents! Where's my protege?"

"I don't know. Where did you have it last?"

"I mean Speed, my trainin' partner. That's a French word."

"Oh! We just left him."

"Think I'll hunt him up."

"Wait a minute." Willie came forward. "Let's talk."

"All right. We'll visit. Let her go, professor."

"You've been handlin' him for quite a spell, haven't you?"

"Sure! It's my trainin' that put him where he is. Ask him if it
ain't."

"Then he's a good athlete, is he?"

"Is he good? Huh!" Glass grunted, expressively.

"How fast can he do a hundred yards?"

Larry yawned as if this conversation bored him.

"Oh--about--eight--seconds."

At this amazing declaration Willie paused, as if to thoroughly
digest it.

"Eight seconds!" repeated the little man at length.

"Sure! Depends on how he feels, of course."

Berkeley Fresno, in the corner, snickered audibly, at which the
trainer scowled at him.

"Think he can't do it, eh? Well, he's there four ways from the
ace."

Seeing no evidence that his statement failed to carry conviction
in other quarters at least, Glass went further. It was so easy to
string these simple-minded people that he could not resist the
temptation. "Didn't you never hear about the killin' he made at
Saratoga?" he queried.

Willie started, and his hand crept slowly backward along his
belt. "Killin'! Is that his game?"

"Now, get me right," explained the former speaker. "He breaks
trainin', and goes up to Saratoga for a little rest. While he's
there he wins eight thousand dollars playin' diabolo."

"Playin' what?" queried Stover.

"Diabolo! He backs himself, of course."

Glass took an imaginary spool from his pocket, spun it by means
of an imaginary string, then sent it aloft and pretended to catch
it dexterously. The cowboys watched him with grave,
uncomprehending eyes.

"He starts with a case five and runs it up to eight thousand
dollars, that's all."

Stover uttered an exclamation of astonishment, whereupon the New-
Yorker grew even bolder.

"The next week he hops over to Bar Harbor and wins the Furturity
Ping-pong stakes from scratch. That's worth twenty thousand if
it's worth a lead nickel. Oh, I guess he's there, all right!" He
searched out a match and relighted his pipe.

"I suppose he's a great croquet-player too," observed Fresno,
whose face was purple.

"Sure!" Glass winked at him, glad to see that the Californian
enjoyed this kind of sport.

"We don't care nothin' about his skill at sleight-of-hand
tricks," said the man in spectacles, seriously. "And we wouldn't
hold his croquet habits agin him. Some men drink, some gamble,
some do worse; every man has his weakness, and croquet may be
his. What we want to know is this: can he win our phonograph?"

"Surest thing you know!"

"Then you vouch for him, do you?" Willie's eyes were bent upon
the fat man with a look of searching gravity that warned Glass
not to temporize.

"With my life!" exclaimed the trainer.

"You're on!" said the cowboy, with unexpected grimness.

"What d'you mean?"

But before the other could explain, Berkeley Fresno, who had sunk
weakly into a chair at Larry's extravagant praise of his rival,
afforded a diversion. The tenor had leaned back, convulsed with
enjoyment when, losing his balance, he came to the floor with a
crash. The sudden sound brought a terrifying result, for with a
startled cry the undersized cow-man leaped as if touched by a
living flame. Like a flash of light he whirled and poised on his
toes, his long, evil-looking revolver drawn and cocked, his tense
face vulturelike and fierce. His eyes glared through his
spectacles, his livid features worked as if at the sound of his
own death-call. His whole frame was tense; a galvanic current had
transformed him. His weapon darted toward the spot whence the
noise had come, and he would have fired blindly had not Stover
yelled:

"Don't shoot!"

Willie paused, and the breath crept audibly into his lungs.

"Who done that?" he asked, harshly.

Still Bill brought his lanky frame up above the level of the
table.

"God 'lmighty! don't be so sudden, Willie!" he cried. "It was a
accident."

But the gun man seemed unconvinced. With cat-like tread he stole
cautiously to the door, and stared out into the sunlight; then,
seeing nobody in sight, he replaced his weapon in its resting-
place and sighed with relief.

"I thought it was the marshal from Waco," he said. "He'll never
git me alive."

Stover addressed himself to Fresno, who had gone pale, and was
still prostrate where he had fallen.

"Get up, Mr. Berkeley, but don't make no more moves like that
behind a man's back. He most got you."

Fresno arose in a daze and mopped his brow, murmuring, weakly,
"I-I didn't mean to."

Carara and Mr. Cloudy came out from cover whither they had fled
at Willie's first movement. "I dreamed about that feller agin
last night," apologized the little man. "I'm sort of nervous, and
any sudden noise sets me off."

As for Glass, that corpulent individual had disappeared as if
into thin air; only a stir in one of the bunks betrayed his
hiding-place. At the first sight of Willie's revolver he had
dived for a refuge and was now flattened against the wall, a
pillow pressed over his head to deaden the expected report.

"Hey!" called the foreman, but Glass did not hear him.

"Seems to be gun-shy," observed Willie, gently.

Stover crossed to the bunk and laid a hand upon the occupant, at
which a convulsion ran through the trainer's soft body, and it
became as rigid as if locked in death. "Come out, Mr. Glass, it's
all over."

Larry muttered in a stifled voice, "Go 'way!"

"It was a mistake."

He opened his tight-shut lids, rolled over, and thrust forth a
round, pallid face. He saw Stover laughing, and beheld the white
teeth of Carara, the Mexican, who said:

"Perhaps the Senor is sleepy!"

Finding himself the object of what seemed to him a particularly
senseless joke, the New-Yorker crept forth, his face suffused
with anger. Strangely enough, he still retained the pipe in his
fingers.

"Say, are youse guys tryin' to kid me?" he demanded, roughly. Now
that no firearm was in sight, he was master of himself again; and
seeing the cause of his undignified alarm leaning against the
table, he stepped toward him threateningly. "If you try that
again, young feller, I'll chip you on the jaw, and give you a
long, dreamy nap." He thrust a short, square fist under Willie's
nose.

That scholarly gentleman straightened up, and edged his way to
one side, Glass following aggressively.

"You're a husky, ain't you?" said the little man, squinting up at
the red face above him. "Am I?" Glass snorted. "Take a good
look!" With deliberate menace he bumped violently into the other.
It was with difficulty he could restrain himself from crushing
him.

Stover gasped and retreated, while Carara crossed himself, then
sidled back of a bunk. Mr. Cloudy stepped silently out through
the open door and held his thumbs.

"You start to kid me and I'll wallop you--"

"_One moment!_" Willie was transfigured suddenly. An instant
since he had been a stoop-shouldered, short-sighted,
insignificant person, more gentle mannered than a child, but in a
flash he became a palpitating fury: an evil atom surcharged with
such terrific venom that his antagonist drew back involuntarily.
"Don't you make no threat'nin' moves in my direction, or you'll
go East in an ice-bath!" He was panting as if the effort to hold
himself in leash was almost more than he could stand.

"G'wan!" said Glass, thickly.

"You're deluded with the idea that the Constitution made all men
equal, but it didn't; it was Mr. Colt." With a movement quicker
than light the speaker drew his gun for the second time, and
buried half the barrel in the New-Yorker's ribs.

"_Look out!_" Glass barked the words, and undertook to
deflect the weapon with his hand.

"Let it alone or it'll go off!"

Glass dropped his hand as if it had been burned, and stared down
his bulging front with horrified, fascinated eyes.

"Now, listen. We've stood for you as long as we can. You've made
your talk and got away with it, but from now on you're working
for us. We've framed a foot-race, and put up our _panga_
because you said you had a champeen. Now, we ain't sayin' you
lied--'cause if we thought you had, I'd gut-shoot you here, now."
Willie paused, while Glass licked his lips and undertook to frame
a reply. The black muzzle of the weapon hovering near his heart,
however, stupefied him. Mechanically he thrust the stem of his
pipe between his lips while Willie continued to glare at him
balefully. "You're boss is a guest, but you ain't. We can talk
plain to you."

"Y--yes, of course."

"You said just now you'd answer for him with your life. Well, we
aim to make you! We ain't a-goin' to lose this foot-race under no
circumstances whatever, so we give you complete authority over
the body, health, and speed of Mr. Speed. It's up to you to make
him beat that cook."

"S-s-suppose he gets sick or sprains his ankle?" Glass undertook
to move his body from in front of the weapon, but it followed him
as if magnetized.

"There ain't a-goin' to be no accidents or excuses. It's pay or
play, money at the tape. You're his trainer, and it's your fault
if he ain't fit when he toes the mark. Understand?"

Willie lowered the muzzle of his weapon, and fired between the
legs of Glass, who leaped into the air with all the grace of a
gazelle. It was due to no conscious action on his part that the
trainer leaped; his muscles were stimulated spasmodically, and
propelled him from the floor. At the same time his will was so
utterly paralyzed that he had no control over his movements; he
did not even hear the yell that burst from his throat as his
lungs contracted; he merely knew that he was in the supremest
peril, and that flight was futile. Therefore he undertook to
steady himself. Every tissue of his body seemed to creep and
crawl. The flesh inside his legs was quivering, the close-cropped
hair of his thick neck rose and prickled, and his capacious
abdomen throbbed and pulsated like a huge bowl of jelly. He laid
his hands upon it to still the disturbance. Then he became
conscious that he had bitten his pipe-stem in two and swallowed
the end. He felt it sticking in his throat.

"Did you hear what I said?" demanded Willie, in a voice that
sounded like the sawing of a meat bone.

Glass opened his mouth, and when no sound issued, nodded.

"And you understand?"

Again the trainer bobbed his head. The pipe-stem had cut off all
power of speech, and he knew himself dumb for life.

"Then I guess that's all. It's up to you." Willie replaced his
gun, and the fat man threatened to fall. "Come on, boys!" The
cowboys filed out silently, but on the threshold Willie paused
and darted a venomous glance at his enemy. "Don't forget what I
said about Mr. Colt and the equality of man."

"Yes, sir!--yes, ma'am!" ejaculated the frightened trainer,
nervously. When they were gone he collapsed.

"They are rather severe, aren't they?" ventured Fresno.

"Severe!" cried the unhappy man. "Why, Speed can't--" He was
about to explain everything when the memory of Willie's words
smote him like a blow. That fiend had threatened to kill him,
Lawrence Glass, without preliminary if it became evident that a
fraud had been practiced. Manifestly this was no place for
hysterical confidences. Larry's mouth closed like a trap, while
the Californian watched him intently. At length he did speak, but
in a strangely softened tone, and at utter variance with his
custom.

"Say, Mr. Fresno! Which direction is New York?"

"That way." Fresno pointed to the east, and the other man stared
longingly out through the bunk-house window.

"It's quite a walk, ain't it?"

"Walk?" Berkeley laughed. "It's two or three thousand miles!"
Glass sighed heavily. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, nothin'. Jest gettin' homesick." He calmed himself with an
effort, entered the gymnasium as if in search of something, and
then set forth to find Speed.

That ecstatic young gentleman wrenched his gaze away from the
blue eyes of Miss Blake to see his trainer signalling him from
afar.

"What is it, Lawrence?"

"Got to see you."

"Presently."

"Nix! I got to see you _now!_" Glass's ruddy face was
blotched, and he seemed to rest in the grip of some blighting
malady. Beneath his arm he carried a tight-rolled bundle. Sensing
something important back of this unusual demeanor, Speed excused
himself and followed Larry, who did not trust to speech until
they were alone in the gymnasium with the doors closed. Then he
unrolled the bundle he carried, spread it upon the floor, and
stepped into its exact centre.

"Are you standing on my prayer-rug?" demanded his companion,
angrily.

"I am! And from this on I'm goin' to make it work itself to
death. She said a feller couldn't get hurt if he stood on it and
said 'Allah.' Well, I'm goin' to wear it out."

"What's wrong?"

"Do you know what's goin' to happen to me if Covington don't get
here and beat this cook?"

"Happen to you?"

"Yes, me! These outlaws have put it up to me to win this bet for
them."

"Well, Covington can beat anybody."

"But Covington isn't here yet."

"Not yet, but--" The young man smiled. "You're not frightened,
are you?"

"Scared to death, that's all," acknowledged the other. Then when
his employer laughed openly, he broke out at a white-heat. "Joke,
eh? Well, you'd better have a good laugh while you can, because
Humpy Joe's finish will be a ten-course dinner to what you'll get
if Covington misses his train."

"How easily frightened you are!"

"Yes? Well, any time people start shooting shots I'm too big for
this earth. The hole in a gun looks as big as a gas-tank to me."

"But nobody is going to shoot you!" exclaimed the mystified
college man.

"They ain't, hey? I missed the Golden Stairs by a lip not half an
hour ago. I got a pipe-stem crossways in my gullet now, and it
tickles." He coughed loudly, then shook his head. "No use; it
won't come up." With feverish intensity he told of his narrow
escape from destruction, the memory bringing a sweat of agony to
his brow. "And the worst of it is," he concluded, "I'm 'marked'
with guns. I've always been that way."

"Tut! tut! Don't alarm yourself. If Covington shouldn't come, the
race will be declared off."

"No chance," announced the trainer, with utter conviction. "These
thugs have made it pay or play, and the bets are down."

"You know I can't run."

"If he don't come, you'll _have_ to!"

"Absurd! I shall be indisposed."

"If you mean you'll get sick, or sprain an ankle, or break a leg,
or kill yourself, guess again. I'm responsible for you now.
Something may go wrong with me, that pipe-stem is liable to gimme
a cancer, but nothin' is goin' to happen to you. My only chance
to make a live of it is to cough up that clay, and get some one
to outrun this cook. You're the only chance I've got, if Culver
don't show, and the first law of nature ain't never been
repealed."

"Self-protection, eh?"

"Exactly." Glass coughed thrice without result, stepped off the
prayerrug, rolled it up tightly; then, hugging it beneath his
arm, went on: "That four-eyed guy slipped me a whole lot of feed-
box information. Why, he's a killer, Wally! And he's got a cash-
register to tally his dead."

"Notches on his gun-handle, I suppose?"

"So many that it looks like his wife had used it to hang pictures
with. I tell you, he's the most deceitful rummy I ever seen.
What's more, he's got the homicide habit, and the habit has got
its eye on _me_." Glass was in deadly earnest, and his alarm
contrasted so strongly with his former contemptuous attitude
toward the cowboys that Speed was constrained to laugh again.

"It's the most amusing thing I ever heard of."

"Yes," said the trainer, with elaborate sarcasm, "it would be
awful funny if it wasn't on the square." He moistened his lip
nervously.

"You alarm yourself unnecessarily. We'll hear from Culver soon,
either by wire or in person. He's never failed me yet. But if I
were you, Larry, I'd leave that Mexican girl alone."

"Mary?"

"Yes. Mariedetta. Now, there's something to be afraid of. If
these cowboys are in love with her and have their eyes on you--"

"Oh, Willie ain't her steady, and he's the only one I'm leary of.
Mary's beau is that Egyptian with the funny clothes, and I can
lick any guy with tight pants."

A gentle knock sounded at the door, at which Speed called:

"Come in!"

Senor Aurelio Maria Carara entered. He was smoking his customary
corn-husk cigarette, but his dark eyes were grave and his silken
mustachios were pointed to the fineness of a bristle.




CHAPTER X

"_Buenos dias, Senor._" Carara bowed politely to Speed.

"Good-morning again," said Wally.

Turning to the trainer, Carara eyed him from top to toe, removed
his cigarette, and flipped the ashes daintily from it; then,
smiling disdainfully, said:

"_Buenos dias, Senor Fat!_"

Glass started. "You talkin' to me?"

"Yes." Carara leaned languidly against the wall, took a match
from his pocket, and dextrously struck it between the nails of
his thumb and finger. He breathed his lungs full of smoke and
exhaled it through his nose. "I would have spik to you biffore,
but the Senor Fat is"--he shrugged his shoulders--"frighten' so
bad he will not understan'. So--I come back."

"Who's scared?" said Glass, gruffly.

Carara turned his palm outward, in gentle apology.

"You been talk' a gret deal to my Senorita--to Mariedetta, eh?"

"Oh, the Cuban Queen!" Glass winked openly at Speed. "Sure! I
slip her a laugh now and then."

"She is not _Cubana_, she is _Mexicana_," said Carara,
politely.

"Well, what d'you think of that! I thought she was a Cuban."
Glass began to chuckle.

"Senor Fat," broke in the Mexican, sharply, while Larry winced at
the distasteful appellation, "she is _my_ Senorita!"

"Is she? Well, I can't help it if she falls for me." The speaker
cast an appreciative glance at his employer. "And you can cut out
that 'Senor Fat,' because it don't go--" Then he gasped, for
Carara slowly drew from inside his shirt a long, thin-bladed
knife bearing marks of recent grinding, and his black eyes
snapped. His face had become suddenly convulsed, while his voice
rang with the tone of chilled metal. Glass retreated a step, a
shudder ran through him, and his eyes riveted themselves upon the
weapon with horrified intensity.

"Listen, Pig! If you spik to her again, I will cut you." The gaze
of the Mexican pierced his victim. "I will not keel you, I will
just--cut you!"

Speed, who had sat in open-mouthed amazement during the scene,
pinched himself. Like Larry, he could not remove his gaze from
the swarthy man. He pulled himself together with an effort,
however, undertaking to divert the present trend of the
conversation.

"W--where will you cut him?" he asked, pleasantly, more to make
conversation than from any lingering question as to the precise
location.

"Here." Carara turned the blade against himself, and traced a
cross upon his front, whereupon the trainer gurgled and laid
protecting hands upon his protruding abdomen. "You spik Spanish?"
"No." Glass shook his head.

"But you understan' w'at I try to say?"

"Yes--oh yes--I'm hep all right."

"And the Senor Fat will r-r-re-member?"

"Sure!" Glass sighed miserably, and tearing his eyes away from
the glittering blade, rolled them toward his employer. "I don't
want her! Mr. Speed knows I don't want her!"

Carara bowed. "And the Fat Senor will not spik wit' her again?"

"No!"

"_Gracias, Senor!_ I thank you!"

"You're welcome!" agreed the New Yorker, with repressed feeling.

"_Adios! Adios,_ Senor Speed!"

"Good-bye!" exclaimed the two in chorus.

Carara returned the knife to its hiding-place, swept the floor
gracefully with his sombrero, then placing the spangled head-
piece at an exact angle upon his raven locks, lounged out, his
silver spurs tinkling in the silence.

Glass took a deep breath.

"He doesn't mean to kill you--just cut you," said Speed. "I got
it," declared the other, fervently. Again he laid repressing
hands upon his bulging front and looked down at it tenderly.
"They've all got it in for my pad, haven't they?"

"I told you to keep away from that girl."

"Humph!" Glass spoke with soulful conviction. "Take it from me,
Bo, I'll walk around her as if she was a lake. Who'd ever think
that chorus-man was a killer?"

"Surely you don't care for her seriously?"

"Not now. I--I love my Cuban, but"--he quivered apprehensively--
"I'll bet that rummy packs a 'shiv' in every pocket."

From outside the bunk-house came the low, musical notes of a
quail, and Glass puckered his lips to answer, then grew pale.
"That's her," he declared, in a panic. "I've got a date with
her."

"Are you going to keep it?"

"Not for a nose-bag full of gold nuggets! Take a look, Wally, and
see what she's doing."

Speed did as directed. "She's waiting."

"Let her wait," breathed the trainer.

"Here comes Stover and Willie."

"More bad news." Glass unrolled his prayer-rug, and stepped upon
it hastily. "Say, what's that word? Quick! You know! The
password. Quick!"

"Allah!"

"That's her!" The fat man began to mumble thickly. It was plain
that his spirit was utterly broken.

But this call was prompted purely by solicitude, it seemed.
Willie had little to say, and Stover, ignoring all mention of the
earlier encounter he had witnessed, exclaimed:

"There's been some queer goin's-on 'round here, Mr. Speed. Have
you noticed 'em?"

"No. What sort?"

"Well, the other mornin' I discovered some tracks through one of
Miss Jean's flower-beds."

"Tracks!"

"Sure! Strange tracks. Man's tracks."

"What does that signify?"

"We ain't altogether certain. Carara says he seen a stranger
hangin' around night before last, and jest now we found where a
hoss had been picketed out in the ravine. Looks like he'd stood
there more'n once."

"Why, this is decidedly mysterious."

"We figured we'd ought to tell you."

"It has nothing to do with me."

"I ain't sure. It looks to us like it's somebody from the
Centipede. They're equal to any devilment."

Speed showed an utter lack of comprehension, so Willie explained.

"Understand, we've made this race pay or play. Mebbe they aim to
<DW36> you."

"Me!" Speed started. "Good Heavens!"

"Oh, they'd do it quick enough! I wouldn't put it past 'em to
drop a .45 through your winder if it could be done safe."

"Shoot me, you mean?"

"Allah!" said Glass, devoutly from his corner.

Stover and Willie nodded. "If I was you, I'd keep the lamp
between me and the winder every night."

"Why, this is abominable!" exclaimed the young college man,
stiffly. "I--I can't stand for this, it's getting too serious."

"There ain't nothin' to fear," said Willie, soothingly.
"Remember, I told you at the start that we'd see there wasn't no
crooked work done. Well, I'm goin' to ride herd on you, constant,
Mr. Speed." He smiled in a manner to reassure. "If there's any
shootin' comes off, I'll be in on it."

"S--say, what's to prevent us being murdered when we're out for a
run?" queried Glass.

"Me!" declared the little man. "I'll saddle my bronc' an' lope
along with you. We'll keep to the open country."

Instantly Speed saw the direful consequences of such a procedure,
and summoned his courage to say: "No. It's very kind of you, but
I shall give up training."

"_What!_"

"I mean training on the road. I--I'll run indoors."

"Not a bit like it," declared Stover. "You'll get your daily run
if we have to lay off all the punchers on the place and put 'em
on as a body-guard."

"But I don't want a body-guard!" cried the athlete desperately.

"We can't let you get hurt. You're worth too much to us."

"Larry and I will take a chance."

"Not for mine!" firmly declared the trainer. "I don't need no
mineral in my system. I'm for the house."

"Then I shall run alone."

"You're game," said Willie admiringly, and his auditor breathed
easier, "but we can't allow it."

"I--I'd rather risk my life than put you to so much trouble."

"It's only a pleasure."

"Nevertheless, I can't allow it. I'll run alone, if they kill me
for it."

"Oh, they won't try to _kill_ you. They'll probably shoot
you in the legs. That's just as good, and it's a heap easier to
get away with."

Speed felt his knee-caps twitching.

"I've got it!" said he at last. "I'll run at night!"

Stover hesitated thoughtfully. "I don't reckon you could do
yourself justice that-away, but you might do your trainin' at
daylight. The Centipede goes to work the same time we do, and the
chances is your assassin won't miss his breakfast."

"Good! I--I'll do that!"

"I sure admire your courage, but if you see anything suspicious,
let us know. We'll git 'em," said Willie.

"Thank you."

The two men went out, whereupon Glass chattered:

"W--what did I tell you? It's worse'n suicide to stick around
this farm. I'm going to blow."

"Where are you going?"

"New York. Let's beat it!"

"Never!" exclaimed the college man, stubbornly. We'll hear from
Covington before long. Besides, I can't leave until I get some
money from home."

"Let's walk."

"Don't be a fool!"

"Then I've got to have a drink." Glass started for the living-
quarters, but at the door ducked quickly out of sight.

"She's there!" he whispered tragically. "She seen me, too!"

Mariedetta was squatting in the shade opposite, her eyes fixed
stolidly upon the training-quarters.

"Then you've got to lay low till she gives up," declared Wally.
"We're in trouble enough as it is."

For nearly an hour the partners discussed the situation while the
Mexican maid retained her position; then, when Glass was on the
verge of making a desperate sally, Cloudy entered silently.
Although this had been an unhappy morning for the trainer, here
at least was one person of whom he had no fear, and his natural
optimism being again to the fore, he greeted the Indian lightly.

"Well, how's the weather, Cloudy?"

"Mr. Cloudy to you," said the other. Both Glass and his protege
stared. It was the first word the Indian had uttered since their
arrival. Lawrence winked at his companion.

"All right, if you like it better. How's the weather, Mister
Cloudy?" He snickered at his own joke, whereupon the aborigine
turned upon him slowly, and said, in perfect English:

"Your humor is misplaced with me. Don't forget, Mr. Glass, that
the one Yale football team you trained, I dropped a goal on from
the forty-five-yard line."

Glass allowed his mouth to open in amazement. The day was replete
with surprises.

"'96!" he said, while the light of understanding came over him.
"You're Cloudy-but-the-Sun-Shines?"

"Yes--Carlisle." Cloudy threw back his head, and pointed with
dignity to the flag of his Alma Mater hanging upon the wall.

"By Jove, I remember that!" exclaimed Speed.

"So will Yale so long as she lives," predicted the Indian,
grimly. "You crippled me in the second half"--he stirred his
withered leg--"but I dropped it on you; and--I have not
forgotten." He ground the last sentence between his teeth.

"See here, Bo--Mr. Cloudy. You don't blame us for that?" Cloudy
grunted, and threw a yellow envelope on the floor at Speed's
feet. "There is something for you," said he, while his lips
curled. He turned, and limped silently to the door.

"And I tried to kid him!" breathed Glass with disgust, when the
visitor had gone. "I ain't been in right since Garfield was
shot."

"It's a telegram from Covington!" cried Speed, tearing open the
message. "At last!"

"Thank the Lord!" Glass started forward eagerly. "When'll he be
here? Quick!" Then he paused. J. Wallingford Speed had gone
deathly pale, and was reeling slightly. "What's wrong?"

The college man made uncertainly for his bed, murmuring
incoherently:

"I--I'm sick! I'm sick, Larry!" He fell limply at full length,
and groaned, "Call the race off!"

Glass snatched the missive from his employer's nerveless fingers,
and read, with bulging eyes, as follows:

"J. WALLINGFORD SPEED, _Flying Heart Ranch, Kidder, New
Mexico:_

"Don't tip off. Am in jail Omaha. Looks like ten days.

"CULVER COVINGTON."

The trainer uttered a cry like that of a wounded animal.

"Call it off, Larry," moaned the Hope of the Flying Heart. "I've
been poisoned!"

"Poisoned, eh?" said the fat man, tremulously. "Poisoned!
_Nix!_ Not with me!" He walked firmly across the room, flung
back the lid of Speed's athletic trunk, and began to paw through
it feverishly. One after another he selected three heavy
sweaters, then laid strong hands upon his protege and jerked him
to his feet. "Sick, eh? Here, get into these!"

"What do you mean, Lawrence?" inquired his victim.

"If you get sick, I die." Glass opened the first sweater, and
half-smothered his protege with it. "Hurry up! You're going into
training!"




CHAPTER XI

That was a terrible hour for J. Wallingford Speed. As for Larry,
once he had grasped the full significance of the telegram, he
became a different person. Some fierce electric charge wrought a
chemical alteration in his every fibre; he became a domineering,
iron-willed autocrat, obsessed by the one idea of his own
preservation, and not hesitating to use physical force when force
became necessary to lessen his peril.

Repeatedly Speed folded his arms over his stomach, rocked in the
throes of anguish, and wailed that he was perishing of cramps;
the trainer only snorted with derision. When he refused to don
the clothes selected for him, Glass fell upon him like a raging
grizzly.

"You won't, eh? We'll see!" Then Speed took refuge in anger, but
the other cried:

"Never mind the hysterics, Bo. You're going to run off some
blubber to-day."

"But I have _to go riding_!"

"Not a chance!"

"I tell you I'll run when I come back," maintained the youth,
almost tearfully beseeching. "They're waiting for me."

"Let 'em gallop--you can run alongside."

"With all these sweaters? I'd have a sunstroke."

"It's the best thing for you. I never thought of that."

As Glass forced his protege toward the house, the other young
people appeared clad for their excursion; their horses were
tethered to the porch. And it was an ideal day for a ride--warm,
bright, and inviting. Over to the northward the hills,
mysteriously purple, invited exploration; to the south and east
the golden prairie undulated gently into a hazy realm of infinite
possibilities; the animals themselves turned friendly eyes upon
their riders, champing and whinnying as if eager to bear them out
into the distances.

"We are ready!" called Jean gayly.

"What in the world--" Helen paused at sight of the swathed
figure. "Are you cold, Mr. Speed?"

"Climb on your horses and get a start," panted the burly trainer;
"he's goin' to race you ten miles."

"I'm going to do nothing of the sort. I'm going to--"

But Glass jerked him violently, crying:

"And no talkin' to gals, neither. You're trainin'. Now, get a
move!"

Speed halted stubbornly.

"Hit her up, Wally! G'wan, now--faster! No loafing, Bo, or I'll
wallop you!" Nor did he cease until they both paused from
exhaustion. Even then he would not allow his charge to do more
than regain his breath before urging him onward.

"See here," Wally stormed at last, "what's the use? I can't--"

"What's the use? That's the use!" Glass pointed to the north,
where a lone horseman was watching them from a knoll. "D'you know
who that is?"

The rider was small and stoop-shouldered.

"Willie!"

"That's who."

"He's following us!"

With knees trembling beneath him Speed jogged feebly on down the
road, Glass puffing at his heels.

When, after covering five miles, they finally returned to the
Flying Heart, it was with difficulty that they could drag one
foot after another. Wally Speed was drenched with perspiration,
and Glass resembled nothing so much as a steaming pudding;
rivulets of sweat ran down his neck, his face was purple, his
lips swollen.

"Y-you'll have--to run alone--this afternoon," panted the
tormentor.

"This afternoon? Haven't I run enough for--one day?" the victim
pleaded. "Glass, old man, I--I'm all in, I tell you; I'm ready to
die."

"Got to--fry off some more--leaf-lard," declared the trainer with
vulgarity. He lumbered into the cook-house, radiating heat waves,
puffing like a traction-engine, while his companion staggered to
the gymnasium, and sank into a chair. A moment later he appeared
with two bottles of beer, one glued to his lips. Both were
evidently ice cold, judging from the fog that covered them.

Speed rose with a cry.

"Gee! That looks good!"

But the other, thrusting him aside without removing the neck of
the bottle from his lips, gurgled:

"No booze, Wally! You're trainin'!"

"But I'm thirsty!" shouted the athlete, laying hands upon the
full bottle, and trying to wrench it free.

"Have a little sense. If you're thirsty, hit the sink." Glass
still maintained his hold, mumbling indistinctly: "Water's the
worst thing in the world. Wait! I'll get you some."

He stepped into the bunk-room, to return an instant later with a
cup half full. "Rinse out your mouth, and don't swallow it all."

"All! There isn't that much. Ugh! It's lukewarm. I want a bucket
of ice-water--_ice-water_!"

"Nothing doing! I won't stand to have your epictetus chilled."

"My what?"

"Never mind now. Off with them clothes, and get under that
shower. I guess it'll feel pretty good to-day."

Speed obeyed instructions sullenly, while his trainer, reclining
in the cosey-corner, uncorked the second bottle. From behind the
blanket curtains where the barrel stood, the former demanded:

"What did you mean by saying I'd have to run again this
afternoon?"

"Starts!" said Glass, shortly.

"Starts?"

"Fast work. We been loafing so far; you got to get some ginger."

"Rats! What's the use?"

"No use at all. You couldn't outrun a steam-roller, but if you
won't duck out, I've got to do my best. I'd as lief die of a
gunshot-wound as starve to death in the desert."

"Do you suppose we _could_ run away?"

"Could we!" Glass propped himself eagerly upon one elbow. "Leave
it to me."

"No!" Wally resumed rubbing himself down. "I can't leave without
looking like a quitter. Fresno would get her sure."

"What's the difference if you're astraddle of a cloud with a gold
guitar in your lap?"

"Oh, they won't _kill_ us."

"I tell you these cow-persons is desp'rate. If you stay here and
run that race next Saturday, she'll tiptoe up on Sunday and put a
rose in your hand, sure. I can see her now, all in black. Take it
from me, Wally, we ain't goin' to have no luck in this thing."

"My dear fellow, the simplest way out of the difficulty is for me
to injure myself--"

"Here!" Glass hopped to his feet and dove through the blankets.
"None of that! Have a little regard for me. If you go lame it's
my curtain."

All that day the trainer stayed close to his charge, never
allowing him out of his sight, and when, late in the afternoon,
Speed rebelled at the espionage, Glass merely shrugged his fat
shoulders. "But I want to be alone--with _her_. Can't you
see?"

"I can, but I won't. Go as far as you like. I'll close my eyes."

"Or _I'll_ close them for you!" The lad scowled; his
companion laughed mirthlessly.

"Don't start nothin' like that--I'd ruin you. Gals is bad for a
man in trainin' anyhow."

"I suppose I'm not to see her--"

"You can _see_ her, but I want to hear what you say to her.
No emotion till after this race, Wally."

"You're an idiot! This whole affair is preposterous--ridiculous."

"And yet it don't make us laugh, does it?" Glass mocked.

"If these cowboys make me run that race, they'll be sorry--mark
my words, they'll be sorry."

Speed lighted a cigarette and inhaled deeply, but only once. The
other lunged at him with a cry and snatched it. "Give me that
cigarette!"

"I've had enough of this foolishness," Wally stormed. "You are
discharged!"

"I wish I was."

"You are!"

"_Not!_"

"I say you are fired!" Glass stared at him. "Oh, I mean it! I
won't be bullied."

"Very well." Glass rose ponderously. "I'll wise up that queen of
yours, Mr. Speed."

"You aren't going to talk to Miss Blake? Wait!" Speed wilted
miserably. "She mustn't know. I--I hire you over again."

"Suit yourself."

"You see, don't you? My love for Helen is the only serious thing
I ever experienced," said the boy. "I--can't lose her. You've got
to help me out."

And so it was agreed.

That evening, when the clock struck nine, J. Wallingford Speed
was ready and willing to drag himself off to bed, in spite of the
knowledge that Fresno was waiting to take his place in the
hammock. He was racked by a thousand pains, his muscles were
sore, his back lame. He was consumed by a thirst which Glass
stoutly refused to let him quench, and possessed by a fearful
longing for a smoke. When he dozed off, regardless of the snores
from the bunk-house adjoining, Berkeley Fresno's musical tenor
was sounding in his ears. And Helen Blake was vaguely surprised.
For the first time in their acquaintance Mr. Speed had yawned
openly in her presence, and she wondered if he were tiring of
her.

It seemed to Speed that he had barely closed his eyes when he
felt a rough hand shaking him, and heard his trainer's voice
calling, in a half-whisper: "Come on, Cull! Get up!"

When he turned over it was only to be shaken into complete
wakefulness.

"Hurry up, it's daylight!"

"Where?"

"Come, now, you got to run five miles before breakfast!"

Speed sat up with a groan. "If I run five miles," he said, "I
won't want any breakfast," and laid himself down again
gratefully--he was very sore--whereat his companion fairly
dragged him out of bed. As yet the room was black, although the
windows were grayed by the first faint streaks of dawn. From the
adjoining room came a chorus of distress: snores of every size,
volume, and degree of intensity, from the last harrowing gasp of
strangulation to the bold trumpetings of a bull moose. There were
long drawn sighs, groans of torture, rumbling blasts. Speed
shuddered.

"They sound like a troop of trained sea-lions," said he.

"Don't wake 'em up. Here!" Glass yawned widely, and tossed a
bundle of sweaters at his companion.

"Ugh! These clothes are all wet and cold, and--it feels like
blood!"

"Nothin' but the mornin' dew."

"It's perspiration."

"Well, a little sweat won't hurt you."

"Nasty word." Speed yawned in turn. "Perspiration! I can't wear
wet clothes," and would have crept back into his bed.

This time Glass deposited him upon a stool beside the table, and
then lighted a candle, by the sickly glare of which he selected a
pair of running-shoes.

"Why didn't you leave me alone?" grumbled the younger man. "The
only pleasure I get is in sleep--I forget things then."

"Yes," retorted the former, sarcastically, "and you also seem to
forget that these are our last days among the living. Saturday
the big thing comes off."

"Forget! I dreamed about it!" The boy sighed heavily. It was the
hour in which hope reaches its lowest ebb and vitality is
weakest. He was very cold and very miserable.

"You ain't got no edge on me," the other acknowledged,
mournfully. "I'm too young to die, and that's a bet."

Suddenly the pandemonium in the bunk-house was pierced by the
brazen jangle of an alarm-clock, whereat a sleepy voice cried:

"Cloudy, kill that damn clock!"

The Indian uttered some indistinguishable epithet, and the next
instant there came a crash as the offending timepiece was hurled
violently against the wall. In silence Glass shoved his unsteady
victim ahead of him out into the dawn. In the east the sun was
rising amid a riotous splendor. At any other time, under any
other conditions, Speed could not have restrained his admiration,
for the whole world was a glorious sparkling panoply of color.
The tumbled masses of the hills were blazing at their crests, the
valleys dark and cool. In the east the limb of the sun was just
rearing itself, the air was heady with the scent of growing
things, and so clear that the distances were magically shortened;
a certain wild, intoxicating exuberance surcharged the out-of-
doors. But to the stiff and wearied Eastern lad it was all
cruelly mocking. When he halted listlessly to view its beauties
he was goaded forward, ever forward, faster and faster, until
finally, amid protests and sighs and complaining joints, he broke
into a heavy, flat-footed jog-trot that jolted the artistic sense
entirely out of him.




CHAPTER XII

It was usually a procedure not alone of difficulty but of
diplomacy as well, to rout out the ranch-hands of the Flying
Heart without engendering hostile relations that might bear fruit
during the day. This morning Still Bill Stover had more than his
customary share of trouble, for they seemed pessimistic.

Carara, for instance, breathed a Spanish oath as he combed his
hair, and when the foreman inquired the reason, replied:

"I don' sleep good. I been t'ink mebbe I lose my saddle on this
footrace."

Cloudy, whose toilet was much less intricate, grunted from the
shadows:

"I thought I heard that phonograph all night."

"It was the Natif Son singin' to his gal," explained one of the
hands. "He's gettin' on my nerves, too. If he wasn't a friend of
the boss, I'd sure take a surcingle and abate him considerable."

"Vat you t'ank? I dream' Mr. Speed is ron avay an' broke his
leg," volunteered Murphy, the Swede, whose name New Mexico had
shortened from Bjorth Kjelliser.

"Run away?"

"Ya-as! I dream' he's out for little ron ven piece of noosepaper
blow up in his face an' mak' him ron avay, yust same as horse. He
snort an' yump, an' ron till he step in prairie-dog hole and
broke his leg."

"Strange!" said Willie.

"What?"

"My rest was fitful and disturbed and peopled by strange fancies
a whole lot. I dreamp' he _throwed_ the race!"

A chorus of oaths from the bunks.

"What did you do?" inquired Stover.

"I woke up, all of a tremble, with a gun in each hand."

"I don't take no stock in dreams whatever," said some one.

"Well, I'm the last person in the world to be superstitious,"
Still Bill observed, "but I've had sim'lar visions lately."

"Maybe it's a om-en."

"What is a om-en?" Carara inquired.

"A om-en," explained Willie, "is a kind of a nut. Salted om-ens
is served at swell restaurants with the soup."

In the midst of it Joy, the cook, appeared in the doorway, and
spoke in his gentle, ingratiating tones:

"Morning, gel'mum! I see 'im again."

"Who?"

"No savvy who; stlange man! I go down to spling-house for bucket
water; see 'im lide 'way. Velly stlange!"

"I bet it's Gallagher."

"Vat you tank he vants?" queried Murphy.

"He's layin' to get a shot at our runner," declared Stover, while
Mr. Cloudy, forgetting his Indian reserve, explained in classic
English his own theory of the nocturnal visits. "Do you remember
Humpy Joe? Well, they didn't <DW36> him, but he lost. I don't
think Gallagher would injure Mr. Speed, but--he might--bribe
him."

"_Caramba_!" exclaimed the Mexican.

"God 'lmighty!" Willie cried, in shocked accents.

"I believe you're right, but"--Stover meditated briefly before
announcing with determination--"we'll do a little night-ridin'
ourselves. Willie, you watch this young feller daytimes, and the
rest of us'll take turns at night. An' don't lose sight of the
fat man, neither--he might carry notes. If you don't like the
looks of things--you know what cards to draw."

"Sixes," murmured the near-sighted cow-man. "Don't worry."

"If you see anything suspicious, burn it up. And we'll take a
shot at anything we see movin' after 9 P.M."

Then Berkeley Fresno came hurriedly into the bunk-house with a
very cheery "Good-morning! I'm glad I found you up and doing," he
said blithely. "I thought of something in my sleep." It was
evident that the speaker had been in more than ordinary haste to
make his discovery known, for underneath his coat he still wore
his pajama shirt, and his hair was unbrushed.

"What is it?"

"Your man Speed isn't taking care of himself."

"What did I tell you?" said Willie to his companions.

"It seems to me that in justice to you boys he shouldn't act this
way," Fresno ran on. "Now, for instance, the water in his shower-
bath is tepid."

There was an instant's silence before Stover inquired, with
ominous restraint:

"Who's been monkeying with it?"

"It's warm!"

"Oh!" It was a sigh of relief.

"A man can't get in shape taking warm shower-baths. Warm water
weakens a person."

"Mebbe you-all will listen to me next time!" again cried Willie,
triumphantly. "I said at the start that a bath never helped
nobody. When they're hot they saps a man's courage, and when
they're cold they--"

"No, no! You don't understand! For an athlete the bath ought to
be cold--the colder the better. It's the shock that hardens a
fellow."

"Has he weakened himself much?" inquired the foreman.

"Undoubtedly, but--"

"What?"

"If we only had some ice--"

"We got ice; plenty of it. We got a load from the railroad
yesterday."

"Then our only chance to save him is to fill the barrel quickly.
We must freeze him, and freeze him well, before it is too late!
By Jove! I'm glad I thought of it!"

Stover turned to his men. "Four of you-all hustle up a couple
hundred pounds of that ice _pronto!_ Crack it, an' fill the
bar'l." There was a scramble for the door.

"And there's something else, too," went on Berkeley. "He's being
fed wrong for his last days of training. The idea of a man eating
lamb-chops, fried eggs, oatmeal, and all that debilitating stuff!
Those girls overload his stomach. Why, he ought to have something
to make him strong--fierce!"

"Name it," said Willie, shortly.

"Something like--like--bear meat."

"We ain't got no bear." Willie looked chagrined.

"This ain't their habitat," added Stover apologetically.

"Well, he ought to have meat, and it ought to be wild--raw, if
possible."

"There ain't nothin' wilder 'n a long-horn. We can git him a
steer."

"You are sure the meat isn't too tender?"

"It's tougher 'n a night in jail."

"There ain't no sausage-mill that'll dent it."

"Good! The rarer it is the better. Some raw eggs and a good
strong vegetable--"

"Onions?"

"Fine! We'll save him yet!"

"We'll get the grub."

"And he'll eat it!" Willie nodded firmly.

Stover issued another order, this time to Carara. "You 'n Cloudy
butcher the wildest four-year-old you can find. If you can't get
close enough to rope him, shoot him, and bring in a hind quarter.
It's got to be here in time for breakfast."

"Si, Senor!" The Mexican picked up his lariat; the Indian took a
Winchester from an upper bunk and filled it with cartridges.

"Of course, he'll have to eat out here; they spoil him up at the
house."

"Sure thing!"

"I'd hate to see him lose; it would be a terrible blow to Miss
Blake." Fresno shook his head doubtfully.

"What about us?"

"Oh, you can stand it--but she's a girl. Ah, well," the speaker
sighed, "I hope nothing occurs between now and Saturday to
prevent his running."

"It won't," Stover grimly assured the Californian. "Nothin'
whatever is goin' to occur."

"He was speaking yesterday about the possibility of some business
engagement--"

The small man in glasses interrupted. "Nothin' but death shall
take him from us, Mr. Fresno."

"If I think of anything else," offered Berkeley, kindly, "I'll
tell you."

"We wish you would."

Fresno returned to the house, humming cheerily. It was still an
hour until his breakfast-time, but he had accomplished much. In
the midst of his meditation he came upon Miss Blake emerging upon
the rear porch.

"Good-morning!" he cried. She started a trifle guiltily. "What
are you doing at this hour?"

"Oh, I just love the morning air," she answered. "And you?"

"Same here! 'Honesty goes to bed early, and industry rises
betimes.' That's me!"

"Then you have been working?"

Fresno nodded. He was looking at four cowboys who were entering
the gymnasium, staggering beneath dripping gunny-sacks. Then he
turned his gaze searchingly upon the girl.

"Were you looking for Speed?" he asked accusingly. "The idea!"
Miss Blake flushed faintly.

"If you are, he has gone for a run. I dearly love to see him get
up early and run, he enjoys it so. To give pleasure to others is
one of my constant aims. That is why I learned to sing." "I have
been baking a cake," said Helen, displaying the traces of her
occupation upon hands, arms, and apron, while Fresno, at sight of
the blue apron tied at her throat and waist, felt that he himself
was as dough in her hands. "I had a dreadful time to make it
rise."

"Early rising is always unpopular."

"How clever you are this morning."

"If I were a cake I would rise at your lightest word."

"The cook said it wouldn't be fit to eat," declared Helen.

"Jealousy! She hadn't been up long."

"And I _did_ leave a lot of dishes to wash after I had
finished," Miss Blake admitted.

"I should love to eat your cooking."

"Once in a while, perhaps, but not every day."

"Every day--always and always. You know what I-mean, Miss Blake--
Helen!" The young man bent a lover's gaze upon his companion
until he detected her eyes fastened with startled inquiry upon
his toilet. Remembering, he buttoned his coat, but ran on. "This
is the first chance I've had to see you alone since Speed
arrived. There's something I want to ask you."

"I--I know what it is," stammered Helen. "You want me to let you
sing again. Please do. I love morning music--and your voice is so
tender."

"Life," said Berkeley, "is one sweet--"

"What is going on here?" demanded a voice behind them, and Mrs.
Keap came out upon the porch, eying the pair suspiciously. It was
evident that she, like Fresno, had dressed hurriedly.

"Mr. Fresno is going to sing to us," explained the younger girl,
quickly.

"Really?"

"I am like the bird that greets the morn with song," laughed the
tenor, awkwardly.

"What are you going to sing?" demanded the chaperon, still
suspiciously. "_Dearie_."

"Don't you know any other song?"

"Oh yes, but they are all sad."

"I'm getting a trifle tired of _Dearie_, let's have one of
the others." Mrs. Keap turned her eyes anxiously toward the
training-quarters, and it was patent that she had not counted
upon this encounter. Noting her lack of ease, Fresno said
hopefully:

"If you are going for a walk, I'll sing for you at some other
time."

"Is Mr. Speed up yet?"

"Up and gone. He'll be back soon."

Then Mrs. Keap sank into the hammock, and with something like
resignation, said:

"Proceed with the song."

Along the road toward the ranch buildings plodded two dusty
pedestrians, one a blond youth bundled thickly in sweaters, the
other a fat man who rolled heavily, and paused now and then to
mop his purple face. Both were dripping as if from an immersion,
while the air about the latter vibrated with heat waves. They
both stumbled as they walked, and it was only by the strongest
effort of will that they propelled themselves. As they neared the
corner of the big, low-lying ranch-house, already reflecting the
hot glare of the morning sun, a man's clear tenor voice came to
them.

   "The volley was fired at sunrise,
    Just at the break of day"--

"Did you get that?" one of the two exclaimed hoarsely. "They're
practising a death-march, and it's ours."

   "And as the echoes lingered,
    His soul had passed away."

"That's you, Wally!" wheezed the trainer.

   "Into the arms of his Maker,
    There to learn his fate"--

Speed broke into a run.

   "A tear, a sigh, a last 'Good-bye'--
      The pardon came too late."

"Here, what are you singing about?" angrily protested Speed, as
he rounded into view.

"Oh, it's Mr. Speed!"

"Good-morning!" chorused Helen and the chaperon.

"Welcome to our city!" Fresno greeted.

Glass tottered to the steps. "Them songs," he puffed, "is bad for
a man when he's trainin'; they get him all worked up."

"We had no idea you would be back so soon," apologized Helen.

"Soon!" Speed measured the distance to a wicker chair, gave it
up, and sank beside his trainer. "We left yesterday! We've run
miles and miles and miles!"

"You can't be in very good shape," volunteered the singer.

"Oh, is that so?" Glass retorted. "I say he's great. He got my
goat--and I'm some runner."

"And I'd be obliged to you if you'd cut out those deeply
appealing songs." Speed glowered at his rival. It was Helen who
hastened to smooth things.

"It's all my fault. I asked Mr. Fresno to sing something new."

"Bah! That was written by William Cromwell."

"No more of them battle-hymns," Glass ordered. "They don't do Mr.
Speed no good."

"All I want is a drink," panted that youthful athlete, and Helen
rose quickly, saying that she would bring ice-water.

But the trainer barked, sharply: "Nix! I've told you that twenty
times, Wally. It'll put hob-nails in your liver." He rose with
difficulty, swaying upon his feet, and where he had sat was a
large, irregular shaped, sweat-dampened area. "Come on! Don't get
chilled."

"I'd give twenty dollars for a good chill!" exclaimed the
overheated college man longingly.

"I would like to see you a moment, Mr. Speed." Roberta rose from
the hammock.

"Oh, and I've forgotten my--" Helen checked her words with a
startled glance toward the kitchen. "It will be burned to a
crisp." She hastened down the porch, and Fresno followed, while
Speed looked after them.

"He must be an awful nuisance to a nice girl. Think of a fat,
sandy-haired husband in a five-room flat with pink wall-paper and
a  janitor. Run along, Muldoon," to Glass, "I'll be with
you in a moment."

When the trainer had waddled out of hearing, Mrs. Keap inquired,
eagerly:

"Have you heard from Culver?"

"Didn't you know about it?" Speed swallowed.

Roberta shook her dark head.

"He's in--he's detained at Omaha for ten days. I fixed it."

The overwrought widow dropped back into the hammock, crying
weakly:

"Oh, you dear, good boy!"

"Yes, I'm all of that. I--I suppose I'd be missed if anything
happened to me!"

"How ever did you manage it?"

"Never mind the details. It took some ingenuity."

Mrs. Keap wrung her hands. "I was so terribly frightened! You
see, Jack will be back to-morrow, and I--was afraid--"

There was a call from Glass from the training-quarters.

"How can I ever do enough for you? You have averted a tragedy!"

"Don't let Helen know, that's all. If she thought I'd been the
head yeller--"

"I won't breathe a word, and I hope you win the race for her
sake."

Mrs. Keap pressed the hand of her deliverer, who trudged his
lonely way toward the gymnasium, where Glass was saying:

"'The volley was fired at sunrise.' That means Saturday, Bo."

"Larry, you're the best crepe-hanger of your weight in the
world."

Larry bent a look of open disgust upon his employer.

"And you're a good runner, you are," said he. "Why, _I_ beat
you this morning."

The younger man glanced up hopefully. "Couldn't you beat this
cook?"

"You're the only man in this world I can outrun.

"'A tear, a sigh, a last good-bye.'"

"_Shut up!_"

As Glass consented to do this, the speaker mused, bitterly,
"'Early to bed and early to rise.' I wish I had the night-
watchman who wrote those words."

"Didn't you never see the sun rise before?"

"Certainly not. I don't stay up that late."

"Well, ain't it beautiful!" The stout man turned admiring eyes to
the eastward, and his husky voice softened. "All them colors and
tints and shades and stuff! And New York on the other end!"

"I'm too tired to see beauty in anything." As if mindful of a
neglected duty, Glass turned upon him. "What are you waiting for?
Get those dog-beds off your back." He seized the slack of a
sweater and gave it a jerk.

"Don't be so rough; I'll come. You might care to remember you're
working for me."

"I am working"--Glass dragged his protege about the room
regardless of complaints that were muffled by the thickness of
the sweaters--"for my life, and I'll be out of a job Saturday.
Now, get under that shower!"




CHAPTER XIII

"Do you know, Larry, I'm beginning to like these warm showers;
they rest me." As he spoke, Wally took his place beneath the
barrel and pulled the cord that connected with the nozzle. The
next instant he uttered a piercing shriek and leaped from beneath
the apparatus, upsetting Glass, who rose in time to fling his
charge back into the deluge.

"Let me out!" yelled the athlete, and made another dash, at which
his guardian bellowed:

"Stand still, or I'll wallop you! What's got into you, anyhow?"

The heads of Stover and Willie, thrust through the door, nodded
with gratification.

"It's got him livened up considerable," quoth the former. "Listen
to that!" It seemed that a battle must be in progress behind the
screen, for, mingled with the gasping screams of the athlete and
the hoarse commands of the trainer, came sounds of physical
contact. The barrel rocked upon its scaffold, the curtains swayed
and flapped violently.

"Stand still!"

"It's--it's as c-c-cold as _ice!_"

"Nix! You're overheated, that's all."

"Ow-w-w! Ooo-h-h! I'm dying!"

"It'll do you good."

"He's certainly trainin' him some," said Stover.

"Larry, I've got a cramp!"

"It did harden him," acknowledged Willie.

"What's wrong with you, anyhow?" demanded Glass.

"It's not _me_, it's the w-w-water!"

Evidently Speed made a frantic lunge here and escaped, for the
flow of water ceased.

"It froze d-d-during the night. Oh-h! I'm cold!"

"Cold, eh? Get onto that rubbing-board; I'll warm you."

An instant later the cow-men heard the sounds of a violent
slapping mingled with groans.

"Go easy, I say! I'll be black and blue all--LOOK OUT!--not so
much in one spot! _Ow_!"

"Turn over!"

"He's spankin' him," said Stover admiringly.

Again the spatting arose, this time like the sound of a musketry
fusilade, during which Berkeley Fresno entered by the other door.

"Don't be so brutal!" wailed the patient to his masseur.

"I'm pretty near through. There! Now get up and dress," ordered
the trainer, who, pushing his way out through the blankets,
halted at sight of the onlookers.

"How is he?" demanded Stover.

"He--he's trained to the minute. I'm doin' my share, gents."

"Sounds that way," acknowledged Stover's companion. "Say, does it
look like we'd win?"

"Well, he just breezed a mile in forty, with his mouth open."

"A mile?" Fresno queried.

"Yes, a regular mile--seven thousand five hundred and thirty
feet."

"Is 'forty' good?" queried Willie.

"Good? Why, Salvator never worked no faster. Here he is now--look
for yourselves."

Speed appeared, partly clad, and glowing with a rich salmon pink.

"Good-morning," said Fresno politely. "I came in to see how you
liked the cold water."

"So that was one of your California jokes, eh? Well, I'll--"

Speed moved ominously in the direction of the tenor, but Willie
checked him.

"We put the ice in that bar'l, Mr. Speed."

"You!"

Willie and Stover nodded.

"Then let me tell you I expect to have pneumonia from that bath."
The young man coughed hollowly. "That's the way I caught it once
before, and it wouldn't surprise me a bit if I'd be too sick to
run by Saturday."

"Oh no; you don't get pneumony but once."

"And, besides," Fresno added, "it wouldn't have time to show up
by Saturday."

"Get that ice-chest out of my room, that's all; it makes the air
damp."

"No indeed!" said Still Bill. "We're goin' to see that you use it
reg'lar." Then of Glass he inquired: "What do you do to him
next?"

"I give him a nerve treatment. A jack-rabbit jumped at him this
morning and he bolted to the outside fence." Larry forced his
employer to a seat, then, securing a firm hold of the flesh,
began to discourse learnedly upon anatomy and hygiene, the while
his victim writhed. It was evident that the cattle-men were
intensely interested. "Well, sir, when I first got him his
sploven was in terrible shape," said Larry. "In fact, I never saw
such a--"

"What was in terrible shape?" ventured the tenor. "His sploven."

"Sploven! Is that a locality or a beverage?"

Glass glowered at the cause of the interruption. "It's a nerve-
centre, of course!" Then to the others, he ran on, glibly: "The
treatment was simple, but it took time. You see, I had to first
trace his bedildo to its source, like this." He thrust a finger
into Wally's back and ploughed a furrow upward. "You see?" He
paused, triumphantly. "A fore-shortened bedildo! It ain't well
yet."

"Can a man run fast with one of them?" inquired Willie.

"Certainly, cer-tain-ly--provided, of course, that the percentage
of spelldiffer in the blood offsets it."

Both cowboys came closer now, and hung eagerly upon every word.

"And does it do--that?" they questioned, while Fresno suggested
that it was not easy to tell without bleeding the patient.

"No, no! You can hear the spelldiffers." Glass motioned to
Willie.

"Put your ear to his chest. Hear anything?"

"Hearts poundin' like a calf's at a brandin'."

"Which proves it!" proudly asserted the trainer. "Barrin'
accidents, Mr. Speed will be in the pink of condition by
Saturday."

The cow-men beamed benignantly.

"That's fine!"

"We are sure pleased, and we've got something for you, Mr. Speed.
Come on, Mr. Fresno, and give us a hand. We'll bring it in."

"It's a present!" exclaimed the athlete, brightly, when the three
had gone out. "They seem more friendly this morning."

"Yes!" Glass laughed, mirthlessly. "They think you're going to
win."

"Well, how do you know I can't win? You never saw this cook run."

"I don't have to; I've seen you."

"Just the same, I'm in pretty good shape. Maybe I could run if I
really tried."

"Send yourself along, Kid. It won't harm you none." The speaker
fanned himself, and took a seat in the cosey-corner.

"Ah! Here they come, bearing gifts." Speed rose in pleased
expectancy. "I wonder what it can be?"

The three who had just left re-entered the room, carrying a tray-
load of thick railroad crockery.

"We've brought your breakfast to you," explained Stover. "We'd
like you to eat alone till after the race." Still Bill began to
whittle what appeared to be a blood-rare piece of flesh, while
Willie awkwardly arranged the dishes.

"You want me to _eat_ as well as sleep here?"

"Exactly."

"Oh, I can't do that! I'm sorry, but--"

"Don't make us insist." Willie looked up from his tray, and Glass
raised a moist hand and said:

"Don't make 'em insist."

With fascinated stare Speed drew nearer to Stover and examined
the meat bone.

"Why--why, that's _raw_!" he exclaimed.

"Does look rar'," agreed the foreman.

"Then take it out and build a fire under it. I'll consent to eat
here, but I won't turn cannibal, even to please you."

"I'm sorry." Stover did not interrupt his carving.

"Your diet ain't been right," explained Willie. "You ain't wild
enough to suit us."

Speed searched one serious face, then another. Fresno was nodding
approval, his countenance impassive.

"Is this a joke?"

"We ain't never joked with you yit, have we?"

"No. But--"

"This breakfast goes as she lays!"

Glass broke abruptly into smothered merriment. "When I laugh
nowadays it's a funny joke," he giggled.

That grown men could be so stupid was unbelievable, and Wally,
seeing himself the object of a senseless prank, was roused to
anger.

"Lawrence, get my coat," said he. "I've been bullied enough; I'm
going up to the house." When Stover only continued whittling
methodically, he burst out: "Stop honing that shin-bone! If you
like it you can eat it! I'm going now to swallow a stack of hot
cakes with maple syrup!"

"Mr. Speed," Willie impaled him with a steady glare, "you'll eat
what we tell you to, and nothin' else! If we say 'grass,' grass
it'll be. You're goin' to beat one Skinner if it takes a human
life. And if that life happens to be yours, you got nobody but
yourself to blame."

"Indeed!"

"You heard me! I've been set to ride herd on you daytimes, the
other boys'll guard you nights. We been double-crossed once--it
won't happen again."

"Then it amounts to this, does it: I'm your prisoner?"

"More of a prized possession," offered Stover. "If you ain't got
the loy'lty to stand by us, we got to _make_ you! This diet
is part of the programme. Now if you think beef is too hearty for
this time of day, tear into them eggs."

"You intend to make me eat this disgusting stuff, whether I want
to or not?" Even yet the youth could not convince himself that
this was other than a joke.

"No." Willie shook his head. "We just aim to make you _want_
to eat it."

Then Larry Glass made his fatal mistake.

"Say, why don't you let Mr. Speed buy you a new phonograph, and
call the race off?" he inquired.

Stover, stricken dumb, paused, knife in hand; Willie stared as if
bereft of motion. Then the former spoke slowly. "Looks like we'd
ought to smoke up this fat party, Will."

Willie nodded, and Glass realized that the little man's steel-
blue eyes were riveted balefully upon him.

"I've had a hunch it would come to that," the near-sighted one
replied. "Every time I look at him I see a bleedin' bullet-hole
in his abominable regions, about here." He laid a finger upon his
stomach, and Glass felt a darting pain at precisely the same
spot. It was as agonizing as if Willie's spectacles were huge
burning-glasses focussing the rays of a tropic sun upon his bare
flesh. He folded protecting hands over the threatened region and
backed toward the prayer-rug, mumbling "Allah! Allah!" No matter
whither he shifted, the eyes bored into him.

"That's where you hit the gambler at Ogden," he heard Stover say
--it might have been from a great distance--"but I aim for the
bridge of the nose."

"The belly ain't so sudden as the eye-socket, but it's more
lingerin', and a heap painfuller," explained the gun man, and
Speed was moved to sympathy.

"Larry only wanted to please you--eh, Larry?" he said, nervously,
but Glass made no reply. His distended orbs were frozen upon
Willie. It was doubtful if he even heard.

"Our honor ain't for sale," Still Bill declared.

Here Berkeley Fresno spoke. "Of course not. And you mustn't think
that Speed is trying to get out of the race. He _wants_ to
run! And if anything happened to prevent his running he'd be
broken-hearted, I know he would!"

Willie's hypnotic eye left the trainer's abdomen and travelled
slowly to Speed.

"What could happen?" questioned he.

"N-nothing that I know of."

"You don't aim to leave?"

"Certainly not."

"Oh, you fellows take it too seriously," Fresno offered
carelessly. "He might _have_ to."

Willie's upper lip drew back, showing his yellow teeth.

"They don't sell no railroad tickets before Saturday, and the
walkin' is bad. There's your breakfast, Mr. Speed. When you've et
your fill, you better rest. And don't talk to them ladies,
neither; it spoils your train of thought!"




CHAPTER XIV

Now that the possibility of escape from the Flying Heart was cut
off, the young man felt agonizing regret that he had not yielded
to his trainer's earlier importunities and taken refuge in flight
while there was yet time. It would have been undignified,
perhaps; but once away from these single-minded cattle-men, his
life would have been safe at least, and he could have trusted his
ingenuity to reinstate him in Miss Blake's good graces.
Everything was too late now. Even if he made a clean breast of
the whole affair to Jean, or to her brother when he arrived, what
good would that do? He doubted Jack's ability to save him, in the
light of what had just passed; for men like Willie cared nothing
for the orders of the person whose pay-roll they chanced to
grace. And Willie was not alone, either; the rest of the crew
were equally desperate. What heed would these nomads pay to Jack
Chapin's commands, once they learned the truth? They were Arabs
who owed allegiance to no one but themselves, the country was
wild, the law was feeble, it was twenty miles to the railroad!
And, besides, the thought of confession was abhorrent. Physical
injury, no matter how severe, was infinitely preferable to Helen
Blake's disdain. He cast about desperately for some saving
loophole, but found himself trapped--completely, hopelessly
trapped.

There were still, however, two days of grace, and to youth two
days is an eternity. Therefore, he closed his eyes and trusted to
the unexpected. How the unexpected could get past that grim,
watchful sentry just outside the door he could not imagine, but
when the breakfast-bell reminded him of his hunger, he banished
his fears for the sake of the edibles his custodians had served.

"Don't you want anything to eat?" he inquired, when Larry made no
move to depart for the cook-house.

"No."

"Not hungry, eh?"

"I'm hungry enough to eat a plush cushion, but--"

"What?"

"Mary!"

"Mariedetta?"

"Sure. She's been chasin' me again. If somebody don't side-track
that Cuban, I'll have to lick Carara." He sighed. "I told you
we'd ought to tin-can it out of here. Now it's too late."

Willie thrust his head in through the open window, inquiring,
"Well, how's the breakfast goin'?" and withdrew, humming a
favorite song:

  "'Sam Bass was born in Indiany;
    It was his natif home.
    At the early age of seventeen
    Young Sam commenced to roam.'"

"Fine voice!" said Lawrence, with a shudder.

It was perhaps a half-hour later that Helen Blake came tripping
into the gymnasium, radiant, sparkling, her crisp white dress
touched here and there with blue that matched her eyes, in her
hands a sunshade, a novel, and a mysterious little bundle.

"We were so sorry to lose you at breakfast," she began.

Wally led her to the cosey-corner, and seated himself beside her.

"I suppose it is a part of this horrid training. I would never
have mentioned that foot-race if I had dreamed it would be like
this."

Here at least was a soul that sympathized.

"The only hardship is not to see you," he declared softly.

Miss Blake dropped her eyes.

"I thought you might like to go walking; it's a gorgeous morning.
You see, I've brought a book to read to you while you rest--you
must be tired after your run."

"I am, and I will. This is awfully good of you, Miss Blake."
Speed rose, overwhelmed with joy, but the look of Glass was not
to be passed by. "I-I'm afraid it's impossible, however." The
blue eyes flew open in astonishment. "Why?" the girl questioned.

"They won't let me. I--I'm supposed to keep to myself."

"They? Who?"

"Glass."

Miss Blake turned indignantly upon Larry. "Do you mean to say Mr.
Speed can't go walking with me?"

"I never said nothing of the sort," declared the trainer. "He can
go if he wants to."

"Just the same, I--oughtn't to do it. There is a strict routine--
"

A lift of the brows and a courteous smile proclaimed Miss Blake's
perfect indifference to the subject, just as Willie sauntered
past the open window and spoke to Glass beneath his breath:

"Git her out!"

"I'm so sorry. May I show you a surprise I brought for you?" She
unwrapped her parcel, and proudly displayed a pallid, anaemic
cake garlanded with wild flowers.

Speed was honestly overcome. "For me?"

"For you. It isn't even cold yet, see! I made it before
breakfast, and it looks even better than the one I baked at
school!"

"That's what I call fine," declared the youth. "By Jove! and I'm
so fond of cake!"

"Have a care!" breathed Larry, rising nervously, but Speed paid
no attention.

"Break it with your own hands, please. Besides, it's too hot to
cut."

Miss Blake broke it with her own hands, during which operation
the brown face of the man outside reappeared in the window. At
sight of the cake he spoke sharply, and Lawrence lumbered swiftly
across the floor and laid a heavy hand upon the cake.

"Mr. Speed!" he cried warningly.

"Here, take your foot off my angel-food!" fiercely ordered the
youth. But the other was like adamant.

"Bo, you are about to contest for the honor of this ranch! That
cake will make a bum of you!"

"Oh--h!" gasped the author of the delicacy. "Stop before it is
too late!" Glass held his hungry employer at a distance, striving
to make known by a wink the necessity of his act.

"There is absolutely nothing in my cake to injure any one," Helen
objected loyally, with lifted chin; whereupon the corpulent
trainer turned to her and said:

"Cake would crab any athlete. Cake and gals is the limit."

"Really! I had no idea I was the least bit dangerous." Miss
Blake, turning to her host, smiled frigidly. "I'm so sorry I
intruded."

"Now don't say that!" Speed strove to detain her. "Please don't
be offended--I just _have_ to train!"

"Of course. And will you pardon me for interrupting your routine?
You see, I had no idea I wasn't wanted."

"But you are, and I _do_ want you! I--"

"Good-bye!" She nodded pleasantly at the door, and left her lover
staring after her.

When she had gone, he cried, in a trembling voice: "You're a fine
yap, you are! She got up early to do something nice for me, and
you insulted her! You wouldn't even let me sit and hold her
hand!"

"No palm-readin'." Speed turned to behold his trainer ravenously
devouring the cake, and dashed to its rescue.

"It's heavier than a frog full of buckshot. You won't like it,
Cul."

"It's perfectly delicious!" came the choking answer.

"Then get back of them curtains. Willie'd shoot on sight."

All that morning the prisoner idled about the premises, followed
at a distance by his guard. Wherever he went he seemed to see the
sun flash defiance from the polished surface of those lenses, and
while he was allowed a certain liberty, he knew full well that
this espionage would never cease, night or day, until--what? He
could not bear to read the future; anything seemed possible. Time
and again he cursed that spirit of braggadocio, that thoughtless
lack of moral scruple, which had led him into this predicament.
He vowed that he was done with false pretences; henceforth the
strictest probity should be his. No more false poses. Praise won
by dissimulation and deceit was empty, anyhow, and did he escape
this once, henceforth the world should know J. Wallingford Speed
for what he was--an average individual, with no uncommon gifts of
mind or body, courage or ability.

Yet it was small comfort to realize that he was getting his just
deserts, and it likewise availed little to anathematize Fresno as
the cause of his misfortune.

At noon Wally went through the mockery of a second blood-rare
meal, with no cake to follow, and that afternoon Glass dragged
him out under the hot sun, and made him sprint until he was ready
to drop from exhaustion. His supper was wretched, and his fatigue
so great that he fell asleep at Miss Blake's side during the
evening. With the first hint of dawn he was up again, and Friday
noon found him utterly hopeless, when, true to his prediction,
the unexpected happened. In one moment he was raised from the
blackest depths to the wildest transports of delight. It came in
the shape of a telegram which Jean summoned him to the house to
receive. He wondered listlessly as he opened the message, then
started as if disbelieving his eyes; the marks of a wild emotion
spread over his features, he burst into shrill, hysterical
laughter.

"Do tell us!" begged Roberta.

"Covington--Covington is coming!" Wally felt his head whirl, and
failed to note the chaperon's cry of surprise and see the paling
of her cheeks. "_Covington is coming!_ Don't you
understand?" he shouted. After all, the gods were not deaf! Good
old Culver, who had never failed him, was coming as a deliverer.

Even in the face of his extraordinary outburst the attention of
the beholders was drawn to Lawrence Glass, who caused the porch
to shake beneath his feet; who galloped to his employer, and,
seizing him by the hands, capered about like a hippopotamus.

"I told you 'Allah' was some guy," he wheezed. "When does
Covington arrive?" Wally reread the message. "It says 'Noon
Friday.' Why, that's to-day! He's here now!"

"'Rah! 'Rah! 'Rah! Covington!" bellowed the trainer, and Mrs.
Keap sank to a seat with a stifled moan.

"Why all the 'Oh joy! Oh, rapture!' stuff?" questioned Berkeley
Fresno.

"As Socrates, the Hemlock Kid, would put it, 'Snatched from the
shadow of the grave,'" quoth Glass, then paused abruptly. "Say,
you don't think nothin' could happen to him on the way over from
the depot?"

"I'm so sorry we didn't know in time to meet him," lamented Miss
Chapin.

"And I could have run over to the railroad to bid him welcome,"
laughed Speed. "Twenty miles would do me good."

Still Bill and Willie approached the gallery curiously, and in
subdued tones inquired:

"What's the matter, Mr. Speed?"

"You ain't been summoned away?" Willie stared questioningly
upward. "No, no! My running partner is on his way here, that's
all."

"Running pardner?"

"Culver Covington."

"Oh, we was afraid something had happened. You see, Gabby
Gallagher has just blowed in from the Centipede to raise our
bets."

"We think it's a bluff, and we'd like to call him."

"Do so, by all means!" cried the excited athlete. "Come on, let's
all talk to him!"

The entire party, with the exception of Mrs. Keap, trooped down
from the porch and followed the foreman out toward the sheds,
where, in the midst of a crowd of ranch-hands, a burly, loud-
voiced Texan was discoursing.

"I do wish Jack were here," said Jean nervously, on the way.

Gabby Gallagher seemed a fitting leader for such a desperate crew
as that of the Centipede, for he was the hardest-looking citizen
the Easterners had beheld thus far. He was thickset, and burned
to the color of a ripe olive; his long, drooping mustaches,
tobacco-stained at the centre, were bleached at the extremities
to a hempen hue. His bristly hair was cut short, and stood
aggressively erect upon a bullet head, his clothes were soiled
and greasy beneath a gray coating of dust. A pair of alert, lead-
blue eyes and a certain facility of movement belied the drawl
that marked his nativity. He removed his hat and bowed at sight
of Miss Chapin.

"Good-evenin', Miss Jean!" said he. "I hope I find y'all well."

"Quite well, Gallagher. And you?"

"Tol'able, thank you."

"These are my friends from the East."

The Centipede foreman ran his eyes coldly over Jean's companions
until they rested upon Speed, where they remained. He shifted a
lump in his cheek, spat dexterously, and directed his remark at
the Yale man.

"I rode over to see if y'all would like to lay a little mo' on
this y'ere foot-race. I allow you are the unknown?"

Speed nodded, and Stover took occasion to remark: "Them's our
inclinations, but we've about gone our limit."

"I don't blame you none," said Gallagher, allowing his gaze to
rove slowly from top to toe of the Eastern lad. "No, I cain't
blame you none whatever. But I'm terrible grieved at them
tidin's. Though we Centipede punchers has ever considered y'all a
cheap an' poverty-ridden outfit, we gives you credit for bein'
game, till now." He spat for a second time, and regarded Stover
scornfully.

A murmur ran through the cowboys.

"We are game," retorted Stover, "and for your own good don't
allow no belief to the contrary to become a superstition." Of a
sudden the gangling, spineless foreman had grown taut and
forceful, his long face was hard.

"Don't let a Centipede bluff you!" exclaimed Speed. "Cover
anything they offer--give 'em odds. Anything you don't want, I'll
take, pay or play, money at the tape. We can't lose."

"I got no more money," said Carara, removing his handsome
bespangled hat, "but I bet my sombrero. 'E's wort' two hondred
pesos."

Murphy, the Swede, followed quickly:

"Aye ban' send may vages home to may ole' moder, but aye skall
bat you some."

"Haven't you boys risked enough already?" ventured Miss Chapin.
"Remember, it will go pretty hard with the losers."

"Harder the better," came a voice.

"Y'all don't have to bet, jest because I'm h'yar," gibed
Gallagher.

"God! I wish I was rich!" exclaimed Willie.

But Miss Chapin persisted. "You are two months overdrawn, all of
you. My brother won't advance you any more."

"Then my man, Lawrence, will take what they can't cover," offered
Speed.

"That's right! Clean 'em good, brothers," croaked the trainer.

"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.

Mrs. Keap was pacing the porch as the others came up, and called
Speed aside; then, when they were alone, broke out, with blazing
eyes:

"You said you had stopped him!"

"And I thought I had. I did my best."

"But he's coming! He'll be here any minute!"

"I suppose he learned you were here." Wally laughed.

"Then you must have told him."

"No, I didn't."

"Mr. Speed"--Roberta's cheeks were pallid and her voice trembled
--"you--didn't--send that telegram--at all."

"Oh, but I did."

"You wanted him to get here in time to run in your place. I see
it all now. You arranged it very cleverly, but you will pay the
penalty."

"You surely won't tell Helen?"

"This minute! You wretched, deceitful man!"

Before he could say more, from the front of the house came the
rattle of wheels, a loud "Whoa!" then Jean's voice, crying:

"Culver! Culver!" while Mrs. Keap clutched at her bosom and
moaned.

Her companion bolted into the house and down the hall, shouting
the name of his room-mate. Out through the front door he dashed
headlong, in time to behold Fresno and the two girls assisting
the new arrival toward the veranda. They were exclaiming in pity,
and had their arms about the athlete, for Culver Covington,
Intercollegiate One-Hundred-Yard Champion, was hobbling forward
upon a pair of crutches.

The yell died in Speed's throat, he felt himself grow deadly
faint.

"Crippled!" he gasped, and leaned against the door for support.




CHAPTER XV

In a daze, Speed saw his friend mount the porch painfully; in a
daze, he shook his hand. Subconsciously he beheld Lawrence Glass
come panting into view, throw up his hands at sight of Covington,
and cry out in a strange tongue. When he regained his faculties
he broke into the conversation harshly.

"What have you done to yourself?"

"I broke a toe," explained the athlete.

"You broke a toe?"

"He broke a toe!" wailed Glass, faintly.

"If it's nothing but a toe, it won't hurt your running." Speed
seized eagerly upon the faintest hope.

"No. I'll be all right in a few weeks." Covington spoke
carelessly, his eyes bent upon Jean Chapin. "You've g-got to run
to-morrow."

"What!" Covington dragged his glance away from the cheeks of his
sweetheart.

"I--I'm sick. You'll have to."

"Don't be an idiot, Wally. I can't walk!"

Helen explained, with the pride of one displaying her own
handiwork: "Mr. Speed defends the Flying Heart to-morrow. You are
just in time to see him."

"When did you learn to box, Wally?" Covington was genuinely
amazed.

"I'm not going to box. It's a footrace. I'm training--been
training ever since I arrived."

In his first bewilderment the latecomer might have unwittingly
betrayed his friend had not Jean suddenly inquired:

"Where is Roberta?"

"Roberta!" Covington tripped over one of his crutches. "Roberta
who?"

"Why, Roberta Keap, of course! She's chaperoning us while mother
is away."

The hero of countless field-days turned pale, and seemed upon the
point of hobbling back to "<DW65> Mike's" buck-board.

"You and she are old friends, I believe?" Helen interposed.

"_Yes!_ Oh yes!" Culver flashed his chum a look of dumb
entreaty, but Speed was staring round-eyed into space, striving
to read the future.

Helen started to fetch her just as the pallid chaperon was
entering the door.

She shook hands with Covington. She observed that he was too
deeply affected at sight of her to speak, and it awakened fresh
misgivings in her mind.

"H-how d'y do! I didn't know you were--here!" he stammered.

"I thought it would surprise you!" Roberta smiled wanly, amazed
at her own self-control, then froze in her tracks as Jean
announced:

"Jack will be home to-night, Culver. He'll be delighted to see
you!"

J. Wallingford Speed offered a diversion by bursting into a
hollow laugh. Now that the world was in league to work his own
downfall, it was time someone else had a touch of suffering. To
this end he inquired how the toe had come to be broken.

"I broke it in Omaha--automobile accident." Culver was fighting
to master himself.

"Omaha! Did you stop in Omaha?" inquired Jean.

"A city of beautiful women," Speed reflected, audibly. "Somebody
step on your foot at a dance?"

"No, of course not! I don't know anybody in Omaha! I went
motoring--"

"Joy-ride?"

"Not at all."

"Who was with you?" Miss Chapin's voice was ominously sweet.

"N--nobody I knew."

"Does that mean that you were alone?"

"Yes. I stopped off between trains to view the city, and took a
'Seeing Omaha' ride. The yap wagon upset, and--I broke my toe."

"You left Chicago ten days ago," said Speed accusingly.

"Of course, but--when I broke my toe I had to stay. It's a
beautiful city--lots of fine buildings." "How did you like the
jail?"

"What in the world are you boys talking about?" queried Miss
Blake.

"Mr. Speed seems amused at Culver's accident." Roberta gave him a
stinging look. "Now we'd better let Culver go to his room and
freshen up a bit. I want to talk to you, Helen," and Speed
drooped at the meaning behind her words. But it was time for a
general conference; events were shaping themselves too rapidly
for him to cope with. Once the three were alone he lost no time
in making his predicament known, the while his friend listened in
amazement.

"But is it really so serious?" the latter asked, finally.

"It's life or death. There's a homocidal maniac named Willie
guarding me daytimes, and a pair of renegades who keep watch at
my window all night. The cowboys bathe me in ice-water to toughen
me, and feed me raw meat to make me wild. In every corner there
lurks an assassin with orders to shoot me if I break training,
every where I go some low-browed criminal feels my biceps,
pinches my legs, and asks how my wind is. I tell you, I'm going
mad."

"And the worst part of it is," spoke Glass, sympathetically,
"they'll bump me off first. It's a pipe."

"But, Wally, you can't run."

"Don't I know it?"

"Don't _I_?" seconded the trainer.

"Then why attempt the impossible? Call the race off."

"It's too late. Don't you understand? The bets are made, and its
'pay or play.' The cowboys have mortgaged their souls on me."

"He was makin' a play for that little doll--"

"Don't you call Miss Blake a doll, Larry! I won't stand for it!"

"Well, 'skirt,' then."

"Why don't you cut it? There's a train East at midnight."

"And leave Helen--like that? Her faith in me has weakened
already; she'd hate me if I did that. No! I've got to face it
out!"

"They'll be singin' hymns for both of us," predicted the fat man.

"I don't care. They can boil me in oil--I won't let her think I'm
a coward."

"Larry doesn't have to stay."

"Of course not. He can escape."

"Not a chance," said the trainer. "They watch me closer 'n they
do him."

Covington considered for a moment. "It certainly looks bad, but
perhaps the other fellow can't run either. Who is he?"

"A cook named Skinner."

"Happy name! Well, two-thirds of a sprint is in the start. How
does Wally get in motion, Lawrence?"

"Like a sacred ox." Glass could not conceal his contempt.

"I'll give him some pointers; it will all help." But Speed was
nervous and awkward--so awkward, in fact, that the coach finally
gave it up as a bad job, saying:

"It's no use, Wally, you've got fool feet."

"I have, eh? Well, I didn't break them getting out of jail."

"The less said about that jail the better. I'm in trouble
myself."

Speed might have explained that his chum's dilemma was by no
means so serious as he imagined, had not watchman Willie thrust
his head through the open window at that moment with the remark:

"Time to get busy!"

"We'll be right with you!" Glass seized his protege by the arm
and bore him away, muttering: "Stick it out, brother, we're
nearin' the end!"

Again Speed donned his running-suit and took to the road for his
farewell practise. Again Willie followed at a distance on
horseback, watching the hills warily. But all hope had fled from
the Yale man now, and he returned to his training-quarters
disheartened, resigned.

He was not resigned, however, to the visit he received later from
Miss Helen Blake. That young lady rushed in upon him like a
miniature cyclone, sweeping him off his feet by the fury of her
denunciation, allowing him no opportunity to speak, until, with a
half-sob, she demanded:

"Why--why did you deceive me?"

"I love you!" Wally said, as if no further explanation were
necessary.

"That explains nothing. You made sport of me! You couldn't love
me and do that!"

"Helen!"

"I thought you were so fine, so strong, but you lied--yes, that
is what you did! You fibbed to me the first day I met you, and
you've been fibbing ever since. I could never, never care for a
man who would do that."

"Who has told you these things?"

"Roberta, for one. She opened my eyes to your--baseness."

"Well, Roberta has a grudge against my sex. She's engaged to all
the men she hasn't already married. Marriage is a habit with her.
It has made her suspicious--"

"But you did deceive me, didn't you?"

"Will you marry me?" asked J. Wallingford Speed.

"The idea!" Miss Blake gasped. "Will you?"

"Please don't speak that way. When a man cares for a woman, he
doesn't deceive her--he tells her everything. You told me you
were a great runner, and I believed you. I'll never believe you
again. Of course, I shall behave to you in a perfectly friendly
manner, but underneath the surface I shall be consumed with
indignation." Miss Blake commenced to be consumed. "See! You
don't acknowledge your perfidy even now."

"What's the use? If I said I couldn't run, and then beat the
cook, you'd believe I deceived you again. And suppose that I
can't beat him?"

"Then I shall know they have told me the truth."

"And if, on the other hand, I should win"--Miss Blake's eyes
fell--"Helen, would you marry me?" Speed started toward her, but
she had fled out into the twilight.

Dusk was settling over stretches of purple land, and already the
room was peopled by shadows. Work was over; there were sounds of
cheerful preparations for supper; from the house came faint
chords of laughter; a Spanish song floated in, as Carara told his
love to the tune of Mariedetta's guitar:

   "'Adios! adios! adios! por siempre,
   Adios! coqueta, mi amor;
   Adios! adios! adios! por siempre,
   Adios! coqueta, mi amor!'"

It was the hush that precedes the evening as it does the dawn;
the hour of reverie, in which all music is sweet, and forgotten
faces arise to haunt.

Speed stood where the girl had left him, miserable, hopeless,
helpless; the words of the Spanish song seemed sung for a lost
love of his. And certainly his love was lost. He had stayed on in
the stubborn superstitious belief that something would surely
happen to relieve him from his predicament--fortune had never
failed him before--and instead, every day, every incident, had
served to involve him deeper. Now she knew! It was her golden
heart that had held her true thus far, but could any devotion
survive the sight of humiliation such as he would suffer on the
morrow? Already he heard the triumphant jeers of the Centipede
henchmen, the angry clamor of the Flying Heart, the mocking
laughter of his rival.

He groaned aloud. Forsooth, a broken toe! Of all the countless
tens of thousands of toes in Christendom, the one he had hung his
salvation upon had proven weaker than a reed. What cruel jest of
Fate was this? If Fate had wished to break a toe, why had she not
selected, out of all the billions at her disposal, that of some
other athlete than Culver Covington--even his own.

J. Wallingford Speed started suddenly and paled. He had
remembered that no one could force a crippled man to run.

"By Jove," he exclaimed, "I'll do it!"

He crossed quickly to the bunk-house door and looked in. The room
was empty. The supper-bell pealed out, and he heard the cow-men
answer it. Now was the appointed moment; he might have no other.
With cat-like tread he slipped into the sleeping-quarters,
returning in a moment with a revolver. He stared thankfully at
the weapon--better this than dishonor.

"Why didn't I think of it before? It's perfectly simple. I'll
accidentally shoot myself--in the foot."

But even as he gazed at the gun he saw that the muzzle was as
large as a gopher-hole. A bullet of that size would sink a ship,
he meditated in a panic, and as for his foot--what frightful
execution it would work! But--it were better to lose a foot than
a foot-race, under present conditions, so he began to unlace his
shoe. Then realizing the value of circumstantial evidence, he
paused. No! His disability must bear all the earmarks of an
accident. He must guess the location of his smallest and least
important toe, and trust the rest to his marksmanship. Visions of
blood-poisoning beset him, and when he pressed the muzzle against
the point of his shoe his hand shook with such a palsy that he
feared he might miss. He steeled himself with the thought that
other men had snuffed out life itself in this manner, then sat
down upon the floor and cocked the weapon a second time. He
wondered if the shock might, by any chance, numb him into
unconsciousness. If so, he might bleed to death before assistance
arrived. But he had nothing to do with that. The only question
was, which foot. He regarded them both tenderly. They were nice
feet, and had done him many favors. He loved every toe; they were
almost like innocent children. It was a dastardly deed to take
advantage of them thus, but he advanced the revolver until it
pressed firmly against the outside of his left foot, then closed
his eyes, and called upon his courage. There came a great roaring
in his ears.

How long he sat thus waiting for the explosion he did not know,
but he opened his eyes at length to find the foot still intact,
and the muzzle of the weapon pointing directly at his instep. He
altered his aim hurriedly, when, without warning of any sort, a
man's figure appeared silhouetted against the window.

The figure dropped noiselessly to the floor inside the room, and
cried, in a strange voice:

"Lock those doors! Quick!"

Finding that it was no hallucination, Speed rose, calling out:

"Who are you?"

"Sh-h-h!" The stranger darted across the room and bolted both
doors, while the other felt a chill of apprehension at these
sinister precautions. He grasped his revolver firmly while his
heart thumped. The fellow's appearance was anything but
reassuring: he was swarthy and sun-browned, his clothes were
ragged, his overalls were patched; instead of a coat, he wore a
loosely flapping vest over a black sateen shirt, long since
rusted out to a nondescript brown.

"I've been trying to get to you for a week," announced the
mysterious visitor hoarsely.

"W-what do you want? Who are you?"

"I'm Skinner, cook for the Centipede."

"The man I race?"

"Not so loud." Skinner was training for the faintest sound from
the direction of the mess-house.

"I'll kill him!" exulted the Eastern lad. But the other
forestalled a murder by running on, rapidly:

"Listen, now! Humpy and I jobbed this gang last month; we're
pardners, see? He's got another race framed at Pocatello, and I
want to make a get-away--"

"Yes! yes! y-you needn't stay here--on my account."

"Now don't let's take any chances to-morrow, see? We're both out
for the coin. What do you want to do--win or lose?" Skinner
jumped back to the door and listened.

"What?"

"Don't stall!" the stranger cried, impatiently. "Will I win or
will you? What's it worth?" He clipped his words short, his eyes
darted furtive glances here and there.

"Can _I_ win?" gasped Speed.

"You can if there's enough in it for me. I'm broke, see? You bet
five hundred, and we'll cut it two ways."

"I-I haven't that much with me."

"Borrow it. Don't be a boob. Meet me in Albuquerque Sunday, and
we'll split there."

"Is that all I have to do?"

"Certainly. What's the matter with you, anyhow?" Skinner cast a
suspicious glance at his companion.

"I-I guess I'm rattled--it's all so sudden."

"Of course you'll have to run, fast enough so we don't tip off."

"How fast is that?"

"Oh, ten-four," carelessly. "That's what Humpy and I did."

"Ten and four-fifths-seconds?"

"Certainly. Don't kid me! They're liable to break in on us."
Skinner stepped to the window, but Speed halted him with a
trembling hand and a voice of agony.

"Mr. Skinner, I-I can't run that fast. F-fifteen is going some
for me."

"What!" Skinner stared at his opponent strangely. "That's right.
I'm a lemon."

"Ain't you the Yale champ? The guy that goes under 'even time'?"

Wally shook his head. "I'm his chum. I couldn't catch a cramp."

The brown face of the Centipede sprinter split into a grin, his
eyes gleamed. "Then I'll win," said he. "I'm the sucker, but I'll
make good. Get your money down, and I'll split with you."

"No, no! Not you! Me! _I_ must win!" Speed clutched his
caller desperately.

"All right, I'll frame anything; but I can't run any slower than
I did with Joe and make a live of it. They'd shoot us both."

"But there's a girl in this-a girl I love. It means more than
mere life."

Skinner was plainly becoming nervous at the length of the
interview.

"Couldn't you fall down?" inquired the younger man, timidly.

The cook laughed derisively. "I could fall down twice and beat
you in fifteen." After an instant's thought:

"Say, there's one chance, if we don't run straight away. There's
a corral out where we race; you insist on running around it, see?
There's nothing in the articles about straight-aways. That'll kid
'em on the time. If I get too far ahead, I'll fall down."

"B-but will you stay down? Till I catch up?"

"Sure! Leave it to me."

"You won't forget, or anything like that?"

"Certainly not. But no rough work in front of the cowboys,
understand? Sh-h!"

Skinner vaulted lightly through the window, landing in the dirt
outside without a sound. "Somebody coming," he whispered.
"Understand Merchants' Hotel, Albuquerque, noon, Sunday." And the
next instant he had vanished into the dusk, leaving behind him a
youth half hysterical with hope.

Out of the blackest gloom had come J. Wallingford Speed's
deliverance, and he did not pause to consider the ethics
involved. If he had he would have told himself that by Skinner's
own confession the Centipede had won through fraud at the first
race; if they were paid back in their own coin now it would be no
more than tardy justice. With light heart he hastened to replace
the borrowed revolver in the bunk-room just as voices coming
nearer betokened the arrival of his friends from the house. As he
stepped out into the night he came upon Jack Chapin.

"Hello, Wally!"

"Hello, Jack!" They shook hands, while the owner of the Flying
Heart continued.

"I've just got in, and they've been telling me about this foot-
race. What in the deuce is the matter with you, anyhow? Why
didn't you let me know?"

The girls drew closer, and Speed saw that Miss Blake was pale.

"I wouldn't have allowed it for a minute. Now, of course, I'm
going to call it off."

"Oh, Jack, dear, you simply can't!" exclaimed his sister. "You've
no idea the state the boys are in."

"They'll never let you, Chapin," supplemented Fresno.

The master laughed shortly. "They won't, eh? Who is boss here,
I'd like to know?"

"They've bet a lot of money. And you know how they feel about
that phonograph."

"It's the most idiotic thing I ever heard of. Whatever possessed
you, Wally? If the men make a row, I'll have to smuggle you and
Glass over to the railroad to-night."

"I'm for that," came the voice of Larry.

"I suppose it's all my fault," Miss Blake began wretchedly,
whereat the object of their general solicitude took on an aspect
of valor.

"Say, what is all this fuss about? I don't want to be smuggled
anywhere, thank you!"

"I may not be able to square my men," Chapin reiterated. "It may
have gone too far."

"Square! Square! Why should you do any squaring? I'm not going to
run-away." Miss Blake clasped her hands and breathed a sigh.
"I've got to stay here and run a foot-race to-morrow."

"Don't be a fool, Wally!" Covington added his voice to the
others.

Speed whirled angrily. "I don't need your advice--convict!" The
champion hobbled hastily out of range. "I know what I'm doing.
I'm going to run to-morrow, and I stand a good chance to win."

Mr. Fresno, if he had been a girl, would have been said to have
giggled.

"All right, _Dearie_! I'll bet you five hundred dollars--"
as there emerged from the darkness, whence they had approached
unseen, Stover, and behind him the other men.

"Evenin'! What's all the excitement?" greeted the leader, softly.

The master of the ranch stepped forward.

"See here, Bill, I'm sorry, but I won't stand for this foot-
race."

"Why not?" queried the foreman.

"I just won't, that's all. You'll have to call it off."

"I'm sorry, too."

"You refuse?" The owner spoke ominously.

"You bet he does!" Willie pushed himself forward. "This foot-race
is ordained, and it comes off on time. I make bold to inquire if
you're talkin' for our runner?"

"Gentlemen, I can only say to you that for myself I want to run!"
declared Speed.

"Then you'll run."

"I refuse to allow it," Chapin declared, and instantly there was
an angry murmur; but before it could take definite form, Speed
spoke up with equal decisiveness.

"You can't refuse to let me run, Jack. There are reasons"--he
searched Miss Blake's countenance--"why I must run--and win. And
win I shall!" Turning, he stalked away into the darkness, and
there followed him a shout of approbation from the ranchmen.

Jack Chapin threw up his hands.

"I've done my best."

"The man's mad!" cried Covington, but Fresno was nearer the
truth. "Nothing of the sort," he remarked, and struck a match;
"he's bluffing!"

As for Helen Blake, she shook her fair head and smiled into the
night.

"You are all wrong," she said. "_I_ know!"




CHAPTER XVI

The day of the race dawned bright and fair, without a cloud to
mar its splendor. As the golden morning wore on, a gradual
excitement became apparent among the cowboys, increasing as the
hours passed, and as they prepared with joy to invade their
rival's territory; nevertheless, the vigilant watch upon their
champion did not relax. Theirs was an attitude of confidence
tinged with caution.

It was some time after midnight that Lawrence Glass had been the
cause of a wild alarm that brought the denizens of the ranch out
in night apparel. Jack Chapin, awakened by a cry for help, had
found him in the hands of Carara and Cloudy, who had been doing
night duty in accordance with Stover's orders. What with the
trainer's loud complaints, the excited words of his captors, and
the confusion resulting when the bunk-house emptied itself of men
half clad, it had taken the ranch-owner some time to discover
that Glass had been surprised in the act of escaping. It seemed
that the sentries, seeing a figure skulking past the white adobe
walls of the house, had called upon it to halt. There had been a
dash for liberty, then a furious struggle before the intruder's
identity became clear, and but for Chapin's prompt arrival upon
the scene violence would inevitably have resulted. As it was, the
owner had difficulty in restraining his men, who saw in this
significant effort a menace to their hopes.

"I tell you, I'm walkin' in my sleep," declared Glass for the
twentieth time.

"_Caramba!_ You try for get away," stormed the Mexican.
"Pig!"

"Not a bit like it! I've been a sonnambulust ever since I'm a
baby."

"Why didn't you answer when we called?" Cloudy demanded.

"How can I talk when I'm sound asleep?"

"If you couldn't hear us call, why did you run?"

"Now have a little sense, pal. A sleep-walker don't know what
he's doin'."

"Since there's no harm done, you'd better all go back to bed,"
Chapin advised. "Mr. Glass has the liberty of the ranch, boys,
night or day, asleep or awake."

"Looks to me like he was tryin' to elope some." Stover balanced
upon one bare foot, and undertook to remove a sand-burr from the
other. In the darkness he seemed supernaturally tall, so that
Glass hastened to strengthen his story.

"I was walkin' in my sleep as nice as you please when those
rummies lep' on me. Say! You know that's dangerous; you can kill
a guy wakin' him up so sudden."

"There's easier ways than that," spoke Willie from the gloom.

"It's a yap trick just the same. I was in the middle of a swell
dream, too."

"Come, come, Stover, get your boys back to bed! We'll have the
whole ranch up with this noise."

Chapin himself led Glass around the house, while that gentleman
made no offer to explain the dream which had prompted him to pack
his suit-case before letting himself out of the training-
quarters. Once safely back in the gymnasium, he sat up till dawn,
a prey to frightful visions which the comfortable morning light
did not serve to dissipate.

Wally Speed slept serenely through the whole disturbance, and was
greatly amused at the story when he awoke. He was sorely tempted
to make known his agreement with Skinner, and put an end to his
trainer's agony of mind; but he recalled Skinner's caution, and
reflected that the slightest indiscretion might precipitate a
tragedy. For the first time since the beginning of the adventure
he was perfectly at ease, and the phenomenon added to his
trainer's dismay.

Others beside Lawrence Glass were apprehensive. Culver Covington,
for instance, was plainly upset, while Roberta Keap pleaded
headache and had her breakfast served in her room.

It was shortly afterward that she appeared in the gymnasium
doorway, and cried, in an accusing voice:

"Well, Mr. Speed!"

"Yes, quite well."

"You traitor!"

"You modern Borgia! Didn't you go and tell Helen everything?"

"Didn't you promise to stop Culver?"

"I did. I had him thrown in jail at Omaha. What more could I do?"

"You _did_ try? Honestly?" Mrs. Keap allowed her indignation
to abate slightly. "If I had known that, I wouldn't have told
Helen. I'm sorry you didn't explain. I was angry--furious. And I
was frightened so!" She broke down suddenly. "What shall I do
about them? I can see what they want to say, and yet I daren't
let either speak a word."

"Mrs. Keap, are you sure Culver loves you?"

"Horribly! And he suspects the truth. I saw him change the moment
he found me here." Roberta began to weep; two limpid tears stole
down her cheeks, she groped for a chair, and Wally hastened to
her assistance. As he supported her, she gave way completely and
bowed her head upon his shoulder.

It was in perfect keeping with the luck of things that Miss Blake
should enter at the moment. She had come with Jack and his sister
to inquire regarding the fitness of her champion and to nerve him
for the contest, and she stood aghast. Chapin stepped forward
with a look of suspicion, inquiring:

"What's going on here?"

Miss Blake spoke brightly, tinkling ice in her voice.

"There's no necessity for an explanation, is there? It seems time
for congratulations."

"Oh, see here now! Mrs. Keap's really engaged to Culver, you
know."

"Culver!"

"Culver!"

Both the young ranchman and his sister stared at the chaperon
with growing horror, while she undertook to explain; but the blow
had fallen so swiftly that her words were incoherent, and in the
midst of them her hostess turned and fled from the room.

"Now don't begin to aviate until you understand the truth," Speed
continued. "While she's engaged to that broken-toed serpent, she
doesn't love him, do you see?" He smiled.

"I do _not_ see!"

"It was simply a habit Mrs. Keap had got into--I should say it
was an impulsive engagement that she has repented of."

"No doubt she was repenting when we interrupted you," said Miss
Blake, bitterly.

Then Chapin added, helplessly: "But Culver is engaged to my
sister Jean!"

"Jean!" Mrs. Keap exposed her tragic face. "Then--he deceived
_me_! Oh-h! What wretches men are!" The widow commenced to
sob.

Outside came Miss Chapin's voice: "So here you are, Mr.
Covington!" And the next moment she reappeared, dragging the
crippled champion behind her. Thrusting him toward Roberta, she
pouted: "There, Mrs. Keap! I give him back to you."

"Perhaps you'd better go on with your explanations," Chapin
suggested, coldly, to Speed.

"How can I when you won't listen to me? Hear ye! Hear ye! Culver
was engaged to marry Mrs. Keap, but she discovered what a
reprobate he is--"

There was indistinguishable dissent of some sort from Mr.
Covington.

"--and she learned to detest him!"

Mrs. Keap likewise dissented in accents muffled.

"Well, she would have learned to detest him in a short time,
because she's in love with Jack Chapin; so she came to old Doctor
Speed in her troubles, and he promised to fix it all up. Now I
guess you four can do the rest of the explaining. Let this be a
lesson to all of you. If you ever get in trouble, come to the
match-making kid. I'll square it."

They were four happy young people, and they lost no time in
escaping elsewhere. When they had gone, their benefactor said to
Miss Blake:

"Wouldn't you like to make that a triple wedding? We might get
club rates."

For answer Miss Blake hurried to the door and was gone.

Over at the Centipede there was a great activity and yet a
certain idleness also, as if it had been a holiday. The men hung
about in groups listening to the peripatetic phonograph. A dozen
or more outsiders had ridden over from the post-office to witness
the contest. Out by the corral, which stood close to the first
break of the foot-hills, Skinner was superintending the laying
out of a course, selecting a stretch of level ground worn smooth
and hard by the tread of countless hoofs.

"Makes a pretty good track, eh?" he said to Gallagher. "I wonder
how fast this feller is? Ever heard?"

"They seem to think he's a whirlin' ball of fire, but that don't
worry you none, does it?" Gallagher bent his lead-blue eyes upon
the cook, who shrugged carelessly, and Gallagher smiled; he was
forced to admit that his man did not appear to be one easily
frightened. Skinner's face was hard, his lips thin, his jaw was
not that of a weakling. He had dressed early, then wrapped a
horse-blanket about his shoulders, and now, casting this aside,
sprinted down the dirt track for a few yards to test the footing,
while Gallagher watched him with satisfaction--a thing of steel
and wire, as tough, as agile, and as spirited as a range-raised
cow-pony. He was unshaven, his running-trunks were cut from a
pair of overalls, held up at the waist by a section of window-
cord, and his chest was scantily covered by an undershirt from
which the sleeves had been pulled. But when he returned to pick
up his blanket Gallagher noted approvingly that he was not even
breathing heavily. With a knowledge confined mainly to live-
stock, the foremen inquried:

"How's your laigs? I like to see 'em hairy, that-a-way; it's a
sign of stren'th. I bet this college boy is as pink as a maiden's
palm! He don't look to me like he could run."

"They fool you sometimes," said Skinner. "By-the-way, what have
you bet?"

"We laid the phonograph agin their treasures an' trappin's--"

"But how much money?"

"We got three hundred pesos down, but they sent word they was
comin' loaded for b'ar, so we rustled five hundred more."

Skinner's eyes gleamed. "I wish I had a couple of hundred to bet
on myself."

"Broke, eh?"

"I'm as clean as a hound's tooth."

"I'm sorry y'all tossed off your wages, but"--Gallagher started
suspiciously--"say! I reckon that won't affect your runnin' none,
will it?"

Skinner admitted that he could run best when he had something to
run for. "You might advance me a month's wages," he reflected.

"I'll do it. Hello! Say, ain't that one of them Flyin' Heart city
visitors?" From the direction of the ranch buildings Berkeley
Fresno was approaching.

"Good-afternoon! You are Mr. Gallagher, I believe? I rode over
with our crowd just now." Fresno looked back. "Let's step around
to the other side of the corral; I want to talk to you." He led
the way; then inquired, "Is this your runner?"

"That's him. His name's Skinner, and that's a promisin' title to
bet on." Gallagher slipped a roll of bank-notes from his pocket.
"Unhook! I'll bet you."

"No, no! I think myself Mr. Skinner will win. That's why I'm
here."

"Strip your hand, son. I don't savvy."

And Fresno explained.

"You see, I'm a guest over there; but there's no sentiment with
me in money matters." He produced a wallet, and took from it five
one-hundred-dollar bills. "Bet this for me, and don't let on
where it came from. I'll see you after the race. Mind you, not a
word!"

"I'm dumb as the Egyptian Spinks."

"This race means a lot to me, Mr. Skinner." The guest of the
Flying Heart Ranch turned to its enemy. "There's a girl in it.
Understand?" The cook showed the gleam of his teeth. "If you win,
I'll send you some wedding-cake and--a box of cigars."

"Thanks," said the other; "but I've got a bum tooth, and I don't
smoke."

As Fresno left, there approached, in a surging group, the
opposing side.

"Good-evenin', Gabby!" Stover called, loudly, as he came within
speaking distance. "Here we come _en massay_, and with
ladies, to further embarrass and degrade you in the hour of your
defeat!"

"We ain't defeated yit! How do, Mr. Chapin."

"Did you get our message?"

"Yes. But we ain't seen the color of y'all's money."

"Mr. Speed borrowed five hundred dollars from me, and said he
might want more," Chapin volunteered.

"Is that all?"

"All?" jeered Still Bill. "Why, this mangy layout ain't never saw
that much money," upon which Gallagher carelessly displayed a
corpulent roll of bills, remarking:

"Count a thousand, Bill. It all goes on Skinner."

"I ain't heard of no train-robbery," muttered the lanky foreman
of the Flying Heart, "nor I don't aim to handle no' tainted
money." And Stover and Gallagher faced each other hard before
turning.

Jean saw it, and whispered to Chapin: "Oh, Jack dear, I'm
terribly frightened!" But Helen Blake, who overheard, left her
companions and went straight to Gallagher.

"I should like," she said, "to wager a few dollars on Mr. Speed
and the honor of the Flying Heart."

Both Skinner and his foreman stared at her nonplussed.

"You don't look like a bettin' lady," the latter managed to
remark, jocularly.

"I'm not, I never made a wager before in all my life; but you
see, Mr. Gallagher, I believe in our man." Gallagher lowered his
eyes. "How much do you aim to risk, miss?"

"I don't know what the rules are, but I think our side ought to
bet as much as your side. That is the way it is done, isn't it?"

"You mean that you aim to cover what Mr. Speed don't?" The girl
nodded.

Gallagher spoke admiringly. "You're right game, miss, but I
reckon we don't want your money."

"Why not?"

"I suppose there ain't no partic'lar reason."

"If Mr. Speed can beat Mr. Covington, who is the best runner at
Yale, I'm sure he can defeat Mr. Skinner, who never went to
college at all. They have all turned against him, and he-he is so
brave!" Miss Blake's indignation was tearful, and Gallagher spoke
hurriedly:

"He may be brave all right, miss, but he can't win unless Skinner
dies. You save your money to buy chocolates an' bon-mots, miss.
Why, listen" (the stock man softened his voice in a fatherly
manner): "this Fresno party is wise; five hundred of this coin is
his."

Helen uttered a cry. "Do you mean he is betting _against_
Mr. Speed?"

"Nothin' else."

"Despicable!" breathed the girl. "Wait a moment, please!" Helen
hurried back to Chapin, while Gallagher muttered something like
"I ain't takin' no orphan's money."

"Jack!" (the girl was trembling with excitement), "you told me on
the way over that you had five hundred dollars with you. Let me
have it, please. I'll give you my check when we get home."

"My dear girl, you aren't going to--bet it?"

"Yes, I am."

"Don't do that!"

For answer she snatched the pocket-book from his hand.

"Mr. Gallagher!" she called.

Skinner watched from afar. "Some class to that gal!" was what he
said, which proved that he was a person not wholly without
sentiment.




CHAPTER XVII

Speed leaped down from the buck-board in which Carara had driven
him and Glass over to the Centipede corral.

"I told you to jump out when we crossed that bridge," was Larry's
reproach to him. "You could have broke your arm. Now--it's too
late."

But Speed joined his friends with the most cheerful of greetings.

They responded nervously, shocked at his flippant assurance.

"This, Mr. Speed, is the scene of your defeat!" Gallagher made
the introduction.

"And this is Mr. Skinner, no doubt?" Wally shook hands with the
Centipede runner, who stared at him, refused to recognize his
knowing wink, and turned away. "You think pretty well of
yourself, don't you?" suggested Gallagher unpleasantly, and Speed
laughed. There was no reason why he should not laugh. Either way
his hour had come.

"I s'pose that satchel is full of money?" Gallagher pointed to
the suitcase.

"On the contrary, it is full of clothes. It is I who contain the
money." He thrust a cold palm into his pocket as Covington
dragged him aside to advise him not to be an utter idiot, to
throw his money away if he must, but to throw it to charity or to
his friends.

"Yes," Glass seconded, lugubriously, "and hold out enough to buy
me a _Gates Ajar_ in immortelles." But he said also, as if
to himself, "He may be wrong in the burr, but he's a game little
guy."

As the Centipede foreman counted the money, Helen came forward,
announcing:

"You'll _have_ to win now, won't you, Mr. Speed? I've
wagered five hundred dollars on you. I bet against Mr. Fresno."
"Fresno! So he's out from cover at last, eh?"

"I haven't been under cover," spoke up the Californian. "I've
been wise all along."

Chapin wheeled. "Does it seem to you quite the thing to bet
against our man, Fresno?" he inquired, his glance full in the
other's eyes.

"Why not? There's no sentiment in financial affairs."

Speed shrugged. "Our tenor friend will sing his way back to
California." He turned with his thanks to Helen.

"The talkin'--machine!" interrupted Still Bill, suddenly. A group
of men was approaching, who bore the phonogragh upon a dry-goods
box, and deposited it in state beside the race-course. "Say,
Gabby, s'pose you give us a tune, just to show she's in good
order."

"Suspicious, eh?"

"You bet! There's a monologue I'd admire to hear. It's called-"

"We'll have _The Holy City_," said Willie, positively. "It's
more appropriate."

So, with clumsy fingers, Gallagher fitted a record, then wound up
the machine under the jealous eyes of the Flying Heart cowboys.

Drawn by the sound, Skinner, wrapped to the chin in his blanket,
idled toward the crowd, affording Glass a sight of his face for
the first time. The latter started as if stung, and crying under
his breath, "Salted car-horse!" drew his employer aside.



"Say," he said, pointing a finger, "who's that?"

"Skinner, the man I run."

Glass groaned. "His name ain't Skinner; that's 'Whiz' Long. Six
years ago I saw him win the Sheffield Handicap from scratch in
nine-three." Then, as Speed did not seem to be particularly
pressed, "Don't you understand, Wally? He's a pro; this is his
game!"

To which the younger man replied, serenely and happily, "It's
fixed."

"What's fixed?"

"The race. It' s all arranged--framed."

"Who framed it? How? When?"

"Sh-h! I did. Yesterday; by stealth; I fixed it."

"You win from 'Whiz' Long, and you can't run under fifteen?"

Wally nodded. "I told him that--it's all right."

"You told him?" Glass staggered. "It's all right? Say! Don't you
know he's the fastest, crookedest, cheatingest, double-
crossingest--why, he just came to feel you out!"

And Speed turned dizzy.

"And you fell for that old stuff!" Larry's voice was trembling
with anger and disgust. "Why, that's part of his 'work.' He's
double-crossed every runnin' mate he ever had. He'd cheat his
mother. Wait!"

Skinner had left the crowd, and was seated now in the shade of
the corral fence. He glanced upward from beneath his black brows
as Larry reached and greeted him. "Hello, Whiz! I just 'made'
you--" Then he shook his head.

"I haven't got you. My name is Skinner."

"Nix on that monaker," Glass smiled, indulgently. "I had a man in
that Sheffield Handicap six years ago."

"You're in bad," asserted the cook steadily, "but assuming that
my name _is_ Long--"

"I didn't say your name was 'Long.' I called you 'Whiz.'" Glass
chuckled at the point as he scored it. "Now come in; be good."

Skinner darted a look toward Gallagher and the Centipede men
gathered about the shrilling phonograph, stooped and tied his
shoes, and breathed softly:

"Spiel!"

"This little feller I'm trainin'--does he win?"

Without an upward glance, Skinner inquired:

"Did the man you trained for the Sheffield Handicap win?"

"Never mind that. Does this frame-up go through?" It happened
that Speed, drawn irresistibly, had come forward to hang upon
every word, and now chose this moment to interrupt.

"It's all right, Mr. Skinner--" But Skinner leaped to his feet.

"Don't try anything like that!" he cried, in a terrible voice
that brought Gabby Gallagher striding toward them.

"What's goin' on here? Are they try in' to fix you, Skinner?"

"Not a bit like it," Glass protested stoutly. "I only asked him
which side he'd rather run on, and now he calls for police
protection."

"Don't try it again, that's all!" the cook warned, sullenly.

"I reckon I'll take a hand in this!" Gallagher was in a fine
rage, and would have fallen upon the offender had not Stover
stepped in his path.

"I reckon you won't!" he said easily.

The two glared at each other, and were standing thus when Speed
and his trainer moved gently off. They made their way to the
house in comparative silence. "I--I made a mistake," said Wally.

"You've been jobbed like you was a baby," said Glass. "There
ain't but one thing to do now. Go into the house and change your
clothes, and when you get ready to run, get ready to run for your
life--and mine." Over on the race-course Gallagher was inquiring:

"Who's goin' to send these y'ere athaletes away?"

"I am!" announced Willie without hesitation "Bein' perhaps the
handiest man present with a weepon, I'm goin' to start this
journey." He looked his foes squarely in the eyes. "Has anybody
got objections to me?" The silence was nattering, and more loudly
now, so that Skinner might hear, he added: "If your man tries to
beat the gun, I'll have him wingin' his way to lands celestial
before he makes his second jump."

Gallagher acknowledged the fairness of this proposition. "This
race is goin' to be squar'," said he. "We're ready when y'all
are."

J. Wallingford Speed stepped out of his clothes and into his
silken running-suit. He was numb and cold. His hands performed
their duties to be sure, but his brain was idle. All he knew was
that he had been betrayed and all was lost. He heard Glass
panting instructions into his ear, but they made no impression
upon him. In a dull trance he followed his trainer back to the
track, his eyes staring, his bones like water. Not until he heard
the welcoming shout of the Flying Heart henchmen did he realize
that the worst was yet to come. He heard Larry still coaching
earnestly: "If you can't bite him, trip him up," and some one
said:

"Are we ready?"

Glass held out his hand. "Good-bye, Mr. Speed."

Chapin came forward and spoke with artificial heartiness, "Good-
luck, Wally; beat him at the start," and Covington followed.

"Remember," he cautioned, sadly, "what I told you about the
start--it's your only chance."

"Why don't you fellows think about the finish of this race?"
faltered the runner.

Then, in a voice broken with excitement, Helen Blake spoke,
holding out her hand for a good-bye clasp. "Dear Mr. Speed," she
said, "will you try to remember this?--remember to run before he
does, and don't let him catch up to you. If you do that, I just
_know_ you'll win."

This magnificent display of confidence nerved the athlete, and he
smiled at her. He wished to speak, but dared not trust himself.

Gallagher was calling; so he went to the starting-point, whence
he surveyed the course. There it lay, no more than a lane leading
down between ranks of brown-faced men whose eyes were turned upon
him. On the top rail of the corral perched Willie, revolver in
hand. The babble of voices ceased, the strident laughter stilled,
Speed heard the nervous Tustle of feminine skirts. Skinner was
standing like a statue, his toe to the mark, his eyes averted.

"You'll start here and run a hundred yards out yonder to the
tape," Gallagher announced.

"I refuse!" said Speed firmly.

For one breathless instant there was a hush of amazement, then a
cry of rage. Still Bill Stover hurled the nearest man out of his
path, and stode forward, his lean face ablaze. He wheeled and
flung up his hand as if to check some hidden movement of
Willie's.



"No voylence yet, Will! What d'you mean, Mr. Speed?"

Speed uttered what he knew was his final joke on earth. "I mean
that I refuse to run straightaway. I'm an all-around athlete, and
I must run all around something."

Amid shouts of confusion, those who had taken positions along the
course came crowding back to the starting-point. Willie wrapped
his legs about the top rail of the fence and drew a second
revolver, while the two foremen bellowed indistinguishable
threats at each other. Chapin lost no time in withdrawing his
guests out of the turmoil, but Helen kept her place, her face
chalky but her eyes very bright.

"What are you tryin' to hand us?" roared Gallagher.

Still Bill was quick to take a cue. "Don't get hectic!" said he.
"There's nothin' in the articles about runnin' straight. Let 'em
run around the corral." But at this suggestion every voice seemed
to break out simultaneously.

"Humpy Joe ran straightaway," declared Gallagher.

"Yes, an' he kept at it," piped Willie. "I favor the idea of them
runners comin' back where they start from."

"Listen, all of you," Speed announced. "I am going to run around
and around and around this corral. If Mr. Skinner chooses to
accompany me, he may trail along; otherwise I shall run alone."

"Never heerd of such a thing!" Gallagher was dancing in his
excitement, but Skinner calmed him by announcing, curtly:

"I'll beat him any way he wants to run."

"You couldn't beat a rug," retorted Wally, and Glass suddenly
smote his palms together, crying, blankly:

"I forgot the rug!"

"We don't want no arg'ment afterwards. Does the Centipede accept
its fate?" Still Bill glared at the faces ringed about him.

"We do if Skinner says so."

"Twice around the corral," agreed Skinner. "But no accidents,
understand? If he falls, I keep going."

Instantly there ensued a scramble for grand-stand seats; the
cowboys swarmed like insects upon the stout fence of the corral.

"Then you'll start and finish here. Once y'all pass we'll stretch
a string to yonder post, and the first man to bust it wins. Who's
got a string?"

"Mr. Gallagher, won't you use my sash?" Helen quickly unfastened
the long blue bow of ribbon from her cotton gown, and Gallagher
thanked her, adding:

"Moreover, the winner gets it!"

For the first time, then, Skinner addressed Miss Blake.

"Hadn't you better make that the loser, miss? The winner gets the
coin," and the assent came in a flashing smile from sky-blue
eyes.

"Then the loser gets the ribbon!" Gallagher announced loudly, and
made one end fast to the corral. "Which I call han'some treatment
for Mr. Speed, an' only wish we might retain it at the Centipede
as a remembrance. Are the runners ready?"

Those near the starting-line gave room. Skinner stepped quickly
out from his blanket, and stamped his spikes into the soil; he
raised and lowered himself on his toes to try his muscles. Speed
drew his bath-robe from his shoulders and thrust it toward his
trainer, who shook his head.

"Give it to Covington, Bo; I won't be here when you come back."

"Get on your marks!" The starter gave his order.

Speed set his spikes into the dirt, brought his weight forward
upon his hands. He whispered something to Skinner. That gentleman
straightened up, whereupon Willie cried for a second time:

"On your marks!" and again Skinner crouched.

"Get set!"

The crowd filled its lungs and waited. Helen Blake buried her
nails in her rosy cold palms. Chapin and his friends were swayed
by their heart-beats, while even Fresno was balanced upon his
toes, his plump face eager. The click of Willie's gun sounded
sharp as he cocked it.

Into the ear close by his cheek Speed again whispered an
agonized--

"Don't forget to fall down!"

This time the cook of the Centipede leaped backward with an angry
snarl, while the crowd took breath.

"Make him quit talking to me!" cried Skinner.

Gallagher uttered an imprecation and strode forward, only to have
his way once more barred by Still Bill Stover. "He can talk if he
wants to."

"There is nothing," Speed pointed out with dignity, "in the
articles to forbid talking. If I wished to, I could sing. Yes, or
whistle, if I felt like it."

"_On your marks!"_ came the rasping voice of Willie as Wally
murmured to Skinner:

"Remember, I trust you."

Skinner ground his teeth; the tendons in his calves stood out
rigidly.

"Get set!"

Once more the silence of death wrapped the beholders, and Willie
raised his arm. Speed cast one lingering farewell glance to the
skies, and said, devoutly: "What a beautiful, beautiful day!"

Now the starter was shaking in an ague of fury.

"Listen, you!" he chattered, shrilly. "I'm goin' to shoot twice
this time--once in the air, and the next time at the nearest
foot-runner. Now, _get set_!" and the speaker pulled
trigger, whereupon Speed leaped as if the bullet had been aimed
at him.

Instantly a full-lunged roar went up that rolled away to the
foot-hills, and the runners sped out of the pandemonium, their
legs twinkling against the dust- prairie. Down to the turn
they raced. Speed was leading. Fright had acted upon him as an
electric charge; his terror lent him wings; he was obsessed by a
propelling force outside of himself. Naturally strong, lithe, and
active, he likewise possessed within him the white-hot flame of
youth, and now, with a nameless fear to spurn him on, he ran as
any healthy, frightened young animal would run. At the second
turn Skinner had not passed him, but the thud of his feet was
close behind.

This unparalleled phenomenon surprised Lawrence Glass perhaps
most of all. He had laid his plans to slip quietly out of the
crowd under cover of the first confusion and lay his own course
eastward; but when he beheld his protege actually in the lead, he
remained rooted to his tracks. Was this a miracle? He turned to
Covington, to find him dancing madly, his crutches waving over
his head, in his eyes the stare of a maniac. His mouth was
distended, and Glass reasoned that he must be shouting violently,
but could not be sure. Suddenly Covington dashed to the turn
whence the runners would be revealed as they covered the last
half lap, for nothing was distinguishable through the fence,
burdened by human forms, and Larry lumbered after him, ploughing
his way through the crowd and colliding with the box upon which
stood the Echo Phonograph, of New York and Paris. He hurled
Mariedetta out of his path with brutal disregard, but even before
he could reach his point of vantage the sprinters burst into the
homestretch. Larry Glass saw it all at a glance--Speed was
weakening, while Skinner was running easily. Nature had done her
utmost; she could not work the impossible. As they tore past,
Skinner was ahead.

The air above the corral became blackened with hats as if a flock
of vultures had wheeled suddenly; the shriek of triumph that rose
from the Centipede ranks warned the trainer that he had tarried
too long. Heavily he set off across the prairie for New York.

The memory of that race awakened Speed from his slumbers many
times in later years. When he found the brown shoulder of his
rival drawing past he realized that for him the end of all things
was at hand. And yet, be it said to his credit, he held doggedly
to his task, and began to fight his waning strength with renewed
determination. Down through the noisy crowd he pounded at the
heels of his antagonist, then out upon the second lap. But now
his fatigue increased rapidly, and as it increased, so did
Skinner's lead. At the second turn Wally was hopelessly
outdistanced, and began to sob with fury, in anticipation of the
last, long, terrible stretch. Back toward the final turn they
came, the college man desperately laboring, the cook striding on
like a machine. Wally saw the rows of forms standing upon the
fence, but of the shouting he heard nothing. Skinner was twenty
yards ahead now, and flung a look back over his shoulder. As he
turned into the last straightaway he looked back again and
grinned triumphantly.

Then--J. Wallingford Speed gasped, and calling upon his uttermost
atom of strength, quickened the strides of his leaden legs.
Skinner had fallen!

A shriek of exultation came from the Flying Heart followers; it
died as the unfortunate man struggled to his feet, and was off
again before his opponent had overtaken him. Down the alley of
human forms the two came; then as their man drew ahead for an
instant or two, such a bedlam broke forth from Gallagher's crew
that Lawrence Glass, well started on his overland trip, judged
that the end had come.

But Skinner wavered. His ankle turned for a second time; he
seemed about to fall once more. Then he righted himself, but he
came on hobbling.

The last thirty yards contained the tortures of a lifetime to
Wally Speed. His lungs were bursting, his head was rolling, every
step required a separate and concentrated effort of will. He knew
he was wobbling, and felt his knees ready to buckle beneath him,
but he saw the blue, tight-stretched ribbon just ahead, and
continued to lessen the gap between himself and Skinner until he
felt he must reach out wildly and grasp at the other man's
clothing. Helen's face stood out from the blur, and her lips
cried to him. He plunged forward, his outflung arm tore the
ribbon from its fastening, and he fell. But Skinner was behind
him.




CHAPTER XVIII

The only thing in the world that the victorious Speed wanted was
to lie down and stretch out and allow those glowing coals in his
chest to cool off. But rough hands seized him, and he found
himself astride of Stover's shoulders and gyrating about the Echo
Phonograph in the midst of a war-dance. He kicked violently with
his spiked shoes, whereat the foreman bucked like a wild horse
under the spur and dropped him, and he staggered out of the
crowd, where a girl flew to him.

"Oh, Wally," she cried, "I knew you could!" He sank to the
ground, and she knelt beside him.

Skinner was propped against the corral fence opposite, his face
distorted with suffering, and Gallagher was rubbing his ankle.

"'Taint broke, I reckon," said Gallagher, rising. "I wish to hell
it was!" He stared disgustedly at his fallen champion, and added:
"We don't want y'all for a cook no more, Skinner. You never was
no good nohow." He turned to Helen and handed her a double
handful of bank-notes, as Berkeley Fresno buried his hands in his
pockets and walked away. "Here's your coin, miss. If ever you get
another hunch, let me know. An' here's yours, Mr. Speed; it's a
weddin'-present from the Centipede." He fetched a deep sigh.
"Thank the Lord we'll git somethin' fit to eat from now on!"

Speed staggered to Skinner, who was still nursing his injury, and
held out his hand, whereat the cook winked his left eye gravely.

"The best man won," said Skinner, "and say--there's a parson at
Albuquerque." Then he groaned loudly, and fell to massaging his
foot.

There came a fluttering by his side, and Miss Blake's voice said
to him, with sweetness and with pity: "I'm so sorry you lost your
position, Mr. Skinner. You're a splendid runner!"

"Never mind the job, miss, I've got something to remember it by."
He pointed to a sash which lay beside him. "The loser gets the
ribbon, miss," he explained gallantly.

Off to the right there came a new outcry, and far across the
level prairie a strange sight was revealed to the beholders. A
fat man in white flannels was doubling and dodging ahead of two
horsemen, and even from a considerable distance it could plainly
be seen that he was behaving with remarkable agility for one so
heavy. Repeatedly his pursuers headed him off, but he rushed past
them, seemingly possessed by the blind sense of direction that
guides the homing pigeon or the salmon in its springtime run. He
was headed toward the east.

"Why, it's Larry!" ejaculated Speed. "And Cloudy and Carara."

"Wally, your man has lost his reason!" Chapin called.

At that instant the watchers saw the Mexican thunder down upon
Glass, his lariat swinging about his head. Lazily the rope
uncoiled and settled over the fleeing figure, then, amid a cloud
of dust, Carara's horse set itself upon its haunches and the
white-clad figure came to the end of its flight. There was a
violent struggle, as if the cowboy had hooked a leaping tuna,
cactus plants and sage-brush were uprooted, then the pony began
to back away, always keeping the lariat taut. But Glass was no
easy captive, as his threshing arms and legs betrayed, and even
when he was dragged back to the scene of the race, panting,
grimy, dishevelled, the rope still about his waist, he seemed
obsessed by that wild insanity for flight. He was drenched with
perspiration, his collar was dangling, one end of a suspender
trailed behind him.

At sight of Speed he uttered a cry, then plunged through the
crowd like a bull, but the lariat loop slipped to his neck and
tightened like a hangman's noose.

"Larry," cried his employer, sharply, "have you lost your head?"

"Ain't they g-g-got you yet?" queried the trainer in a strangling
voice.

"You idiot, I won!"

"What!"

"I won--easy."

"You _won!_" Larry's eyes were starting from his head.

"He sure did," said Stover. "Didn't you think he could?"

Glass apprehended that look of suspicion. "Certainly!" said he.
"Didn't I say so, all along? Now take that clothesline off of me;
I've got to run some more."

That evening J. Wallingford Speed and Helen Blake sat together in
the hammock, and much of the time her hand was in his. The breath
of the hills wandered to them idly, fragrant with the odors of
the open fields, the heavens were bright with dancing stars, the
night itself was made for romance. From the bunk-house across the
court-yard floated the voice of the beloved Echo Phonograph, now
sad, now gay; now shrilling the peaceful air with Mme. Melba's
_Holy City_, now waking the echoes with the rasping
reflections of _Silas on Fifth Avenue._ To the spellbound
audience gathered close beside it, it was divine; but deep as was
their satisfaction, it could not compare with that of the tired
young son of Eli. Ineffable peace and contentment were his; the
whole wide world was full of melody.

"And now that I've told you what a miserable fraud I am, you
won't stop loving me?" he questioned.

Helen nestled closer and shook her head. There was no need for
words.

Jack Chapin came out upon the porch with the chaperon. "Well,
Fresno caught his train," he told them.

"And we had such a glorious drive coming back! The night is
splendid!"

"Yes, so nice and moonlight!" Wally agreed pleasantly, whereat
Jack Chapin laughed.

"It's as black as pitch."

"Why, so it is!" Then as a fresh song burst forth from the very
heart of the machine, he murmured affectionately: "By Jove! there
goes _The Baggage Coach Ahead_ once more! That makes ten
times."

"It's a beautiful thing, isn't it?" Miss Blake sighed dreamily.

"I--I believe I'm learning to like it myself," her lover agreed.
"Poor Frez!"

The bridesmaids wore white organdie and carried violets.










End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Going Some, by Ellingwood Beach

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