"
"See hyar, Bostil," spoke up old Cal Blinn, "you jest wait till I git an eye
on the King's runnin'. Mebbe I'll go you even money."
"An' as fer me, Bostil," said Colson, "I ain't set up yit which hoss I'll
race."
Burthwait, an old rider, came forward to Brackton's desk and entered a wager
against the field that made all the men gasp.
"By George! pard, you ain't a-limpin' along!" ejaculated Bostil, admiringly,
and he put a hand on the other's shoulder.
"Bostil, I've a grand hoss," replied Burthwait. "He's four years old, I guess,
fer he was born wild, an' you never seen him."
"Wild hoss? . . . Huh!" growled Bostil. "You must think he can run."
"Why, Bostil, a streak of lightnin' ain't anywheres with him."
"Wal, I'm glad to hear it," said Bostil, gruffly. "Brack, how many hosses
entered now for the big race?"
The lean, gray Brackton bent earnestly over his soiled ledger, while the
riders and horsemen round him grew silent to listen.
"Thar's the Sage King by Bostil," replied Brackton. "Blue Roan an' Peg, by
Creech; Whitefoot, by Macomber; Rocks, by Holley; Hoss-shoes, by Blinn; Bay
Charley, by Burthwait.
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