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Andy simply grinned at him. “Put your money on the Diamond G twister,” he advised calmly. “I know him–he’s a good rider, too. His name’s Billy Roberts. Uh course, I aim to beat him to it, but Happy never does like to have a sure-thing. He wants something to hang his jaw down over. Put your money on Billy and watch it fade away, Happy.”

“Aw, gwan. I betche that there sorrel–“

“I rode that there sorrel once, and combed his forelock with both spurs alternate,” Andy lied boldly. “He’s pickings. Take him back and bring me a real hoss.”

Happy Jack wavered. “Well, I betche yuh don’t pull down that money,” he predicted vaguely. “I betche yuh git throwed, or something. It don’t do to be too blame sure uh nothing.”

Whereat Andy laughed derisively and went away whistling. “I wish I was as sure uh living till I was a thousand years old, and able to ride nine months out of every year of ’em,” he called back to Happy. Then he took up the tune where he had left off.

For the days were still crisp at both ends and languorous in the middle, and wind and grasses hushed and listened for the coming of winter. And because of these things, and his youth and his health, the heart of Andy Green was light in his chest and trouble stood afar off with its face turned from him.

It was but three days to the opening of the fair when Coleman, returning that way from his search for bad horses, clattered, with his gleanings and three or four men to help drive them, down the grade to the Flying U. And in the Flying U coulee, just across the creek from the corrals, still rested the roundup tents for a space. For the shipping was over early and work was not urgent, and Chip and the Old Man, in their enthusiasm for the rough-riding contest and the entry of their own man, had decided to take the wagons and crew entire to Great Falls and camp throughout the four days of the fair. The boys all wanted to go, anyway, as did everybody else, so that nothing could be done till it was over. It was a novel idea, and it tickled the humor of the Happy Family.

The “rough string,” as the bad horses were called, was corralled, and the men made merry with the roundup crew. Diamond G men they were, loudly proclaiming their faith in Billy Roberts, and offering bets already against Andy, who listened undisturbed and had very little to say. The Happy Family had faith in him, and that was enough. If everybody, he told them, believed that he would win, where would be the fun of riding and showing them?

It was after their early supper that Coleman came down to camp at the heels of Chip and the Old Man. Straightway he sought out Andy like a man who has something on his mind; though Andy did not in the least know what it was, he recognized the indefinable symptoms and braced himself mentally, half suspecting that it was something about that blue roan again. He was getting a little bit tired of the blue roan–enough so that, though he had chosen him for his string, he had not yet put saddle to his back, but waited until the roundup started out once more, when he would ride him in his turn.

It was the blue roan, without doubt. Coleman came to a stop directly in front of Andy, and as directly came to the point.

“Look here, Green,” he began. “I’m shy on horses for that contest, and Whitmore and Bennett say I can have that roan you’ve got in your string. If he’s as bad as you claim, I certainly must have him. But you seem to have some doubts of what he’ll do, and I’d like to see him ridden once. Your shingle is out as a broncho-peeler. Will you ride him this evening, so I can size him up for that contest?”